head, pulled his jacket off, turned it inside out and slipped it back on. Witnesses see upper garments and headgear mostly. Now, if anyone was looking, it would seem that two different people had walked past the house, rather than one man doing so twice.
Every grain of suspicion counts.
On this second trip he looked the other way—at all the cars on the street in front of and near the house. Obviously no NYPD cruisers but no unmarkeds either that he could sense.
He walked up to the door, reaching into his backpack and withdrawing a six-inch length of capped pipe, filled with lead shot. He wrapped his right hand around this, making a fist. The point of the pipe was to give support to the inside of the fingers so that if he happened to connect with bone or some other solid portion of his victim when he swung, the metacarpals wouldn’t snap. He’d learned this the hard way—by missing a blow to the throat and striking a man on the cheek, which had cracked his little finger. He’d regained control of the situation but the pain in his right hand was excruciating. He’d found it was very difficult to flay skin with the knife in one’s non-dominant hand.
Swann took a blank, sealed envelope from his bag too.
A glance around. Nobody on the street. He rang the bell with his knuckle, put a cheerful smile on his face.
No response. Was he asleep?
He lifted a paper napkin from his pocket and tried the knob. Locked. This was always the case in New York. Not so in the suburbs of Cleveland or Denver—where he’d killed an information broker last month. All the doors in Highlands Ranch were unlocked, windows too. The man hadn’t even locked his BMW.
Swann was about to walk around behind the house and look for a window he might break through.
But then he heard a thud, a click.
He rang the bell again, just to let Mr. Nikolov know that his presence was still requested. This is what any normal visitor would have done.
A grain of suspicion…
A voice, muffled by the thickness of the door. Not impatient. Just tired.
The door opened and Swann was surprised—and pleased—to see that Robert Moreno’s preferred driver was only about five feet, six inches and couldn’t have weighed more than 160 pounds, 25 fewer than Swann h imself .
“Yes?” he asked in a thick Slavic accent, looking at Swann’s left hand, the white envelope. The right was not visible.
“Mr. Nikolov?”
“That’s right.” He was wearing brown pajamas and was in house slippers.
“I’ve got a TLC refund for you. You gotta sign for it.”
“What?”
“Taxi Limousine Commission, the refund.”
“Yeah, yeah, TLC. What refund?”
“They overcharged fees.”
“You with them?”
“No, I’m the contracting agent. I just deliver the checks.”
“Well, they pricks. I don’t know about refund but they pricks, what they charge. Wait, how do I know they not ripping me off? I sign, I sign away my rights? Maybe I should get a lawyer.”
Swann lifted the envelope. “You can read this. Everybody’s taking the checks but it says you don’t have to, you can talk to an arbitrator. I don’t care. I deliver checks. You don’t want it, don’t take it.”
Nikolov unlatched the screen door. “Lemme have it.”
Swann appreciated that he had no sense of humor but he couldn’t help but be struck by the man’s unfortunate choice of words.
When the door opened, Swann stepped forward fast and drove his right fist, holding the pipe, into the man’s solar plexus, aiming not for the ugly brown cloth of the PJs but for a spot about two inches beyond—inside the man’s gut. Which is where blows should always be aimed, never the surface, to deliver the greatest impact.
Nikolov gasped, retched and went down fast.
In an instant Swann stepped past him, grabbed him by the collar and dragged him well inside before the vomiting started. Swann kicked him once, also in the belly, hard, and then looked out a lacy window.
A quiet street, a pleasant street. Not
Every grain of suspicion counts.
On this second trip he looked the other way—at all the cars on the street in front of and near the house. Obviously no NYPD cruisers but no unmarkeds either that he could sense.
He walked up to the door, reaching into his backpack and withdrawing a six-inch length of capped pipe, filled with lead shot. He wrapped his right hand around this, making a fist. The point of the pipe was to give support to the inside of the fingers so that if he happened to connect with bone or some other solid portion of his victim when he swung, the metacarpals wouldn’t snap. He’d learned this the hard way—by missing a blow to the throat and striking a man on the cheek, which had cracked his little finger. He’d regained control of the situation but the pain in his right hand was excruciating. He’d found it was very difficult to flay skin with the knife in one’s non-dominant hand.
Swann took a blank, sealed envelope from his bag too.
A glance around. Nobody on the street. He rang the bell with his knuckle, put a cheerful smile on his face.
No response. Was he asleep?
He lifted a paper napkin from his pocket and tried the knob. Locked. This was always the case in New York. Not so in the suburbs of Cleveland or Denver—where he’d killed an information broker last month. All the doors in Highlands Ranch were unlocked, windows too. The man hadn’t even locked his BMW.
Swann was about to walk around behind the house and look for a window he might break through.
But then he heard a thud, a click.
He rang the bell again, just to let Mr. Nikolov know that his presence was still requested. This is what any normal visitor would have done.
A grain of suspicion…
A voice, muffled by the thickness of the door. Not impatient. Just tired.
The door opened and Swann was surprised—and pleased—to see that Robert Moreno’s preferred driver was only about five feet, six inches and couldn’t have weighed more than 160 pounds, 25 fewer than Swann h imself .
“Yes?” he asked in a thick Slavic accent, looking at Swann’s left hand, the white envelope. The right was not visible.
“Mr. Nikolov?”
“That’s right.” He was wearing brown pajamas and was in house slippers.
“I’ve got a TLC refund for you. You gotta sign for it.”
“What?”
“Taxi Limousine Commission, the refund.”
“Yeah, yeah, TLC. What refund?”
“They overcharged fees.”
“You with them?”
“No, I’m the contracting agent. I just deliver the checks.”
“Well, they pricks. I don’t know about refund but they pricks, what they charge. Wait, how do I know they not ripping me off? I sign, I sign away my rights? Maybe I should get a lawyer.”
Swann lifted the envelope. “You can read this. Everybody’s taking the checks but it says you don’t have to, you can talk to an arbitrator. I don’t care. I deliver checks. You don’t want it, don’t take it.”
Nikolov unlatched the screen door. “Lemme have it.”
Swann appreciated that he had no sense of humor but he couldn’t help but be struck by the man’s unfortunate choice of words.
When the door opened, Swann stepped forward fast and drove his right fist, holding the pipe, into the man’s solar plexus, aiming not for the ugly brown cloth of the PJs but for a spot about two inches beyond—inside the man’s gut. Which is where blows should always be aimed, never the surface, to deliver the greatest impact.
Nikolov gasped, retched and went down fast.
In an instant Swann stepped past him, grabbed him by the collar and dragged him well inside before the vomiting started. Swann kicked him once, also in the belly, hard, and then looked out a lacy window.
A quiet street, a pleasant street. Not
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