The 13-Minute Murder Read online

  “What’s so funny?” I asked.

  “I have something that will change your mind.”

  “Tell me who ordered the hit.”

  She smiled.

  “What?” I growled at her, searching her disposition until I started to see, with growing dread, that maybe the battle’s winner wasn’t me. “Wait. Where did your driver go?”

  “To get me leverage.”

  “Where exactly did he go?”

  “To get your dog.”

  Chapter 25

  “My dog?!” My blood was boiling. Allison was playing a very dangerous game. She didn’t know how irrational I could be.

  The self-preserving move on my part would be to comply. She was assuming I’d be self-preserving. “I know what’s wrong with you,” she said.

  “Back away from me!”

  “Listen to me, Michael Ryan. I know exactly what’s wrong with you.”

  “Turn around! And face the wall! Hands!”

  She couldn’t possibly have my dog. He’d be too fast. He wouldn’t trust the front door.

  “I know why you can’t function anymore,” she said.

  “Hands against the wall!”

  I didn’t care if they found the basement and the frozen bodies. I just wanted Updike to run.

  “I swear to God,” I said, “if you hurt one single…!”

  I slammed her backward against the mirror.

  She was freshly invigorated. She spoke with new strength. “My phone is going to ring when the animal is in the possession of my driver. Before that happens, we will reverse roles and you will give me back my gun. You’re strong, Michael. See that? I know you. I know you had trouble in your marriage. She didn’t appreciate you.”

  “You’re sick.”

  I spun her away from the mirror, then shoved her back toward it, so her chest slammed against it, so my chest slammed against her.

  Yet she remained in control. “You can come out ahead here, Mike.”

  She’d probably had hundreds of enemies beaten up in hundreds of lobbies and parking lots, but I, for some reason, must’ve stood out as one of the rare victims who required personal attention.

  “I won’t kill your dog unless you make me,” she said.

  “Who ordered the hit?”

  “I won’t unless you ch—”

  Blam! I fired the gun and blasted a bullet into her hamstring.

  She winced deeply, yet seemed to disrespect the pain. Her eyes searched into me.

  With two bullets in her body, she seemed to understand me just ever so slightly more.

  I’d just won the war.

  “I admire you,” I said to her. “You brought me here alone, alone, because you needed to defy a broken system. Stay still. You were never actually going to get your so-called leverage—leverage you only happened to mention after you lost control. I admire you, Allison, but you’re done. Tell me who ordered the hit.”

  She took one last strategic breath. She didn’t have my dog—I saw it in the way she flinched. It was a shift in dominance. She eyed me, searching for a promise that I wouldn’t kill her.

  My question lingered in the air. She decided to answer it. “His brother.”

  Chapter 26

  His brother?

  There it was. The fruit of my entire day’s work.

  “His brother paid me to arrange the kill,” she said. “The son of Ivan Mesic called me to request a public hit.”

  Ivan fathered a son who would request the murder of his other son. It would’ve been ghastly to hear if it didn’t make sense. In this business, the idea of an intrafamilial feud felt sadly obvious.

  “Okay?” she said. “Now, why don’t you…let me leave this room…so that I can then live in healthy fear of you…so that you can then go home to your wife?”

  “My wife?”

  “She needs you.”

  “My wife is…uh…well…She’s dead.”

  “What?”

  “She was sliced in half.”

  “Who’d be stupid enough to kill the wife of a relentless maniac?”

  “The maniac himself.”

  It felt good to say.

  “Please let me go, Michael. You’re smarter than this.”

  “I killed my wife, face-to-face, just like we are now.”

  “I don’t believe you. I don’t believe you’re that far gone.”

  So I ended the conversation with a parting gift. I shot Allison O’Hara for a third time, gun pointed at her head.

  “Yeah,” I said to her as she slid down the wall, dead, “neither did she.”

  Chapter 27

  It felt good to admit it.

