This is not the beginning of the story, to catch up on what’s gone before, check Here. I climbed into my car and fired it up. Once the engine was wheezing, I fumbled with the
This is not the beginning of the story, to catch up on what’s gone before, check Here.
I climbed into my car and fired it up. Once the engine was wheezing, I fumbled with the charge cord for my phone.
“Come on, come on.”
My blood ran cold while I waited for the surge of electricity to do its job. At last my screen flickered to life again with the message: Battery charging. 12 hours 47 minutes until fully charged.
I breathed a sigh of relief as I pushed past the message and the phone began the long process of turning on. As soon as it would let me, I put in a call to Lucky. While it rang, I switched on speakerphone and turned my attention to the road.
How far behind was I? Could I catch Orlon before he got home?
My car pulled out of the parking lot like a horse at a race track. The engine whined against the sudden acceleration and for a moment I feared the whole thing would just die on me. But as I leveled out on the cracked blacktop it settled a little. Clearly it was still unhappy with me, but as long as it got me to the Orlon’s house before anything bad went down, I could deal with the damage later.
Hopefully, the note I found was the only one. But I couldn’t believe it. Why else would he have switched motels every day? He doesn’t know where to leave his little message.
“What’s up, boss?” Lucky’s voice said from my phone. He whistled. “Sounds like things aren’t going so smooth with the cheater.”
“Shut up and listen to me.” I shouted over the complaining engine. “I think Orlon’s trying to hire himself a hitman. I need you to go back through all the people in his life and see if there’s anyone who stands out as a potential target.”
“Sure, but statistically it’s his wife.”
“That’s where I’m headed now. If anyone else sticks out to you, send me their name.” I glanced down at my phone.
Battery charging. 12 hours 48 minutes until fully charged.
I swore under my breath. “Hopefully my phone will hold out long enough to get the message.” I raised my voice so Lucky could hear me. “And put in a call to Jim over at the police station.”
He sighed. “Do I have to? You know the police and I aren’t exactly on speaking terms.”
“Would you rather I call you for backup if I wind up face to face with a professional killer?”
“Fine, I’ll let him know what’s up. Is there any thing else?”
“Yeah, let me drive.”
“Good luck.” There was a soft click as the phone disconnected.
“Thanks.” I muttered as I sped up again.
Orlon was enough ahead of me that he was certain to avoid the rush hour traffic, where I might not be so lucky. But then, he was probably driving his normal, sedate pace, not doing the best impression of a NASCAR driver his car would allow.
By quarter to five, the highway was too busy for me to maintain speed safely. I cursed every car that pulled out in front of me at a leisurely 70 mph. And myself for taking too long searching the motel room.
Orlon should be home by now. I took a deep breath as the speed of traffic dropped another five mile per hour. Easy Angola, if he was planning to kill his wife himself, he wouldn’t be looking to hire a hitman. There’s still time.
Unless the hitman got the message from one of the other motel rooms. Days ago.
My heart pounded and my foot itched to slam down on the pedal again. But it was no good. I was at the mercy of the earliest part of the rush hour traffic. Only my car’s old engine was happy with the ever slowing speed.
At last, the signs for my exit started showing up. I forced my way over to the exit lane with less than two miles to go. Of course, that lane was going even slower. We crawled those last two miles like snails.
And every minute my blood grew colder. What am I going to find when I get there? A “happy” couple sitting down for an early dinner? The scene of a grisly murder?
In my limited experience, hitmen weren’t the most compassionate when it came to witnesses. If things got out of hand, even Mister Orlon might end up dead.
Traffic sped up as we hit the exit ramp, giving me a fresh surge of adrenaline. Which only made the wait at the stoplight all the more infuriating. My fingers whitened as I gripped the steering wheel with both hands.
Just a few more blocks.
The sleepy little cookie-cutter houses flew by as I gunned it down the narrow road. I restrained myself as best I could. There could be any number of folks with perfectly good reason to be out in the street at that time of day, none of whom would be expecting a rocket to go shooting by.
It won’t help anybody if I crash into someone on the way there.
I slowed down even more as I turned into the right cul-de-sac. The houses all looked the same, so I had to rely on the mailbox numbers. When I reached the right one, I pulled roughly up to the curb and killed the engine.
