Head Shot Read online

  There are a dozen pictures, mostly from media archives: Nina Voychek appearing at political rallies; Nina giving speeches. One is obviously a police mug shot and is identified as taken when she was arrested for treason by the former regime. One shows her with a group of young men and women who look like college kids. I can make out the lower Manhattan skyline. In that picture, her hair is cut short and she’s laughing with her friends. She has a long, slender neck; a charming smile; and large, intelligent eyes. Another picture shows her on what the text says is the day of her release from prison. She looks worn and older, and there is no smile; her throat is concealed by a thick woolen sweater. There are brief references to several recent attempts on her life, including a Reuters report that someone planted a bomb in her official car just a few weeks ago.

  Voss is right about one thing: Nina Voychek is beautiful. This assignment might not be as arduous as I feared. Spending a few days with this lady might turn out to be quite agreeable.

  I search, looking for a sign of a husband or significant person in her life. All I find is a passing mention of someone named Sasha who seems to have been executed by the Drach regime a year or so ago. There’s a picture of her looking at a polished stone in what appears to be a park or cemetery. The scene is described in the accompanying text as a memorial for the martyrs in the struggle against tyranny.

  That brings me back with a jolt to that Chicago street and the three old men. Montenegro means Black Mountain: the men on that street were from the Black Mountain, as were Mykhayl Drach and his brother and also the lady prime minister herself. These people and their ancestors have lived in the hills and deep valleys of the Black Mountain for a thousand years, and they honor the old ways. The families of murder victims do not rest until revenge has been exacted. A death for a death: that’s the mountain way. I should have known.

  The street had been empty when General Drach left the building where he’d been hiding: he wore a tailored gray suit and sunglasses with gold frames. As soon as he was alone in the street, heading for his car, a crowd appeared as if from nowhere, flooding the street and sidewalks until the area was densely crowded: mostly old men and women, some with canes, some on walkers. I recognized the three old men I’d met that morning. The crowd surged around the general, pressing close in—some shouting curses and others weeping—until they formed an impenetrable knot. The general stared at me for a second, wild-eyed, before he disappeared under the unstoppable tide of raging men and women.

  The crowd dissolved as quickly as it had appeared, leaving the street empty. Mykhayl Drach’s broken body lay on the pavement: his sunglasses torn from his battered face; blood poured from deep knife wounds in his chest and abdomen and onto his nice Savile Row suit.

  There are sounds from down the hall. Voss is returning, and he’ll expect my answer. Of course I’ll agree to take the assignment. I have already had one dangerous enemy tonight. I don’t need Voss to be another. I’d kind of like to get to know this lady prime minister. Plus, I need the money.

  Voss sits at the table and looks at me sharply with one of his eyes. “I trust you have reconsidered your decision.” He heaps a mound of shrimp and rice onto his plate.

  “I’ll take on the assignment.”

  “Good man.”

  “On one condition. That I’m free to dispose of my enemy at the same time I’m babysitting your prime minister.”

  “Very well but don’t lose your focus. Do not repeat your failure in Chicago.”

  “I saved the cost of an international tribunal,” I protest. “Everybody should be grateful.”

  Voss scrapes the last remaining bits of shrimp from his plate. “I can’t say I personally regret Mykhayl Drach’s violent death. He deserved every slash and blow he received.”

  “It sounds as if you had a personal stake in the general’s execution.”

  “My family comes from Montenegro, and members of my family were among Drach’s victims.”

  I don’t know whether to believe him or not.

  “I’m so pleased you’ve seen reason and will do the job. You will, of course, be paid your usual fee of $250,000, plus expenses.”

  This job can’t be what Voss says it is. Nothing in his world is what he says it is. There’s always something hidden.

  “Are there risks you’ve forgotten to mention to me?”

  Voss makes a dismissive gesture. “Nothing that you can’t handle, my boy.”

  “What will I be facing?”

  “The bratva is involved.”