  “The maniac killed his own wife,” I repeated. It was Allison’s phrasing. Maniac? That’s a bit flattering. Maniacs are go-getters, highly motivated, athletes, CEOs. I was none of that. I was just a guy driving the divinely sensual corpse of Allison O’Hara to the parking lot of the Alluvial Tavern. There I would leave her curled up with my spare tire as I sought one final beer.

  “Triple IPA,” I said, taking a seat. “No lime.”

  The instant she saw me, the bartender seemed to know I’d just had an encounter.

  “You have a new lady?” she said. An accusation more than a query.

  “Yeah, she’s in the trunk of my car.”

  Ms. Bartender pushed a beer toward me and left it halfway out of my reach as she went back to the kitchen. She hadn’t liked me in general; now she didn’t like me specifically. I pulled out two books, one of which was of course Anna Karenina. The other was Le Parfum, its final chapters dog-eared so I could relive their glory.

  Within minutes I was done and closed the book—an act that cued the bartender.

  “I just want you to know,” she said, returning uninvited. “I think you’re manipulative. I think you tell people what they want to hear. Including yourself.”

  I toasted her, midair. I had no rebuttal. She toasted back with her favorite finger.

  I opened Anna Karenina. Chapter one. I read the overture to the greatest mirror ever held up to social chaos. Then I left the bar and drove Allison’s remarkably cooperative corpse to the home built on top of my basement. The front door was locked. The front porch was fine. Nobody had been there. Nobody had come for Updike.

  “I tip my hat,” I said to the cadaver in my arms. “That was quite a bluff.”

  From inside came a few happy yips, and once my chin was within reach, he greeted me with licks until I hugged him tight enough to force that wiggle that dogs do. Where they flop their head around and try to break your nose, then do a lap around the room to boomerang back.

  We don’t deserve dogs.

  I hoisted Dead Allison onto my shoulder and brought her down to the Kolpak 1010 freezer system to be the sixth inductee in my hall of fame. Maria, Milt, Byron, Byron’s two friends. Everyone was rigidly in place. It was a little scary to turn on the light—I’m not impervious to being spooked by ghosts, and so forth.

  “I was loyal to you,” I said to Maria. “Allison made advances on me but I remained loyal.”

  Maria didn’t seem to believe this.

  “Yet,” I said, “of all the people in the world for you to betray me with, you chose a man who was out to get me?!”

  I waited for a rebuttal. None. I left the freezer. I walked upstairs to grab Updike’s leash. He needed a walk. I needed a walk. We had things to discuss, he and I, and once outside, once there were a few blocks of chilly night air behind us, I told him the truth.

  “I just want you to know…that…what happened to your mom…wasn’t something I wanted.”

  I let that admission hang in the air. I almost had the feeling someone was following us, but I felt that way a lot lately.

  I lowered my voice regardless. “I’m, uh, I’m sorry she’s gone.”

  We walked in silence a bit. He peed on three bushes.

  “What I’m trying to tell you is, I did it in self-defense. She was trying to murder me. She and Milt, they were conspiring to�
�” I stopped. Again I heard someone following us.

  Had to be pure paranoia. Updike would’ve growled long before I would’ve noticed anything. Although there was now something oddly enticing for him wedged in the side bushes. Nothing unusual—for a dog to stop for a sniff—but it did seem peculiar that someone had left what looked like a piece of raw steak by the sidewalk.

  “What is that?” I said to him.

  Updike is never opposed to a second or ninth dinner, so he wasn’t going to question it.

  I only had to look up to see the explanation.

  Two guys in ski masks.

  Chapter 28

  Updike saw them, too. He instantly took off for the closest guy, top speed.

  “Updike, no!” I yelled.

  The man saw the snarling little jaws and hopped up the slope of the nearest front yard, then sprinted around the back as a midsize dog pursued him deep into the shrubbery.

  “Updike!” I started running.

  And soon the other ski mask guy was running after me. We all emerged through the foliage in a footrace down the alley. I didn’t have my gun with me, which was stupid, and there weren’t any places to duck into, so it would be a clean shot for them.

  “Updike, no!” I yelled.