There were lights on inside, that was a good sign.
My phone had managed to reach eight percent battery. Not much, but if Lucky tries to call me I should get it.
I considered just grabbing my gun, but settled for the whole purse. If Mrs. Orlon wasn’t the target, then there wasn’t really any danger in the house. And even if she was, the odds of getting there at the exact same time as the hitman were low. And it wasn’t like I was walking in there unarmed, just because the gun wasn’t in my hand.
It was a short walk past the overly manicured lawn up to the front door. Every step sent shivers up and down my spine as my brain sorted through all the horror stories I’d ever heard of the crime scenes left by hitmen. From simple executions to bloody massacres that would make the most deranged serial killers jealous, I’d heard it all.
But the worst by far were the staged scenes. Where the target—and witnesses—had been propped back up like everything was normal again, despite the obvious violence that had befallen them. Like bloody murder had washed over the whole place so quickly that no one even had time to react, even though the evidence said otherwise.
I shuddered as I rang the Orlon’s doorbell.
Hopefully there’s still someone alive in there to answer.
My fear and impatience had me pressing the little button again well before it was reasonable for anyone to have gotten to the door from inside. My hand kept straying back to my purse. And the gun inside.
The third ring was still hanging in the air when Mrs. Orlon pulled the door open.”What do you—oh!” Her expression shifted from anger to surprise as she recognized me.
“Is your husband here?” I didn’t wait for an answer before pushing my way past her into the house.
The front room looked like a Pintrest board brought to life. Little plaques of pithy sayings dotted the walls, which were painted almost to modern art levels.
“Aren’t I paying you to know where he is?” She snapped at me. “Now why are you barging into my home?”
“Good news, he’s not cheating on you.” I peered through the closest doorway, trying to guess where in the house he might be. “But this is so much more serious. Now where is he?”
My tone must have broken through her calm veneer, because her face paled. “Th-the den.” Mrs. Orlon pointed a shaky finger.
I rushed through the hallway she’d indicated until I reached an open door. Inside were so many houseplants it felt like stepping into a greenhouse—or even a jungle.
Mister Orlon sat at a small desk by the only window, scrolling absently on his phone. He glanced up with surprise as I burst in. “Who are you?” His voice was quiet, subdued almost. Listening to him I felt again like he’d been pushed around and browbeaten his entire life.
Until he finally snapped.
“Mister Orlon, I’m a private detective. Your wife hired me to find out what you’ve been up to.”
His gaze darted around the room like a caged animal.
I pressed on, hoping to confront him with the truth before he could come up with a good lie. “I know you’ve been trying to hire a hitman. Tell me who the target is, and maybe we can stop this before it goes too far.”
“Orville!” Mrs. Orlon shrieked from behind me.
The fear melted from his face, replaced with an accepting tiredness. “I guess there’s no use in hiding anymore. I’m so sorry, Patricia, I should have told you before. But, a few months ago, my job at the bank put me in the path of a Russian investor. He convinced me that he had a surefire scheme to make us both rich. Retire to our own private island rich. But he needed a huge amount of capital to get things started. More than we had.
“I thought, since we were going to be getting such a big payday, I could use some of the bank’s money for the startup costs, and just slip it back in without anyone noticing. But then, the Russian disappeared with all the money. I tried the number he gave me, but it had been disconnected.”
I pinched the bridge of my nose. “You got conned.”
He nodded. “And now I’m on the hook to the bank for millions. They haven’t figured out it was me yet, but it’s only a matter of time. A while back I overheard one of our other clients telling a story about a hitman you could hire from the local motels, so I thought maybe I could at least get back at that damned con man.” His voice broke and he buried his face in his hands.
“I’m not going to lie, Mister Orlon, you’re in a lot of trouble. But give me the guy’s name. If I can keep him from being assassinated, you won’t add murder to your rap sheet.”
The banker’s face was wet with tears when he looked up at me. “Goldinson. Adroppov Goldinson.”
The blood froze in veins and I just stared at him for a long moment. “Are you sure?”
He nodded. “That’s what he told me anyway. Why? Have you heard of him?”
“You could say that.”
He’s my brother.
To Be Continued…