The Killing Kind (20 page)

About that, at least, Garfield was right. The population of St. Louis had declined by two-thirds since its peak. The results were broad sidewalks and multilane arterials that sat empty, or damn near. Which, theoretically, should have made their current task easier, but in practice made it dull enough to render it unbearable.

Thompson and Garfield were looking for a late-model metallic blue Nissan Versa sedan, rented Monday evening from Reliant Auto Rental—less than a mile’s walk from the airport—by a Mr. Lawrence Landry. Landry was one of Leonwood’s go-to aliases. They’d been at it for going on twenty-four hours—since midday Tuesday, when the footage from the traffic cams, ATMs, and private security feeds started rolling in. Reliant, like most auto rental companies across the country, didn’t bother placing tracking systems inside their compacts or economies—just their luxury options. Paying monthly premiums to track a fleet of low-rent cars unlikely to be stolen wasn’t worth the cost. And either Leonwood was wise to the fact or he was just a tightwad, because moose of a man that he was, when it came time to rent a ride, he opted to cram himself into a compact rather than fork over the dough for something he might actually fit into. And that left Thompson and Garfield hoping somebody somewhere had eyes on him, so they could figure out where he was headed. Even in a town as sparsely populated as St. Louis, it was like trying to find a needle in a pile of other needles—and the St. Louis field office was understaffed, so they were on their own sifting through the literally thousands of hours of video and reams of digital stills. With twenty trained agents, it might have been doable. With two, it was a waste of time.

“So what have you got?” Thompson said.

“What I’ve
got
is a call from our office in KC. They got a nibble on the pic of Leonwood we’ve been circulating. Seems ol’ Leon got himself into an argument with a fucking ventriloquist of all things at some cheap-ass casino buffet, and security had to step in to talk him down.”

Thompson stood, rising all the way to her tiptoes so she could peer over the cubicle wall. Her cell phone vibrated— a text from Jess—and her headache intensified. She was too busy for family drama right now. “They sure it was our guy?”

“Sure enough to call it in. I’m on hold with KC while they call the casino back to see if they can e-mail me a still from their security cameras.”

“He’s not still
there,
is he?” Thompson asked.

“No,” Garfield replied. “The place’s got a hotel, but he wasn’t registered. They comped him a dinner to shut him up, and he left just after.”

“Wait—he wasn’t registered? That mean he gave them a name when they talked to him?”

“Yeah,” Garfield said: “Smith.”

Figures, Thompson thought. If he’d used a known alias, they’d have him pegged. But Smith was almost as damning. In fact...“Son of a bitch,” she said, plopping back into her chair and swiveling once more toward her computer.

“What?”

“What’s the name of the casino?”

“Pendleton’s—why?”

Thompson googled, brought up their website. Her cell phone vibrated again, but she ignored it. “That’s where his hit is going down.”

“How can you be so sure? We don’t even know it’s
him
yet.” Garfield’s e-mail chirped, indicating a new message. A quick click to open it, and another to open the attached image, and he said, “Scratch that—it’s him. But you can’t know that’s where it’s gonna go down. I mean, he’d be crazy to whack a guy with that much security around, wouldn’t he?”

“Leonwood specializes in crazy,” Thompson said. “Besides, when’s the last time
you
flew halfway across the country to see a ventriloquist?”

“Fair point,” Garfield conceded. “Still, it’s pretty thin. Maybe he’s just killing time until killing time.”

“Cute,” Thompson said, “but I don’t buy it. If he was staying there, I might grant the possibility he just wandered down and plopped himself in whatever show was going on to kill the hours. But he’s
not
staying there, and he didn’t even dare to drop one of his common aliases. Ergo, he was casing the place.”

Thompson thought she heard Garfield scoff at her
ergo,
but he had the sense at least not to put words to his derision. Nice to know her threats of violence were starting to pay off. She fired off an e-mail and heard the electronic chirp from Garfield’s cubicle as it arrived.

“What’s this?” he asked.

“The Pendleton’s event schedule for the month. I need you to talk to someone on their end and find out which of these events are scheduled for the same room the ventriloquist is in for, say, the next three days. If nothing pops, then make it seven.” But she knew something would pop— Leonwood wasn’t the type for loads of careful prep.

“You want me to alert their security to the threat?”

“And run the risk they’ll spook him?” she asked. “No. Leonwood’s too slippery. We have to do this right. Tell them to let us know if he comes through again, but don’t tip them that he’s dangerous; make up something white-collar if you have to. Tell them we have agents on the way. And whatever you tell them, make sure they buy it, or you’ll cause a panic, and Leonwood will disappear. If they blow this collar on us, I’ll hold you personally responsible.”

“And what’re you gonna be doing while I tackle all your scut work?”

“I’m going to get us on the next shuttle to KC, and then I’m going to get on the horn with our KC office and make sure their SWAT team’s good to go. Be ready in five.”

“But all my shit’s at the hotel!”

“Which is where you’ll find it when you get back,” she said. “No time to pack a bag, pretty boy—whatever’s going down is going down soon.”

22

Eric Purkhiser wiped his palms on his thrift-store dress pants and watched the Missouri countryside roll by as the limo Pendleton’s sent for him drove north on Route 13. It was his first time in a limousine. He’d always thought that they’d be nicer; they looked so swanky from the outside. But the interior was dated—black lacquer trimmed in pink and purple. The air inside reeked of cheap air freshener. There wasn’t even any booze—just two bottles of off-brand water where the bar should be.