  My main concern, only concern, was my dog. When I rounded the corner I saw no sign of him or the first guy who had pursued him. I had to assume this was a good thing. Maybe his canine GPS would guide him home.

  And then they’d know where I lived, if they didn’t already.

  I should’ve been rifling through my mental list of who could possibly be chasing me, so I could make a plan, but that line of thinking was cut short when I was put in a choke hold from behind.

  The assailant had come out of nowhere. He must’ve dropped his knife or his pistol, or whatever he had, because he chose to grapple me. His partner arrived just in time to participate.

  I’m not a huge guy. But I’m scrappy. We fought hard. One guy in front of me. One guy choking me from behind. The ideal maneuver here would have been for me to exploit the grip of the guy behind me by flinging my legs upward and kicking the chin of the guy in front.

  “Stay still!” shouted one of them.

  The time was ripe. I leapt upward from my half squat and launched a karate kick at the forward guy.

  And missed.

  Absolutely missed. Airballed, then came crashing down on the ground in a heap of athletic shame. However, it was a fall that also brought my primary assailant down with me.

  “Ooooooph,” said everyone.

  We were all stunned. The guy in front had his gun, but because of the new tangle, he had no clear shot. So I had a moment to kick toward his jaw. Another Michael Ryan kick—my foot naturally caught his kneecap instead. I’d somehow neutralized both my opponents in two sad moves and seized my first chance to scramble off.

  I could hear them follow.

  I didn’t want to head into my own backyard but that seemed like the only way to get my hands on a weapon. I hopped my fence, sprinted through the tall grass (that Maria used to complain I never cut), and prepared my shoulder for the impact that was coming as I busted down my own back door.

  I’d stashed weapons in my house for emergency purposes: the shotgun was upstairs, the revolver was upstairs, the Taser was upstairs, and the Glock 19 with laser sight was in the kitchen cupboard, where I was heading, full speed until I collided with a third ski mask guy. Who elbowed me in the throat like only a professional would.

  And knocked me out cold.

  Chapter 29

  I woke up gradually, minutes later, on the floor of my kitchen. Hours later? With the vague sound of barking in the next room. A blurry ceiling was the backdrop to three faces now looming over me.

  The ski patrol had assembled and they had guns, aimed in my direction. I had nothing. I felt like crying. What had I done right this week? This year? All I had left to embrace was the four-legged idiot barking in the next room, and I couldn’t even keep him safe. My hands—I extended them outward slowly in the surrender position.

  I almost wanted to make a quick, staccato move and bait these men to end it all, just as long as they’d subsequently open the door for my dog.

  “Just do what’s right,” I said to the ringleader.

  He didn’t move for a second. He was hovering something gold over my body.

  “Just do—”

  “Michael Ryan?” he said.

  He let that gold thing fall from his hand so that it wafted downward and landed directly on top of me. It was an envelope. Then he bludgeoned my skull.

  Chapter 30

  They’d left. I didn’t see them go—I woke up and they were no longer in my kitchen. I’d blacked out after the fancy envelope was tossed onto my chest. I didn’t hear Updike barking anymore, but at this point I wasn’t worried. I felt his presence.

  “I already hate whatever this is,” I mumbled to myself.

  I did a half sit-up to inspect the envelope before touching it.

  I read what was written on the front. “To Ryan.”

  No return address. I tore it open to find a greeting card inside that looked like a wedding invitation. It was a banquet announcement printed in Croatian except for the scrawl at the end.

  “I…expect…you.”

  I could barely decipher the rest of the scribble but I’d already anticipated who it was from. His name was at the bottom. My former boss.

  Ivan Mesic.

  The man who ran Boston’s slice of Croatia. The man whose son was dead on a Harvard campus. Ivan the Terrible.

  So why had he sent three guys in hoods to almost kill me? The “kill me” part wasn’t surprising. The “almost” was.

