Private Heat (44 page)

Someone stood in the middle of the lot, just to the right of my car and about ten feet behind it. I squinted with my one good eye—the other one was already swollen shut—but couldn't make out his face or the glowing object that he held in front of him. A steady
ding, ding, ding
came from off to my left. I looked over to check it out.

I saw the flash as my groceries exploded. An invisible sledgehammer slammed the steel plate in the front of my vest with an audible
tink
and drove the plate into my chest. I took a stutter-step backward, let go of the bag, and found myself shaking hands with Colonel Samuel T. Colt—more a reaction than a conscious decision. I got the Colt in both hands and racked the hammer with my left thumb, but the muzzle seemed to come up so damn slowly.

A second flash—the door behind me shattered. I fixed my eye on the glowing green dot that was my front sight, held it in the center of mass on the fellow in front of me, and took a double tap. The big Colt climbed out high and left. I pulled the muzzle down, hunting for his head, but all I saw was the shiny brown soles of his shoes reflecting the light from the store. He was laid out straight in the air like a levitated magician's assistant. He hit the pavement lengthwise, flat on his back.

He moved. Seemed incredible. I took a Weaver stance—left elbow bent and right elbow straight—and left-stepped in on him. By the time I got to the bumper, he'd gotten onto his hands and knees. He clutched a bright chrome snub-nosed K-frame in his right fist and used it like a cane to push himself up. His head drooped and I couldn't see his face.

“Stay down!” I said. “Push the gun away!”

“Fuck you!” he said, his voice a thready whisper. He got to his knees. The muzzle of his pistol was still on the ground. He raised his head—Lieutenant Emmery. The six inches of necktie that he had left ended in a
ragged fray. Two nickel-sized black dots lay exposed through a tattered hole in his shirt and revealed where my hollow points had exploded on the plate pocket of his vest. Blood ran down his neck and dripped from his chin.

I took a solid bead on the knot in his tie. “Let go of the gun!” I said.

With eyes closed tightly, he paused for a moment and drew a labored breath. When he opened his eyes, he struggled to lift the pistol.

I took up the slack in the trigger of my Colt.

A lot of white flashed from left to right and I heard a thump that sent Emmery for a rag-doll cartwheel. His shiny gun skittered across the pavement.

Ron's van squealed to a stop. The passenger door was already open. Shephart stepped out of it and Franklin bailed out the slider. They were on Emmery in a flurry of hands, knees, and handcuffs. I flipped up the safety on my Colt and put it away.

Franklin shagged the shiny gun and talked to me. I could see his lips moving, but the words seemed jumbled. I told him I was okay, leaned back against the Mustang, and discovered that I was drenched in milk and soda.

Franklin walked back to a sedan stopped in the middle of the drive with the lights off, the motor running, and the driver's door open. Kneeling on the driver's seat, he took something from the back of the car—a tan burlap sack. He shut the door and the damn
ding, ding, ding
stopped.

At the back of the Mustang he opened the bag, took out a single-shot .410 “Snake Charmer” shotgun, and set it on the rear deck of the Mustang. Next came a passport folded over some airline tickets, and then—one at a time—four fat cylinders of paper wrapped in oily plastic.

“Must have wanted you bad,” said Franklin. “He missed his flight. He opened the passport, Russian, and showed it to me. Lieutenant Emmery's picture had been artfully laminated in place of Rosenko's, but the name was Gregor Djugasvili.

“Georgian.” I said, “Explains some things.”

“We need to lay hands on the Russians,” said Franklin.

“Hard,” I said. “A couple of very good, very tough mugs. If a lot of top mobbed-up New York hoods suddenly get rolled up—the feds have them and will never tell you. If the Brighton Beach boys take over the sports books—they got away.”

Franklin opened one of the cylinders—bearer bonds. Ron and Shephart wrestled Emmery up and flopped him over the front of the Mustang.

“Jesus, Ron,” I said. “I never saw you.”

“Don't get paid to get seen,” said Ron. “But it was Detective Shephart's idea, anyway.”

“Thank you, Detective Shephart.”

“Call me Shep,” he said.