Til Darkness Falls, page 11
It hurt to think of the other things that he was good at. Living with such daily violence, this should not have been his life. Even as a child, he had not enjoyed the rough and tumble games of his peers as they chased after imaginary worlds of light and plenty in the dreary slums of Potsdam. Life in East Germany had been one of privation and struggle, yet Alrick had a special gift that had provided him with a much-needed escape.
Music had been his best friend and his hardest taskmaster. His brilliance had revealed itself at an early age, a chance visit to Berlin with his mother when he was only four years old opening up a whole new world to his young eyes. East Berlin’s premiere orchestra, the Rundfunk-Sinfonieorchester, had been performing a free concert, and his mother and her sister had wanted to see them. A young Alrick had been less that enthusiastic at the prospect, squirming and fussing as he was dragged along through the ornate doors of the Konzerthaus Berlin. His impatient kicks at the upholstered chairs had earned him a painful cuff on the ears, but once the music had begun, he’d been transported.
The orchestra had performed Tannhäuser. Alrick’s fidgeting had ceased with the first quiet notes of the overture, and he’d sat motionless for hours with a focus rare for such a young child. The music had enraptured him, washing over him and filling his small body with emotions he didn’t have the words to articulate. After the performance, his mother and aunt had praised him for sitting so quietly and listening so intently. They’d bought him some candy as a reward, but the only thing he’d wanted was a cello.
Of course, he hadn’t known what the large instrument was called at the time. All he knew was how affected he’d been by the sight of the old cellist sitting closest to the edge of the stage as he’d hunched over the gracefully curving form. The man had been bent with age, his fingers gnarled and kinked with arthritis, but when he played, the years fell away. Alrick had watched him closely, staring with longing as the man danced across the strings with his bow.
Several years went by before he would see a cello again, but he made good use of the intervening time. Alrick had spent hours and hours in the small, poorly stocked library in the center of town, poring over recordings of history’s greatest composers. When he was seven years old, fate had finally smiled on him. His mother had wanted to go to a flea market and had asked him to come along to help her with his new baby sister. Unlike most small boys, Alrick had fallen instantly in love with the wiggling pink thing that his parents had brought home from the hospital less than a year earlier. An easy-going child, Rosamond had been even-tempered and easily amused, and her big brother took great delight in trying to make her giggle and smile.
Happily following in his mother’s wake as she pushed the pram through the market, Alrick had been paying little attention to what was going on around him. His father, a carpenter, had recently made a little wooden doll for Rosa, and he’d been entertaining her by putting on a silly puppet show. Then, out of the corner of his eye, he’d caught sight of something hauntingly familiar. Before he could think better of it, Alrick had abandoned his mother and sister and ran over to the forlorn cello sitting on a rusty stand. It had been in poor repair, warped and bare in spots where the lacquer had worn away. Although a bow sat next to it, it had been in desperate need of restringing. But he hadn’t cared. It was love at first sight.
Aware of her son’s penchant for music and not put off by the pittance demanded by the desperate seller, Alrick’s mother had been pleased to gift him with his first cello. Back then, before things had gone so wrong, Alrick’s father had been a kindly man, extremely fond and indulgent of his children. Putting his considerable skills to use, Hans Ritter had proudly presented his son with a lovingly refurbished instrument on his eighth birthday and had watched with pride as Alrick practically taught himself how to play.
And he’d been good, as natural as though he’d been born with a bow in his hand. Alrick had loved playing, applying himself to his practice even when the task proved difficult, spending hours and hours until sometimes his fingers bled. His mother and sister had been his primary audience throughout his adolescence, passing many pleasant hours listening to the exquisitely lovely sounds he created just for them.
