reverberated against the walls like an electric bass.
Vincent shifted uncomfortably in his seat and straightened his tie. “He’s got a point, Beau. We could go somewhere and—”
Beau cut him off with a warning glance, then turned on Cape. “This room is discreet—me, I like discreet. Some people, on the other hand, like to cause a ruckus wherever they go.”
“Ruckus?” Cape put a wounded expression on his face. “I’m not even sure I know what a ruckus is.” He turned to Vincent, who shook his head noncommittally.
“You are a pain in my ass,” said Beau. “Here I am, tryin’ to conduct a proper investigation, and you go and get yourself shot in the middle of it, and waste my valuable time.”
“Nothing personal.”
Beau shook his head sadly. “Now if you’d found a clue in the park, maybe drugs, or maybe a written confession from Jimmy Hoffa—that might have helped the investigation. But no, you had to find yourself a dead Russian.”
“Was he Russian?”
“Seems that way,” replied Vincent. He pulled a stack of black and white photographs from a manila envelope and pushed the one on the top toward Cape. It was an image of a man’s hand, fingers curled in early-stage rigor mortis. On each knuckle was a curving black line, a symbol tattooed into the flesh.
Cape squinted at the photo. “That’s the Cyrillic alphabet.”
Beau clapped slowly, the sound echoing off the walls. “Send the boy to college and see what he comes home with? Lots of game show trivia, but no common sense.”
Vincent took the photograph and returned it to his pile. “When we took the driving gloves off your dance partner at the beach, he had those on both hands.”
“What’s it say?”
Vincent shrugged. “We don’t know yet. Had a guy on the force who knew Russian, but he left to become a school teacher when he didn’t get a promotion.”
“Budget cuts,” said Beau.
“Well, who was he?”
Vincent shook his head. “An import.”
“Import?”
“Prints didn’t come up on any local or federal databases,” explained Vincent. “I seriously doubt this was a first offense for this guy.”
“No way,” said Cape. “He’s done this before.”
“So we think he’s fresh off the boat, imported for this kind of job.”
“I’m flattered.”
“You’re lucky,” said Beau. “Hadn’t been for the dead Russian’s spine, you’d be leaking on the carpet every time you took a drink.”
Vincent nodded. “The first shot entered his back almost directly behind his heart but came in at an angle and ricocheted off his spine. That’s why it grazed your ribs instead of going straight through both of you.”
“How’s your side?” asked Beau.
Cape raised his left arm and winced. “Hurts.”
“Good.”
Cape used his right arm to feel the bandages wrapped around his torso. “The doc said the bullet gouged the bone and bounced off, so it’s more like a deep cut than a gunshot wound, but I’d rather have a hang nail.”
Beau nodded for Vincent to continue his lecture.
“The second shot took the guy’s head off.”
Cape exhaled slowly. “I wasn’t sure,” he said. “I had his gun under his chin when the first shot hit me, so I thought—”
“We thought that, too,” said Vincent. “But his gun hadn’t been fired.”
“Lucky for you,” said Beau. “We found the gun in the water, maybe six feet from shore.”
“Where was the shooter?”
“On the hill, looking down toward the beach. That’s our best guess.”
Cape nodded. “In the same car as the guy that came after me.”
“Or a rooftop in the square,” said Vincent. “Either location makes it easy to dump the rifle.”
“You found the rifle?”
By way of answer, Vincent opened a brown cardboard box at his feet. Cape took the gun from Vincent and hefted it, guessing it weighed close to fifteen pounds. He had seen a lot of guns over the years, but this one was new to him. The lines of every gun said something about why it
Vincent shifted uncomfortably in his seat and straightened his tie. “He’s got a point, Beau. We could go somewhere and—”
Beau cut him off with a warning glance, then turned on Cape. “This room is discreet—me, I like discreet. Some people, on the other hand, like to cause a ruckus wherever they go.”
“Ruckus?” Cape put a wounded expression on his face. “I’m not even sure I know what a ruckus is.” He turned to Vincent, who shook his head noncommittally.
“You are a pain in my ass,” said Beau. “Here I am, tryin’ to conduct a proper investigation, and you go and get yourself shot in the middle of it, and waste my valuable time.”
“Nothing personal.”
Beau shook his head sadly. “Now if you’d found a clue in the park, maybe drugs, or maybe a written confession from Jimmy Hoffa—that might have helped the investigation. But no, you had to find yourself a dead Russian.”
“Was he Russian?”
“Seems that way,” replied Vincent. He pulled a stack of black and white photographs from a manila envelope and pushed the one on the top toward Cape. It was an image of a man’s hand, fingers curled in early-stage rigor mortis. On each knuckle was a curving black line, a symbol tattooed into the flesh.
Cape squinted at the photo. “That’s the Cyrillic alphabet.”
Beau clapped slowly, the sound echoing off the walls. “Send the boy to college and see what he comes home with? Lots of game show trivia, but no common sense.”
Vincent took the photograph and returned it to his pile. “When we took the driving gloves off your dance partner at the beach, he had those on both hands.”
“What’s it say?”
Vincent shrugged. “We don’t know yet. Had a guy on the force who knew Russian, but he left to become a school teacher when he didn’t get a promotion.”
“Budget cuts,” said Beau.
“Well, who was he?”
Vincent shook his head. “An import.”
“Import?”
“Prints didn’t come up on any local or federal databases,” explained Vincent. “I seriously doubt this was a first offense for this guy.”
“No way,” said Cape. “He’s done this before.”
“So we think he’s fresh off the boat, imported for this kind of job.”
“I’m flattered.”
“You’re lucky,” said Beau. “Hadn’t been for the dead Russian’s spine, you’d be leaking on the carpet every time you took a drink.”
Vincent nodded. “The first shot entered his back almost directly behind his heart but came in at an angle and ricocheted off his spine. That’s why it grazed your ribs instead of going straight through both of you.”
“How’s your side?” asked Beau.
Cape raised his left arm and winced. “Hurts.”
“Good.”
Cape used his right arm to feel the bandages wrapped around his torso. “The doc said the bullet gouged the bone and bounced off, so it’s more like a deep cut than a gunshot wound, but I’d rather have a hang nail.”
Beau nodded for Vincent to continue his lecture.
“The second shot took the guy’s head off.”
Cape exhaled slowly. “I wasn’t sure,” he said. “I had his gun under his chin when the first shot hit me, so I thought—”
“We thought that, too,” said Vincent. “But his gun hadn’t been fired.”
“Lucky for you,” said Beau. “We found the gun in the water, maybe six feet from shore.”
“Where was the shooter?”
“On the hill, looking down toward the beach. That’s our best guess.”
Cape nodded. “In the same car as the guy that came after me.”
“Or a rooftop in the square,” said Vincent. “Either location makes it easy to dump the rifle.”
“You found the rifle?”
By way of answer, Vincent opened a brown cardboard box at his feet. Cape took the gun from Vincent and hefted it, guessing it weighed close to fifteen pounds. He had seen a lot of guns over the years, but this one was new to him. The lines of every gun said something about why it
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