The 19th Christmas (Women's Murder Club #19) - James Patterson Page 0,40
he and Dick had left Arnie Sloane’s place, Loman would attach another one of Dick’s gizmos to his spanking-new burner phone. It would disguise both his voice and the pings to the cell tower. He’d call in a tip to the police about hearing shots fired at this address.
By then he and Russell would be on to the real deal, the job he’d been planning for the past seven years of his life.
CHAPTER 48
LOMAN LEANED BACK on the sofa and told Russell, “Go ahead, my friend. Enjoy.”
Russell smiled. He was better at construction than destruction, but he was open to the experience. He took a folding knife out of his pocket and went to work.
First, he slashed a few abstract paintings and opened up the love-seat upholstery, then he gathered up some art glass vases and dropped them one at a time onto the stone hearth. Made a nice mess of it. Mess wasn’t his favorite thing, but this was fun.
Next, he walked down the hallway to the master bedroom, opened all of the drawers, and tossed some things on the floor. Then he shredded Sloane’s nice suits and ties, knocked the TV off the dresser. It would look to the police like a home invasion with motive.
Loman had turned up the music and was looking out at the deck garden through the sliders.
“Willy. What next?”
Loman turned to face him. He was holding a .45 in his hand.
His boss was pointing a gun at him.
Russell froze, paralyzed with shock. He imagined the shot going through his head, pictured himself falling to the floor, becoming part of another of Loman’s violent tableaux.
This is not fucking happening.
Russell knew that he was useful until he wasn’t needed anymore. But Loman still needed him. Didn’t he?
He shouted, “What are you doing? No kidding, Willy. Don’t be crazy.”
He watched Loman’s expression. Reversing course was in character for Loman. Loman repositioned the gun and presented it butt-first to Russell.
“How could you think such a thing, Dick? You hurt my feelings. Now take the gun.”
Ten feet away, Sloane lunged against the duct tape, rocking the armchair forward and back, whimpering through his gag.
Loman said to Russell again, “Take it.”
Russell refocused, moving from seeing himself as a bloody corpse to trying to process what Loman wanted him to do. He had never agreed to shoot anyone—but clearly, this was what Loman had in mind.
He understood that if he didn’t finish the job, Loman would shoot him, put Sloane away, and walk out the door. Russell’s best chance of surviving the night, of cashing in and disappearing on his own terms, depended on his following this order.
Loman asked nicely, “Got a problem, Dick?”
Russell said, “Our deal, Willy. We have an agreement. I’m Mr. Inside, remember?”
“You’re as far inside as you can be without being up Arnie’s ass. Dick. Think about it. This is the only way I can trust you.”
Russell didn’t have to think hard.
He saw himself taking the gun and shooting Loman, but he doused the thought. Loman was his ticket to happily-ever-after. Without Loman, he was a man without a plan.
Fucking Loman. Russell reached out and took the gun, got a two-handed grip on it, and aimed at Sloane’s chest. Sloane yelled wordlessly through the gag.
“Ahhhhhhhhhhhh!”
Russell fired.
Sloane bucked, almost knocking over the chair, a forceful reaction in contrast to the soft puff of the suppressed gunshot. Russell fired again and Sloane’s body jerked. He was dead when the third round went into his torso. He didn’t twitch.
Russell stared, briefly mesmerized by the growing bloodstains around the bullet holes in Sloane’s shirt.
He’d done that. He was a murderer.
Loman said, “Good job, Dick. But you got some blood on you. Go put on one of Arnie’s shirts and be sure to take yours with us. Make it snappy, eh, buddy? We gotta go.”
Loman was satisfied. By killing Sloane, Russell was all in. Loman clapped his hands together sharply, getting his partner’s attention.
“Wake up, Dick. The job of the century is waiting.”
CHAPTER 49
CONKLIN AND I followed Jacobi to Caselli Avenue and parked behind him in front of number 22.
The curb was already jammed with CSI and medical examiner vans and a herd of black-and-whites. Cherry lights strobed, and the crackle of car radios sounded like a hissing crowd at Candlestick.
I got out of the car and looked up.
At eleven whatever p.m., the clouds had blocked out the moon and stars, leaving a fathomless black sky. Up and down the curving, tree-lined block, reindeer lawn vignettes and roof decor twinkled.