  I checked on Pupdike. He was fine. They’d shoved him in the bathroom and shut the door. I showed him the envelope. At this point, he deserved to be fully informed. The invite had beautiful calligraphy and the location was one I knew. Bay Standard Hotel. Saturday evening. Formal attire.

  “That’s where I’m going,” I said to him.

  He sniffed the envelope without comment. It was likely I’d be walking into my own tomb, but I knew I’d have to go.

  They wanted to kill me. And I wanted them to want to kill me.

  Chapter 31

  There were security personnel standing along every wall of the ballroom. Not just chiseled, Slavic men in dark suits on headsets, but cops. Ivan-owned Boston cops. Bribes ran deep in these woods. Croatian money meets IRA money and it converges on the shores of Boston Harbor. Allison had presided over that junction, and though her death would jostle the local hierarchy a bit, its effect would be nothing compared to Ivan’s upcoming expansion.

  I mean, look around. He was starting an empire.

  “Your coat, sir?” said the porter.

  So this was high society. A garish hotel crowd with gold balloons, gold ice sculptures, gold-colored champagne on gold trays, gold caviar, gold-dusted prawns, and all of it carried by gold-painted supermodels.

  “Your coat?” repeated the porter.

  In every direction I looked there was a steady stream of plump tuxedos and skinny women. Prosecution of the sex trade was at an all-time high but clearly Ivan’s business was thriving.

  “Mr. Ryan?” said a voice approaching from the side.

  It was the concierge. I didn’t know I was recognizable. I felt like the scruffy middle school kid who’d snuck into prom.

  “I trust you’ll spend some time enjoying our open bar and gourmet buffet,” he said, then gestured. “When you have a moment, we’ll show you to the waiting room.”

  “S-sure,” I said, unsure.

  I pressed my forearm against the lapel of my rented tux, subtly dragging it down my chest to test for the bulge of my gun. I couldn’t imagine I was the only one in this room packing heat right now, but I didn’t want to be identifiable as such. They literally had Boston PD with rifles guarding the front. Rifles.

  “There he is,” murmured someone next to me.

&nbs
p; Everyone in the crowd began fussing over whatever was taking place above us. Visible on the balcony, an entourage of bodyguards and underfed women was flanking the small-statured, big-knuckled Mr. Ivan Mesic himself. He was now flashing a syndicated smile for the guests below.

  “Really?” mumbled a random guy next to me. “So this is how the underground keeps a low profile?”

  I looked over. One of those sideways talkers—some guy who couldn’t wait to state his disapproval of whatever social blemish was in front of him. He didn’t know who I was other than that I looked like someone who’d enjoy gossip. I wouldn’t. Which didn’t deter him in the slightest. “Maybe writing a ten-million-dollar check to city hall to quote, unquote ‘assist the fight on street crime’ is what keeps him so anonymous.”

  I didn’t answer.

  It didn’t matter. “City council each gets a cut,” he continued. “Police gets a cut. Bureau gets a cut. And then guess who? The dockworkers get a cut.”

  “Bravo!” yelled the crowd after whatever Ivan had just said.

  “Because at the end of the day,” continued my barnacle, “it’s all about the docks. It’s about cargo. Cargo standing next to us in six-inch heels.” He laughed, then scooted even closer to say even more laterally, “But I ain’t complainin’.”

  Please don’t touch me.

  I’d worked for Ivan Mesic in the past, but human trafficking hadn’t been in his repertoire back then. There were marketable women everywhere. His dukedom had broken new ground.

  “Croatian people’ve had a rough go,” I murmured back to the guy.

  He wasn’t listening. Ivan’s rousing speech was coming to a crescendo. The crowd was caught up in it, my barnacle included.

  “If at all!” yelled Ivan—the punch line to whatever anecdote he’d just roused his audience with. “If. At. All.”

  “Tonight is your night!” continued Ivan. “My way of thanking you! So let’s rock!”

  Applause and cheers erupted. He certainly didn’t seem like a grieving father, did he? I turned to head toward the nearest source of beer—anything to placate the drying disdain in my gut—only to collide with the tiny concierge.