  “What do the Russian Mafia have to do with a visiting head of state from Montenegro? Is Putin outsourcing his thugs from Moscow to kill the lady?”

  “Not thugs from Moscow. They’re local talent: most likely from Brighton Beach in Brooklyn. They’re just backup. The main job will be carried out by a professional assassin. But these bratva boys are tough and dangerous and may cause trouble for you. Watch your back.”

  I’m not too worried about the bratva. It was probably one of them who took a shot at me this evening. That was a close thing, but now I’m warned. I’ve dealt with more dangerous opponents than a bunch of thugs from Brooklyn. I can take care of myself.

  “How am I supposed to get close to the prime minister?” I ask.

  “You will receive full instructions tomorrow morning.” Voss looks forlornly at the empty plates arrayed in front of him.

  What is he not telling me?

  CHAPTER THREE

  MY CELL PHONE rings, and Voss looks annoyed at the interruption. The caller ID tells me it’s my partner, Detective Lucy Tanaka.

  “Hey,” Lucy says. “I have a situation.”

  “So do I.”

  “You’d better come to the Capitol Theater. There’s been a murder.”

  “I’m a bit occupied just now,” I say. “Can’t you cover it?”

  “This is a very unusual situation. The victim is a world-famous actress, and she was murdered on stage during the performance of a play.”

  A world-famous actress. My throat constricts.

  “I was called in as duty officer,” Lucy continues, “but I need a senior officer for this situation. This is anything but routine.”

  “I’ll get to the theater as soon as I can.” I cut the phone connection and turn toward Voss. “I must go. I have a police emergency.”

  I stride out of the restaurant before Voss can protest, and I drive as quickly as I can to the crime scene. I use the Corvette I took from home even though I know it’s a mistake. Whoever shot at me has certainly identified my car, and he’s going to try again. I’ll have to arrange alternate transportation, but that will have to wait until tomorrow morning.

  The Capitol Theater is located in an old building dating from the 1930s used these days for roadshows and pre-Broadway tryouts. It’s tucked in among commercial office buildings, and all that distinguishes it from its anonymous neighbors is a large marquee stretching over the sidewalk, tonight glittering with hundreds of electric lights announcing a “Major Theatrical Event” and a “World-Famous Star.”

  Lucy Tanaka stands in the theater lobby beneath a poster featuring a beautiful woman with coal-black hair, high cheekbones, and large, dark eyes. My heart breaks.

  Lucy’s an experienced homicide detective and has been my partner for almost five months now, and she knows what she’s doing. She will have secured the crime scene, called in the medical examiner and forensics, and, with any luck, solved the case so I can go home and finish my bourbon and remember a woman I once loved.

  I push through the noisy, anxious crowd, their faces flushed, eyes bright. They’ve experienced something exciting this evening: the stark nearness of death. Many are on their cell phones, some doubtlessly talking to their pet reporters. Most are middle-aged and well dressed. There are a lot of balding heads and sparse gray hairs among the men who look like they’ve come directly from work, some still clutching expensive briefcases with nice brass fittings.

  The women are in heels, some wear fur stoles
, and many wear pearls: single strands, not multiple strands, of course. They look like they had their hair and nails done this very afternoon at an expensive salon.

  A hand touches my arm. “How long are we going to be held here, Detective?”

  “We’ll let you go as soon as we can, Your Honor.”

  “Who’s the victim?” I ask Lucy, although I know the answer.

  Lucy is a small woman, attractive, in her early thirties. She looks fragile—almost birdlike—but I know she’s tough, determined, and resourceful—and always ready to challenge anybody who gets in her way, including our bosses. Including me. That’s one of many things I admire about her.

  “Victoria West: the famous actress.” Lucy nods toward the lobby wall where the posters promoting the current production are displayed. “Winner of six Tony Awards,” and “Winner of two Oscars,” the banners proclaim. The figure in the posters does not come close to capturing Vickie West’s stunning beauty.

  “She’s the star of tonight’s play,” Lucy says. “Does the name Victoria West mean anything to you?”

