Mona Lisa Eyes (Danny Logan Mystery #4) (39 page)

With his attention on
Linda and Kenny for a split second, I had time
to draw my weapon and get into the fight. I
raised the 1911 and cleared the thumb safety in the
same motion. He saw the movement out of the corner
of his eye, and as he spun back my way
, I fired twice at him. He simply looked at me
. I had to have hit him—I was ten feet
away, and I don’t miss from ten feet. Still
, I was shocked to see him remain standing. As I
prepared to fire again, he dropped the file folder and
turned and ran toward the garage. I held him in
my aim, but his path took him right in front
of the foursome at the door, so even if he
’d have turned and started shooting again, I couldn’t
fire for fearing of hitting the bystanders. Then he was
around the corner and gone.

For a second, nobody moved
. Then I took control. “Call 9-1-1!” I yelled to the
people at the entryway. “Tell them that there’s been
a shooting and we need an ambulance right away! Two
of ’em.”

One of the guys with the group nodded
quickly, then yelled, “Got it!” and reached for his phone
.

I scanned the area quickly to make sure there were
no more threats. Seeing none, I turned and looked at
Toni. “You okay?”

She stared at Kenny, transfixed. Kenny was
lying on the ground beside me, completely motionless. Linda was
beside him, moaning softly.

“Toni!”

She looked at me. “Yeah
, I’m good.”

“You’re not hit?”

“No. I’m
good.”

“Good. I need your help, then. You take care
of Linda,” I said to Toni. “I’ll take care
of Kenny.”

I quickly moved over to examine Kenny. He
was flat on his back, arms splayed to his side
. He was breathing, but he wasn’t conscious. I started
my A-B-C first aid analysis. Airway: clear. Breathing
: chest going up and down. Circulation: a small pool of
blood had formed beneath his right arm. I knelt down
and examined him. There didn’t appear to be anything
gushing anywhere. Satisfied, I turned to Toni. “How is she
?”

“Right upper chest. I don’t think there’s an
exit wound.”

“Her breathing?” I was worried about a collapsed
lung.

“It seems good,” Toni said.

I nodded. “Good. Here
, use my coat.” I stripped off my Lands’ End jacket
and handed it to her. This made it the second
jacket in a week that would be ruined by being
used as a bandage. “Use it to try and control
the bleeding,” I said.

I quickly examined Kenny, then I
said, “How many shots did that guy fire?”

“Two,” she
said, quickly. “I only heard two. Then you fired two
more.” This matched my recollection as well—two quick shots
before I fired at him and he ran off. “Why
?” she asked.

I studied Kenny again. “Because I can see
one gunshot wound clear enough. But it’s just a
little flesh wound on the inside of his upper arm
, not much more than a scratch. Looks like a graze
, actually. I’m holding pressure on it now, but I
think it’s barely bleeding anyway.”

Toni was using her
hands to press hard on Linda’s chest in an
effort to control bleeding. “No other wounds?” she said.

I
shook my head. “None that I can see. I checked
. Twice.”

“If that’s his only wound, then why’s
he unconscious?”

I shook my head again. “I don’t
know.”

“He’s breathing normally?” she said.

I listened for
a second, then said, “Yeah. Seems fine.” I grabbed his
wrist. “And his pulse feels okay. Strong even.”

She looked
over at him. “Do you suppose he fainted?”

I cocked
my head. “Fainted?” I hadn’t thought of that. “I
don’t know. I suppose it could happen.” I leaned
forward. “Kenny!” I said sharply. “Kenny, wake up!”

I tried
again and then one more time. After my third attempt
, Kenny stirred.

“My arm!” he said, groaning, eyes still closed
. “I’m hit!”

I felt a surge of relief. “Relax
, dude,” I said. “You got the million-dollar wound. You
’re going to be fine. It’s just a scratch
.”

I turned to Toni. “I’m going after him. You
stay here with these two.” I got up and started
to leave, then I turned back. “Toni, give the police
my description. Ask them to please not shoot me.”

“I
will. You be careful,” she said. “Go get him.”

C
hapter
25

I SPRINTED TO THE CORNER OF
the building, but
before I rounded it, I pulled up short. I needed
to clear the corner before I proceeded in case the
assailant was waiting in ambush on the other side. I
approached the corner the way I’d been taught in
CID school: “slicing the pie” by taking a quick glance
around the corner at a shallow angle. Then, finding this
“slice” clear, I did it again, but I increased the
angle, seeing a little more than the time before. I
did this three more times, each peek looking a little
farther around the corner. The last time I peeked, I
was able to see all the way around the corner
to 108th: the man was gone.

