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Rich hung up and said, “Boxer, check your email.”
We three partners shared passwords to our work accounts so as never to miss a break in a case.
“Morning. Coffee first,” I said while stowing my handbag in my bottom desk drawer.
Alvarez had also ended her call, saying to me, “You’re going to want to see this.”
“Right after coffee.”
“Tell you what,” Alvarez said. “You open your mail; I’ll get the coffee.”
“Jeez,” I muttered. “What’s the rush?”
“You two, stay,” said Conklin. “I’llget the coffee.”
Okay, then. Whatever. I booted up my refurbished Dell and hit “new mail.” I was skimming my inbox when I saw “Ralph Hammer” in a subject line.
I jammed on the brakes, tapped a key, and the email opened. It read, “See the attachment.” And it was signed, “Blackout.”
I was still reeling from kissing my family goodbye, my turbulent session with Dr. Greene, and now Ralph Hammer’s name was hauling me back to Saturday night.
It was a night I’d happily forget.
CHAPTER 15
RICHIE PUT A hotel-style china mug of black coffee and four packets of sugar on my desk.
“Who’s ‘Blackout’?” I asked.
“No spoilers,” he said.
I clicked on the video attachment and a window opened taking up the whole of my screen. It was as if I were sitting in the back seat of a car, my eyes inches from the back of a man’s head. Ralph Hammer’s head.
How was this possible?
A leather-gloved hand gripping a stun gun came into view. The man with the weapon spoke, his voice digitally enhanced, but clear.
“Your time’s up, buddy.”
The driver turned his head forty-five degrees and I recognized Cindy’s heckler in profile. And Ralph Hammer saw his would-be killer.
He pulled away, squealing,“No. Don’t.”
The hand pressed the stun gun to Hammer’s neck. I knewwhat was coming but couldn’t drag my eyes from the screen. I heard the electric burr of the weapon, saw Ralph Hammer go rigid before the stun gun disappeared and gloved hands slipped a loop of wire around his neck. It was a garrote, a wire affixed to two wooden handles; a cheap and efficient tool used by killers all over the world.
I was fixated on the gloved hands as they gripped the handles, pulling the wire tight, cutting off blood flow to Ralph Hammer’s brain. Hammer made inhuman sounds as he lifted off the seat, grabbing at his neck as he fought certain death.
The screen went black. I turned on my partners.
“Hey. Warn me next time, why don’t you?”
“It’s not over,” Alvarez said.
Damn. I like Alvarez, but this blindside pissed me off. I had more to say, but a gloved hand was back on my screen, this time gripping a Ruger Mark IV with suppressor. There were two quiet pops. Blood sprayed on the lens, but enough clarity between the streaks to see Hammer’s body slump out of sight.
The angle changed. I saw day’s end in the Bayside Shopping Center through the assassin’s eyes; cars and pedestrians streamed by singly and in groups, no one looking at the killer.
Then, he spoke—to me.
