Kill Me Twice (A Zeke Edison Novel Book 1) (11 page)

Reggie snorted. “How many tickets did you have to give him?”

“Ten.” Washington’s squad would be the unseen, unofficial CPD presence that night.

They’d square things with any on-duty cops who might show up.

Have the pleasure of arresting Jonas Dawson, if things came to that.

Unaware of all that, Reggie said, “Knew it. Still, for a marauding brute, you’re sweet. When we get back here, remind me to do that nasty thing you like.”

Paulette and even George blushed.

Zeke just said, “Sure.”

On the way into the city, in the back of the gray van they rented, Reggie entrusted her old favorite to Paulette and showed her the fundamentals of baton attacks. Planning was all well and good, but a girl couldn’t be too careful.

“Where the hell have you two been?” Don Magro asked Paganini and Chopin.

“Doing a command performance,” Paganini said.

Code for a job for the big boss. Even in the privacy of their places of business and their homes, organized crime figures had learned to be ever more elliptical in their use of language. Revelations of how the feds could suck up every instance of every form of electronic communication had made their sphincters pucker.

Guys were worried they might get sent away for talking in their sleep.

Magro was currently preoccupied by more than that. Paganini and Chopin were used for one purpose only. They were never sent out to warn or intimidate; they just closed your shop. Another euphemism, but clearly understood.

Thing was, Magro was the guy who chose the mopes whose doors got closed. The big boss only gave his approval or withheld it. If the big boss had chosen to send Magro’s pet killers out on his own initiative, then another agenda besides Magro’s was at play. Being a man who’d decided the fates of others, Magro had naturally wondered when his turn in the box might come.

He’d just never thought it would be so soon.

“Did you guys get the message I sent?” he asked the killers.

Chopin nodded. “That’s still pending business.”

Telling him Dawson was still alive. That made Magro even more anxious. If there was anyone who could turn him into a liability to the organization, it was that prick Dawson. He just hadn’t liked the guy’s story about his tummy ache, and once somebody became a risk, well, there was only one response to that: elimination.

Putting on the best face he could, Magro asked, “So when will things get back to normal?”

Meaning when could he expect Dawson to die.

Paganini shrugged. “We’ve been told things are in a holding pattern.”

They’d been told just that by the big boss when they went to see him with their tails between their legs and confessed to being rousted by the frigging Evanston cops. That was the moment when they’d thought it might be all over for them. A goddamn Tinkertoy suburban police department backed them down? What the hell kind of killers did that make them? Somebody saw them coming, he might die of laughter.

The big boss took a far more charitable view. “You boys handled it right. You’d have let them provoke you, do something stupid, that would’ve been bad. It was reasonable for you to check things out up there, too. So now we know Zeke Edison has the Evanston cops wired, but we don’t know the reason to give him any attention. We’ll just let things be for now.”

And then the invitation arrived.

On Mrs. Big Boss’s phone yet.

She had no idea what the message meant and knew better than to ask.

She handed her phone to her husband and left the room.

State Street bridge. One a.m. Dawson tells all.

The big boss told Paganini and Chopin. “Get Magro. The three of you go take a look. Don’t get directly involved. Take it nice and calm just like Evanston.”

Then he stabbed his wife’s phone with an ice pick.

Twice a year, in spring and fall, Chicago had what was known as bridge-lift season. High-masted sailboats would emerge from or return to storage facilities along the Chicago River and sail onto or off of Lake Michigan. Along the way, the bridges that spanned the river and allowed automotive and pedestrian traffic to pass over the water course would be raised and lowered.

Bridge-lift season.

It hadn’t yet begun that spring as Paulette Mallory stood in the middle of the State Street span on the eastern sidewalk. The twin towers of Marina City and other less iconic high rises loomed on either side of the bridge. The bridge-tender’s tower was unoccupied at that wee hour of the night. Not even a taxi had passed by for the past five minutes.

If you wanted to be alone in the middle of a metropolitan area pushing ten million people, that was the time and place. Paulette didn’t want to be alone, and thank God she wasn’t. Reggie was close at hand, but wouldn’t be spotted by one observer in a thousand. Zeke was on the north side of the bridge, lurking in concealment. George was doing the same on the south side.

