Remo reached the twisted, burning mass of metal, and saw the flames shrivel and blacken the driver of the red convertible. When the flames reached the backseat, and the mailing tube, it began jumping and making popcorn sounds. A bullet whined up through the bubbling paint of the roof and knocked out an overhead streetlight.
Remo pulled the cab driver back. "Bullets," he warned.
"You a cop?" the shaken driver croaked.
Remo ignored the question. "So, what's the fare?" he asked.
"How can you think of money at a time like this?"
"Good point," Remo said cheerfully. "Can I keep the tip, too?"
The cabby picked that moment to vomit up his lunch. While he was filling the gutter, Remo slipped away.
He was not having a good day. But there's one consolation, he thought to himself. If there were only two people out to snuff Enrique Espiritu Esperanza, both are now out of the picture.
Even Harold Smith couldn't find fault with that.
Chapter 11
When Remo reached him by phone, Harold W. Smith's reaction was typically Smith.
"You say the second gunman was burned to death?"
"To a crisp," Remo said sourly. "If you're going to quote me, do it right."
"Remo, this is serious."
"The way I see it, Smitty," Remo said absently, lifting the covers of his bed to check on the first gunman, "this is a happy ending. We have our killers."
"But we do not know who hired them," Smith pointed out.
"No, but we can put on our little thinking caps and guess. General Nogeira. Since he's dead and they're dead, Chiun and I should be outta here by sundown. And not a moment too soon."
"I would rather you remained in Los Angeles, Remo."
"Sure you don't want what's behind Door Number Two?" Remo asked airily.
"Er, what do you mean?"
"I mean even as we speak, several floors over my head, Chiun is mooning over a certain hatchet-faced Korean anchorwitch."
Harold Smith sucked in a dry breath that seemed forceful enough to dislodge Remo's right eardrum. "Not Cheeta Ching?"
"Funny," Remo said dryly, "that was my exact thought when I first spotted her."
"Ah, do you think this represents a security threat?"
"If by 'threat,' you mean do I think Chiun is on the verge of making a major conquest, no."
"Good."
"On the other hand," Remo added, "she has the hots for me."
"Cheeta Ching?"
"Wants me to be her partner in procreation," Remo said lightly.
"Remo, under no circumstance are you to appear on camera with Cheeta Ching," Harold Smith said tightly.
"Smitty, where Cheeta Ching is concerned, I'm strictly behind the camera. I was running her minicam when her interview was interrupted by the sniper." "Is there a chance your camera picked up anything important?"
"Search me. I dropped it when the ruckus started. It could have picked up anything, from the sniper to Chiun. "
"Remo," Smith said, urgency coming into the lemon-flavored voice, "obtain that tape. I do not care how you do it."
Remo sighed resignedly. So much for heading east. "Anything else?"
"Yes. I would like a photograph of the dead man. He is still with you?"
"Decomposing peacefully," Remo said lightly, dropping the bedding on the dead sniper's waxy gray face. "What do I do with the body afterward?"
"I do not care. But before you dispose of it, I would like fingerprint samples as well."
"Anything else? Blood type? Nose hair clippings? Earwax samples?"
"Remo, this is serious."
"Tell you what, Smitty. Looks like I'm going to have a busy day. Why don't I just ship the guy to Folcroft?"
"Absolutely not!"
"Oh, don't thank me," Remo said sweetly. "I'll even include return correct postage."
"Remo!"
Laughing, Remo hung up. Things were getting better. He had Smith's goat, and Chiun owed him peace of mind for an unspecified period of time and a boon to be named at a later date. No sense squandering that one too soon.
As he took the stairs to the penthouse, Remo thought that he might hold that boon over Chiun's head for a good long time.
When Remo came over the parapet-the only way to the penthouse that didn't involve returning to the lobby and catching the penthouse elevator--Cheeta Ching was interviewing herself.
She stood in a corner of the living room, the minicam in her hands. She was pointing it at her own face and speaking into the directional mike. Her thumb was holding down the trigger.
"For the first time in the history of television, an attempt has been made on the life of a network anchor," she said shrilly. "Only moments ago, in this very room, this reporter narrowly escaped a sniper's bullet. Obviously, the killer had been aiming at my head, and-"
Remo sidled up to the Master of Sinanju, who stood off to one side with Enrique Espiritu Esperanza and Harmon Cashman, watching the spectacle with varying degrees of disbelief written on their faces.
"How long has this been going on?" Remo asked.
"Since you left," Harmon Cashman murmured. "She actually believes she was the target."
"Maybe that's good. You don't want this kind of bad publicity for the campaign."
"Of course we do," Cashman said instantly.
Remo blinked. "You do?"
"This is better than an endorsement from the President."
Remo looked at Harmon Cashman. Then at Chiun. Chiun shrugged as if to say, "All whites are mad. Did you not know?"
Enrique Espiritu Esperanza introduced a note of sanity.
"It would be better for all concerned if this embarrassing spectacle did not go out over the air," he said quietly.
"I like your thinking," Remo said. "How about I steal it?"
"I do not like that word. I am a moral man."
"Borrow it, then?" Remo suggested.
"Borrow is good," Harmon Cashman said quickly.
"The trick," Remo said, looking at the white-knuckled way Cheeta Ching was holding the minicam up to her flat face, "will be prying those bony talons from the camera grip."
They decided to wait until Cheeta ran out of tape. The way she was going, only that would bring the selfinterview to a bloodless conclusion.
Meanwhile, Remo filled them in on his attempt to locate the killers.
"They are dead?" asked Enrique Espiritu Esperanza, his cherubic face sad. It was clear that the deaths saddened him. Even the deaths of murderers.
"We do not fail," Chiun said sternly, his wistful eyes on Cheeta's flat profile, as if beholding true beauty.
"What do you see in her?" Remo whispered.
"Grace," said the Master of Sinanju.
Remo thought she looked like Medusa staring down the minicam.
"Unless there are more of these guys in the woodwork, this should be the end of it," he added.
"Have you no idea as to their identity, these two men?" asked Esperanza.
Remo shook his head. "No ID on them. But they looked Hispanic."
"Hispanic?" Harmon Cashman mumbled. "They're our core support. Why would Hispanics want to kill Ricky?"
Remo shrugged. He decided not to mention the Nogeira connection. It would only complicate things. "Maybe they were just crazies," he suggested.
Enrique Esperanza nodded. "Ah, loco. That I understand."
Over in the corner the minicam clicked, and the faint whir of the videotape cartridge came to a stop.
"Oh, damn!" Cheeta Ching swore.
Chiun gasped, as if a priest had loudly passed gas.
"Let me get that," Remo said helpfully, seeing his opportunity.
Cheeta turned. Her eyes took in Remo. They lost their dagger's edge, softened to melting hot-tar blobs.
"Demo!" she squeaked.
"Remo."
"Romeo!"
"Demo is fine. Call me Demo."
"Oh, Demo, would you be a darling and get me a fresh tape from that arthritic cameraman of mine? He's down in the lobby-probably updating his resume."