Cool Heat (8 page)

With all of the Vegas Strip glowing below them, the brightest lights in all the world, he toasted once again to the fruition of his grand dream.

He turned to the Chinese gentleman and his small entourage. “It must be very satisfying that a relative of those who labored to build the great railroads that opened the Sierras and linked the country are soon going to own them.”

More laughter. Thorp was on.

“Show us this famous gun you have,” one of the Silicon Valley investors said. “I heard it was the brother to the pistol that killed Lincoln.”

He pulled out the Derringer, laid it in the palm of his hand, and then passed it around for the investors to see.

“A piece of history. This baby is the brother pistol to the one that killed Lincoln at Ford’s Theatre. Man that made them, Henry Deringer, made them in pairs because they only shot one bullet. Each pair had a specific bullet mold.” He retrieved the gun and held it up. “Black walnut stock, checkered grip.”

“It authentic?”

“This is the real thing. Cost me a fortune to get hold of it. It’s been going around. The original is kept by the U.S. Park Police in Ford’s Theatre. They authenticated it about ten years ago as the second of the pair. I heard that it was out there three years ago, and I had some people run it down for me. Paid big.”

“How can you be sure that’s the one?”

“Forensics and science. You check the rifling pattern, tool marks, shading, the grain. The metal of these single-shot percussions is chemically browned iron, and you can check the age, which I did. Look at the barrel—see how it’s flattened and slotted on top for the blade front sight. You have engraved German silver. Lock plate and barrel stamped with Derringer Philadelphia. His named was Deringer, with one R, but the gun was called a Derringer, using two Rs. Made in pairs, the double-R makes sense.”

“You ever shoot it?”

He put the gun in his pocket. “Not yet. But I’m sure that day will come.”

That brought a big round of laughter. It was at that moment, as he was raising yet another toast, that he got a shoulder tap by his lawyer.

Thorp finished the toast, then followed Richard Rouse, his attorney, business partner, and life-long friend out onto the balcony.

16

“What’s the problem?” Thorp demanded. He was quickly sorry he asked. And it got a lot worse when Rouse told him about the shooting at the hatchery, about Cillo’s nephew saving Jesup, and how he was out there somewhere as well. Then the most distressing news of all.

“Looks like the fool who jumped the gun was Shaun.”

“How do you know this?”

“I’ve been talking to everybody who knows anything. It really looks that way.”

Thorp’s incredulity turned instantly to anger. “That’s…that’s insane. That bastard. Jesus Christ.”

Thorp stared down at the flow of lights on the Vegas Strip as he tried to process the idea that his moronic cousin, a lowlife piece of crap, would take it upon himself to do something like this. It was almost unfathomable.

“Media have this?”

“No. So far she hasn’t reported anything. Probably to protect her cousin at the hatchery. This is potential disaster.”

“What are we doing about it?”

“The guy I told you about, a plane will bring him in tomorrow.”

“This guy from New York?”

Rouse nodded. “They say he’s top of the line. I’ve been told his specialty is that he’s a suicide expert. He doesn’t whack people in the old Italian way. He’s a new breed. Quiet, quick, and very effective in what he does. You won’t even know he’s in town.”

“I want to know he’s in town. I’d like to talk to him, make sure he understands that we can’t afford any kind of negative publicity. How can I meet this guy?”

“I don’t know that’s a good idea.”

“I didn’t ask you that.”

“Well, he did have a demand. He insists we get the Marilyn Monroe Celebrity Cabin at the Cal Neva freed up for him. I’m taking care of it.”

Thorp stared at Rouse. “He wants the Marilyn Monroe Celebrity cabin.”

“That’s what our contact said. He’s some kind of movie buff.”

Thorp was beside himself. “This can’t be happening. If it was my idiot cousin, why? Is he deliberately trying to destroy me or what?”

“I don’t know. Maybe he’s trying to impress you.”

“He’s succeeded. If it was him, he’s dead. I want him gone. I want this cleaned up fast. That guy comes in, I want to meet him. Have the Cal-Neva open the tunnel from the kitchen to the Celebrity cabin that JFK and Sinatra used when they went secretly to visit Marilyn.”

