Running of the bulls

CHAPTER FIVE

From the opposite building, Spocatti watched in disbelief as Gerald Hayes fell to the concrete pavement. None of this was part of the plan. Carmen intentionally deviated from it and he was furious with her given the potential situation she’d just put them in.

He filmed the man dropping to his death, filmed his cart-wheeling hands and wide-open eyes, filmed his last few moments of life before his head exploded on the sidewalk and his body collapsed on top of it in a broken heap.

For Wolfhagen’s sake, he held the shot for a lingering moment before he jerked the camera back to the open window, where Carmen was hurrying about the room, covering her ass.

Why did she go against the plan? She was supposed to have knocked Hayes unconscious, wipe her prints from the gun and then place it in his hand while firing a bullet into his brain. It was simple. It had been her idea. So, why did she change her mind? Why did she deliberately take this chance?

The fool was going to get caught.

He watched her move quickly and efficiently, her eyes missing nothing. When she was finished, she grabbed her briefcase and left the room. Thirty-five seconds, maybe forty. Though he hated to admit it, Spocatti doubted whether he could do better.

Still, she had to get out of the building.

He adjusted his earphone and listened to her run down the hallway to the bank of elevators. His mind like a camera, he imagined her stepping into the car, punching the button marked “L” and composing herself in the reflection of the mirrored doors as the elevator plummeted twenty floors.

“That one was for you, Vincent,” she said into the microphone. “I would have given him a kiss on the lips before showing him to the window, but I didn’t want to make you blush.”

Spocatti was having none of it. She’d taken a stupid, unnecessary risk. If she didn’t get out of the building safely, if she somehow got caught, the police would know that the deaths of the Coles and Mark Andrews were related, leaving Spocatti with a far more difficult task when it came time to kill the other men and women on Wolfhagen’s list.

He glanced at his watch, then lifted the binoculars from his neck and looked down at the sidewalk. Hayes had been on the ground for several minutes and still no one had found his body. Spocatti looked up and down Wall Street, saw no one on its deserted sidewalks, no cars on the barren street. He listened to the elevator doors whisk open and heard Carmen’s shoes click across the marble-tiled floor.

Her breathing was controlled. There was a firmness in her step that suggested confidence. “The lobby’s empty,” she said in a low voice. “Just me and the security guard. Shouldn’t take more than five minutes to get the tapes and I’m out of here.”

But Spocatti was no longer listening to her, couldn’t listen to her, because down below on the street, a woman was moving hesitantly toward Hayes’ body.

He lifted the binoculars to his eyes and leaned toward the window, bringing her face into focus. She was Hispanic, had long, wiry black hair and was wearing a faded blue work uniform. Her hands were buried in the fold of her bosom. Her face was pale with horror. She looked up at the open window from which Hayes was pushed and put her hand over her mouth. Though Spocatti couldn’t hear her, he knew the woman was screaming.

And then he heard, in the distance, the faint wail of police sirens.

He pressed a finger over his earphone and listened for Carmen, but her voice had been severed, cut short by static. He tapped the device, heard nothing and checked the radio that was their only link. The dial was at zero. Somehow, her microphone was disengaged.

Incredulous, he turned back to the window. Sirens blaring, blue lights flashing, two police cars shot around William Street and pulled alongside Hayes and the woman standing over him. The officers stepped out of their cars, looked at what had been one of Wall Street’s most powerful financiers and immediately radioed ahead for help.

Spocatti moved to the semi-automatic rifle that was anchored to the window beside him.

He looked down through the powerful telescope and brought one of the officers into view. He gently squeezed the trigger and watched the laser’s tiny pinpoint of red light appear on the back of the man’s head. If the situation got out of hand and Carmen needed help, Spocatti would kill these officers and that woman. He would fire five neat holes into the backs of five shaken people.

He didn’t know how long he stood at that window.

As word spread of Hayes’ death, the area outside the building gradually filled with the media and the curious.

Photographs were being taken of the body. The woman who found Hayes had been taken away by the police. Inside Hayes’ office, detectives were picking through the remains of a life. There was no sign of Carmen.

He was fearing the worst when he heard the jangling of a key and the door behind him swing open.

And there she was, her white silk blouse and black, loose-fitting jacket stained with the blood of a dead man. She moved to the center of the room and stood there, her eyes like a light turned to his face. She tossed the attache case onto the floor and it popped open, exposing the bloodied, pale blue towel, the white gloves and the surveillance tapes.

Spocatti was about to speak when something in her expression caused him to pause. For a moment, he forgot his anger and listened.

“The book,” she said. “Maggie Cain,” she said. “Everyone on our list is being interviewed by her. We need to call Wolfhagen now and let him know.”

But when they called his La Jolla estate, there was no answer.