Although not as appreciative as his wife and daughter, Hans had not begrudged his son in what he considered a frivolous but harmless pursuit. He was confident that, eventually, his son would put aside the childish hobby and join him in the family carpentry business that would one day be his. That was until Alrick had decided to try and earn a little spending money by playing at a street market downtown and had been spotted by a member of the Hoch, the premiere music conservatory in Frankfurt. It was 1992, the Wall had been torn down for several years, and all of Germany was caught up in the fervor of reunification. Seventeen-year-old Alrick had run home after talking with the man, the offer to attend the Hoch ringing in his ears like angelic bells. It was the answer to prayers he’d never dared speak aloud.
But the fall of the Eastern Block had not been kind to everyone. Access to the west and its capitalistic splendor had lessened demand for the local wares that had sustained the people of the former Democratic Republic for so long. Alrick’s father had found his business foundering, his debts mounting day by day. Driven to desperation, he’d struck a deal with the remnants of the Russian mafia for some much-needed capital to keep his business and his family afloat.
Alrick’s mother had died nearly two years before after a long battle with cancer, and the resulting medical bills were crippling. Needing his son’s help more than ever, Hans had refused his son’s request to attend the music conservatory. As soon as Alrick was old enough, he was to begin his compulsory service in the Heer, the German army. But rather than simply fulfill his short commitment, he ordered Alrick to enlist, desperate for the steady paycheck his son would earn as a result.
Backed up by his younger sister, Alrick had tried to protest against what he considered a most unreasonable demand. He was a musician, an artist, not some common army grunt. But after weeks of alternating bouts of impassioned pleading, angry shouts, and cold silence, Hans had finally told his son the truth. His business was in ruins, and their home was mortgaged to the hilt. Alrick had listened in shock as his father told him that everything they had, from the clothes on their back to the food on their table, had been bought with money from the Russians. The debt was so great, Hans knew he would likely be dead before it was paid off.
And so Alrick had put down his cello and picked up a gun, finding within him a rare talent for marksmanship that had allowed him to rise quickly through the enlisted ranks. Within seven years, he’d become an Oberfeldwebel, a Sergeant First Class. Then it all went to hell.
Fitting the Schmidt & Bender PM II telescopic sight into the bracket on top of the assembled rifle, Alrick lowered himself onto his stomach. He aimed it at a building sitting off in the distance and looked through the scope as he focused on one particular window. Light shone through the window, and Alrick watched silently as a corpulent figure walked into view.
Indeed, Giovanni Rivella was occasionally good for something. Alrick smirked darkly as he remembered the information that was written in the dossier. Rivella thought he was so clever, using a hired gun to further his battle against the city’s rival crime syndicate, but Alrick doubted the authorities would long be fooled by such a blatant ploy. He would have to be careful as long as he worked for the young mobster so that he would not get caught up in Giovanni’s sloppiness.
As though he could talk when he’d failed so spectacularly to take his own advice. Alrick knew that he’d been inexcusably careless since meeting Brian. Even as he’d picked the other man up that night, he’d silently berated himself for being so foolish. And Brian was sharp. Alrick had been caught off guard when the other man had asked about the Black Forest, surprised that he’d picked up on such a minor, offhand comment. He hadn’t lied when he told Brian that he’d longed to see the forest as a child, but he’d been with his Heer unit, not in college, when he finally got the chance.
As he’d warned Rivella, his very survival depended on his ability to be discreet. He’d had no business picking up a man in a bar, but something about Brian had called to him, prompting him to abandon all of his carefully nurtured caution. It wasn’t simply lust that had egged him on. He could have found countless ways to satisfy the needs of his body that were easier to persuade and less dangerous. Any number of men would have provided willing companionship for the night without names being exchanged or prompting any desire for a repeat performance. But within a minute of seeing Brian, Alrick had been completely smitten. It had to be him or no one.
So he would enjoy the other man while he could, until this job was completed and he had to move on or until caution finally won out.
Alrick was disgusted and amused at himself as his thoughts lingered on the beauty who’d practically run from his bed that morning while, at the same time, looking utterly reluctant to leave. He could only laugh at his pitiful lack of self-discipline, of that focus that had made him such an accomplished cello player and such a deadly marksman. Yet he couldn’t stop himself. For once, his coldness threatened to abandon him as he prepared to take a life.
