CHAPTER 35
Gary ate lunch in a café and strolled a hundred metres back to his office. He climbed the flight of concrete steps, unlocked the door and stepped inside. As he did, he sensed something was wrong. That impression was confirmed when a metal object dug into his neck and a voice - with an American accent - said with calm authority: "Don't move, or I'll shoot you dead."
Gary glanced sideways and saw a handsome, well-tanned man in his mid-thirties wearing an expensive, light-grey suit, holding a Walther .357 Revolver. A cold hand gripped his heart and his nerves sizzled. The fact that this guy could break into his office, owned a high-calibre pistol and was spookily calm, suggested he was a professional killer. Pringle must have hired him to kill Gary, who braced for a bullet. "What the hell do you want?"
The guy's Dixie accent evoked steamboats, magnolias and plantation mansions. "I'll explain everything shortly. First, put your hands behind your back and do nothing stupid. I've killed lots of guys. Killing you would be nothing special."
Gary's mouth was full of glue. "What the hell is this about?"
The guy shoved his pistol further into Gary's neck. "Shut up and put your hands behind your back, now."
Gary complied and felt handcuffs snap over his wrists. The American patted him down, very professionally, and found nothing. "Alright, sit down."
As Gary sat, the American slipped across the room and locked the door. He returned and stood over Gary.
Gary managed to half-fill his lungs. "What do you want? Did Pringle send you?"
"Who's Pringle?"
"Brian Pringle."
The American shook his head. "Don't know him."
Gary felt a flood of relief. Maybe this guy didn't plan to kill him. "What's this about?"
The American threw a thigh over a corner of the desk and pointed his pistol at Gary's chest with a rock-steady hand. "You're aware, aren't you, that several months ago, two guys killed a drug dealer called Pedro Garcia and ripped off eight kilos of cocaine."
"Yes."
"Pedro's uncle is a big wheel in the Medellin cartel. He wasn't happy when he heard his nephew got iced. So he sent me out here to … umm … dispense some justice."
"You mean rub out the two guys who killed Pedro?"
"Correct. But when I got here, I discovered one of the killers, Tony Thompson, was already dead and nobody could identify his accomplice."
"Too bad. How can I help?"
"I think you know the name of his accomplice."
"Why?"
"I think the accomplice killed Thompson. So I recently had a chat with Barbara Thompson during which I threatened to blow her head off if she didn't tell me who killed her son. That got her talking. She said she employed you to identify the killer."
"So what? Maybe I didn't identify him."
"True. But if you don't tell me who killed Tony Thompson, I'll have to torture you. In five minutes, you'll forget you're human."
His matter-of-fact tone made Gary a believer. However, he didn't need to make threats. Gary was overjoyed at the chance to make Pringle the target of a professional hitman. "Don't worry, I'm very happy to tell you who killed Thompson."
The American lifted his eyebrows. "Who?"
"A drug cop called Brian Pringle."
"The guy you just mentioned?"
"Yes. Pringle and Tony Thompson killed Pedro Garcia and ripped off his coke. Then Pringle iced Tony Thompson to stop him blabbing."
"How do you know this stuff?"
"That's a long story."
"Take your time and leave nothing out."
Gary summarised how Pringle and Tony Thompson killed Pedro Garcia; Pringle killed Tony Thompson; Trixie Powell ran away; Pringle blew up Gary's apartment to stop Gary's investigation and accidentally killed Robyn, and Gary located Trixie Powell and got the full story from her.
"Pringle sounds like a seriously bad dude."
"Pure evil."
"You must be pissed off with him for blowing up your apartment."
"The woman he killed was a good friend. The bastard has to die."
"Have you tried to kill him?"
"Yes."
"What happened?"
Gary described how he located Pringle's cabin cruiser and what occurred on the boat. When he mentioned that Pringle cut off his little finger, the American glanced at his still bandaged right hand to confirm that.
As soon as Gary finished his story, the American frowned contemptuously. "So you let Pringle get away?"
"It wasn't my fault. The Maori guy saved him."
"Only because you talked so much. I'm surprised you didn't offer him tea and scones, if that's what you folks eat around here. You should have iced the bastard straight away. Hello - bang. Know why you didn't?"
