Page 3 of Mercy (Buchanan-Renard 2)

  “How do you think I got it?” Preston asked. “I got her drunk, fucked her brains out, and after she passed out, I went through her computer files. All in a night’s work.”

  “You boinked her?” Cameron howled.

  “‘Boinked’? Who uses that word these days?” Preston asked.

  “I want to know how you got it up. I’ve seen the woman. She’s a pig,” Dallas said.

  “Hey, I did what I had to do. I just kept thinking about the eight hundred thousand we’d make, and I . . .”

  “What?” Cameron asked.

  “I closed my eyes, okay? I don’t think I can do it again, though. One of you guys will have to take over. It pretty much . . . sucked,” he admitted with a grin over his pun.

  Cameron emptied his glass and reached for the bottle. “Well, too bad. You’re stuck with the job as long as the women go crazy over those bulging muscles and that movie-star face of yours.”

  “In five more years we’ll all be set for life. We can walk away, disappear if we have to, do whatever we want. Don’t lose sight of the goal,” Dallas said.

  John shook his head. “I don’t think I can hold on five more years. I know I can’t.”

  “Hey, you’ve got to keep it together,” Cameron said. “We’ve got too much to lose if you fall apart on us now. You hear me? You’re the brains of this outfit. We’re just . . .”

  He couldn’t come up with the right word. Preston suggested, “Coconspirators?”

  “We are that,” Dallas said. “But we’ve all done our part. John’s not the only one with brains. I’m the one who brought Monk in, remember?”

  “Oh, for God’s sake, this isn’t the time for an ego tantrum,” Preston muttered. “You don’t need to tell us how much you do, Dallas. We all know how hard you work. As a matter of fact, that’s all you do. You’ve got nothing outside of your job and the Sowing Club. When’s the last time you took a day off or went shopping? I’m guessing never. You wear the same black or navy suit every day. You’re still taking a brown bag for lunch — and I’ll bet you even take the bag home to use again the next day. For that matter, when have you ever picked up a tab?”

  “Are you saying I’m a cheapskate?” Dallas countered.

  Before Preston could answer, Cameron interrupted. “Knock it off, you two. It doesn’t matter which one of us is the smartest or works the hardest. We’re all culpable. Do you know how many years we’d get if anyone ever found out what we’ve done?” Cameron asked.

  “No one’s going to find out anything.” John was angry now. “They wouldn’t know where to look. I made sure of that. There aren’t any records except on my home computer disks, and no one’s ever going to have access to those. There aren’t any other records, no phone calls, no paper trail. Even if the police or the SEC gets curious, they wouldn’t find a shred of evidence to pin on us. We’re clean.”

  “Monk could lead the police to us.” Cameron had never trusted the courier, or “hired help” as John called him, but they needed someone reliable, an implementor, and Monk fit the bill. He was every bit as greedy and corrupt as they were and had everything to lose if he didn’t do what they wanted.

  “He’s worked for us long enough for you to start trusting him, Cameron,” Preston said. “Besides, if he goes to the police, he’ll take a much harder fall than we will.”

  “You got that right,” John muttered. “Look, I know we said that we’d keep going until Cameron turned forty, but I’m telling you I can’t last that long. Some days I think my mind . . . oh, hell, I don’t know.”

  He got out of his chair and crossed to the window, his hands clasped behind his back as he stared at the lights. “Did I ever tell you guys how Catherine and I met? It was at the Contemporary Arts Center. We both wanted to buy the same painting, and somehow, during our heated argument, I fell in love. Man, the sparks between us . . . it was something to see. All these years later, and that spark’s still there. Now she’s dying and I can’t do a damned thing to stop it.”

  Cameron glanced at Preston and Dallas, who both nodded, and then said, “We know how much you love Catherine.”

  “Don’t make her a saint, John. She isn’t perfect,” Dallas said.

  “Jeez, that was cold,” Preston muttered.

