Part 18 (1/2)
Bobby Rabinowitz had come through, so he knew Ricci and Pasternak were laundering for one Armenian in particular, Krigor Akopyan. He'd been pondering the best way to use that information when Foster called. From the man's tone, he knew he didn't have good news. Serrano told him to come up. He respected the man for having the courage to tell him in person.
”So what's the story?” he said in lieu of greeting.
”I got a call from our guy.” Foster squared his shoulders. ”Apparently he's not working for us anymore.”
He swore. ”I thought he came highly recommended?”
The security chief gave no hint of how he felt, immaculate and well-groomed, but something of a cipher. ”He does. He's the best the west coast has to offer, never failed to complete a contracted job.”
”Until now,” Serrano barked. ”What happened?”
Foster shrugged. ”If you want my best guess, the girl got to him. She convinced him she's the injured party.”
Grinding his teeth, it was all he could do not to get up and hit something. ”So we're out the retainer we paid him and the time he spent hunting her.”
”And she now has a skilled professional on her side.” Foster apparently didn't believe in pulling his punches.
”Were there any indications before now that he'd gone independent on us?”
”No. Do you want me to hire someone else?” Foster stood waiting for instructions with all the unconcern of a choir boy.
”You've done enough.” He left that intentionally ambiguous. ”I'll take care of it personally.”
Foster didn't even blink. ”As you wish, sir. Anything I should know going into the night s.h.i.+ft?”
”It's been quiet today, just the AARP brigade scavenging the slots.”
”I saw a new s.h.i.+ll at table seven. Is he official?”
”Only in the sense that he works for me. I want you on the floor for a while tonight, understand?” That finally roused a reaction from the impa.s.sive son of a b.i.t.c.h, but Serrano couldn't read the flicker: puzzlement or confusion, possibly.
”Are you expecting trouble?”
Serrano smiled. ”Let's just say I have a few irons in the fire and I want you to be extra vigilant. What's the status on Calloway?”
”He boarded a bus to Florida thirty-six hours ago. He didn't give notice. We can still get to him.”
”No.” Serrano shook his head. ”And Brody?”
”He died in a two-car collision yesterday evening. There were no other fatalities. He lost control of his vehicle and crossed the median into oncoming traffic. Apparently he tried to steer out of the spin and got himself T-boned on the driver's side. Brody died on scene before the EMTs arrived.”
That was subtler than he'd planned. People might mistake a car wreck for an Act of G.o.d when it was, in fact, an Act of Serrano. He frowned. ”Any word on how the accident happened?”
To his surprise, Foster smiled. His bland face seemed to reflect a hint of smug self-satisfaction. ”Bees, sir.”
He blinked. ”Bees?”
”Yes, sir. Brody was allergic to them. They were attracted to the melted candy in his backseat. They slipped in through an open window, and when he took off, the wind agitated them. He was swatting at the bees because a sting could've killed him when he jumped the median, spun, and was taken out by Gladys Hossenfeffer of Poughkeepsie, New York, driving a 1962 Ford Fairlane.”
”You're saying you put bees bees in his car?” Serrano didn't know if he was impressed or disgusted. Whatever happened to shooting a guy twice in the back of the head? That way, there could be no question of what happened or why. in his car?” Serrano didn't know if he was impressed or disgusted. Whatever happened to shooting a guy twice in the back of the head? That way, there could be no question of what happened or why.
”I didn't say that,” Foster murmured. ”But if I was was going to kill someone, I'd make it look like an accident-no way for anybody to trace it back to me.” going to kill someone, I'd make it look like an accident-no way for anybody to trace it back to me.”
”There's merit in that,” Serrano admitted.
Foster went on, ”When a person known to be my enemy turns up dead in an unusual way, it-”
”Only adds to your legend.” He thought about the hit a little more and decided he liked the weird creativity of it. ”Talk about putting the fear in somebody. I mean, d.a.m.n. You used an old lady as your trigger man.”
The security chief lifted his shoulders. ”She's a Sunday-school teacher. She won't take any heat. It was clearly Brody's fault, just one of those things, you know?”
Serrano smiled in appreciation. ”Except to the people who know otherwise.”
”Exactly. I mailed a copy of the story to Calloway, care of his mother. It'll be there by the time he arrives.”
”He'll spend the next ten years looking over his shoulder and s.h.i.+tting his pants.”
Maybe he'd been wrong to doubt Foster. The guy knew what he was doing. Still, he couldn't be sorry he'd checked him out. It rea.s.sured him to find the guy had an old lady to care for and a little girl in a coma. Those weaknesses made him human . . . in addition to giving Serrano leverage. He didn't trust anybody with no soft spots to hit; there was something innately wrong with that. Even he he had his weaknesses-he'd just buried them deep years ago. had his weaknesses-he'd just buried them deep years ago.
”Good work,” he said sincerely. ”That method was more oblique than I'd have chosen, but at least we don't have to worry about lead shoes and murder weapons.”
”As I see it,” Foster returned, ”we need to be creative. Your enemies already know to be on guard against gun-toting men in suits. Now we've shown them there are other, less obvious ways to take them out. How are they supposed to function if they're constantly trying to figure out where you'll hit next?”
He got it. Loved it. ”It'll make them lose sleep. Exhaustion steals a man's edge. He'll make mistakes.”
”And it'll be even easier to move on him,” Foster finished.
”You can go now. Remember, keep a sharp eye out tonight.” If everything went as planned, things were going to get ugly for Ricci and Pasternak. The mess might splatter, and he needed a cleanup crew ready.
”Very well. Have a good evening.”
He watched his chief of security stride from the office and then he switched to electronic surveillance. After hitting a b.u.t.ton, a wall of cameras slid from his desk. He liked being able to monitor things from the privacy of his office; that way n.o.body knew for sure what he was watching. Just to satisfy his own paranoia, he observed Foster's trek from his penthouse office down to the floor. He went right to work as directed.
Excellent. Things were falling right into place. Serrano took out a prepaid cell phone and dug into his jacket for a number Rabinowitz had supplied. He took a deep breath and dialed. Things were falling right into place. Serrano took out a prepaid cell phone and dug into his jacket for a number Rabinowitz had supplied. He took a deep breath and dialed.
A harsh male voice barked a Russian word.
”Is this Viktor Barayev?”
The man switched to heavily accented English. ”Who is this? How did you get this number?”
”That's not important. I have information for you.” Serrano paused, listening to the rapid-fire Russian. ”Is this Viktor?”
”I don't pay for information,” the man snapped. ”I have a network for that. Don't call again or I'll find you.”
It had to be him, or someone high up the food chain. He decided to drop his bomb without further prevarication.
He promised, ”I won't call back, but I thought you should know that Krigor Akopyan is now doing business in your town.”
The response was immediate and gratifying. Though he didn't speak a word of Russian he understood the virulence of cursing in any language. The sound of men arguing carried through the phone. ”Give me names, so I can check it out. If your tip turns out to be true, I will make it worth your while.”