"Why?"
"Deep down, you didn't want to kill him. So you missed your chance. Big mistake. Real killers don't talk. We're not interested in social interaction. When I've got to kill someone, I do it like this." The American snapped his fingers, making a sound like a gunshot.
Gary remembered that this guy was a hitman, and felt a chill go down his spine. "I killed the Maori."
"I don't give a shit about him. Pringle was obviously one of the two who killed Pedro, so I want him dead. Where do I find him?"
Gary didn't want to mention Pringle was now in the witness protection program, but didn't want to lie to this guy either - that could be fatal.
Gary said: "Umm, that's a problem."
Eyes narrowed. "Why?"
"He's now in a witness protection program."
There was nothing pleasant about a hitman's frown. "In a what?"
"A witness protection program. I think you've got similar schemes in the US."
"I know what the fuck they are. What the goddamn hell's he doing in yours?" He didn't sound like a Southern gentleman anymore - or any kind of gentleman.
"Look in my top drawer. You'll find a press clipping. It explains everything."
The American opened Gary's top drawer and fished out the clipping from the Sydney Morning Herald of a few days ago.
Gary fearfully watched the American read it, lips compressed.
Finally, the American glared down at Gary. "Shit, this is your fault. You tried to kill Pringle and fucked up. So he jumped into the witness protection program."
"Looks like it."
The killer glare of a killer. "Fucking amateur."
Gary was tired of his insults. "I'm sure you've made mistakes - you've missed targets."
A frown. "No, I haven't."
"Not one?"
"Never."
"Oh? Well, at least I found out Pringle helped Thompson kill Pedro Garcia. You didn't manage that."
"True. But I'm not a detective. I'm a hitter, and a damn good one." The hitman appraised Gary coldly. In his sharp green eyes, Gary saw the bright hopes and dark desires that made him as American as apple pie. "I bet you want to know what I'm going to do with you."
Gary felt a huge lump in his throat. "Yeah, ah, I was wondering about that."
"I could kill you."
The lump grew. Gary swallowed hard. It didn't budge. He forced words past it. "Not a good idea."
The American crossed his arms and smiled slightly. "I agree. Know why?"
"Why?"
"I don't like killing people I'm not paid to kill."
"Good principle."
"Yes. And we obviously both want Pringle dead. So I want us to work together."
"How?"
"You're obviously a good detective. Find Pringle and tell me where he is. That's all you've got to do. I'll do the rest. Here's my card. It has my e-mail address. No-one can trace it. Send me his location."
The assassin slipped a business card into the top pocket of Gary's shirt.
Gary said: "OK, though he won't be easy to find in the witness protection program."
A broad smile. "Maybe. But if anything in life is certain, if history has told us anything, it's that you can kill anyone."
His words rang
a small bell in Gary's mind. "Michael Corleone, right - Godfather, Part II?"
Another smile. "Yes."
"That was just a movie."
"So what? It's true. All you've got to do is find Pringle and leave the rest to me."
Gary didn't have a clue how to find Pringle but, when a hitman is pointing a pistol at you, it is important to appear useful. "OK, no problem."
"Good."
"What if I want to kill Pringle myself?"
Eyes narrowed. "Let me put it this way: I'll be happy if you kill Pringle, because I'll get paid anyway. But if you try to kill him and miss, and he gets even harder to find, I'll be very, very upset. That's the last thing you want. Then, I'll kill you for free."
"I understand."
"Good. I'm going back in the US. When you find Pringle, let me know and I'll return, OK?"
"Sure. Will you un-cuff me?"
"Of course."
The American tucked away his pistol and smiled like a god-fearing farm boy from the Midwest. Gary imagined him standing on a baseball mound singing A Star Spangled Banner while a Marine band played.
The American released Gary. "Since we're going to be partners, let me buy you a cup of coffee to show there are no hard feelings. There aren't, are there?"
Gary felt circulation return to his hands. "Of course not. What's your name?"
"Kenneth Roberts, but call me Ken."
Gary shook his hand. "Pleased to meet you, Ken."