I turned the corner
, sidearm at low ready, and started jogging toward the front
of the building where the lobby was located. The parking
structure for the building was subterranean, accessible only through the
building lobby entrance up ahead. I kept moving, and a
couple steps further I noticed the lights from the Transit
Center across 108th reflect off something on the ground I
thought I recognized. I stopped and knelt down to examine
a small shiny spot. I touched the spot and then
rubbed my fingers together. Blood. So I’d hit the
bastard after all. Still kneeling, I did a quick scan
of the area, then I stood up and continued.

A
couple steps farther, there was another blood spot, then another
and another. He was leaving quite a trail—I must
have nailed him pretty good. I reached the point where
the solid wall ended and the glass that marked the
start of the lobby began. I stopped and repeated my
corner-clearing routine—he might have been inside, waiting in
ambush. Eventually, I was able to see inside. The lobby
was clear, so I moved ahead and went inside.

At
a little past seven on a Monday night, the Key
Center lobby was completely empty—there was no guard desk
, no information desk, or anything else like that. The only
business officially open in the entire building was the Thai
restaurant, and they weren’t that busy.

Inside, three large
crimson blood drops glistened in sharp contrast against the gleaming
light gray marble. Actually, they were bigger than drops and
smaller than pools. His bleeding was getting worse. The trail
led to the stairway.

I crossed the lobby, carefully opened
the stairwell door, and took a quick, measured glance inside
. The air was a little stale and smelled like a
mixture of paint and dust. The immediate good news, though
, was that no one was waiting on the other side
of the door intent on killing me. I stepped into
the stairwell and allowed the door to close. I remained
still for a moment, listening, checking things out. The stairs
themselves were of the prefab, welded-iron variety—kind of
industrial, which I suppose makes sense in a parking garage
. They were painted a bright, almost antiseptic white to help
brighten up the stairwell. The overall effect with the fluorescent
lights was harsh.

I couldn’t hear anything aside from
the dull rumble of machinery somewhere. If anyone had been
running down the stairs, there’s no way I’d
have not heard the
clomp-clomp-clomp
on the metal
stairway. It would have been amplified like a note on
a guitar string. Since it was so quiet, I figured
Ski Mask must have gone back inside already, maybe on
P1 or maybe even P2. Or else maybe he was
still on the stairway and not moving, waiting in ambush
for an ignorant PI like me to come charging on
down.

I took a quick glance over the rail, but
the only thing I saw were several blood drops on
the first flight. They were more frequent now than before
. I started down, as careful and quiet as I could
be, my 1911 at low ready. When I reached the
first landing—halfway down to the first parking level—I
saw another splotch of blood on the next flight. I
tiptoed around the blood and continued down the stairs until
I reached the next landing. This one had a door
marked
P1
, and at the base of the door, another
splash. Apparently, he’d paused here, deciding whether to go
into P1 or continue.

I listened. Still no sounds from
the stairwell below. I looked down the next flight of
stairs, but I didn’t see any more blood. Unless
he suddenly stopped bleeding as he went down the stairs
, Ski Mask must have made the decision to exit the
stairwell and enter the garage right here on level P1
.

I turned and stood at the door for a second
. This was a bit tricky. The door was a heavy
metal fire door, but even though it might stop a
flame, I didn’t think it would stop a large
-caliber handgun bullet. When I opened it, I was going
to be exposed for a second until I could clear
the doorway and find cover inside. I crouched to the
side of the door opposite the hinges and reaching up
with my left hand, pulled the door open a couple
of inches.

Thank goodness it was well lubricated and swung
open without a sound. There was no action beyond the
door—no one took a shot at me—so I
opened the door a little farther, just to the point
where I could start my standard corner-clearing routine.

From
my vantage point, I couldn’t see anyone inside the
garage. Most of the parking spaces were empty. From somewhere
on the far side of the floor, an exhaust fan
was working, the air making a muffled
whooshing
noise as
it was turned over with fresh air from outside. Three
more blood splotches led away from the door. The way
they angled off, it was pretty clear that Ski Mask
had gotten off the stairs here, entered the P1 level
and made a left turn at the central drive.

The
building above was supported by concrete posts along the center
drive, every eight or ten parking spaces throughout the entire
floor. Decent enough cover. I didn’t know what would
happen after I entered, but I figured Ski Mask had
to guess that he’d be pursued. He had most
of the advantages, and if the stakes weren’t so
high, I’d have just backed off. Let the police
handle it. But I was committed now. Besides—this bastard
shot two people including one of my partners.