  “It means everything to me,” I say. “What happened here tonight?”

  “Ms. West was shot at the end of her performance in front of several hundred people in the audience as well as the cast and crew. She was in a small room just offstage at the time. It must be suicide.”

  “It wasn’t suicide.”

  Lucy blinks, puzzled at my abrupt reply, then resumes. “We’re getting names and contact information from the audience. Some very important people are here tonight, or so they say. So far I’ve identified a deputy attorney general, an undersecretary of defense, and two Supreme Court justices; they’re getting restless.”

  “As soon as you’ve collected names and addresses, let the audience go. They look harmless. Let’s see the victim.” I cringe inwardly when I say the word.

  Lucy leads me through a pair of double doors, guarded by a uniformed policeman, and into the theater auditorium itself. The house lights are up; the seats are empty. Just a few crumpled programs on the floor indicate the room was recently filled with life. The atmosphere is now desolate.

  At the far end of the auditorium is the stage, lights bright. The set appears to be an old-fashioned living room of some kind, with dark wainscoting, velvet drapes, and heavy oak furniture. A couple of large armchairs and a chaise longue are placed around the stage. Two doors lead off the stage set. A painting of a man in an old-fashioned military uniform with an intimidating mustache hangs above a marble fireplace. Beneath the picture hangs a curved cavalry saber in a silver scabbard; a long, gold cord hangs from the hilt.

  Now that I’m on stage, I see that the fireplace is actually made of plywood, painted to look like marble. The wainscoting and everything else is fake. I’m not sure why but this unsettles me. I can’t tell what’s real and what’s pretend in this world.

  A man paces center stage dressed in a suit and jacket, shirt collar unbuttoned: he’s short and wiry, with close-cropped, blond hair, thinning at the top. He wears yellow loafers and, as he paces, speaks urgently into his cell phone. He’s wearing a lurid silk tie sporting the image, in bright pink and orange, of Keith Richards.

  “Marko,” Lucy tells me, “this is Garland Taylor. Mr. Taylor is the director of tonight’s play.”

  “My name is Marko Zorn. I’m with the Metropolitan DC police. Homicide.”

  “Is this going to take long?” the man demands.

  “It’s going to take as long as it takes.”

  “I will not tolerate some city employee wasting my time: I have important things to do.”

  “This city employee has important things to do and will not tolerate anybody wasting his time.”

  “I don’t think I like your attitude, Officer.”

  “If you don’t like my attitude stop acting like an asshole.”

  Garland Taylor opens his mouth to say something I expect is offensive. I don’t wait to hear it. “Lucy, show me the crime scene.”

  I follow Lucy to a single door, stage left, and we stop at the entrance to a small room where somebody has set up temporary floodlights.

  “Booties!” Hanna Forbes yells at us fiercely. “No booty, no snoopy.”

  Lucy and I slip on latex gloves and shoe coverings. I take a deep breath and enter the room, steeling myself.

  Although I know what to expect and think I’m prepared, the sight of Victoria West hits me like a hammer blow. She lies crumpled on the floor. She’s thirty-five, but her stage makeup makes her look older; her face is white, but her beauty is undiminished by what was done to her tonight.

  “A single head shot to her left temple,” Hanna announces.

  To me, Vickie is still the girl I saw run onto a stage a long time ago. I still hear her first words: “All hail, great master, great sir, hail. I come.” There must have been other actors performing that night, but I remember no one but Vickie. I was enchanted by this beautiful sprite, so full of life. I guess maybe I still am.

  I knew from that first moment at the theater years ago I had to meet this woman—had to know her. I was obsessed. I was a young police officer with the NYPD at the time, working out of a lower Manhattan precinct, and it wasn’t hard to locate an address and telephone number for her. She hung up on me the first few times I called, but I was persistent, and finally I talked her into having dinner.

  We had an electric connection over a meal at a Chinese place on Houston.