  “It’s okay. I know Catherine isn’t perfect. She has her quirks, just like we do. Who isn’t a little compulsive about something?” he said. “It’s just that she worries about being without, and so she has to have two of everything. She has two television sets, identical ones, sitting side by side on the table by her bed. She has one of them on day and night, but she worries it might break, so she makes sure she has a backup. She does the same thing when she’s ordering something from a store or a catalog. Always buys two, but what’s the harm in that?” he asked. “She isn’t hurting anyone, and she has so little joy these days. She puts up with me because she loves me.” Bowing his head he whispered, “She’s my entire life.”

  “Yes, we know,” Cameron agreed. “But we’re concerned about you.”

  John whirled around to confront them. His face was twisted with anger. “Hell, you’re worried about yourselves. You think I’ll do something to screw it all up, don’t you?”

  “The thought crossed our minds,” Cameron admitted.

  “John, we can’t afford for you to go crazy on us,” Preston said.

  “I’m not going to go crazy.”

  “Yeah, okay,” Dallas said. “Here’s the way we’re gonna play it.

  John will tell us if he needs help. Isn’t that right?”

  John nodded. “Yeah, sure.”

  His friends let the subject drop and spent the rest of the evening plotting their next project.

  They continued to meet on Friday afternoons, but they kept silent about John’s mounting depression. None of them knew what could be done about it, anyway.

  Three months passed without a mention of Catherine. Then John broke down. He couldn’t bear to watch Catherine suffer anymore, and he told them he was worried about money all the time now, which he thought was ludicrous given the fact that they had millions tucked away in the Sowing Club account. Millions they couldn’t touch for five more years. He told them that insurance covered a pittance of the treatment Catherine needed, but not nearly enough, and if his wife continued to linger, her trust would eventually be gone and he would be financially ruined. Unless, of course, the others agreed to let him dip into the Sowing Club account.

  Cameron protested. “You all know how I’m hurting for money, what with my divorce pending and all, but if we make a withdrawal now, without closing out the whole account, we could create a paper trail, and the IRS —”

  John cut him off. “I know. It’s too risky. Look, I shouldn’t have brought it up. I’ll figure out something,” he said.

  The following Friday afternoon, they met at their favorite bar, Dooley’s. While it thundered and poured outside, and Jimmy Buffett sang about Margaritaville over the speakers, John leaned across the table and whispered his dark wish aloud.

  He wanted to kill himself and end the torment.

  His friends were appalled and outraged. They admonished him for even thinking such crazy thoughts, but it didn’t take them long to see that their rebukes were not helping. On the contrary, they realized they were adding to his misery and his depression. Their harsh words quickly turned into solicitous ones. What could they do to help him?

  Surely there was something.

  They continued to talk, huddled around a table in the corner of the bar, putting their heads together to come up with a viable solution to their friend’s untenable situation. Later, near midnight, after hours and hours of discussion, one of them was bold enough to suggest what all of them were thinking. The poor woman was already under a death sentence. If anyone should die, it should be his pathetic, long-suffering wife.

  If only.

  Later none of them would be able to remember who had voiced the proposal to kill her.

  For the next three

Friday afternoons, they discussed the possibility, but once the debate had ended and the vote had been taken, there was no going back. The decision, when it was finally made, was unanimous. There were no second thoughts, no nagging doubts on the part of any of the members of the club.

  It was as absolute as dried blood on white carpet.

  They didn’t consider themselves monsters or admit that what they were doing was motivated by greed. No, they were simply white-collar overachievers who worked hard and played harder. They were risk-takers, feared by outsiders because of the power they wielded. They were known as real ball breakers — a term they considered flattery. Yet, despite their arrogance and their audacity, none of them had the courage to call the plan what it really was — murder — and so they referred to it as “the event.”

  They did have balls of steel, considering that Dooley’s was located just half a block away from the Eighth District station of the New Orleans Police Department. While they planned the felony, they were surrounded by detectives and policemen. A couple of Federal Bureau agents assigned to PID occasionally stopped by as well, as did the up-and-coming attorneys hoping to foster connections. The police and the courthouse lawyers considered Dooley’s their personal watering hole, but then, so did the overworked and underappreciated interns and residents from both Charity Hospital and LSU. The groups rarely mingled.

