In less than ten minutes they were at the local hospital. The Boss was already on his mobile, speaking in French. Astonished, Chad realized he was talking to the party organizers, telling them to keep the party going, ordering up more wine, more champagne, more food, louder music.
“Let them dance,” Chad heard him bark in his giving-orders voice. Chad bet they would dance. They would not dare not to.
35
The Russian
The Russian found the pearls right where Mirabella had dropped them. He scooped them up, on the run, shoved them in his pocket, and kept on going until he reached the lane and his car parked beneath an overhanging tree, which conveniently hid it from passing traffic.
He threw the door of the Renault open so hard it crashed back on itself with a loud smack of metal on metal. Jesus. It sounded like a road accident. Anybody might show up now. He had the ignition turning almost before he sat down. He switched off the headlights, tense, waiting, eyes and ears straining in the darkness. No sound of following footsteps, no shouts, only the music still coming from the Boss’s party, which he knew would go on until morning, when a breakfast of bacon and eggs, sausages and pancakes was to be served. God, he could use that breakfast right now, his stomach was rumbling with nerves and hunger, plus a couple too many drinks.
The Boss’s rule was no drinks on the job, but fuck it, a man had to live. If caught though, a man might also die. He should know. Often enough he’d been the man who’d done that job. That’s what happened to his pal, another Russian who’d done work for the Boss. Drank and opened his mouth, until he’d shut it for him. Forever. Which is why he was about to take the Boss for a hefty chunk of money. Blackmail. Dollars in his pocket, or at least in his bank account. Maybe open a new account in Switzerland, a secret one with only a code to identify it. You didn’t know the code, you didn’t get access. The Swiss were good at things like that.
Only trouble was, he had missed again. Missed killing Mirabella, who he knew the Boss needed dead so he could get his hands on her land, and also that little painting, on which it seemed he’d set his heart. Who would have known the Boss even had a heart? Ah, perhaps he was just an art lover. Anyway he’d missed doing the deed, simply because the fuckin’ doctor had shown up at the crucial moment. Fuckin’ nearly gotten himself caught, had to slide out from behind those curtains, off into the night like a fox, well, maybe a wolf was a better description. Yeah, he liked wolf. Fanged, fierce, fearless. That was him alright.
Okay, so now he was out on the lane, dodging the young parking attendants in their red jackets running back and forth as though their lives depended on getting cars in the right spot and returning them fast for the no-doubt lavish tips. He knew all about that, he’d been there, done that, once upon a time, as he’d also been the waiter, a role he’d played again tonight. The white apron was stuffed in the backseat, along with the bow tie, an item he considered a symbol of servitude. He was no waiter, not anymore he wasn’t. He’d played that role many times in his life for real. Not like now. Now it was for big money and he was off to collect it. The Boss had better be ready for him. Plus, he’d sell him the pearls. He was sure he’d want to give them back to Mirabella.
At the beach, the lights were still on everywhere. Police dogs were sniffing every bush and sand dune. The Villa Mara was lit like a friggin’ birthday cake. Music still wafted into the night, people still stood around with drinks clutched in their hands, heads together, talking urgently. Wait a minute, wasn’t that the Boss himself? Running down the sandy path leading to his bunker? And wait again, wasn’t that Chad Prescott sneaking along behind him? Well now, that was good news. With Chad Prescott otherwise engaged, it meant Mirabella would be alone. Perhaps now he could get the deed done; kill two birds with one stone, so to speak—Mirabella for money and the string of pearls for more money. This was going to be his night. After this he could retire.
He got back in the car and reversed along the lane, waving a disparaging hand at the parking guys that got in his way and who shouted at him, like he had no right to be there. Fuck them. This was his turf.
Of course he knew the Villa Romantica. He’d done his research when the Boss had first given him the job of eliminating Aunt Jolly. Nice old woman. He had taken her by surprise and she had surprised him. Calm, she was, and in control.
“Well, now, good evening,” she had said to him when he’d appeared in her room out of the blue. Not smiling, mind you, but looking him straight in the eye. She’d glanced back to the teapot she held in her hand. He knew from the pattern it was Wedgwood. Old and valuable too, he’d bet, though there wasn’t much of a market for goods of that nature. Not worth pinching.
“I was just about to have a cup of tea,” she continued. “I hope you’ll consider joining me?”