Not that Purkhiser would have poured himself a drink. His stomach was a wreck already. The collar of his dress shirt felt like it was slowly tightening around his neck. He tugged at it with one finger and forced himself to take deep breaths. For what felt like the hundredth time, he ran through the plan his mystery savior had laid out yesterday and told himself he’d be just fine.

“Talk me through it one more time,” Hendricks had said.

“Dude, we’ve been through this five times already!” Purkhiser whined. “What more do you need to know?”

“I need to know you’re up for this. I need to know that come tomorrow, you’ll play your part. And I need to know you haven’t forgotten any detail that’ll get us both killed. Now talk me through it one more time.”

They’d been going around like this for the better part of an hour—Purkhiser sitting at his kitchen table and sipping from a can of Bud, Hendricks pacing back and forth across the yellowed linoleum.

“The limo will be here to pick me up at one p.m. They offered to pick me up earlier and comp my lunch—but as instructed, I declined. Thanks a fucking bunch, by the way— I mean, why would I want all the four-star cuisine I can eat when I got a fridge full of mustard and batteries right here?”

Hendricks doubted the Pendleton’s restaurants were anyone’s idea of four-star cuisine, but he held his tongue on that count, instead saying, “The Outfit’s instructions weren’t to whack you at your ceremony—they were to make it public. Lunch at a fancy restaurant might strike the guy who’s here to kill you as plenty public, and a hell of a lot easier to pull off than in a banquet room that’ll likely be full of guards.”

“All right, all right,” he said, showing Hendricks his hands. “No lunch.”

“What happens after you arrive?”

“I arrive no later than four p.m. They bring me in via the employee entrance and take me through the service corridor that serves as backstage for the banquet hall.”

“Then?” prompted Hendricks.

“The head of the casino does his little jerk-off dog-andpony show, they roll an it-could-happen-to-you video that ends with me hitting the jackpot—can you believe they built that fucking slot machine with a camera to capture the big moment?—and then they bring out the big check. I get up, accept it, and then there’s gonna be a balloon drop. I hear-tell there’s gonna be a bunch of giveaways hidden in the balloons—free meals, concert tickets, fifty bucks in chips, even a coupon for a weekend stay in the Mark Twain Suite—their way of guaranteeing the seats get filled. People are gonna go apeshit once those babies drop.”

“That’s when the Outfit’s goon will make his move. Given that they want to make a scene, and there’s no screening on the way into the casino, we have to assume the worst, which in this case would be a fully automatic firearm, likely stowed in a briefcase or piece of luggage to blend in with the hotel crowd. Once they drop the balloons, you’re to get down and stay down, understand? I’ll try to neutralize the guy before he ever gets a shot off, but better safe than sorry.”

“I still don’t understand why I’m not wearing a bulletproof vest,” said Purkhiser.

“Well, for one, Eric, you don’t need one—you’ve got me,” replied Hendricks. Purkhiser frowned—not entirely certain he believed that. “And for two, any pro worth his salt would spot its bulk a mile away, in which case he’d just scotch his plans to hit you then, and whack you later.”

“Eddie,” he halfheartedly corrected. “And I’m just saying, this don’t seem right to me. Maybe we should call the whole thing off—hole up somewhere and let the bastard come to us.”

“Eddie,” Hendricks echoed. “Right. Believe me when I tell you,
Eddie,
it’s a hell of a lot easier to keep you upright if we know where and when your killer’s gonna strike. You take that away from me—restore his element of surprise—and it’s a coin toss whether you live or die. But hey, you’re the gambler—you wanna roll the dice?”

“Jesus, dude,” said Purkhiser sullenly, “I was just askin’. No need to be a dick about it.”

“You didn’t pay me to be nice,” Hendricks said. “In fact, you haven’t paid me yet at all. You get the transfer paperwork I requested?”

Purkhiser fished a crookedly folded piece of paper from his back pocket. Four pieces, actually, of that translucent too-thin onionskin paper that’s pulled from stacks of carbon-transfer duplicates. Hendricks thumbed through them: all fine print and Purkhiser’s initials, the last page signed, dated, and featuring the number to one of Hendricks’s accounts in the Seychelles, listed here as Purkhiser’s own. Well, Palomera’s, according to the paperwork—not that it mattered. What
did
matter is that by the close of business Thursday, the day of Purkhiser’s ceremony, six million dollars—less taxes—would be transferred to Hendricks’s account.

“Looks like this is all in order,” Hendricks said. “Which means as long as you do as I’ve said, everything is going to be just fine. You have my word.”

The limo bypassed the casino’s main entrance and pulled into the employee garage around back. The driver opened the rear door, but a sense of impending doom kept

Purkhiser in his seat.

“Sir?” the driver said. “We’re here.”

Purkhiser swallowed hard and clenched his jaw, and then he stepped out of the car.

23

Thursday afternoon, and the Fountain Room was packed. Gone was the buffet, replaced by a smattering of additional tables and a waitstaff circulating trays of hors d’oeuvres. The bar was flush with drunks and compulsive gamblers taking advantage of the free food and drink offered to anyone willing to attend Purkhiser’s big event. The casino’d been handing out tickets for hours, and though no one gave a damn about Purkhiser or his enormous jackpot, the room was vibrating with anticipation of the impending balloon drop, and the promise of prizes contained therein.

To one side of the stage, a local news anchor was filming an intro segment. Crews from other TV stations were setting up in the back of the room. Pendleton’s was dropping some serious coin on Purkhiser’s big win, and they were going to milk it for every ounce of publicity they could.