The Professionals (15 page)

Stevens spoke into the phone. “What are you saying, Windermere?”

“You watching? Some mob guy got clipped out of a red Ford van. Van was found burned up a few days later, no plates. Could have been our kids, no?”

Stevens ran the math in his head. They dumped the body on Saturday, he thought. They could easily have been in Minneapolis the week before.

“Could just be a coincidence,” said Windermere. “But it sounds like their MO, you know what I mean?”

“Sure,” said Stevens. “Anyway, what else have we got right now?”

“We can at least call up Detroit and see if they know anything.”

“Let’s get the Michigan office involved.”

“Already done,” Windermere told him. “Now, are you ready for dinner or what?”

H
e found them on the beach.

They’d commandeered board shorts and a couple beach towels, and they were stretched out on the sand about thirty feet from the surf, their pale bodies incongruous amid acres of tanned flesh. Sawyer was laid out flat on his back, staring up through a brand-new pair of Oakleys at some girl in a yellow bikini. Mouse was pretending to read a mystery novel while sneaking glances at Sawyer’s new friend.

Pender thought about sneaking up on them and maybe pretending to be the cops, but quickly thought better of it. Too soon, he decided. Besides, Sawyer had probably found himself another gun already. So he played it straight: walked up, cast a shadow over Mouse, and kicked sand on Sawyer’s chest.

The big guy sprang up. “Yo, what the fuck?” He was ready to brawl, showing off for the girl. She had long blond hair and a tight, toned body, a gorgeous face that probably put plenty of miles on her fake ID. Beautiful, definitely, and knowing Sawyer, probably dangerous. He wondered how much they’d told her.

Mouse looked up from his novel, laughed. “Penderrrr.”

“Oh, shit.” Sawyer relaxed. “I almost decked you, bro.”

Pender stuck out his hand, and they shook. “See you guys are settling in nicely.”

“Yeah.” Sawyer grinned. He gestured to the girl. “This is Tiffany. She’s from Pennsylvania.”

Tiffany gave a little wave and a world-melting smile. “Bryn Mawr,” she said. “Taking a little impromptu winter break from school. So you’re the famous Pender.”

Pender glanced at Sawyer. “I don’t know if I’m famous.”

“The way these guys talk about you, you might as well be,” she said. “I kept telling them we should go for food, and they kept insisting we had to wait for Pender. And now here you are. So can we eat or what?”

“All right.” Sawyer grabbed the girl and lifted her up off the ground, spinning and bouncing her in his arms as she screamed, laughing, for mercy. “You’re gonna give him a big head.”

Pender watched Sawyer and Tiffany flirt, shuffling his feet in the sand and feeling more than a little overdressed in his Michigan street clothes. “Where’d she come from?” he asked Mouse.

Mouse looked up, shrugged, gestured around the beach.

“Sawyer gonna fall in love with her?”

“For tonight, probably.”

“Yeah,” said Pender. “What did you guys tell her?”

“The truth.” Mouse sat up, grinning. “Told her we’re energy drink representatives from Manhattan come down to pitch the new product line.”

“The truth.” Pender smiled, relieved. “So where’s your girl?”

Mouse frowned. His eyes swept the horizon, paused hungrily at Tiffany, and then continued, surveying the bronzed skin and bikini-clad bodies that littered the beach. “Somewhere out there,” he said, shaking his head.

“You’re a funny guy, Mouse. And you’re rich. What are you waiting for?”

“I’m not rich enough for South Beach,” he said. “And I’m just funny
looking
.”

Sawyer and Tiffany returned, laughing and jostling each other. “We’re starving,” said Tiffany. “Let’s eat, please?”

“I gotta pick up some clothes first. I’ll meet you?”

“Back at the hotel,” said Sawyer. “We gotta get changed, anyway.”

They walked back up the road, Sawyer mugging for Tiffany, goofing off, the girl giggling, sticking close. Mouse walked a couple steps behind, his eyes on permanent roll. When they got off the sand, they split up, Pender bearing right, heading for the shops, and the others bearing left toward the Dauphin.

“Catch you later, bro,” said Sawyer, lifting Tiffany into a piggyback. Mouse shot Pender a look.

“Just once, I want to be that lucky,” he said. Then he shook Pender’s hand. “See you in a bit. Don’t get caught.”

T
he man sat in the passenger seat of the Trans Am, watching the crowds ebb and flow along Ocean Drive. Beside him, Carlos sat snoring in the driver’s seat, a small puddle of drool forming on the comics section of
The
Miami Herald
. The blond kid had left the hotel an hour or so beforehand and headed for the beach, his jeans and collared shirt giving him away amid the throngs of passersby in shorts and tees and halter tops.

Now the man waited in the waning light, antsy now, ready. He watched as a trio of gringos passed them on the sidewalk, walking up to the front door of the Dauphin, the men pale as albinos and the girl tanned a buttery brown. The bigger guy eyed the Trans Am as he passed, and his eyes briefly met the man’s before he turned toward the hotel. They were hard eyes, even as the kid was smiling, and the man looked away, unsettled.

He watched the kids disappear into the hotel, and then he nudged Carlos awake, told him bring the car around the back of the building
and wait by the rear door for his signal. Then he got out of the car and stood on the sidewalk, enjoying the breeze off the ocean and the sound of the surf in the background. He pulled the sports section from his back pocket, unrolled it, and leaned up against a palm tree, pretending to read as he surveyed the landscape, the Glock in his waistband pressing up against his back, begging to be used.