  She asked me about my work as people always do when they meet a cop: what’s it like? Is it dangerous? Do you carry a gun? I replied with vague answers until she gave up and realized I didn’t want to talk about my work, and she stopped cross-examining me.

  She told me she was living in a walk-up apartment in the East Village, barely getting by on a few acting jobs but starting to have some success. She’d found a hot-shot agent named Cynthia Fletcher, who’d gotten her into small parts in some prestige productions.

  We couldn’t get enough of each other. I don’t think we even got to the Peking duck; instead we ended our dinner date in her apartment in bed. That was the beginning of what I thought would be a life-changing relationship.

  It lasted for a little over three months. During that time, we made plans for the rest of our lives. We talked about finding an apartment to share. Then she was cast in a Broadway production of Hedda Gabler and my life fell to pieces. She became distracted and often nervous and upset. She spent long hours in rehearsals. When I complained she said I didn’t understand the theater. She told me I didn’t understand her, didn’t understand what she needed.

  It was about three months after our first meeting, and I’d been investigating an assault on Mott Street. It had been a bad day, and I needed to talk to Vickie. We’d been having some ugly arguments, and I decided to go to her place unannounced to sort things out between us. I’d prepared a kind of speech apologizing for whatever it was I’d done. I even bought some flowers. Roses. Roses were her favorite, although she didn’t have the money to buy roses for herself.

  When I got to her door, I found it locked. I knocked, gently at first. I knew she was home: this was not one of her rehearsal nights, and I could see a light under her door. I became frustrated, which is to say, pissed off, and banged on the door loudly. Neighbors came out and told me to pipe down. Which only made me madder.

  When Vickie opened the door, she was wrapped in a bathrobe. And nothing else, as far as I could see.

  “This is not a good time, Marko. We’ll talk tomorrow.”

  The bad day and my desperate need for her—everything just boiled up. I said things I shouldn’t have said. I think I threw the flowers on the floor of the landing. She let me have it. This would have gone on except we were interrupted by a voice from the bedroom: a deep, resonant baritone.

  “Who the fuck is it, Vickie? Tell whoever it is to get the fuck out of here. I’m getting cold.”

  Vickie’s face drained of color. “Please, Marko. I’m so sorry. Just go.”

&nb
sp; In those days I used to carry a service weapon and, for one second—for one brief second only—I almost lost it: I wasn’t sure what I was capable of. This was the woman I loved, the woman I’d planned to spend my life with, and all I could feel for her now was blinding rage. Without a word, I turned and left, kicking the flowers out of my way.

  That was the last time I saw Vickie West. The last time until tonight.

  Vickie wears old-fashioned clothing appropriate for her role as a young Norwegian bride in the late 19th century—black with touches of white lace around her throat and wrist, velvet trim, white blouse, and a silver-and-ivory brooch.

  I crouch down and examine the body, careful not to touch her. There’s a bloody wound in her left temple. I see no exit wound. She grasps a small, pearl-handled revolver in her right hand. For a moment I think I’m going to be sick.

  Her eyes are sightless, her skin bloodless white, but nothing can take away my memory of Vickie’s large dark eyes and warm smile. I won’t let this grotesque imitation make me forget that.

  “That is Victoria West,” Lucy says, standing just behind me, her voice subdued. She must sense my pain. “She was an actress.”

  “Dead. Shot once in the left temple,” Hanna Forbes announces. “Nine minutes past ten, according to dozens of witnesses who heard the shot. May I take the body away?”

  Hanna Forbes, in charge of the crime scene, is a tall, lanky woman and tonight wears cargo pants, accessorized with plastic shoe covers and gloves, and a grungy ball cap with the word “Orioles” printed on it.

  “Use the stage door. The lobby is full of people, and I don’t want them to see this.”

  Hanna nods and starts to prepare the body for transfer to the Medical Examiner’s lab.

  “What’s this room we’re in?” I ask Lucy.

  “It’s supposed to be some kind of drawing room.”

  “Doors? Windows?”

  “No windows. There are two doors. It seems the victim was alone in this room at the time of death.”