'Scuse Me While I Kill This Guy Read online

  Shit. I locked up the house and headed home. It looked like I’d be doing this one the old-fashioned way—barging in and plugging him in person. At least when they investigated, the police might discover his links to terrorism. That would send them on all kinds of wild goose chases, leaving me virtually clear.

  “Nothing? There was nothing?” Dak raised his eyebrows. “Are you sure?”

  I nodded. “Absolutely. I couldn’t find a goddamned thing I could use to make it look natural.”

  Dak fidgeted with his coffee cup. “What are you going to do?”

  “Do it a la Arnold Schwarzenegger, I guess. I’ll probably have to use a ski mask and leave behind something to incriminate the Shining Path terrorists or something.”

  Dak looked at me. “I know you don’t like doing things that way. Can I help?”

  “I’d love to say yes, but I don’t think so. Obviously, the family wanted me to do it myself.”

  My brother gave me a hug and we said our good-byes. I sat down on the couch and picked up my knitting. It helped me think sometimes. Poppy rolled lazily onto her back, but upon receiving no belly scratch, she rolled back over and went to sleep. She didn’t have to kill anything but time.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  “There’s always free cheese in a mousetrap.”

  —Longbaugh, The Way of the Gun

  I spent the next morning researching South American terrorists on the Internet. I had a few ideas of how to implicate them at the scene of the crime, but nothing else. I called Vic Jr.’s company from a pay phone, asking for Turner, and was told he was out of the office until tomorrow. Great. That meant I had only one day to hit him and hop the plane to L.A. with Romi.

  By the afternoon, I had nothing. Not even a shred of confidence that I could do this. I’d only gunned down my prey once. And that was very, very messy. It all worked out in the end, but it was so much easier when you didn’t have to witness the Vic’s demise in person. That and it’s impossible to get brain matter out of cashmere. I’d had to burn a perfectly good sweater.

  The next morning, I dropped Romi off at school. Bye, honey. Mommy’s off to kill a man, and tomorrow after school we’ll hop on a plane,for the reunion. Okay?

  I had just gotten home when the doorbell rang. I checked my surveillance monitors, and my heart nearly stopped beating.

  “Um, hello?” I said to Vic Jr., as he stood on my porch. This was too weird. Funny, I didn’t remember using a hallucinogenic inhalant this morning.

  “May I come in, Ms. Bombay?” Vic Jr. asked.

  I nodded and ushered him in, looking to see if anyone saw us. Normally, I didn’t let strange men in the house, but this was too good to be true. As I closed the door, my heart bounced back to life. This was it! My hit had come to my house! I could rub him out here!

  “Can I help you, Mr.... ?” I fished for his name to confirm it was really him.

  “Turner. And yes, you can. May we sit down?”

  Where were my manners? Well, I could offer him coffee, but that would leave DNA evidence that he had been in my house.

  I nodded and led him to the family room. Vic Jr. sat on the couch.

  “How did you know my name, and what can I do for you?” I asked.

  Turner laughed. It was a hard, cold laugh. Killing this bastard was going to be no problem.

  “Let’s just say we both have colleagues within the government.”

  My mind scrambled to process this. Was he threatening me? Did he know about the Bombays? How?

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Turner, but you show up at my house unannounced, and presume to have some connection to me?”

  He leaned closer. “I know who you are and what you are.”

  I stiffened. “I don’t think so. You’re going to have to explain to me what you’re doing here.”

  He leaned back, crossing his arms. “You and I have a common connection. I wanted to let you know.”

  Okay, obviously he knew something, but he wasn’t going to tell me.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said, standing. “But it feels like you’re threatening me.”

  Turner remained seated. “No, not at all. I just think someone like you could be useful to me in the future.”

  Did he really know something? Was he blackmailing me? Because I hated that!

  “How about I get us some coffee and we can discuss it, then?” I waited for his approval, and once he nodded, I walked around the couch, behind him. After all, he didn’t know where the kitchen was.