His target paused in front of the lit window. Alrick braced his rifle and quieted his breathing, though his mind refused follow suit.
“Sorry, Freund.” He spoke gently to the Arctic Warfare. “I fear you are no longer enough for me.”
BRIAN stepped carefully around the ugly stain covering a large part of the gaudy orange carpet. Drying blood definitely didn’t go with that color. He watched as Jeremy examined the body while humming a jaunty tune.
“Matthias Riccoh.” Snapping her notepad shut, Angela glared at the well-known face in disgust. “Well hell, there goes that theory.
The dead man was no stranger to the police, having his hand in many of the illegal dog fighting and underground boxing matches that constantly popped up despite their best efforts to stop them. But the most interesting thing about him was that he was the first victim who fell outside of the profile of the sniper’s victims.
“Riccoh was Milano, not Cosmino,” Angela groused. She held up the plastic evidence bag that one of the ’scopes had handed to her. “Same bullet. It was definitely our shooter, but this just doesn’t fit.”
Brian peered at the hole that the large caliber slug had left toward the base of the victim’s wall, indicating that the shot had come from high angle. “Not necessarily.”
“What do you mean? It wasn’t the sniper?”
“No, it was him. Or her,” he said quickly before Angela could start in on him with her women’s lib bullshit. “I mean that our theory might not be dead just yet.”
Angela scoffed. “How so? All of the victims up until now were Cosmino, meaning that, most likely, the hit man was hired by the Milanos. But now you’re saying that they took a hit out on one of their own? What sense does that make?”
“It makes a lot of sense if you’re trying to throw someone off of your trail.” He turned away from the wall and threw her a smirk over his shoulder. “Were you thrown off?”
She flipped him the bird, her nose turning up in the offended Victorian lady pose she affected so well. The incongruity never failed to tickle him.
“Alright, bright boy. So now what? We still don’t have any evidence that might give us a clue as to who we’re dealing with.”
Brian hummed thoughtfully. “I guess we could go shake down someone in Milano and see what falls out.”
“Before you do that, you might want to go over to that building across the way.”
The two detectives looked down at the medical examiner as he maneuvered his hefty bulk up off the floor.
“You got something, Jeremy?”
The older man nodded at Angela and nudged his toe at the edge of the stain surrounding Matthias’s ruined head. “This is still fairly fresh. Plus, rigor mortis isn’t nearly as advanced in this one as it was in the others when they were found.”
“Meaning that this happened, what, yesterday?”
“Sometime very early this morning, to be exact.” He grinned at Brian. “And that’s not the only thing. See how big of a mess his head is? The shooter was much closer than he usually works.”
Brian was already walking over to the broken window. He looked out at the building that sat a few streets over and offered an unobstructed view to anyone who might have wanted to take a shot at old Matthias.
“That building right over there, huh?” Angela joined Brian at the window. “Think we might actually find something?”
“If it’s only been a few hours, we should definitely take a look.” He turned and headed for the door of the condo, trusting that his partner would be right behind him. “If you learn anything else, Jeremy—”
“Yeah, I know the drill.”
“SHIT, it’s cold up here,” Angela cursed as she stuck her hands into her coat pockets.
“It was probably colder last night.” Brian reluctantly found himself admiring the sniper’s fortitude as he pulled his trench coat closer around his body.
They had started at the bottom of the abandoned building, checking every door to see whether their shooter had used any of the rooms as his base. Only when they had reached the roof did they have any luck. The door was unlocked and undamaged, meaning that the sniper was probably also a skilled lock pick. Brian was starting to like this guy less and less.
