The Killing Kind

8

Engelmann, comfortable despite Miami’s heat in a linen suit and woven cowhide loafers, sipped his espresso and watched the two federal agents bicker in the shadow of the Morales Incorporated Building. From his table at a sidewalk café across the street, he’d watched them parade up and down this stretch of Brickell Avenue for the better part of the afternoon, alternately examining the scant physical evidence Cruz’s murder had left behind, and sniping at each other like an embittered married couple.

Engelmann spent most of his life observing from a distance. Even as a child, he’d felt set apart from his family, from other children, and from the string of governesses in whose care his parents placed him-and whose emotional states he slowly destroyed with his sadistic manipulations. It was by impulse, rather than design, that he tormented them-an omnipresent itch that he could never truly scratch, an urge to ruin and destroy that could be quieted but never quelled.

It wasn’t until he discovered killing that he’d felt truly present in this world.

His first was a pheasant at his family’s summer manor, which was nestled in the Inn River Valley in southwest Switzerland. He was ten. The house chef mistook his interest in the process as culinary in nature, and after he’d observed a slaughter without crying, the chef allowed the boy to bleed a bird himself. In that blissful moment when knife parted flesh, and the headless pheasant began to thrash within his grasp, the air had never seemed so crisp, the sky never quite so true a blue. But if the wizened old chef took note of his aroused state-as Engelmann suspected he had, for Anatole never again allowed the boy to partake in the daily slaughter-he never breathed a word of it to anyone.

Engelmann’s path had nevertheless been determined. So transformative was the experience, young Engelmann spent the better part of that afternoon traipsing about with hands coated red, only grudgingly washing away the stains when they’d crusted dry, the blood’s color fading to rust- and with it, the colors of the world around him. As he watched those flecks of spent iron swirl downstream on the icy waters of the River Inn, he knew they represented the compass by which his heart had been set-a conclusion reinforced weeks later when he took his first human victim, a local farm boy, and experienced an emotional and physical release so thunderous that mere words failed to do it justice.

Today, he watched, as he’d watched the village children decades before, his mind calm and appraising. Of course, he had no intention of harming these investigators. Not that he wouldn’t have enjoyed it. The woman was pretty enough, he thought, or at least would be if she gave a damn, and the man had a certain swagger it might be fun to break him of. But he didn’t see any utility in it-nor did he expect that they’d discern anything from the crime scene he had not yet himself discerned. He’d arrived in Miami some hours before they did and had already been over every centimeter of the sidewalk and the parking lot, so he knew just how meticulous the hit had been. He elected to stay and watch them not for evidentiary reasons, but because he believed the better he understood his fellow hunters, the better he would understand their common quarry.

Engelmann downed the last grainy bit of his espresso and left a twenty on the table. Ordinarily, he found tipping gauche, a horrid American practice he avoided whenever possible, but today he was in good spirits and thought the mood worth sharing. Then he left the café, and left the investigators to their fruitless examination of the crime scene. His nerves vibrated like a tuning fork from excitement and caffeine, a clarion note of anticipation ringing in his head.

That was fine. Useful, even.

Alexander Engelmann had a busy night ahead of him.

“Pardon me,” said Engelmann, “but I was wondering if I might have a word.”

It wasn’t the man’s words that chilled Edgar Morales to his core, nor his polite, well-modulated tone-a tone that implied moneyed good grace and lent an angular quality to his words, a voice suggesting that while he was clearly fluent, this man was not a native English speaker.

What chilled Edgar Morales was the moment itself, for it was four in the morning, and the words had roused him from sleep. He opened his eyes to find his bedroom dark and still, the security panel on his wall blinking green to indicate all was well. But he hadn’t imagined that voice-a voice that signaled to Morales that all his precautions had been for naught and that his life would end tonight.

Ever since Cruz’s attempt on Morales’s life, Morales had spent his nights in his Bayside Village condo out on Fisher Island. He’d bought the place years ago when his company’s value first reached a billion, seduced by the cachet that accompanied the address. What better sign was there you’d made it than living on a man-made resort island that boasted the highest per capita income in the nation? For a kid who grew up poor on a dodgy street in Goulds, the allure of joining Miami’s most exclusive community was too great to pass up. It had taken him a while to find a suitable abode, because he’d restricted his search to the city-facing bay side, ignoring Fisher Island’s ocean-side properties entirely. After all, what was seeing the sunrise over the Atlantic compared to the glint of the sunrise off the skyscraper that bore his name?

In the days since his mysterious benefactor rid him of his Cruz problem, however, his six-thousand-square-foot condo had taken on a new significance for him, beyond signifying his arrival as a businessman. Situated as it was on the uppermost floor, with views in every direction and every access point monitored by a security system so stateof-the-art the Pentagon couldn’t afford it-not to mention the fact that it was on an island with no auto access whatsoever, and ferry access limited to residents and invited guests-it had become his fortress, his island stronghold. The man who saved his life had warned him the Corporation would likely try again, and having witnessed Cruz’s grisly demise, he took that warning to heart-even augmenting his already formidable security with a team of trained sentries. His neighbors, no doubt, thought he’d gone off the deep end, another Howard Hughes type unable to handle the pressures of so much wealth. But to hell with his neighbors-better to be a live eccentric than to be thought of well while dead.

“Who…who are you?” he stammered, his voice hoarse from fear.

“Who I am is of little consequence to you,” Engelmann replied.

“My guards-”

“Are, at present, indisposed.”

“You mean…,” Morales began, only to find he could not summon the words.

“If you’re asking did I kill them, the answer is no; I’ve not been paid to kill them. I merely rendered them unconscious so you and I would not be interrupted.”