  He was just sitting there, probably considering evil corporate thoughts, when I looped my set of circular knitting needles around his neck, twisted the ends together and pulled.

  Vic Jr. struggled immediately, but I’d done this too many times not to succeed. I could feel him panic as he clawed at the cord around his neck. He pulled out several rows of stitches in a vain attempt to remove the garrote. I put my knee into the back of the couch and used my weight to pull harder while pushing him down to hold him in place. He was at a complete disadvantage. It took only about twenty seconds before he was unconscious, but I kept up the pressure for two or three more minutes until I was sure he was dead.

  I pushed his body onto the floor and checked for a pulse. There was no heartbeat. And I sure as hell wasn’t going to use CPR to revive him. Vic Jr. had walked into my house, trying to surprise and trap me. Stupid man, underestimating his opponent like that.

  I looked at my knitting. The yarn was stretched out in several places. Damn. I’d really liked that scarf. Oh well, I’d have to destroy it now. Chances were there were skin cells in the fibers that would match his DNA.

  I’d never done a job in my own house before. The job was over and I was free, but I was pissed that he had the opportunity to choose the time and place.

  Damn, now I had to dispose of the body too. That would be a problem. Well, the Council said I couldn’t have help killing the guy, but it said nothing about help getting rid of his remains. I was just about to dial the phone when the doorbell rang.

  What the hell? This would be an inopportune moment for the Avon lady to visit. I looked into the monitors and this time, my heart stopped beating for real.

  “Diego!” I tried to say happily. I still couldn’t believe I’d answered the door.

  He kissed me. “Unfortunately, this isn’t a social call. My client ditched me while I was in the shower, left a note about going for a walk. I’m looking for him and thought I’d kill two birds with one stone by checking on you.”

  “Um, your client?” I said uneasily.

  “Yeah. His name’s Turner.” He pulled out a picture. “Have you seen him around?”

  Sure, he’s dead in my living room. I just got done strangling him. Why?

  I stared at the photo. “No, haven’t seen anyone like him.”

  “I’ll find him. It’s just weird. He’s never done that before.”

  So this was what real panic felt like. I’d just killed my boyfriend’s client. Diego was supposed to protect Vic Jr. from assassins like me. I was pretty sure if he found out, our relationship would be over.

  “Yeah, well, you know clients. Sometimes they just want a little alone time,” I managed.

  Diego kissed me once more, then set out to see if the dead man in my house was wandering the neighborhood. I locked the door and called Dak and Liv.

  I watched as my baby brother walked slowly around the dead guy. Liv stood with her hands on her hips, brows furrowed as if she were trying to decide which wallpaper should go in here. I failed to mention that Turner was Diego’s client.

  “What about the river?” Liv suggested.

  Dak shook his head. “No, I think we use that too much already. We could take him out to a cornfield somewhere.”

  Liv snorted. “Sure, if you want to leave tire tracks in the mud.”

  I, at least, was grateful to have an attached garage so we could put him in my trunk, sight unseen.

  “How about the limestone quarry?” Liv
offered.

  “We’ll have to wait until late tonight,” Dak said.

  I shook my head vigorously. “No way. He’s getting out of here right now!”

  My brother and cousin looked startled at my reaction. But none of us had ever taken out a Vic in our own home before.

  “Okay,” Dak started slowly, “let’s put him in the trunk of your sedan. I’ll take him now, and dump him later tonight.”

  “Fine!” I was actually shaking. Everything seemed to go to hell. I had killed Diego’s client in my house! That couldn’t be good.

  Liv and I rolled Turner’s body into a plain white blanket. We wore gloves to avoid leaving anything on him. Dak and I carried him to the trunk, laying him out on a plain blue tarp. I didn’t want any evidence in the car.

  After Dak left, Liv and I vacuumed the living room—carpet, furniture and all—emptied the vacuum canister into an empty garbage bag, and cleaned the canister with bleach. I just needed to get the garbage out and everything would be fine.