Sergeant Washington’s squad of CPD detectives also lay in wait in some shadowy nook.

The night was balmy for spring and there was only a hint of a breeze. Even so, Paulette felt chilled. She clasped the two tax ledgers to her chest, but that wasn’t enough to keep her from shivering. She was awaiting the arrival of the man who had already killed once.

The son of a bitch was late, too. Okay, it was only two minutes after one, but every passing second hit her like a drop of water torture. She just wanted to be done with this night and goddam Jonas Dawson. Then a cheering notion struck her. She’d been unexpectedly good with the baton Reggie had given her. Had a natural feel for putting her shoulder and hip into a stroke. Snapping her wrist at the end of the blow, too.

Wouldn’t it be great if she could beat Dawson into pudding?

She was only beginning to enjoy that fantasy when a car pulled to the curb just short of the north end of the bridge. For a moment, its high beams flared, spotlighting Paulette and making her squint. Then the car’s lights went dark and a man stepped out, leaving the motor running.

Dawson started her way, his hands in a dark jacket.

He looked even bigger than he had in Northbrook … and what if he had a gun?

Her baton wouldn’t be much help against that.

Despite all the help she had nearby, Paulette began to tremble.

Until a vein of courage she didn’t know she had asserted itself.

She began to whisper in a hard voice, “You are
not
going to kill me twice.”

Even at a distance, Jonas Dawson couldn’t get over how closely this woman, whoever she was, resembled Pamela Keller. He didn’t believe for a moment that she was really Pammie, of course. Even if he hadn’t killed her with his own two hands, she would have been as old as he was by now. Gray and sagging, wondering whether your body or your mind would quit first.

Way too old to play bullshit games like this one.

Only that goddamn Lois Lane from the
Trib
had mentioned the magic word: ledgers. She’d even made a dead-bang guess that he was still up to his old tricks. He’d have to take care of Lois next. In the next minute or two, though, he’d have to take back the ledgers to the fictitious Dawson Window Replacement that he’d hoped had been discarded years ago.

He was close enough now to see that the look-alike had them with her. Convenient. Grab them and toss her into the river. By the time she was fished out, they’d probably chalk it up as one more pathetic loser putting an end to her own troubles.

If she showed him any sign of resistance, he’d flash his gun. She’d go weak in the knees and he’d grab the books and give her the heave-ho. No, there was one more thing he’d have to do first. Steal a kiss, for old time’s sake.

Chopin had more girlfriends, and better looking ones, than Hugh Hefner. Natural blondes with home-grown curves. One of them lived on the thirtieth floor of the east tower of Marina City. The apartment’s balcony faced south with a commanding view of the Loop, the river and the State Street bridge, below and slightly to the left.

The girlfriend was out of town but Chopin had a key.

He, Paganini and Magro stood on the balcony looking down at the street. Chopin scanned the scene through the binoculars he carried in the Lincoln, but the other two also easily saw the car that pulled over to the curb below and flashed its brights at the woman on the bridge.

As Dawson got out of the car, Chopin said, “There he is; that’s Dawson.”

He handed the binoculars to Magro. “That’s him, all right. I don’t know what the bastard’s up to, but you guys gotta take care of him, and soon.”

Taking a half-step back, Paganini and Chopin looked at each other.

Magro remained fixated on Dawson.

The two killers shared the same thoughts. They’d never thrown anybody off a tall building before. Seemed too damn sloppy. You might hit an innocent person down below. You were sure to leave a revolting mess for some poor saps to clean up.

But from where they stood they were both sure they could pitch Magro into the river.

From that height, hell, a belly-flop would kill him.

Paulette saw Dawson take his right hand halfway out of his jacket pocket, far enough to see he was holding some kind of gun. She was standing on a square of painted steel stamped with a zigzag pattern for the traction of pedestrian traffic. She stomped her right foot on it and the maintenance hatch to the underside of the bridge dropped away.

She disappeared in the blink of an eye. Reggie caught her. Pushed the hatch back up.

