The Survivor (15 page)

Charles had turned to sit on the desk next to him, resting an elbow atop the monitor. He snapped his fingers. “Mindy Scardina.”

“Do you mind?”

Nate must have been making faces, because Ken glanced across, then turned back slowly to his desk, wearing a look of puzzled annoyance. He unclipped from his belt a cluster of keys the size of a hockey puck and tossed them on his desk, the gesture somehow conveying disgust with the state of his surroundings.

“Oh, what, your advanced Google search is more interesting than Mindy Scardina’s tits?” Charles slid over in front of the monitor and squirmed back and forth, making Nate try to read the screen through the hole in his torso.

“Move. Charles—
move.
You’re disgusting. Would you grow up?”

“No can do. I’m frozen in time.” He made spooky ghost fingers. “Stuck at twenty-seven years old. Like most men. ’Cept
I
have an excuse.”

“If I don’t figure out how to break into that safe-deposit box, they’re gonna kill Cielle.”

Charles’s brow furrowed, a few grains of sand cascading down his face. “Maybe you can look up the bank?”

“That’s what I’m trying to do.” But Nate couldn’t access any bank information whatsoever, let alone obtain a listing of safe-deposit boxes at First Union.

Charles’s shoulders sagged. “Now what?”

Pavlo’s dry voice ran in Nate’s head:
I had an acquaintance, Danny Urban, who is no longer with us, God rest his soul.

Already Nate was typing. “Let’s start with the
owner
of the safe-deposit box.”

Urban’s digital file loaded, and they stared together at the text, mouths slightly ajar.

“You’re kidding me,” Charles finally said. “The guy’s a fucking
hit man.
What next?”

Nate clicked a link. A file loaded, and then a crime-scene photo jumped out at them—Urban sprawled across a bedroom carpet, having clawed the patterned comforter off the mattress when he fell. A neat hole above his right eyebrow. One hand lay open, the two smallest fingers shot off, a defensive wound, and an assault rifle lay just beyond his reach. His thin lips were stretched wide in a death rictus, the glittering squares of his teeth spaced along the pink shelves of his gums. A subcompact pistol was placed deliberately beside his head, the barrel aligned neatly with his cheek.

An echo of that broken English:
We had disagreement over fee and ownership of object.
Clearly, this was how disagreements with Paulo Shevchenko ended.

Nate scrolled down and lifted a finger to the screen, reading the lead detective’s report of the ongoing investigation. Though an autopsy had been performed in short order, Urban’s corpse remained in the perennially backlogged morgue, stowed for future tests. The hit man’s private weapons cache had been taken into evidence, a small arsenal that included everything from frag grenades to AR-15s, ironic given Urban’s low-tech MO for his murders: He used a ten-dollar lock-blade knife, available through any hunting catalog.

According to ballistics, the SIG Sauer P250 set down by Urban’s cheek had fired the bullet extracted from his head. Leaving the gun behind with the body protected the killer from being found with the murder weapon. The move was also, the detective had noted, a calling card of elite contract killers hired by the Eastern European mob.

Misha.

Charles shuddered, sand falling off him like dandruff. “So a hit man killed a hit man? What’s the story?”

“Pavlo hired Urban to do a job,” Nate said. “To knock someone off and get something.”

“Why’d he use an American killer?” Charles asked. “Why not one of his Ivans?”

“Maybe to make sure there was no connection that could be traced back to him.”

“But then once Urban pulled a double cross or wanted to keep what he stole or whatever, our boy Pavlo went back to his roots.”

“Which exposed him more. Then again, so did having Misha run a bank job. But Pavlo was willing to take the risk.” Nate rocked back in his chair. “Whatever’s in that safe-deposit box, he wants it bad.”

“We don’t even know which box it is,” Charles complained. “What are we gonna do, break into all of them?”

“That was Misha’s plan.”

“What the hell could be in that box?”

“Incriminating photos. Family heirloom. A priceless jewel.”

Charles shrugged. “I vote sex tape.”

The floor creaked behind Nate, and he closed out of the screen quickly. Pivoting, he looked up at Ken.

“What you looking up?” Ken asked.

