Kim Oh 2: Real Dangerous Job (The Kim Oh Thrillers) (13 page)

“There’s nothing going on,” I said. “Nothing you need to know about.”

“Maybe not at the moment. But maybe soon. And that’s what I wanted to talk to you about.”

“Why?”

“So when it happens, I’ll be ready.” Ibanez coolly regarded me. “Let’s say you’ve got something going on. I wouldn’t have thought it before, but stranger things have happened. Otherwise there wouldn’t be any news at all. Or at least not the kind that other people want to know about –”

“They can mind their own business.” I was feeling sullen.

“Yours is more interesting. And look at it this way. You find a way to get back at your old boss McIntyre – maybe you’ve already found a way – then don’t you want people to hear? That you fixed him good? It’s one thing to get back at somebody. That’s a private matter. It’s another thing to let everybody know. That’s humiliating – especially for a prick like McIntyre.”

I had to admit to myself that she had a point. Though it wasn’t exactly humiliation that I had in mind for him.

“So it’s not a one-way arrangement,” she continued. “I can help you out. Make it a more . . .
satisfying
experience. For everyone. That’s what the news is good for.” She took a sip from her cup, then set it back down. “So. If there
is
something you’d like to tell me about . . .”

“Yeah,” I said. “There is. But not here. Where everybody can listen in on us. Let’s go outside.”

Ibanez followed me to the alley at the side of the building. We went far enough down it, that nobody could glimpse us from the street.

“Let me see that video again.” I pointed to her shoulder bag. “There’s something I want to show you.”

She fished the tablet out of her bag, started up the video again and handed it to me.

“Thanks.”

I reached into my backpack and took out the .357 that Cole had given to me. Holding the gun by its barrel, I set the tablet against the alley’s wall with my other hand, then smashed it to pieces.

“Damn it, Kim. That was just childish.” Ibanez looked down at the broken bits and piece scattered at our feet. “I just got that thing.”

“So? I bet the station paid for it.”

“Even so,” she said. “I’ll have a hard time getting another one from them.”

“I don’t care.”

“Do you really think you accomplished anything by doing that? I’ve got the video on my computer back at the station. Why shouldn’t I just send it on over to the police, with your name and phone number attached?”

“This is why.” I still had the gun in my hand. She was at least a head taller than me, so I had to stand on tiptoe to bring the muzzle up under her chin. “You’re right. There’s something going on.” I jabbed the gun into her throat, forcing her head back against the wall. “But if you say anything about it – to anyone – then I’ll take care of you first.”

She managed to keep her cool. Maybe it wasn’t the first time somebody had threatened her like this. In her line of work, maybe it happened all the time – I didn’t know.

“Why not take care of me right now?”

“It’s tempting.” I glanced over at the mouth of the alley – people were passing by on the sidewalk beyond – then back to her. “But maybe it would just make things worse for me. I don’t know what you’ve got sitting on your desk. You get found dead, one of your buddies at the station finds my name on your notepad, then the video in your email – you’re the one who said that people like you are good at making connections. It’s your job.”

“Could you put that away, then?” She nodded down toward the gun at her throat. “It’s making me twitchy.”

“Sure.” I pulled it away. “I just wanted to get it across to you that I’m kind of a serious person.”

“Oh, you are.” She rubbed her neck. “You are, Kim. I have no doubt of it.”

“Good.” I slid the .357 into my backpack. “Then I’m glad we had this little talk.”

“You know . . . I’m not sure all the change in you has been for the best.”

“Probably not.” I hoisted the backpack’s strap across my shoulder. “But it was the only makeover I could afford. I’m on a limited budget.”

Ibanez finished pulling herself together, brushing off her jacket where it had rubbed against the alley wall. “Can I ask a favor?”

“Yeah, sure.”

“Just let me know – all right? When it happens.”

“I can’t make any promises.” I shrugged. “Things might be . . . a little rushed then.”

“If you can.”

“All right. I’ll try.” I turned away and headed toward the street.

THIRTEEN

I was so tired when I got back to the apartment, I was glad everything was quiet there. Made for a soothing change of pace from spending the day going through Cole’s hit man boot camp experience.

My backpack landed on the floor with a clunk – that was the .357, that I’d unloaded doing more target practice against the defenseless warehouse wall – as I dropped myself limp on the couch. I rolled my head back and closed my eyes. It’d been another long day. If I’d expected this whole killing people thing to be less work – and shorter hours – than my old job as an accountant, I had been severely fooling myself. I should’ve figured it out back when I’d still been working for McIntyre, from seeing how late at night Cole would come into my cubbyhole office to pick up a check for services rendered. Maybe I’d just thought he was a night owl type, keeping vampire hours. Finding out that he had a total work ethic thing going on, at least as diligent as mine had been back when I was still Little Nerd Accountant Girl – that was kind of a revelation. It didn’t make me like Cole any better, but he was earning a bit of my respect. And not just for how good he was at the killing thing.

Keeping my eyes closed, I tried not to fall asleep – though I could have. I supposed I’d have to get up and fix dinner for me and Donnie. But not just yet. Usually my younger brother was awake whenever I came home – even at night, as though he were keeping vigil for me. Like he couldn’t go off guard duty until he knew I was safe and sound at home again, at least for another day.

