Shakeup

53

Rocco Turko left Debby’s suite with his instructions. It would be a dry run, but he would do it properly and go as far as he could.

He removed a zippered case from his luggage and surveyed his choices: two moustaches, one Vandyke, and one full beard. He chose the beard and glued it firmly into place, using the bathroom mirror.

He dressed in gray trousers, a white shirt, and a blue blazer. Then he put on his reversible raincoat with the tan side out and chose a foldable Trilby hat, with a plaid tweed cap for backup, tucked into a pocket with his glasses. He put on thin leather gloves, then picked up the silenced .22, disassembled it, wiped the gun, the magazine, and the cartridges very clean. Then he reassembled it all and tucked it into an inside-the-belt holster, with the barrel and silencer protruding but covered by his trousers.

A quick look of approval in the mirror, and he left the room, went downstairs, and exited the hotel via the service door. He opened his umbrella and used it to partially conceal himself from the view of the waiting FBI men down the block. He passed the wrought-iron gate to the alley and noted that it had no keyhole; which meant electric operation. Then, as he approached the apartment building, he got lucky. A black town car turned onto East Sixty-third Street and pulled up before the building’s awning. Rocco brushed past one of the FBI agents, whose gaze was fixed on the arriving car. The doorman came outside with a big umbrella and began assisting an elderly woman and her luggage from the vehicle.

Rocco turned right behind the assemblage and walked into the building’s lobby. He stopped at the doorman’s desk and looked at his list of occupants. An Edward Craft was there, in 14D. A sign hung on a hook over the desk, reading TERRY ON DUTY. The service elevator, he remembered, was through one door and down a short hallway. The car stood there, its door open. He boarded it and pressed fourteen.

The door opened into the service hallway; he looked to his left and saw a door marked C, then to his right and saw another, marked D. He readied himself, unholstered the weapon, pulled down his hat brim a bit, and rang the bell.

A moment later a man’s voice said, “Who is it?”

“It’s Terry, Mr. Craft,” Rocco replied. “From downstairs.”

He heard the lock slide and saw the door open an inch. He put his shoulder into it and knocked Eddie Craft backward onto the marble floor. Craft managed to get to his hands and knees, and Rocco struck him firmly with the weapon on the back of the neck. Craft collapsed into a heap. He would be out, Rocco reckoned, for at least twenty minutes, perhaps half an hour.

He walked across the kitchen and through an open door into a dining room, apparently also used as a study. There was a large reclining chair before a window. Rocco stepped up onto the chair, unfastened the lock, raised the window and stuck his head out far enough to see the ground. The alley below was empty.

Rocco went back to the kitchen, hauled the still-unconscious Craft to his feet, and slung him over his shoulder. He walked into the dining room, perched Craft on the back of the recliner, then took him by the ankles and tipped him backward and out the window. A couple of seconds, and Rocco heard the thud from below. He had another look out the window, and found the alley still empty, except for the bleeding heap that was Eddie Craft. He put the pistol back into its holster and moved back toward the kitchen door, then he stopped in his tracks. A sleepy-looking woman in a nightgown was standing in the living room near what Rocco assumed was a door leading to the bedroom.

“I was asleep,” she said, sounding drugged.

“It’s all right,” Rocco replied. “Go back to sleep.” He turned her around gently and guided her into a bedroom, then tucked her in.

She rolled onto her left side, with her back to him.

Rocco thought about it for a moment: what he had here, he said to himself, was a very convenient murder-suicide. He unsheathed the pistol, stepped over to her, and put a bullet through her right temple. The small-caliber slug didn’t make a mess, just a neat hole. He shot her once more in the back of the head, then left the room and went back to the dining room. He looked out the window and saw Craft, still undisturbed. He held the gun out the window and dropped it. It bounced off Craft’s body and lay near him.

Rocco had a look around the dining room and kitchen for traces of his visit and found none. He retrieved his umbrella, left by the kitchen door, and pressed B in the elevator. It descended with no stops. His luck was holding.

In the basement, Rocco had a look around and saw a woman on a treadmill in the gym, her back to him. He walked past the laundry to the side door of the building and found a box to the right of it labeled GATE. He pressed the button and looked outside. The wrought-iron gate was slowly swinging open.

He walked quickly to the top of the alley and checked the street. The two FBI agents were standing under the awning at the entrance, earnestly engaged in conversation.

The gate began to close itself, and Rocco stepped through the gap, opened his umbrella, and put on his heavy, black-rimmed glasses, folded and pocketed the Trilby and put on the tweed cap, then he turned and walked toward the agents, who ignored him as he passed. He walked to the corner of Park Avenue and turned south, then right on East Sixty-fourth. The streets were mostly empty because of the rain.

Shortly, he was at the hotel’s service entrance and took the elevator upstairs. Back in his room, he stripped off his clothes and put them into a plastic bag marked dry cleaning. He filled out the ticket and put that into the bag, too, then hung it on the doorknob. Then he went into the bathroom and used a solvent to free the beard, which he washed and dried with the hair dryer, then put back into its case. Finally, he showered, scrubbing with a brush the areas that had been exposed.

He dried his hair with the hair dryer, got back into his robe, found his slippers and his key card, then walked down the hall to Debby’s suite and knocked softly on the door.

“Who’s there?” she asked from inside.

“Rocco.”

She opened the door, still dressed in her robe, and closed it behind him.

“Tell me how it went,” she said.

“From all appearances, Mr. Craft had a disagreement with his girlfriend, and he shot her twice in the head as she lay in bed. Then he went into his study, opened a window, and departed for the alley below. He was still in the alley, undisturbed, when I last saw him. I dropped the weapon after him, and it rests near his body. Then I got the hell out of there.”

“Rocco,” she said, kissing him and feeling for the opening of his robe, “you’re a wonder.”

“I believe I am, at that,” Rocco replied, freeing her of her garment.

She led him to bed. “Let’s celebrate,” she said, pulling him in behind her.

“Hip, hip, hooray!” Rocco said.