“But you are here to kill me.”

Engelmann smiled. “That depends upon your level of cooperation. You see, I’ve not been paid to kill you, either.”

Morales digested the man’s words. “If you’re not here to kill me, why’d you sneak into my bedroom?”

“I need to ask you some questions. About what happened to one Mr. Javier Cruz.”

“You mean the man who died outside my building?” Morales asked. “I don’t know; I wasn’t there.” It was a foolish lie, given the circumstances, but it was a reflex, nothing more. He’d repeated that lie to countless detectives and reporters in the past three days, before instructing his legal team to shut down any further inquiries on the subject.

Engelmann tsked in the darkness. “Mr. Morales, I think I’ve thus far treated you with decorum, even respect-I’d appreciate it if you would afford me the same courtesy. I may not have been paid to kill you, but hurting you I’d do for free.”

Morales stiffened. He swallowed hard, his mouth dry as sand. “Of course,” he rasped, fumbling for the bedside table. “I’m sorry. If I could just turn the light on, so I can take a drink of water-”

“I’m not an amateur, Mr. Morales. I removed your firearm from the drawer before I woke you. And I suspect if you think long and hard about it, you’ll realize it’s in your best interest if you never see my face.”

Morales slumped in his bed, defeated.

“Good,” Engelmann said, as if something of import had been decided. “Now, Cruz.”

“What do you want to know?”

“I want you to tell me how you contacted the man who killed him.”

“I-I didn’t!”

Morales heard a metallic sching as a blade slid free of its scabbard. His heart slammed painfully against the wall of his chest.

“I did caution you against lying, Mr. Morales.”

Hands on his face. In his hair. Yanking his head back. Morales cried out-wordless, animal. For a moment, he thrashed against his assailant’s grasp, but then he froze as he felt the point of a blade dimple the tender flesh beneath his left eye.

Morales had no idea how the man could be so precise in such utter darkness. The blade’s tip did not pierce his skin. It just rested there, so gently that it tickled, but the man’s iron grip on the back of his head made it clear it would take little effort to drive that blade into his eye.

“Now,” the man said, “I’ll ask again. How did you contact the man who killed Cruz?”

Morales tried to withdraw from the blade-by instinct more than volition-but it was no use. “I told you,” he said, his manner more pleading than correcting, “I didn’t-he contacted me!”

Morales braced for the pain to come, but it never did. Instead, the man withdrew, leaving Morales once more alone on the bed, gulping air as he willed his drumroll heart to slow.

“He contacted you.” It wasn’t a question; Engelmann was certain Morales would not have lied to him just then- he had a better sense of self-preservation than that.

“That’s right. The guy showed up in my office one day-no appointment, no nothing-and told me there was a bounty on my head.”

“Did he say how he knew this to be true?”

“He said he had his sources.”

“And you believed him?”

“No, of course not. But he had details-land deals I’d made that weren’t yet part of the public record. Communications from the goons in the Cuban Mafia about all the trouble I was causing.” He paused, then, wondering if Engelmann would take offense at his thoughtless characterization, but Engelmann said nothing. “He had the when and where, the who and how, and he knew how much this Cruz dude was getting for his trouble. Said for ten times as much, he’d make Cruz go away.”

Ten times the price on the target’s head. A tidy profit to be sure, Engelmann thought, smiling. The more he learned of his quarry, the more he liked the man. “How did you know he was not conning you? That he wasn’t shaking you down, as your American mobsters are so fond of saying?”

“I didn’t. But he told me I didn’t have to decide right away. Said I should sleep on it-as if anyone could sleep when they know there’s a price on their head. I hired a PI firm, had them snoop around. It seemed his information was sound.”

“How long before the hit did he come to you?”

“Three days.”

“Did he give a name?”

Morales shook his head. Even in the dark, Engelmann got the gist. “I don’t suppose it would have mattered if he did,” he said. “Your building, I assume, is wired for video, is it not?”

“Yeah,” Morales said. “It is. Only the thing is, the day this guy showed up there was some kind of glitch in the software, and we lost the whole day’s feed.”

“Of course you did. Can you describe the man to me?”

Morales thought about it. “Nothing much about the guy stood out, really,” he said. “Not too short, and not too tall. Six feet, maybe a little less. Brown hair, short. Muscular, but lean.”

“Race?”

“White.”

“What about his station?”

“I don’t follow,” Morales said.

“The way he carried himself. Would you say he sounded moneyed or poor, upper class or lower, educated or uneducated?”

“Uh, I don’t know. He came off smart, I guess, but working-class. The kind of guy if you met him, you’d think he worked with his hands.”

Engelmann thought a moment about the description Morales had provided. “Would you say he had a military disposition?”

Now it was Morales’s turn to ponder. “Yeah,” he said. “I guess I would.”

“Excellent. I must say, Mr. Morales, despite a rocky start, you’ve proven yourself most helpful. So, true to my word, I leave you to the remainder of your night.”

“Thank you,” Morales blubbered madly, relieved at the realization he’d live to see the sun rise on his building at least once more. “Thank you.”

“Think nothing of it,” Engelmann said. “Besides, I’ve no doubt the Corporation will send someone along to kill you once the attention generated by their last attempt dies down. Sleep well, Mr. Morales, while you still can. And if I were you, I’d consider hiring better guards.”

Engelmann left as quietly as he’d arrived. Morales listened for a long while to be sure he was really gone. Eventually, Morales climbed out of bed, stepped over the unconscious guard outside his bedroom, and crossed the great room to his wet bar. With shaking hands, he poured himself a hefty belt of scotch. It was a Macallan Fine Oak 30 Year Old, and it had set him back two grand. He’d been saving it for a special occasion.