  I poured myself a glass of wine while Liv settled for a beer.

  “Gin, why was Vic in your house?” Liv asked.

  “I don’t know. He just showed up. Maybe I have good karma or something.”

  “Right.” She frowned. “So why was he here?”

  I drained my wineglass and poured another. Why had he been here? Oh yeah. “He said something about knowing who I was and finding that useful.”

  “You’ve been made?” Liv cried out.

  I shook my head. “I don’t think so. I mean, he didn’t really come right out and say that.”

  “That doesn’t mean it isn’t true!”

  “I know. He said something about us having a connection in common.”

  “What does that mean?” Liv looked alarmed.

  “I don’t know! I don’t understand any of it!” I shouted.

  “Maybe the Council set it up to make the job easier for you?” Liv said quietly.

  Why didn’t I think of that? Maybe that’s what had happened. The Council somehow lured him to me. That had to be it!

  “I’ll buy that.”

  Liv frowned. “It has to be the answer. I can’t think of any other reason.” She pulled the stitches off my circular needles and sighed. “I really liked this scarf.” Liv frogged it until it was completely unraveled. She then shredded the yarn into a pile of threads and we took them out to the patio and burned them.

  It seemed to me like the yarn was a metaphor for my relationship, or soon to be lack thereof, with Diego. Either that or I was getting drunk at 10:15 a.m. Not good eitherway.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  “Wanna know the secret to winning? Creative sportsmanship. In other words, one has to rig the game.”

  —Agent Sands, Once Upon a Time in Mexico

  I was having this really weird dream where Vivian Marcy could talk to tuna fish sandwiches and Diego was a mad scientist and I was a giant rutabaga, when the phone rang.

  Caller ID said, “Dakota Bombay.”

  “Yes?” I croaked into the phone.

  “Check the news on channel eight,” my brother said before hanging up.

  I sat up, reached for the remote to the TV and clicked it on.

  “The victim, whose face and neck were mauled beyond recognition”—that woke me up—“was found in the tiger’s exhibit at the zoo. The police have no idea who he is, how he got there or how he died.” The reporter went on about similar cases at other zoos where drunks tried to climb in with animals only to be found dead the next morning. She made some reference to bestiality, but I shut off the TV.

  The zoo? Wow. Dak had never been that creative before. Usually, he ditched the corpse and ran. But if the head and neck. were mauled, chances were they wouldn’t find out he’d been strangled. What the hell did Dak do? Smear Vic’s head with Al sauce?

  The phone rang again. This time it was Liv. “Impressive.” She giggled. “He called me too. Apparently, he’s pretty proud of it.”

  I sighed with relief more than anything else. “Looks like it’ll be hard to trace.” We talked for a few minutes more before realizing we had to get the kids to school.

  Today was the big trip. Everything was packed. It would just be a matter of getting to the island. But I had another problem.

  I’d planned to call Diego and let him know I was going out of town. But how could I do that when he had his hands full with a missing client who was currently resting, partially digested, in a tiger’s stomach?

  After taking Romi to school, I cowboyed up and called him. The phone rang five times before going into voice mail.

  “Diego?” Of course, idiot! Who else would it be? I was so bad at leaving voice messages. “It’s Gin. I have to go out of town for a few days to a family reunion. I’ll call you when I get back.” I left my cell phone number and hung up with a sigh of relief. There was a little tug at my stomach when I realized that I would really miss him.

  Shit, Gin, what are you going to do when he leaves town for good? After all, you took out the only reason he had to be here!

  The strange side of me who answers when I talk to myself was right. In making my family happy, I had screwed myself. Well, that was nothing new. Besides, it was a bad idea to get involved with a bodyguard.

  There was that twinge again. Apparently, I had allowed myself to get more involved with him than I thought. It would be so easy to fall in love with Diego. But that couldn’t happen. I needed to find a relationship with a clueless guy. Maybe someone who would be more into sports or NASCAR than worring about what I did for a living.

