“The Duma guy got popped in the cemetery?”
“On his way out the door of the Russian Orthodox church next to the cemetery. Dead-on head shot—eye shot to be precise.”
“Hmm.”
“And there were a couple of other interesting details. Wanna guess?”
“Tell me.”
“Cartridge was a .220 Swift.”
“And?”
“And no one heard what direction the shot came from.”
“A suppressor?”
“Probably.”
Gurney smiled. “And firecrackers?”
“You got it, ace.”
“But … how did Interpol put these two cases together? What link did they see?”
“They didn’t see any link, and they never did put them together.”
“Then what—?”
“Your questions—your search terms from the Gurikos and Spalter cases—those terms brought up the Corsican mob case and the Paris—”
“But the nails-in-the-head detail would’ve only brought up the file on the Corsican murder, and the cemetery/firecrackers details would’ve only brought up the Duma guy. So what are we talking about? Just based on those two facts, it could’ve been two different hit men, no?”
“It might’ve looked that way—except for one little thing. Both Interpol files contained lists of possibilities—likely professional hitters the local cops or the national agencies thought would be worth looking at. Four names for the Corsican case, five for the Russian-in-Paris case. Far as I can see, the Corsican and French police never got to any of those guys, not even to talk to them. But that’s not the point. The point is, there’s one name that pops up on both lists.”
Gurney didn’t say anything. A link that loose might be meaningless.
As if responding to this doubt, Hardwick added, “I know it doesn’t prove anything. But it’s sure as hell worth a closer look.”
“I agree. So who is this guy who likes firecrackers and hammering nails into people’s eyes?”
“The one name that appears on both lists is Petros Panikos.”
“So we may be looking for a Greek hit man?”
“Hit man for sure. With a Greek name for sure. But a name is only a name. Interpol says there’s no passport issued by any member country to anyone by that name. So it looks like he has other names. But they do have an interesting file on him under the name Panikos, for what it’s worth.”
“What is it worth? How much do they really know about him?”
“Good question. My contact told me there’s a lot in the file, but that it’s a mix—some facts, some secondhand stuff, some wild underworld stories that might be true or might be pure horseshit.”
“You have this fascinating mix in your hands right now?”
“What I have is bare bones—what my man could remember without pulling up the full document, which he said he would do as soon as he could. By the way, you may not have to take a piss, Sherlock, but I sure as hell do. Hold on.”
Judging from the sound effects, Hardwick had not only taken his phone into the bathroom with him but also managed to amplify the transmission volume. Sometimes Gurney was amazed that the man had survived as long as he had in the stiff culture of the NYSP. He presented such a prickly amalgam of characteristics. A sharp mind and sound investigative instincts were concealed behind a relentless eagerness to offend. His troubled NYSP career had foundered, like many a marriage, on irreconcilable differences and a mutual lack of respect. He had been a feisty iconoclast in an organization that revered conformity and respect for rank. Now this formidable but abrasive character was hell-bent on embarrassing the organization that had divorced him.
Wandering through these thoughts, Gurney found himself staring out the east window of the den as the first gray wash of dawn outlined the crest of the far ridge. The latest sound effects coming from the phone suggested that Hardwick had left the bathroom and was shuffling through a pile of papers.
Gurney pressed the speakerphone button on his own phone, laid it on his desk, and leaned back in his chair. His eyelids were heavy from lack of sleep, and he let them drift pleasantly shut. His brain went into free fall and for a few moments he felt blessedly relaxed, almost anesthetized. The brief intermission was ended by Hardwick’s voice, made harsher by the phone’s cheap speaker. “I’m back! Nothing like a good leak to clear the mind and free the soul. Hey, ace, you still among the living?”
“I think so.”
“Okay, here’s what he gave me. Petros Panikos. Also known as Peter Pan. Also known as the Magician. Also known by other names we don’t know about. He must have at least one passport in a name other than Panikos. He gets around. Never arrested, never detained—at least not under the Panikos name. Bottom line, he’s a free agent, and an odd one. Has gun, will travel, for a price—upwards of a hundred grand per pop, plus expenses. Reachable only through a small handful of people who know how to reach him.”
“Hundred grand minimum definitely puts him at the high end of the hit world.”
“Well, the little man is kind of a celebrity in his world. He also—”
Gurney interrupted. “The little man? How little?”
“He’s supposedly like four-foot-ten. Maybe five-two at the most.”
“Like the Flowers by Florence delivery guy in the Emmerling Oaks video?”
“Yeah, like that.”
“Okay. Go on.”
“Favors .22 caliber rounds in all cartridge shapes and sizes. But he’ll use anything that’s right for the job, anything from a knife to a bomb. Actually, he’s very fond of bombs. Might have connections with Russian arms and explosives dealers. Might have connections with the Russian mob down in Brooklyn. Might have been involved in a series of car explosions that wiped out a prosecutor and his staff in Serbia. Lot of mights. By the way, those slugs in the side of my house? They were .35 caliber—a much better choice for wire cutting than a .22—so I guess he really is flexible, assuming we’re dealing with one guy. Problem with flexibility is that there’s no consistent MO across all his hits. Interpol thinks Panikos, or whatever his name is, could have been involved in over fifty murders in the past ten or fifteen years. But that’s based on underworld rumors, prison talk, shit like that.”
“Anything else?”
“I’m waiting on that. There seems to be some weird stuff in his background, might originally have come from some kind of traveling freak show circus family, then some ugly Eastern European orphanage stuff, all hearsay, but … we’ll see. My guy had to get off the phone, had some urgent shit on his plate. Supposed to be getting back to me as soon as he can. Meantime, I’m heading for Bincher’s house in Cooperstown. Probably a complete waste of time, but the fucker isn’t answering my calls or Abby’s calls, and he’s got to be somewhere. I’ll get back to you when the Ankara data arrives—if it ever does.”
“One last question, Jack. ‘The Magician’—what’s that all about?”
“Simple. The little fucker likes to show off—prove that he can do the impossible. Probably made up the name himself. Just the kind of psycho opponent you live for, right, Sherlock?” Hardwick didn’t say goodbye—no surprise in that—just broke the connection.
More information, in Gurney’s opinion, was always a good thing—objectively. But it was also possible to lose one’s bearings in it. Right then he had the feeling that the more he was discovering, the deeper the puzzle was becoming.
Carl Spalter apparently had been the victim not only of a professional gun-for-hire but also of an unusual one—and an unusual investment had been made to secure the outcome. However, considering what was at stake for the three people closest to him—his wife, his daughter, his brother—the high hit fee would have been a reasonable investment for any of them. At first glance, Jonah would seem to be the one with easiest access to that kind of cash, but Kay and Alyssa could have their own hidden sources, or allies willing to invest in a major payday. Then another possibility occurred to him—the possibility that more than one of them was involved. Why not all three? Or all three, plus Mick Klemper?