The Killing League - By Dani Amore Page 0,62

building and stepped outside to light a cigarette. He had smoked his first, and was about to stub out his second on top of the garbage can next to the door.

He glanced at her, took in her short skirt, high heels and reading glasses hanging from a lanyard.

He slipped the butt of the second cigarette into the inside pocket of his sportcoat. He had a feeling there would be cops arriving before the day was through, and he didn’t need cigarettes with his saliva by a side door where someone may or may not have remembered seeing a strange man. A handsome man with a Kennedy head.

He turned and caught the door before it closed, giving the woman his back. No need to show her his face. Because she would remember it, for sure.

Hampton used the stairs to climb to the fourth floor. Elevators were bad news. Almost always a security camera at the main intersection.

The address sent to him by his computer person at Hampton Industries told him The Commissioner’s office was on the fourth floor, suite 420.

He spied a set of restrooms near a water fountain and stepped into the men’s room. He took out the two cigarette stubs and ran them under cold water before dropping them into a toilet and flushing them. He went back to the sink and washed his hands, then used a paper towel to open the door

Hampton went down the hallway to suite 420. Just as he thought, the sign did not read Alpha Delta Entertainment. It said Vincent Caruso, attorney-at-law.

Hampton smirked. A lawyer. Of course. Only a lawyer would have come up with all this blackmail shit.

He reached down and used his handkerchief to open the door.

He stepped inside.

There was a reception desk with no one sitting behind it. A few chairs and a table with some magazines.

Hampton walked to the reception desk. A telephone sat to one side, a legal pad and a pen were on the top of the desk.

Like the rest of Sycamore Hills office park, business was not good at the Caruso law firm, Hampton thought. Or maybe the guy’s extortion business cut into his legal practice.

“Hello?” Hampton called out.

He heard a desk chair swivel, the rustle of clothing and a man appeared from the doorway behind the reception desk.

“Can I help you?” he said.

Hampton learned nothing from the voice. The Commissioner had clearly altered his voice during the presentation back in the Omaha Holiday Inn.

Instead, Hampton studied the man. He was not what Hampton had expected. Short, slightly pudgy in the middle, with a cheap shirt and tie and glasses that looked like they came from a Sears optical department.

“Hello, Commissioner,” Hampton said.

The man looked at Hampton. He squinted. “Commissioner? I’m not a commissioner, I’m an attorney—”

Hampton shot him.

Truth be told, he’d been a little bit wary buying the cheap gun in the ghetto. He wasn’t an assassin. Sure, he’d gone trap shooting before, done some plinking in the private hunting club. But he mostly liked to kill with his hands. And he preferred the victims to be young, blonde, attractive and bound.

Fat, middle-aged lawyers weren’t his thing.

So he overcompensated a bit and emptied the entire gun into Vincent Caruso’s chest. It was a small gun with a homemade silencer — a small plastic bottle that had been clamped over the end of the barrel.

It still made a lot of noise.

The man flopped onto his back, his Wal-Mart dress shirt covered in blood. Hampton stood over him. No, the asshole was definitely dead. His eyes were wide open and blood was dripping into them. Hampton figured he must have started shooting higher because the bullets seemed to start in the man’s chest, then went to his neck, and one hit his forehead.

Hampton looked around. He wanted to quickly go through the man’s desk and computer, but the shots had been much louder than he expected.

He sat down at the man’s desk. A document was open on the screen.

He skimmed it without touching the keyboard. Plaintiff. Real estate transaction. Long pages with numbered paragraphs.

Hampton used his handkerchief to open one of the desk drawers. Files. With names. He opened one of the files. More legal documents.

Hampton felt a rage building inside him. This guy had to be The Commissioner. The Omaha Holiday Inn’s conference room had been booked with an email from this company, this office.

Maybe there was another employee here. Hampton jumped up and raced into the next room. It was a small kitchen with a