Jonas Dawson thought he must’ve blinked. One moment the broad who looked like Pammie was there and the next she wasn’t. Poof, gone just like that. Dawson hurried forward, moving as fast as his aging knees and expanding waistline allowed. And he found zip.

There was a metal square in the sidewalk where he thought Pammie’s double had been standing, but when he stomped on the damn thing it remained firmly in place. He didn’t know how, but he was sure somebody was screwing with him.

It was time to get the hell out of there. He turned to go back to his car. Only there was a guy walking toward him now. A damn big guy, too. Hey, was that … He blinked his eyes several times, trying to clear his vision. He succeeded in doing that much. He saw that the guy coming at him — and picking up his step, too — was Zeke Edison.

That only confirmed that he’d been set up. That goddamn Lois Lane had to be in on this. Well, wait until the big football hero saw what Dawson had waiting for him. He pulled the gun out of his pocket, and was immediately reminded it was a .22 caliber revolver. Just the thing to commit murder at arm’s length, the way he’d planned.

Hitting a moving target at a distance would be miracle. Even if he got lucky, a .22 didn’t have any stopping power. If he hit Zeke Edison, he’d only piss him off. Jonas Dawson turned to run the other way. Only there was an even bigger black guy coming at him from that direction, and he was running. Looking back over his shoulder, Dawson saw Zeke was now running at him, too.

That left him no choice. He had to shoot, and he did. Too soon. None of Dawson’s first four shots came anywhere close to Zeke. Nor did the gunfire slow him down.

In desperation, Dawson turned, hoping to hit the even bigger man who was pretty close by now. But not close enough for Dawson to even nick the SOB with his next four rounds. Of course, that insult to marksmanship might have been due to how badly his hands were shaking.

Then they closed on him like two trains colliding.

Upon impact, Dawson felt as if the top of his head had flown off.

His world began to spin and the contents of his stomach rose into his mouth.

“Drop him, goddamnit!” Magro urged as he watched through the binoculars. Two guys down there were holding Dawson off the side of the bridge by his ankles as he heaved his guts. “He tried to kill you, you dumbasses. Drop him in the damn river, and save me the trouble.”

Immersed in the drama at street level, Magro had lost track of Paganini and Chopin.

They stood in a shadowed arc of the balcony.

Having a whispered conversation on Chopin’s phone.

They failed to see the two women emerge from the lower reaches of the bridge.

“You going to let that sucker go or what?” Reggie asked Zeke.

“He is getting a bit heavy,” Zeke said.

“The prick also tried to kill us,” George said. “But what he really wanted was to kill you, Paulette. That’s what pisses me off the most.”

“Don’t kill him,” Paulette said.

“No?” Zeke asked.

Reggie and George chose only to look at Paulette.

“You’ve said he’s already killed you once,” Zeke reminded her.

His guts now empty and his throat cleared, Dawson piped up, “I never killed anyone!”

“See,” George said. “A turd like him, he’ll lie even now.”

“How about we do this?” Reggie said. “Haul him up and I’ll beat him to a quivering pulp. You know, just for trying to shoot my guy and my dear friend, George. After that, if the cops haven’t arrived, we’ll decide if we want to pollute the river.”

Seeing that Reggie was entirely serious, Paulette said, “Please don’t.”

Reggie asked, “When did you become a sister of mercy?”

“I’m just trying to understand this situation. I know now why he killed me before but —“

“I never killed anyone!” Dawson repeated desperately.

Reggie stepped between Zeke and George and smacked Dawson’s left thigh with her baton. “Shut the hell up.”

The fury in her voice limited his expression of agony to a tearful whimper.

“Take a step back,” Zeke told her.

“I just don’t want to see him again,” Paulette said quietly.

Zeke and the others on the bridge looked at her.

“This guy’s going to be locked up for the rest of his life,” Zeke said.

“What about his next life, and mine?” Paulette asked. “That’s what I was wondering. Why did he get a second chance to hurt me? I don’t want it to happen again. I want this to be the end of it, and I’m not sure that would happen if we kill him.”

George looked persuaded, but he was a pushover for Paulette.

Reggie wasn’t. Her temper was up. She’d be happy to go at it with Dawson over any number of lifetimes.