  The Sowing Club didn’t take sides. They sat in the corner. Everyone knew who they were, though, and until the serious drinking got under way, they were constantly interrupted by greetings from coworkers and ass-kissers.

  Oh, yes, they had gall and nerve, for in the midst of New Orleans’s finest, they calmly talked about the mercy killing.

  The discussion would never have gotten this far if they hadn’t already had the connection they needed. Monk had killed for money, and he certainly wouldn’t have any qualms about killing again. Dallas was the first to see the potential and to take advantage by saving Monk from the judicial system. Monk understood the debt he would have to repay. He promised Dallas that he would do anything, anything at all, as long as the risks were manageable and the price was right. Sentiment aside, their killer was, above all else, a businessman.

  They all met to discuss the terms at one of Monk’s favorite hangouts, Frankies, which was a dilapidated gray shack just off Interstate 10 on the other side of Metairie. The bar smelled of tobacco, peanut shells that customers discarded on the warped floorboards, and spoiled fish. Monk swore that Frankie’s had the best fried shrimp in the south.

  He was late and made no apology for his tardiness. He took his seat, folded his hands on the tabletop, and immediately outlined his conditions before accepting their money. Monk was an educated man, which was one of the main reasons Dallas had saved him from a lethal injection. They wanted a smart man, and he fit the bill. He was also quite distinguished looking, very refined and shockingly polished considering he was a professional criminal. Until he was arrested for murder, Monk’s sheet had been clean. After he and Dallas had struck the deal, he did a little bragging about his extensive résumé, which included arson, blackmail, extortion, and murder. The police didn’t know about his background, of course, but they had enough evidence to convict on the murder — evidence that was deliberately misplaced.

  The very first time the others met Monk was at Dallas’s apartment, and he made an indelible impression upon them. They had expected to meet a thug, but instead they met a man they could almost imagine as one of them, a professional with high standards — until they looked closely into his eyes. They were as cold and as lifeless as an eel’s. If it was true that the eyes were mirrors to the soul, then Monk had already given his to the devil.

  After ordering a beer, he leaned back in the captain’s chair and calmly demanded double the price Dallas had offered.

  “You’ve got to be kidding,” Preston said. “That’s extortion.”

  “No, it’s murder,” Monk countered. “Bigger risk means bigger money.”

  “It isn’t . . . murder,” Cameron said. “This is a special case.”

  “What’s so special about it?” Monk asked. “You want me to kill John’s wife, don’t you? Or was I mistaken?”

  “No, but . . .”

  “But what, Cameron? Does it bother you that I’m being blunt? I could use another word for murder if you want, but that won’t change what you’re hiring me to do.” He shrugged and then said, “I want more money.”

  “We’ve already made you a very rich man,” John pointed out.

  “Yes, you have.”

  “Listen, asshole, we agreed on a price,” Preston shouted, then looked over his shoulder to see if anyone had heard.

  “Yes, we did,” Monk replied. He seemed totally unaffected by the burst of anger. “But you didn’t explain what you wanted done, did you? Imagine my surprise when I talked to Dallas and found out the details.”

  “What did Dallas tell you?” Cameron wanted to know.

  “That there was a problem you all wanted eliminated. Now that I know what the problem is, I’m doubling the price. I think that’s quite reasonable. The risk is more substantial.”

  Silence followed the statement. Then Cameron said, “I’m tapped out. Where are we going to come up with the rest of the money?”

  “That’s my problem, not yours,” John said. He turned to Monk then. “I’ll even throw in an additional ten thousand if you’ll agree to wait until after the will is read to get paid.”

  Monk tilted his head. “An extra ten thousand. Sure, I’ll wait. I know where to find you. Now give me the details. I know who you want killed, so why don’t you tell me when, where, and how much you want her to suffer.”