17

The rather anonymous, inconspicuous young man smiled to himself, remembering what he had told the man he’d killed as he walked the night streets of New York City near Times Square late Sunday night:

“You’re going to do the world a favor and commit suicide. I’m going to help you in that. It’s what I do. I’m a suicide specialist. Your profession is bilking folks out of millions. Mine is getting them some justice. I love my profession.”

It was the best of times…and Sunday night, when people were least aware, it was the killer’s night. His profession was booming and he considered himself at the top, with his pick-and-choose of gigs. One of the reasons Leon had considered taking the job in Tahoe so soon after the Brooklyn job was Marilyn Monroe’s cabin. He’d heard they were thinking of tearing it down, and he’d always wanted to spend some time there. Watch her movies on his Kindle Fire while lying back, reposing as it were, on her bed.

Henry Craven Lee, aka Leon, the man referred to by the code name Urbanwolf, had come to New York for a job in Brooklyn and was now enjoying a night off after another success. He thought about his recent target. How the man had stared at death more with acceptance than fear. How like Leon was maybe doing him a favor, doing what he’d wanted to do but didn’t have the guts.

“It’s not business and it’s not personal, it’s Mother Nature…the Italians notwithstanding.”

He’d said those words as he’d looked into the widened eyes of the man, eyes more resigned than any Leon had ever seen. That thousand-yard stare, as they say. Something you see in war zones…and wasn’t Wall Street the final war zone?

Post-kill was Leon’s second favorite time. The long, slow comedown from the ultimate high the hunt gave him. Leon had taken his current name from the French version of one of his favorite old movies,
The Professional.
All the names he’d worked under over the years were lifted from favorite movies.
The Professional
was
Leon
in the French version, staring Natalie Portman and the hitman Jean Reno. It was one of Henry Craven Lee’s all-time top flicks.

Leon strolled now down Fifth Avenue. He loved the night crowds. The anonymity, the knowing. He talked silently to people. He was never alone. The world was his playground, and he talked incessantly to people, imagining what he would do to some of them. Leon’s mind never stopped except on the hunt. Then it calmed. Then it focused. Otherwise? It ran and ran and ran.

You don’t care, do you? Life beat you. Nature has no sympathy.

Leon took great pride in the professionalism of his work. And though he’d learned much of it from watching movies and critiquing the killers, even mocking them, movies were his outlet. After the military denied him, which he was forever grateful for—
fuck them
—he’d studied his profession with zeal. Awarded himself a Ph.D. He didn’t like taking orders anyway. He was a genius with an IQ near 160, but what he possessed above anyone he encountered was that he knew the fundamental truth of life. He was absolutely convinced he knew the nature of things and the “others” were just kidding themselves.

A limo was now waiting for him in front of his hotel to take him to a private airfield from which he’d be flown to Tahoe. But tonight, he’d especially enjoyed his time prowling aimlessly through Times Square, working off his restless energy, the man whose real name was Henry Craven Lee, so pleased with himself. Sure, he got physically lonely at times, sometimes wanted a hooker for release. But for the most part, he liked being a lone wolf.

Leon loved nature’s laws. The true existence of life was the hunter. And he loved movies. He liked to think he looked a bit like De Niro in
Taxi—
his best role, in Leon’s mind, though he was great in
Goodfellas
and
Casino
. He couldn’t decide, when he thought about it, which of De Niro’s movies was the best. But what about
The Deer Hunter
and—hold on—
Raging Bull?
You can’t leave that out. And then what about
Cape Fear?
And—Christ, yes—don’t forgot
The Godfather!

But it was De Niro and Jean Reno in
The Professional
who were his greatest screen heroes. No contest.

Leon, carrying his travel bag, laughed out loud at the great movies De Niro had been in, all of which he’d seen almost as often as the Monroe movies. Laughing out caused people to glance at him.

Robert, my friend, you are the best. You are the man.

Back at his hotel, Leon got in the back seat of the limo with his bag, then pulled out his phone and checked in, listening to the message. He texted a simple message in a simple code. His contact numbers rotated with the calendar and various countries’ holiday schedules. This month it was Scotland. June. Lanimer Day.

