The Collector
Page 42

He had to be strong. Whatever they did to him, he had to be strong. He prayed for that strength, for acceptance, for the safety of his family.
“Shut the f**k up.”
Vinnie kept his head down, continued to pray in garbled mutters.
“I said shut the f**k up.” Ivan clamped a hand around Vinnie’s throat, squeezed as he jerked Vinnie’s head up. “You think this is bad? You think you’re hurting now? Wait until I let loose on you. First I’ll break all your fingers.”
Ivan released Vinnie’s throat, grabbing the left pinky finger while Vinnie choked and gasped for air. He yanked it back, snapping the bone, then clamped Vinnie’s throat again to block the shocked, high-pitched scream.
Chink bitch would hear and come in, stop him. Chink bitch thought she was better than he was. He imagined ramming his fist into her face, raping her, killing her by inches.
And broke another of Vinnie’s fingers because he could.
“Then I’ll cut them off, one at a time.”
The single eye bulged; Vinnie’s body shook, convulsed.
“Tell us where the f**king egg is.”
Infuriated, thrilled, Ivan closed his other hand around Vinnie’s throat. Squeezed. Imagined Jai’s face. “I’m not f**king around. Tell me or I’ll cut you to pieces. Then I’ll kill your wife, your kids. I’ll kill your f**king dog.”
But as Ivan raged, as he squeezed, as his breath came faster and faster with the thrill and the fury, the single eye only stared.
“Asshole.” Ivan released Vinnie, stepped back. He smelled his own sweat, the ass**le’s urine. Pissed himself, Vinnie thought. Asshole pu**y pissed himself.
He’d talk. The bitch gave him a little more leeway, he’d make the ass**le talk.
Jai stepped back in with a small bottle of water she’d found behind the counter. And she, too, smelled the sweat, the urine.
She smelled death, a particular scent she knew well. Saying nothing, she walked over to Vinnie, lifted his head.
“He’s dead.”
“Bullshit. Just passed out.”
“He’s dead,” she repeated in that same flat tone. “I told you to give him a break.” Not, she thought, break his fingers.
“I gave him a f**king break. He must’ve had a heart attack or something.”
“A heart attack.” She breathed in and out once. “This is unfortunate.”
“It’s not my fault the ass**le croaked.”
“Of course not.” She noted the raw bruising around Vinnie’s throat. “But it’s unfortunate.”
“He didn’t know shit. If he’d’ve known anything, he’d’ve spilled it once I gave him a few slaps. Waste of time. We go after the brother, like I said before.”
“I’ll need to make another call. We’ll leave the body here. The shop is closed tomorrow, so this gives us a day.”
“We make it look like a robbery. Grab some shit, mess shit up.”
“We could. Or . .” She reached in her purse, but instead of taking out her phone, she drew out her gun. She shot Ivan neatly between the eyes before he had a chance to blink. “We could do that, which is a much better idea.”
She regretted Vinnie. She’d found him to be an interesting man, and potentially very useful. Dead, he was of no use at all, so she ignored him as she emptied Ivan’s pockets of wallet, phone, weapons. And found, as she suspected she might, the bottle of amphetamines.
It was good, she calculated. Her employer disapproved of drugs, and would tolerate if not fully approve of her actions when she told him about the drugs. She went out in the shop, retrieved a shopping bag, some bubble wrap. She went upstairs, took the bonbonniere.
Her employer would like it very much—like it more than he might dislike the killing of Ivan.
She wrapped it carefully, brought it downstairs. It pleased her to find a nice box, very classy thin gold ribbon. She boxed the gift, tied the ribbon.
She put Ivan’s phone, wallet, knife and gun in the bag, padded it, added the box, then tissue paper.
After a moment’s consideration, she unlocked a display, chose what had been designed as a woman’s cigarette case. She liked the mother-of-pearl sheen and the pattern of tiny flowers that made her think of a peacock.
She could use it as a card case, she decided, and dropped it into her purse.
She considered taking the security tapes, destroying the system, but without some study couldn’t be sure that wouldn’t send an alarm. She’d rather have the head start. In any case the woman clerk, the male guard and several customers could certainly give a description of her. She didn’t have the time or inclination to hunt them all down and kill them.
She would go back to the brownstone her employer provided as her base in New York. At least with Ivan dead, he wouldn’t be there, lurking around, hoping to see her naked.
Best to walk several blocks before getting a cab. And the walk, the time to travel, would give her time to think how to outline her report for her employer.
Lila arranged the vase of sunflowers—a cheerful welcome home in her opinion—then leaned the note she’d written against the base of the blue vase.
She’d done her room-by-room sweep—twice, as was her policy, consulting her checklist.
Fresh linens on the beds, fresh towels in the bath, fresh fruit in the bowl. A pitcher of lemonade in the fridge along with a chilled pasta salad.
Who wanted to think about cooking or ordering food when they’d just returned from vacation?
Food and water out for Thomas, plants watered, furniture dusted, floors vacuumed.
She said her goodbyes to the cat, giving him plenty of strokes and cuddles.
“They’ll be home in a couple of hours,” she promised him. “So happy to see you. Be a good boy. Maybe I’ll come back and stay with you again.”
With one last glance around, she shouldered her laptop case, her purse. She pulled up the handles of her suitcases and, with the skill of experience, maneuvered all out the door.
Her adventure at the Kilderbrands’ was over. A new adventure would soon begin.
But first, she had to go to a funeral.
The doorman spotted her as soon as she rolled out of the elevator. He bustled in and over. “Now, Ms. Emerson, you should’ve called me to come give you a hand.”
“I’m so used to doing it. I’ve got a system.”