A flush crept hotly across Nate’s face. His mouth opened, but his brain was still waiting to feed it an excuse. One second passed. Another. Then: “Just a word I overheard the other day. Tyazhiki.” Nate grimaced. “I think it means—”

“Shadow people,” Ken said. “They’re enforcers brought in by the Russkies. No papers, no visas. Utterly lawless. They’ll literally ship ’em in on container ships, route ’em through the Long Beach Port. They do a job and head back. Not a footprint.”

Charles was standing behind the detective, imitating him, wagging his head importantly. Nate did his best to focus.

“The Russian mob’s ruthless,” Ken continued. “They’ll shoot you just to check the sight alignment on their guns. If it’s cheaper to bring in a hit man than pay off a loan, they put out a contract. Life means nothing.”

“How about Ukrainians?” Nate asked.

“The Ukrainians?” Ken whistled, and Charles at last stood still at the ominous note. “Even the
Russians
are afraid of the Ukrainians.”

Chapter 16

Flores Esposita’s funeral at Forest Lawn Cemetery was a crowded, animated affair. Countless uncles and weeping second cousins and families from church. Among others, Nate was singled out by the stoic widower in the eulogy and had his hand shaken by numerous relatives after the casket was lowered from view. The outpouring of warmth only added to his silent regret at the fraudulent role he was playing here. He’d gone into that bank to take a coward’s leap and had walked out a hero.

Head down, he moved between the plots back to his Jeep.

“You seem uncomfortable.”

He turned to find Agent Abara, impeccably neat in a black suit.

“It’s a funeral,” Nate said.

“Right. I just thought that given your job, you know, you’d be used to…” A wave of his hand. “Events like this.”

Nate thought about finding Flores Esposita’s clip-on earring on the bank floor. How he’d squeezed and the clasp had pushed into the tender skin of his palm. “If I’d gone through the window earlier, maybe I could’ve kept her from being shot.” It was a regret he hadn’t made conscious until he heard himself saying it.

“But you said you climbed out the bathroom window right after you heard the shots.”

“… Yes.”

“So how could you have gotten there earlier?”

Nate wet his lips. Shook his head.

Abara had fallen into step beside him. The lush grass, soft underfoot. “You know what happens when I see my kids?” Abara asked.

“You’re reminded of the simple power of human love?”

Abara squinted over at him but didn’t smile. “I wonder what they’re
not
telling me. Maybe that’s from being an agent, sure. But you know how teenagers are. Girls. I have two. And everything’s a lie right now. Not ’cuz they’re malicious. It’s because their white matter’s not grown in yet, you know?” He shook his head. “They’re hard to get through to. It’s like they’re talking one language and I’m—”

“We’re preverbal.”

Abara laughed, a dimple indenting either cheek. “Right? So last night my oldest came in past curfew. And I asked where she was, and of course—she was at her friend’s. And I know she’s lying, and
she
knows I know she’s lying, but we’re doing this dance still, right?” He stopped walking, his perfect teeth shining in the morning brightness. “Ever have that? Where you’re talking to someone and you know they’re lying and they know you know? But there you are? Still talking?” The easy smile remained, but his gaze was suddenly intense.

The suit felt hot and tight across Nate’s shoulders. He chose his words carefully. “With my daughter, sure.”

“Yeah, kids. Sometimes they don’t know what’s good for them.” Abara touched Nate’s arm. “See you around.”

Nate watched him pick his way through the headstones. When he turned around, he noticed someone among the graves just a few yards off. A worker with a bag lunch and neatly combed hair showing gray at the part, his mouth a line of forbearance. He’d paused for his break sitting respectfully at the edge of a little fountain beside a newly turned plot. A wet shovel rested against one thigh. When Nate approached, the man set down a remaining crescent of sandwich.

Nate stared at the fresh dirt, and the man looked at him with his sun-beaten face. “You family?”

“No,” Nate said.

“Oh.” The man set his cap on his knee. “Sometimes there’s a big turnout”—a gesture to Flores Esposita’s grave, around which a dozen folks and grandkids remained, consoling one another—“and sometimes…” He flared his half-chewed sandwich at the rectangle of soil.

Nate read the grave marker again, the name registering this time as belonging to the security guard from the bank robbery—the older black man with the striped socks who’d wound up twisted on his back in the lobby. “Wait. This is…?”

The worker nodded. “The bank paid for his resting place.”

“Jesus,” Nate said. “Someone should be here. Someone should…” He felt suddenly weak, and he eased himself down to the fountain ledge beside the man.