  The twinge ignited into a fireball as I realized I didn’t want anyone else. What was going on here? Was I falling for Diego? I picked up the phone and called again.

  “Diego, it’s Gin.” Stupid voice mail. “Let’s plan to get together as soon as I return from the reunion. I’ll call you.”

  Now I sounded like a stalker. And while that’s acceptable behavior for my job, I’m pretty sure it doesn’t work too well with relationships.

  Throughout the day, as I deposited Poppy at Dad’s, picked up a few more things for the trip and prepared to pick up Romi, all I could think about was Diego. It would appear that I was already starting to fall for him. Great.

  At 3 p.m., Liv and I picked up the girls from school and drove straight to the airport. We chatted about our trip during the flight. Alta and Romi were thrilled. They loved flying. It was fun watching them crammed together, fogging up the little window. Once we arrived at LAX, we retrieved our bags and found our way to the private hangar that housed the Bombay jet.

  I breathed a sigh of relief when I saw we were the only ones on the manifest.

  “Hey, Joey,” I called out to our pilot.

  Joey nodded his reply and continued checking everything in the cockpit. He was a nice guy, in his sixties. Joey was the family’s full-time pilot. Which meant he got paid a lot of money to make just a few flights a year. He never asked questions and was as silent as a rock. Good man.

  Liv and I got the girls strapped into their seats and were working on our own seat belts when Joey came back.

  “We’re leaving. Got everything?” was all he said. He was a man of very few words.

  Liv and I nodded, and in a few minutes we were heading down the runway toward Santa Muerta ... and far away from Diego.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  “Yes. The final supreme idiocy. Coming here to hide. The deserter hiding out in the middle of a battlefield.”

  —Lee, The Magnificent Seven

  Santa Muerta. Yes, I knew it meant “Saint Death.” Ironically enough, we didn’t name it. Legend has it that in the eighteenth century, an English ship crashed on the rocks, shipwrecking thirty-three sailors. No one ever came to rescue them. The captain kept a log of their “visit.” The screeching monkeys, complete lack of women and rum, and the burly first mate’s penchant for bestiality (not with the monkeys, I’ll bet), and they started to kill each other off, a la Agatha Christie meets the Donn
er Party. While Captain Smythe only hinted at the murderous motives, he described each murder until his own (of course) in grisly detail.

  A few years later, I guess some Portuguese. sailors found the shipwreck and investigated. All they found were thirty-two skulls stacked like a canned-goods display and the captain’s logbook. They traveled to the mainland and explained what had happened to the fishermen there. The natives dubbed the island Santa Muerta.

  Originally, the Bombays met at private residences. But after a few millennia of this, everyone was too nervous about “having the family over,” so they bought this island.

  My Great Aunt Dela(ware) and her daughter Cali(fornia) and granddaughter Missi(ssippi) live on Santa Muerta year-round. This is to maintain control over our hideaway. They employ twenty non-English-speaking natives, who actually run the place. Over the years, Dela and Cali have really turned the island into something nice.

  If you visited Santa Muerta, you’d think you had landed at a Beaches Resort. (Of course, you’d be killed on the spot for trespassing, so your joy would be rather short-lived.) White sand surrounds the perimeter of a large jungle.

  In the center is the main house. Well, it’s more like a mansion, really, with forty guest rooms, a large meeting room with comfy, tiered seating and the latest multimedia presentation stuff, a ball-room for parties, and an outdoor court-yard with swimming pool complete with cabana boys.

  The manse sits beside a beautiful freshwater lake. Beyond the lake is a small range of mountains with a high- and low-ropes course for team-building exercises. I am not kidding. We have to do this every reunion. Try to picture thirty-five professional killers, ranging in age from five to eighty-five, trying to do a “trust” fall backwards into the arms of the last group of people on earth you would trust.