“Any detail.”
She gestured with frustration. “There weren’t any details to be seen. He was completely covered.”
“Was he wearing a wristwatch?”
“I don’t know. The gloves extended up beneath his sleeves. His facial features were indiscernible because of that horrible mask. Nose, lips, everything was pressed flat.”
“What about his neck?”
She thought on that. “Only an inch or so of skin was exposed between the high collar of the coveralls and the cap. The cap was pulled so low it covered the tops of his ears.”
“But the lobes were visible.”
“Yes.”
“The right one was pierced.”
She frowned and opened her eyes. “Was it? I didn’t notice that.”
Crawford’s heart skipped. “You didn’t?”
“No.”
With quiet emphasis, he said, “You didn’t notice because his ear wasn’t pierced. But the man in the morgue, his was.”
Her lips separated on a soft gasp. “It was. It was. Oh my God.” She raised her fingertips her lips. “But that would mean…”
“Yeah,” he sighed. “The man killed on the roof wasn’t the shooter.”
Chapter 10
What the fuck happened?”
Joseph Patrick Connor, known to his friends as Pat, wiped greasy sweat off his forehead. “Listen, I—”
“Oh, I’m listening. Count on that.” The other man’s voice was like a rumble of distant thunder that warned of the violence packed into an approaching storm. It originated from a wide chest over which were folded arms as sturdy as sticks of firewood. His stare could have peeled paint.
Wilting beneath it, Pat said, “Most of it worked out just like we planned.”
“Not even close to most of it. Your target is still breathing.”
And so am I. The fact that he was alive was a priority to Pat, but he didn’t want to say that out loud and risk a swift change of his breathing status, which he figured was flimsy at best.
He glanced over his shoulder at the two men posted on either side and just behind his chair. He was seated at a small table on which were a half-empty bottle of ketchup and a weapon restricted to law enforcement and military maneuvers. In most states, anyway.
A half hour earlier, he’d been pouring himself a Jack and Coke when the two bodyguards—for lack of a better word—shouldered their way through his back door into his kitchen. He recognized them from previous meetings, but he’d never been introduced to them by name, which was of piddling significance because it became immediately obvious that they weren’t paying him a social call.
With each claiming one of his arms, they’d marched him out of his house to a waiting car and put on the blindfold he’d come to expect. They rode in silence, henchmen programmed to carry out a duty, no discussion, no questions asked.
Pat didn’t think he had a prayer, and was actually surprised when they arrived at their destination. His clothes were completely sweated through by then, but perspiration was proof that he was still alive. For the time being, anyway.
The abduction wasn’t entirely unexpected. He’d known he would be “summoned” sooner or later, and he’d dreaded the inevitable face-off. But the real deal was even worse than his imaginings. He’d been brought to this place a few times before, but he hadn’t developed a liking for it. In fact, it gave him the willies.
He could have used at least one belt of the sour mash he’d been pouring when roughly escorted from his house.
“Well?” the man boomed, startling Pat into remembering that he hadn’t responded to the last statement.
He made another swipe across his forehead, but by now his palm was as damp as his hairline. He squirmed in his chair, muttering under his breath, “I don’t know why I agreed to do it in the first place.”
“Do you need me to remind you, Pat?”
Distrusting the steadiness of his voice, Pat shook his head no. He didn’t need a reminder of how desperate his situation had been. Was still. The man was waiting for an explanation for his failure. “For one thing, that mask was for shit. It distorted my vision.”
“You didn’t try it out beforehand?”
“Sure I did, but, I don’t know, I think my breath must’ve steamed it up or something. Then, all the way around, it was a lot harder than I thought it would be. It was harder than you thought it would be.”
“How many times had we gone over it?”
“I know. But shooting Chet Barker wasn’t part of the plan. You didn’t want a bloodbath, you said. But he was blocking my path. I didn’t have a choice. Having to kill him threw me. Put me off my stride, you might say.”
He paused, waiting for a reaction. A murmur of understanding. A grunt of agreement. Something. But the other man gave him nothing to hang a hope for longevity on. He might never get back to that Jack and Coke. He’d made a bargain with the devil, and he hadn’t held up his end.