“Bad way to die,” the worker said. “When you won’t be missed.”

Nate tried to picture what his own funeral would look like. A few colleagues recycling the same stories. A hired shovel. A designated funeral coordinator, bowing his head mournfully and checking his watch.

Shirt untucked, tie loose, he sat, the sun heating his face. The man chewed quietly beside him for a while, then rose to get back to work, one callused hand rasping up the shaft of the shovel.

Chapter 17

When Nate approached the Santa Monica house, blaring music greeted him from the garage—less a song than a wall of noise aimed at his face. A masculine voice screamed the wrong lyrics to a Guns N’ Roses song:
“Welcome to tha Jun-gul, we got funny games!”

Nate passed between the cars, which had been pulled out onto the driveway to free up the garage, and a big doofy teenage kid drew into view inside, hopping around and flailing at an electric guitar. Cielle sat atop a low cabinet, flipping listlessly through a magazine, her fingers punctuated with black nail polish. Her private-school uniform—plaid skirt and white blouse—matched neither the fingernails nor her scowl, but it gave Nate a brief, inexplicable stab of pride nonetheless.

“Na na na na na na na na knees, knees! Come on, I’m gonna make you SPEED!”
The kid noticed Nate and dropped the guitar, letting it dangle around his neck from the sling. He was at least six-four and thick, but he looked less strong than soft and uncoordinated, all elbows and knees. The curse of the teenage male. A few spread-out dots marked his pale chin and cheeks where a five-o’clock shadow was trying to will itself into existence. An oversize hoodie with plush, checkered lining half covered a pair of Bermuda shorts so long and baggy that they hung in one piece like a kilt. He wore a slightly bemused smile and shaggy black hair capped by—of all things—a hipster fedora. Ear gauges had enlarged the holes in his lobes to the size of nickels.

Jason. The shithead boyfriend.

Cielle’s dark pupils lifted, though her face stayed pointed at the magazine. “Gasp,” she said flatly. “It’s my screwup of a father.”

Despite the reception, Nate took a moment to soak in the sight of her. Beautiful, safe, intact. She looked up at him, wrinkled her brow at the spectacle of him standing there gawking.

“Don’t be disrespectful,” he said, covering. “It’s
Mr
. Screwup.”

“Nice suit, Nate,” she said. Jason ducked out of the guitar and extended it to Cielle, who gave him a withering glare. “I’m not a
coatrack.
”

He set it down lovingly on the floor and turned to Nate with excitement. “Dude, you’re the
man.
People are wearing
WHAT WOULD NATE OVERBAY DO?
T-shirts. I’m not kidding—Google that shit.”

“What are you talking about?” Nate said.

“Have you watched the news? You’re a celebrity.”

“No. Steve Mc
Queen
was a celebrity. I’m Monica Lewinski.”

Jason chewed his lower lip. “Who’s Steve McQueen?”

“Who’s Monica Lewinski?” Cielle asked.

“I give up,” Nate said.

Cielle, back to her magazine. “Thank God.”

Nate eyed the husky kid. “Jason, right? How old are you?”

“Seventeen. But I’ve been emancipated ’cuz my parents were screwups, too. No offense.”

“None taken. You are aware that my daughter’s fifteen?”

Cielle flipped a page harder than necessary, giving off a crisp snap.

“And a
half,
” Jason said. The edge of a tattoo peeked up from his collar. “It’s only like sixteen months’ difference.”

“I appreciate the math. But you’re still too old for her.”

“Or maybe you’re just blinded by the radiance of my awesomeness.”

“Or maybe that.” Reminding himself that he had bigger fish to fry right now than an emancipated seventeen-year-old with gauge earrings, Nate backed out of the garage and headed to the porch.

Pete answered the front door, on his knees in the foyer, skinny bottle in hand. “Nate. How you feeling today?”

“Oh, God. Let’s not start that, please. And what the hell are you doing?”

“Putting hot sauce on my dress shoes.”

Casper watched cautiously from the kitchen doorway. He lifted a stare in Nate’s direction, his Rhodesian ridgeback brow furrowed in puzzlement. The wrinkles on his forehead could convey a broader range of human emotion than most human faces could.

Nate took in this standoff as Pete returned to the task, diligently applying sauce to the heel of a two-tone wing tip. “Of course,” Nate said. Then:
“Why?”