T
he kid returned with shopping bags at a quarter past six. The man was reading the sports pages for the third time when he strolled past, walking quick and swinging the shopping bags from his arms, in a hurry, but not urgently. He passed the man at the palm tree, didn’t even slow down, and turned up the walk toward the front door of the Dauphin. The man forced himself to read a sentence or two more and then came up the walk just as the kid was disappearing inside.

The man entered the hotel and walked through the lobby, ignoring the front desk clerk who sat reading his own newspaper, oblivious. The kid was on the elevator, and the man watched the lights above the door until the elevator stopped on the fourth floor. Then he walked quickly through the first-floor hallway to the back of the building, where Carlos sat on the rear steps, the Trans Am parked in the alley behind.

“Fourth floor,” he told Carlos, holding the door open and letting him inside. Carlos cradled his Uzi beneath a Miami Heat warm-up jacket, the extra clip bulging in his pants pocket. They made for the rear stairwell and climbed up into the building, listening close for any noises from above as each footstep echoed around them.

They reached the fourth floor, Carlos panting from the climb, and
the man let him catch his breath as he peered out the stairwell window into the hall. Deserted. He looked back and gestured to Carlos, who nodded, and he pushed open the door and crept out into the hallway, listening at each door for the sounds of habitation. The man lifted the Glock from his waistband, enjoying the feel of it in his hands as he crept along the wall, pressing his ear close to the doors as he passed them.

S
awyer was in the shower when Pender arrived at the room, and Mouse and Tiffany shared an uneasy silence in the bedroom. The place was dark; nobody had bothered to turn on the lamp, and the dusty windowpane filtered out what little sunlight remained.

Mouse lay sprawled on the bed like a kid on Saturday morning, staring blank-faced at the television as a couple of overweight moms battled over one bucktoothed groom. Tiffany sat in an easy chair by the window, barely watching the TV. She’d found herself a denim miniskirt and a white tank top. Mouse was still in his bathing suit.

“Knock-knock,” said Pender, entering the room. He set down the bags and stood blinking in the darkness, letting his eyes shift from Mouse to the television to the girl. “What are you guys watching?”

“Springer,” said Mouse, not bothering to look up from the screen.

Pender glanced at Tiffany. “How’s that working out for you?”

“It’s fine,” she said, shrugging. “I don’t really watch talk shows.”

“Mouse,” said Pender. “Get some manners, will you? Find something the lady wants to watch.”

Mouse sighed, letting every last breath escape his body, and rolled over to face Pender. He was opening his mouth to argue when a knock at the door shut him up.

It was a firm knock, insistent. Pender felt his stomach tighten. “You guys order room service?”

Mouse shook his head, frowning.

“It’s probably just housekeeping,” said Tiffany.

“It’s not fucking housekeeping,” said Mouse.

Pender put a finger to his lips and crept to the door. He peered
through the peephole. It was dark. What the hell? Then he got it.
“Motherfucker.”

He was on the floor when the first shot came, crouching, crawling back toward the bedroom. The shot came through the door and then the door swung open with a sick crack, the deadbolt swinging useless as two angels of death stood silhouetted in the light from the hallway.

“Get down!” Pender shouted, and Tiffany screamed, diving for cover behind the bed. The shots kept coming, flying past Pender as he turned the corner, bracing for the end as he hid against the wall and waited for the gunmen to come farther into the room.

The first guy came quickly, a scar-faced kid in a Hawaiian shirt brandishing a big pistol and shouting in Spanish as he let shots go, tearing up the place. He fired at the bed and Pender heard Mouse cry out, and then Pender leapt at the gunman and tackled him from the side. The man cursed in Spanish and swung, firing wildly, shooting out the window as Pender held on for dear life. He wrestled with the guy, climbing on his back and clawing at him, grabbing for the pistol and feeling the guy’s strength draining, feeling like he might be winning. Then he glanced at the door and saw the big guy with the Uzi.

T
he blond kid was climbing all over him and the man fired wildly, screaming in Spanish for Carlos to ice the motherfucker and now. He hadn’t expected so many people in the room, but he’d hit the girl, he thought, and definitely the scrawny guy on the bed. Then the blond kid ambushed him from the side, jumping all over him, fucking up his aim. But that’s why you brought backup, and why the hell wasn’t Carlos using that big goddamn Uzi already?

The man swung around, the kid hanging on his back like a Superman cape. Carlos was still standing there, the Uzi raised, looking for a clean shot and yelling something about move, boss, move. The man moved, tried to swing the kid off his back, but the kid held on and wouldn’t let go, and the man swung around to face Carlos just in time to see the big guy get his face punched in by the hard kid from the street.

He’d come out of the bathroom wrapped in a towel, eyes murderous, and he’d surprised the shit out of Carlos, who was still fucking around trying to get a clean shot. The hard kid hit him square in the face, a knockout punch, and Carlos reeled into the wall, his finger on the trigger and the Uzi spraying bullets now, clean shot or no.

The man felt the first couple catch him in the chest, then a couple more in the stomach, and then he stopped counting. The hard kid jumped all over Carlos, socking him, knocking him to the floor as the Uzi fired nonstop, catching the ceiling, the floor, the walls—and the man. He kept fighting the kid, barely felt the bullets, kept trying to swing the kid off so Carlos would have a decent shot, but the kid held on and the man felt his strength start to go, felt light-headed a little and sick, and he looked down and saw blood blossoming like crimson flowers on his Hawaiian shirt.

The hard kid had Carlos lying on the floor, all bloodied with the Uzi spent and smoking beside him. The hard kid picked it up and turned to the man, looking him in the eye once more as the man crumpled to the carpet, feeling the pain now, feeling the blood pouring out of him.