And then I’d have to stay up and talk with him, no matter how tired I might be. Or not talk, just be with him. Which I didn’t mind. What would it have been like if I came home, and he wasn’t there? Then where would I have been? I wouldn’t even have had any reason at all for coming home. There were plenty of people like that in the world, I knew. In some weird way, I still felt sorry for that old man Pomeroy, even though I’d had to kill him. Maybe he wouldn’t have become such a mean old bastard if a light had been on whenever he came home. A light that he hadn’t switched on himself when he’d left that morning . . .

I didn’t want to wind up like that. Any minute now, I’d get up and go over to the kitchenette and start fixing dinner. Something with rice, I supposed. Mainly because it was cheap. Considering how much money I’d stolen lately, you might’ve thought our dining standards would’ve raised at least a little bit. Maybe I’d cut out the ramen noodles for a while, toss them into the trash soon as I got up from the couch.

But not just yet. I winged my shoulders back, trying to work a kink out of my back. A smile came to my face. Thinking about something funny –

That bit about Cole’s hit man boot camp experience. Maybe there was some actual potential there. People paid good money to go to stupider things, like some dorky rock ’n’ roll fantasy summer camp. Obviously, that kind of place was for adults who had more money than brains – my idea of a fantasy experience was one where I didn’t have to worry about paying the rent – but still, as long as they had a good time – and paid up – then what was the problem?

The idea started to pick up some momentum as it rolled around inside my head.

After all, I had to think about the future, for both Donnie and me. So I had to come up with something.

I mean, this killing people thing had to come to an end, eventually. Not like it came with a weekly paycheck and benefits, either. So the motivation for sticking with it wasn’t all
that
great. Unless you were a total psycho like Cole, and I was kind of hoping that I hadn’t quite reached that point yet.

So a fantasy hit man boot camp experience . . . yeah, that might work. I nodded a little to myself as I lay back on the couch. People might pay for something like that. Or maybe they already were – I’d have to go online and do a little market research.

Because after all, wasn’t killing people what everybody wanted to do? In their heart of hearts? I hadn’t met anybody yet who didn’t have a list kept inside their heads, of people they figured the world would be better off without. Granted, I hadn’t met the Pope or the Dalai Lama yet, but I’d bet anything that even for them, there were moments when they got just a little sniffy about how worthwhile certain other people’s existence was. I mean, I’ve met hardly any people at all, and I was already knocking off some of them. Those guys probably meet hundreds of new people every week – what are the odds that there aren’t at least a few that they would kinda like to blow away? Just a little bit? I’m a nice enough person – okay, maybe not Dalai Lama nice, at least not lately, but still – and I’d gotten to this point. So I’d have to assume that it was more or less a general thing with everybody. Comes with the territory, when you’re a human being.

I frowned with my eyes closed, mulling over some of the practical aspects. Of a business like that. Obviously, if you want to run a successful fantasy rock ’n’ roll camp, you need some old burnt-out rock types to hang out with the campers. Ones who were so over the hill that they couldn’t make a living even on the nostalgia circuit, rehashing their one big hit at state fairs and supermarket openings. I imagined having people like that on staff was the sort of thing that added an air of authenticity to the fantasy camp experience.

Not quite sure how that would work with a fantasy hit man boot camp experience, though. I mean sure, Cole was still pretty impressive, even rolling around in his motorized wheelchair – so if I cut him in on a share of the take, he might agree to hang around and give the campers a thrill with some of his old war stories. But if I advertised that I had somebody on staff who’d actually killed people, what was to stop the police from swooping in with their cold-case files and taking Cole away? Then where would I be? Handing out refunds to my fantasy campers, that’s where.

That’s the problem with all these government regulations. Always interfering with small businessmen like me.

Sure you could kill people, and maybe even get away with it – but try to make some money from it? Good luck with that.

I stopped brooding and pushed myself up from the couch. I could think about all this later. Right now, I had to make dinner.

“Donnie?” I pushed open the door of the bedroom and looked in –

And saw why the apartment had been so quiet when I came home.

He wasn’t there. The bed was empty.

It doesn’t take long to search an apartment small as this one. Bedroom, bathroom, closet and you’re done.

I stood in the middle of the front room, slowly turning around – as though my little brother were actually there and somehow I’d managed to overlook him. If I tried just a little harder, I’d see him . . .

That didn’t work. He was still gone.

My mind raced, trying to figure out what had happened. His wheelchair was gone, as well. He might have been able to get downstairs by himself, crawling down the steps from one floor to the next, all the way to the bottom. But he couldn’t have taken the wheelchair with him.

Which meant that somebody had taken him.

In the world that I used to be in, back when I had been Little Nerd Accountant Girl, that wouldn’t have been a good thing. For somebody to come into the apartment, without me knowing about it, and take Donnie away. For somebody to do it now, in this darker, more dangerous world that I’d moved into – that was a real bad thing.

Maybe somebody was watching me, from down on the street. Looking up to the apartment window and seeing me there, standing in the middle of the front room. Knowing that my brother was gone –

Because that was when my cell phone rang.

I yanked open my backpack and fished it out, flipped it open, and held it to my ear.

“Hey, Kim.” A man’s voice, that I knew I’d heard before, but couldn’t put a name to now. “How you doing?”

“Who’s this –”

“Don’t get so excited. Simmer down.” The voice oozed phony friendliness. And genuine self-satisfaction. “There’s nothing to worry about.”

“Where’s Donnie?” I turned to the window and looked out, but couldn’t see anything except the streetlights down below. “Where is he –”

“I told you. There’s no need to get excited. Everything’s fine.”

“If anything happens to him –” My killer mode kicked in. “If you even touch him –”