He smiled at the thought of his next night being in MM’s bed in the Celebrity Cabin, where she had been nailed by Kennedy, Sinatra, and Giancana.

The truth of it was, killings for Leon weren’t murders. They were purges, cleansings of the rot and corruptions of civilization. People were, by and large, scum. Stupid and petty. Most. There were exceptions, to be sure. Still, the world needed more than a bunch of Leons to clean it up. He was a firm believer in the real need for a major pandemic or global war. It would be fine with him to get rid of about half the world’s population.

18

Sydney woke at noon on Monday and couldn’t believe she’d slept so long. She was sore, it seemed, everywhere.

He’s gone,
she thought with a start. Of course. Why would he stay? But would he tell them where she was? She looked for the gun that had been on the nightstand; it was gone.

She started to get up when she heard a noise. Somebody coming down the hall. Him or someone else? Again, she had no gun.

Suddenly, a figure appeared at the door. “You’re awake. How do you like your eggs?”

She smiled.
Now that’s a better way to wake up,
she thought. “Scrambled light is good. I can’t believe I slept that long.”

“How soon?”

“Give me ten minutes,” she said.

“How do you feel?”

“Like a truck ran over me.”

He smiled and left. She figured the longer they were together, the more likely she had him for what she had in mind.

After breakfast, they talked about Gatts and decided to go to Markleeville later that night and see if they couldn’t find the guy, then figure out how to get his cooperation. Marco told her not to worry about that.

“Give the place a call,” he said, “and make sure it’s still open. I’m gonna crash for awhile.” He pushed the Beretta across the table, plus the clips.

After he was gone, she called her police-reporter friend and asked him to run a serious background on Marco Cruz. “I need this pretty fast. And check on the Mountainview Restaurant. Make sure it’s open and that Gary Gatts runs the place. And if you can get me an address, I’d appreciate it.”

“And you won’t tell me anything about—”

“No. You’re a sweetheart.” She hung up and then went out to look around, make sure things were okay. She decided to sit out on the side deck so she had a good view of the water and of the feeder road that led to the gate.

Sydney felt better and better about her connection to Marco Cruz. They had something powerful in common—guilt. It’s something that comes with the territory for cops, soldiers, or anyone working tight with somebody who ends up dead. There’s always the sense you could have prevented it, or should have been the one to go down instead. It’s a big part of what drove her, and she figured he had that in his backpack as well. Life’s load is much heavier after something like that happens.

***

Marco stared at the band of light coming in from the side of the curtain on the wall and, tired as he was, didn’t know if he’d slept or not.

He didn’t like that they had delayed. He’d wanted to get to Gatts quick, before his uncle—whose suggestion it was—could use Gatts as a trap. He didn’t know, under the circumstances, how far he could trust his uncle. But in the end, he had no choice. Sydney had needed that sleep. He didn’t want her in a weak state and now he was the one exhausted, who needed a few hours himself.

Tahoe was a terrible place to be hunting somebody while you were being hunted. The basin is surrounded by mountains with only so many roads coming in and only one that circumvented the lake. The towns around the lake—like Tahoe City, Incline, even the casinos in South Lake—were all basically one-horse. If you traveled by car, you were always vulnerable, with no running room. It helped that they had use of the Range Rover, but he still worried about getting spotted.

The one big thing they would have had going for them, before his decision to talk to his uncle, was that the logical thing for them to have done was leave the area. He questioned his decision to meet Tony. And Sydney’s decision to hang around.

But there was a big additional problem. He could handle the terrain, the threat, the lack of resources and all that. But the woman was a whole different deal. Girls, even beautiful, smart ones, never were a serious threat to him. He had a good way with the ladies and never had a shortage of opportunity. They were something he worried about when they were around. He typically had a girlfriend for however long, then, when it was convenient for one or both, he’d move on. So much other stuff was always going on that he just never got into anything that might lock him down or send him in a direction he didn’t want to go.

This was different. This lady wanted to use him in her mission, her crusade, or whatever the hell it was. Under other circumstances, when some hot little something started trying to drag him down her dark path, he’d enjoy the quick fruits of his labor, then quickly shake free and get the hell on down his own road, avoiding without regret some nightmare he had no hand in making in the first place.