  John was shaken. He cleared his throat, gulped down half a glass of beer, and whispered, “Oh, God, no. I don’t want her to suffer. She’s been suffering.”

  “She’s terminally ill,” Cameron explained.

  John nodded. “There isn’t any hope for her. I can’t stand to see her in so much pain. It’s . . . constant, never ending. I . . .” He was too emotionally distraught to continue.

  Cameron quickly took over. “When John started talking crazy about killing himself, we knew we had to do something to help.”

  Monk motioned him to be quiet as the waitress walked toward them. She placed another round of beers on the table and told them she’d be back in a minute to take their dinner orders.

  As soon as she walked away, Monk said, “Look, John. I didn’t realize your wife was sick. I guess I sounded a little cold. Sorry about that.”

  “Sorry enough to cut your price down?” Preston asked.

  “No, I’m not that sorry.”

  “So are you going to do it, or what?” John asked impatiently.

  “It’s intriguing,” Monk said. “I would actually be doing a good deed, wouldn’t I?”

  He asked for the particulars about the wife’s unfortunate condition and also wanted to know about the living situation inside the house. As John was answering his questions, Monk leaned forward and spread his hands in front of him. His fingernails were perfectly manicured, the pads smooth, callus free. He stared straight ahead, seemingly lost in thought, as if he were constructing the details of the job in his head.

  After John finished describing the floor plan, the alarm system, and the maids’ daily routine, he tensely waited for more questions.

  “So, the maid goes home each night. What about the housekeeper?”

  “Rosa . . . Rosa Vincetti is her name,” John said. “She stays until ten every night, except for Mondays, when I’m usually home so she can leave by six.”

  “Any friends or relatives I need to be concerned about?”

  John shook his head. “Catherine cut her friends off years ago. She doesn’t like visitors. She’s embarrassed about her . . . condition.”

  “What about relatives?”

  “There’s one uncle and a couple of cousins, but she’s all but severed ties with them. Says they’re white trash. The uncle calls on

ce a month. She tries to be polite, but she doesn’t stay on the phone long. It tires her.”

  “Does this uncle ever stop by uninvited?”

  “No. She hasn’t seen him in years. You don’t have to worry about him.”

  “Then I won’t,” Monk said smoothly.

  “I don’t want her to suffer . . . I mean, when you actually . . . is that possible?”

  “Of course it is,” Monk said. “I have a compassionate nature. I’m not a monster. Believe it or not, I have strong values and unbendable ethics,” he boasted, and none of the four men dared laugh at the contradiction. A hired killer with ethics? Insane, yes, yet they all sagely nodded agreement. If Monk had told them he could walk on water, they would have pretended to believe him.

  When Monk finished discussing his virtues and got down to the business at hand, he told John he didn’t believe in cruel or unnecessary pain, and even though he’d promised that there would be little suffering during “the event,” he suggested, just as a precaution, that John increase the amount of painkillers his wife took before bed. Nothing else was to change. John was to set the alarm as he did every night before retiring, and then he was to go to his room and stay there. Monk guaranteed, with an assurance they all found obscenely comforting, that she would be dead by morning.

  He was a man of his word. He killed her during the night. How he had gotten inside the house and out again without setting off the alarm was beyond John’s comprehension. There were audio and motion detectors inside and video cameras surveying the outside, but the ethereal Monk had entered the premises without being seen or heard, and had quickly and efficiently dispatched the long-suffering woman into oblivion.

  To prove that he had been there, he placed a rose on the pillow next to her, just as he had told John he would do, to erase any doubt as to who should receive credit and final payment for the kill. John removed the rose before he called for help.

  John agreed to an autopsy so there wouldn’t be any questions raised later. The pathology report indicated she had choked to death on chocolates. A clump of chocolate-covered caramel the size of a jaw-breaker was found lodged in her esophagus. There were bruises around her neck, but it was assumed that they were self-inflicted as she attempted to dislodge the obstacle while she was suffocating. The death was ruled accidental; the file was officially closed, and the body was released for burial.