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The police came in five minutes, as advertised. It seemed pretty clear that the chief had died by means of an unfortunate accident. Initially, the detectives were inclined to agree. But when they saw Katrina and realized who she was, they changed their opinion. “Coincidence” is a dirty word in police work, and all of a sudden the chief’s death didn’t seem so accidental. The cops didn’t want to leave. At least not without taking Katrina along with them. The fact that she didn’t know the dead man, had no reason at all to kill him, and had been in sight of a roomful of witnesses when the death occurred was not nearly as important to the detectives as the fact that someone they considered a known killer was in the building when a mysterious death occurred.
Luckily for her, her brother Erik arrived a moment later. He used his political and financial influence, which was considerable, and spoke a few words to the commissioner, who nodded, turned, and spoke to the detectives. They were reluctant to leave without Katrina, but in the face of the commissioner’s raised eyebrow they had no choice. And then they were joined by the under secretary of state for Iranian affairs, who had naturally been in attendance. Katrina heard him use a few ponderous phrases like “unfortunate diplomatic implications” and “international incident,” and finally, reluctantly, the detectives declared the chief’s death an accident, and they were gone ten minutes later, leaving behind no more than a forensics team, with orders to be “inconspicuous.”
* * *
—
It hadn’t been easy. But it had to be done.
So I did it. I did it the only way I could.
No choice in the matter. None at all. The guy was a major problem. He was big, fast, mean, suspicious, well trained, experienced, strong—and he would be on his guard. He would expect me to try something.
So I wouldn’t. But I would still get the bastard. Or, more accurately, I would let him get himself.
I found the right way to do it and the right place. In fact, I found four places that would work. Not hard in a big building where a lot of work was going on. Then I found out when he’d be near one of them. Easy—and it isn’t snooping or eavesdropping if there’s a really good reason for it.
And then I got there first.
It was a small closet, just big enough for two people to stand without touching. Its only purpose in life was to hold the master circuit breaker panel. That’s what I wanted—with a couple of minor modifications. It only took about five minutes of very careful work. I was done when he opened the door.
He stood there for a good two seconds staring at me. “What the fuck are you doing, fucknuts?” he demanded, looking at the electric component in my left hand. It had a thick blue wire on one end that led back to an empty slot in the circuit breaker panel.
I didn’t have to act real hard to look scared. “Oh!” I stammered. “I, I, uh—this was just—it goes right back in there,” I said, waving the screwdriver in my right hand at the hole in the panel. “I just, uh—I’ll put it back—”
“The fuck you will,” he said. “Who the fuck knows what you’ll try? Give it.” He stepped in and grabbed it from me, just like he was following my script. And then—
The honest-to-God truth is, it isn’t hard to get people to do exactly what you want them to do. People in general are pretty predictable. And to get at any little differences, you just have to watch them, read them, figure their pattern.
I knew this guy was ornery, hostile, nasty, and suspicious, even more than most people. On top of that, he was a gimme-that, screw-you alpha male. That meant that whatever he “caught” me doing, he wasn’t just going to stop me from doing whatever it was—he would take it from me and do it himself. He’d have to. It’s who he was.
So that’s exactly what he did. I just stood there and let him. “Don’t fucking move,” he said. “I got business with you.” He snarled and said, “I remembered where I saw you, motherfucker. You got some explaining to do.” And he pushed me flat against the wall.
I did my part. I acted flustered, scared, frantic. I had to do that for like four or five seconds while he figured where the component went. And then, following the script again, he jammed the piece into the slot on the circuit breaker, stabbed the screwdriver onto the retaining screw—
Flash.
Bang.
Thump.
Problem solved.
* * *
—
Lieutenant Szabo stood with the team from Tiburon Security, watching the cops pack up and leave. Szabo knew most of the Tiburons, of course. They’d served together in the SEAL Teams. Szabo had no reservations about speaking his mind in front of the others, even the ones he didn’t actually know. They were still veterans of the Teams. It’s a very small fraternity, and a very special bond.
“It’s bullshit,” he said as the last detective sauntered to the lobby and out of the museum. “It wasn’t an accident.”
Mallory, one of the Tiburons, nodded. “The chief didn’t know which end of a screwdriver to hold,” he said. “No fucking way he’d fuck with the fuse box. He would’ve called me to do it.”
Szabo nodded. Mallory waited. When Szabo said nothing more, he said, “The cops are just gonna let it go . . .”
Szabo looked at him. “We are not,” he said. “But before we do anything, we got to figure it out.” He looked around at his men. “Who killed him?”
CHAPTER
