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He racked in a round of double-ought buckshot, producing the international sound of Kiss Your Ass Goodbye.
“That was an AK-47,” he said.
“How do you know?”
“Because I was shot at enough by AKs in Vietnam that I’d never forget the sound.”
I stood and moved along the wall toward the door.
“Mapstone.”
I turned.
“Let’s go out the back door.”
4
We stood away from the jamb as Peralta opened the back door. Nobody poured AK rounds through. He tossed a black duffel bag out to draw fire. Nothing. He nodded and I knew what to do.
I stepped outside into the oven and ran along the southea
st wall while Peralta went around the other side. It was like the academy so many years ago. The carport was on my side and gave me cover to slide between the cars unseen from Grand Avenue. Felix’s Benz was stopped in the closest traffic lane. Nobody else was around. Across the median, a small car zipped by going toward downtown without changing its speed. No traffic was headed in the other direction.
Both hands on the Python, I swept the parking lot and made a slow trot toward the Benz. The sun was in my eyes and the scrunchy pavement was loud under my shoes. Peralta was coming from the other edge of the building in an infantryman’s crouch, moving quickly and with a grace that belied his big frame. We reached the car at the same time.
Felix the Cat was very dead.
His face was gone. The nice suit was plastered in blood and bone fragments. More blood, brains, and miscellaneous gore were sprayed across the seat and interior of the car. One bubble of tissue had fallen halfway out of his skull and it took me a few seconds to realize that beneath the blood was an eyeball. His left hand still clutched the cell phone I had seen him holding while he talked in our parking lot. In the passenger seat lay the silver bulk of a Desert Eagle, a nasty semiautomatic pistol. It had done Felix no good. His right hand was in his lap. He had never even been able to reach for the gun. Maybe he had it on the seat when he was still in our parking lot. Or maybe he pulled it out when the other car came beside him.
There was something else: the shooter had been so close and so skilled that no shell casings scattered on the pavement. Not one. I had counted at least nine shots.
I did one more look-around and holstered the .357. Whoever had done the shooting was good. Felix had pulled out onto Grand Avenue when they caught him. His driver-side window was still down; no glass shards were to be found. And only one round had penetrated the fine paint job of the car door. The others went right to target.
I turned to Peralta and asked if he had any evidence gloves.
“I want to see that cell phone and the last number he called.”
He shook his head. “Give me your gun.”
“What?”
He held out his hand.
I hesitated, and then I slipped off my holster and handed it to him. One, two, three cars sped by.
“I’m going back inside,” he said. “You’re going to call 911 and sit on the curb. We’re not the law any more.”
I dialed as he trotted back to our office. The excitement over, my body resumed sweating.
In the distance, I heard sirens.
