Bronx Requiem(126)

He walked quickly down a typical high-rise hallway: low popcorn ceiling, nondescript carpeting, inexpensive down-lighting, long rows of doors painted a deep maroon, each with a security peephole.

Beck found the exit to the stairwell and walked down to eighteen. The Bolo brothers had already taped open the latch on that door with a tape that would leave no residue.

Beck opened the door, removed the tape, and stuck it in his back pocket. He peered out, making sure the hallway was empty. He stepped out, closed the door carefully, and quickly walked to apartment sixteen.

Ippolito had been right. The door was open for him.

Beck stepped quietly into the apartment, carefully closing the door behind him.

There was a small foyer that opened onto a minimally furnished living room/dining area, kitchen on the left, a hallway leading to the bedroom and bathroom on the right.

Palmer stood fifteen feet in front of Beck, backlit by the living room window, holding a cordless phone next to his leg. He was barefoot, wearing a white T-shirt and black workout pants with a stylish red vertical stripe running along the side of each leg.

He turned at the sound of his front door closing and flinched when he saw James Beck.

Beck said, “I’m guessing that phone call wasn’t good news.”

Palmer looked at the phone in his hand, then back at Beck, confused. “Who are you? Where’s Raymond?”

Beck took off his ball cap and tossed it on the floor.

“You!”

“Yeah, me. I assume that was your boss, Levitt, on the phone. What did he say?”

“How did you— Why are you here?”

“To make sure you go down for shooting Paco Johnson, for trying to frame me, for colluding with Eric Jackson, for lying about what you saw at Mount Hope Place, and everything else you’ve done.”

Beck had no gun. He took a few steps toward Palmer, his empty hands at his sides, calm, focused, and aware of Palmer’s holstered SIG Sauer sitting on the glass-topped dining room table six feet to Palmer’s left along with keys, cell phone, and a wallet.

Palmer stood with the couch between him and the dining table. He took a step back, getting clear of the couch. Beck moved forward and stopped. They were equidistant from the gun on the table.

Beck said, “You have to choose.”

Palmer looked at him, confused.

“You can sit and wait for the cops to come arrest you, or you can go for your gun and shoot the guy who’s giving them the evidence to take you down.”

“You’re crazy.”

Beck took a half step forward.

Palmer’s eyes flicked toward his gun. He’d have to get to it first, pull it out of the holster, chamber a round, and shoot Beck.

Beck seemed to read Palmer’s mind. He held up both hands, palms open. He turned halfway around to show Palmer he had no gun behind his back. He patted his pockets to show they were empty.

“You can shoot me just for being in your apartment.”

Beck took a step back, giving the advantage to Palmer.

“I know you’re a murdering, lying, ruthless, pampered piece of shit, but even for an * like you whose had everything served up for him it’s a no-brainer. Go for the gun, coward.”

Before Beck finished his sentence, Palmer made his move. Rage and desperation made him fast. Very fast. Two steps, and he had his right hand on the butt of the SIG before Beck made it halfway to the table. He pulled the gun free from the holster and pulled back the slide to chamber a bullet while Beck was still three feet away. For a split second, Palmer thought Beck might be setting him up. Sacrificing himself so he’d be prosecuted for shooting an unarmed man. But in the same split-second it took him to think that, he realized he could plant a weapon on Beck after he shot him. A knife. Easy. He raised the SIG, but too late now. In fact, it wasn’t very close.

Beck already had a weapon in his hand. A five-inch tapered Kubotan stick made of aircraft aluminum he’d carried in under his watchband, covered by his shirtsleeve. He’d pulled it out with his first step. Two more steps put him within arm’s length of Palmer. Close enough to ram the pointed end of the Kubotan stick into Palmer’s right temple with so much force it punched a hole into Palmer’s skull, sending shards of bone into his brain.

Palmer’s head snapped left. Beck stepped back. Palmer tried to straighten himself. He looked like he was moving underwater. He tried to point the gun at Beck, who continued stepping back, avoiding contact. Palmer blinked rapidly, lost his balance, tottered, and collapsed as a massive hemorrhage formed under his punctured skull.

Beck put the Kubotan into his front pocket and withdrew a pair of latex gloves from his back pocket.

He slipped on the gloves, squatted down, carefully removed the SIG Sauer from Palmer’s hand, and laid it on the floor. He grabbed Palmer under the armpits, lifting and maneuvering him over to the couch, setting him down on it, muscling him into a sitting position. He picked up the cordless phone Palmer had dropped and replaced it in its receptacle.

Palmer slumped forward, dying.

Beck went to the kitchen, brushing the marks out of the rug he’d made dragging Palmer to the couch. He checked to make sure no coffee or food were being prepared. He came out of the kitchen and made sure there was no blood on the floor near where he’d hit Palmer.

Palmer’s temple was oozing blood as he sat slumped on the couch, but that didn’t matter.