He and Angela split up, each taking half of the roof. Stepping carefully, they looked closely over every inch of asphalt surface. Years of high winds had blown a thick layer of dirt and debris onto the rooftop. Although he stared at the black-tarred surface until his eyes began to cross, Brian found nothing. He was about to go find his partner when she called out to him. She was standing at the edge on the opposite side of the roof facing the victim’s building.
“Found the imprint of the shooter’s body and a couple of his footprints, but not much else.”
“His?” Brian teased.
“Kiss my girly curves.” He chuckled when she stuck her tongue out at him. “No woman has feet that big.”
Brian peered down at the print. The pattern of the tread looked like it came from a combat boot of some sort. Government issue? He took a few deliberate steps along side the tracks and then placed his own foot alongside the print. “Taller than me by the looks of it.” His shoe was about an inch smaller than the shooter’s. He looked over at his prints and then back at the ones the sniper left behind. “And a bit heavier too.”
“So, over six feet tall?”
“Yeah. And I’d say 185, 190 pounds or so, if I had to hazard a guess.”
Angela looked over at the imprint of the shooter’s body, formed presumably when he’d laid on the roof to line up his shot. “Brian, come here for a sec. Lie down next to this.”
Hitching up his coat, Brian lowered himself to the surface, grunting as the hard asphalt bit into his knees. He tried to imagine what pose the hit man would have assumed as he stretched himself next to the imprint. With his elbows pressed as close to the edge of the roof as he could get, he looked down at the victim’s clearly visible window.
“Yeah, a few inches taller than you.”
Brian thought for a moment as he lay on the cold roof. “What do you think is really going on, Angie? Everything we can figure about the assassin pegs him as someone who can command top dollar for his services. Look.” He rested his finger next to a ridge in the dirt. “This is probably where he sat the stock of the gun as he aimed. A lot of weapons manufacturers put the serial number on the bottom of the hand grip, but there’s nothing here. Either he wiped the imprint away, or the numbers were filed off.” He pushed himself off of his stomach and got to his feet, wiping the dirt off of the front of his coat. “Either way, this guy is clearly used to doing everything perfectly. So how in the hell did the Milanos find him? It’s not like they’re a big time syndicate.”
“No.” Angela folded her arms, sheltering her hands beneath them as the wind blew stronger. “The family may have its roots in the big mobs out of Italy, but that was a long time ago. When I worked Vice, we partnered up with the Organized Crime taskforce a lot on cases. I got the impression that they considered the Milanos as something of a joke. An annoying thorn in the city’s side, sure, but nothing to write home about.”
“Well, somehow they’ve managed to find themselves a major player.” Brian looked over the edge of the roof toward Matthias’s ruined window. It might not have been as far as the hit on Karabel, but he knew he sure as hell couldn’t have made the shot. He didn’t want to be impressed, but he was anyway.
“Come on, let’s get out of here.” Angela started back toward the roof access door. “Since my thirteen-year-old beat you so badly at checkers last night, I’ll even write up today’s report.” Her laugh became muffled as she disappeared into the building.
Brian smiled and moved to join her. As he followed Angela down the stairs, he couldn’t help but wonder what Alrick was doing right then.
CAPTAIN PRESTON was out at the department head meeting the commissioner held every month, so Angela took her time working on the report. “Ratty” came over to her soon after they returned, pretending that he was harassing them on the captain’s orders. Angela amused herself by ignoring him utterly, which of course drove him completely insane.
“Matt, why don’t you go and do some actual work?” Brian looked down at the picture he was doodling, not bothering to acknowledge Matt when he turned toward him with his lips twisted in an unattractive sneer.
“I’m not the one with six dead mobsters on my plate and not a single inkling who the perpetrator is.”
“It’s five dead mobsters; and we don’t need an ‘inkling.’ We’ve got evidence.” Brian cocked his head as he darkened a line with his pencil. “You should try it sometime.”
Angela smiled as she did a final save on her report and clicked “Print.” She watched as Matt stomped away in high dudgeon. “I swear my teenagers are more mature than that man.”