I took
one final look inside from the relative safety of the
stairwell. Seeing’s how he’d turned to the left
when he entered, my initial plan was to dash for
cover on the right side of the first pillar I
came to as soon as I was in. When I
got there, I’d figure out what to do next
.

I opened the stairway door just wide enough to squeeze
through; then, crouching down, I sprinted for the first pillar
, trying to be as quiet as I could.

Stealth didn
’t work. Just as I reached the first column, a
shot rang out. The noise was deafening in the concrete
walls, floor, and ceiling of the garage—it sounded like
a very heavy
Whumpff!
, just like someone dropped a
heavy stack of plywood onto a concrete floor. The bullet
whizzed by somewhere in front of me and smashed into
the side of a minivan parked in the next stall
behind me just as I dove for the safety of
the column. Son of a bitch!

“Don’t come any
farther!” Ski Mask called out.

I jumped up and made
sure I was standing tall and thin and at the
perfect angle behind the column to shield me from the
direction of the gunshot. “You may as well give it
up!” I yelled. “There’s no way out, and the
police are on the way.”

“Fuck you!”

I took the
opportunity to take a quick glance around the column. I
was surprised to see the man seated on the ground,
slumped over with his back against a support column just
one column away from my hiding spot—maybe sixty feet
or so—on the opposite side of the central drive
from the column I was hiding behind. He had his
Glock gripped tightly in his hand, resting in his lap.

I pulled back. “C’mon! It’s all over.”

It
was quiet for a few seconds, then he gave a
little chuckle. “Got that right.”

I heard a clatter coming
from his direction, so I snuck another quick peak. He’
d moved his arms and the Glock had fallen from
his hand and was lying on the concrete floor beside
him. His arms hung down limply at his sides, hands
turned palm upward. His head was tilted forward, his chin
resting on his chest.

I didn’t know if he
was dead or alive, but I could definitely see he
wasn’t holding his weapon anymore. I stepped from behind
the column and started moving quickly toward him, my .45
centered on his chest. “Don’t move!” I yelled out
in my best command voice. If he went for the
weapon, I’d have no choice but to shoot him
again.

He rolled his eyes up and looked at me,
lifting his head just enough to see. “You’re too
late. I’m hit bad. Hurts like a motherfucker.”

“Just
don’t move,” I repeated. As I got closer, I
could see his entire shirt and coat on his right
side were blood-soaked.

“Not going anywhere.” His voice was
weak and ragged.

I reached him and first thing, kicked
his firearm away to the side. I stood there for
a second before kneeling beside him. It suddenly occurred to
me that it might be smart to record our conversation.
I reached into my pocket, grabbed my iPhone, and turned
on the recorder. Then I turned back to him. “Here,
let me help you lie down.”

“No, don’t! Just
leave me right here. I want to be sitting up.”

“
You’re hurt bad, man. I can do more to
help you if I’ve got you on your back.”

He shook his head weakly. “It’s too late. I
don’t want your help—you can’t do shit
anyway. Leave me right here.”

I looked at him for
a second. “Alright. But I’m at least going to
slide this ski mask up.” He didn’t resist. The
man was on death’s door and was no longer
a threat, so I holstered my sidearm, leaned forward, lifted
his mask, and looked into the eerie blue eyes of
Robert Brownell. I suppose I should have been more surprised.
His head still tilted forward, it was hard to see
his face, but as the mask came away I saw
his red hair, soaked with perspiration despite the cool night.

“
Brownell. Here, hold still.” I adjusted him so that he
was more centered against the column.

He laughed weakly. “I
was thinkin’ about doing some push-ups . . . I can wait.”
His breathing was labored and ragged. He coughed, and a
trickle of blood came from his mouth. He was right—
I must have hit him in the lung. He lifted
his head a little. “Turned out to be a pretty
fuckin’ stupid idea, didn’t it. Taking on two guys
with guns.”

I smiled. “Three, actually. My partner up there
also carries. She just never had a chance to draw
her weapon.”

He laughed. “Perfect. Three.” He shook his head,
then leaned it back against the column. “Told him it
was a shitty deal.”

I considered the situation. Ideally, Brownell
would pull through and answer questions about what had happened
and why. But if he didn’t, then I still
needed information from him. It was quiet for a few
moments, then I thought “what the hell,” and I went
ahead and asked. “You’re the one who killed Sophie,
aren’t you?”