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Authors: Laurence Gough
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of Phasia Palinkas’ apartment building when the fatal shot was fired. He was leaning against the steam radiator, idly running his fingers over the dusty leaves of an artificial rubber plant. As the blast of the sniper’s rifle echoed down the street, he hurried to the double glass doors, and outside, into the rain. A silver Mercedes 450SL turned off Commercial and raced past him down Eleventh, headed west.
At the corner, Phasia Palinkas in her heavy black coat lay under the streetlight like a crumpled three-dimensional shadow. Nichos started slowly towards her, hesitated, broke into a trot. When he reached the body he skidded to a stop, fell to his knees. Her eyes stared through him. Rain streamed down her cheeks and into her open mouth, overflowed down her chin. A pool of blood seeped from beneath her, crawled slowly across the sidewalk towards him.
Nichos stole a quarter from the sidewalk. He looked around and saw no one, and hurried towards the pay phone at the far end of the block.
*
The sniper abandoned the silver 450SL in the public parking lot across from the tennis courts near the Beach Avenue entrance to Stanley Park. It was more than half a mile to the highrise on Jervis, and he had not thought to bring an umbrella. Within seconds of leaving the car, his cheap wig was plastered to his skull and his face was a ruin. But the driving rain that had reduced his disguise to an absurdity had also emptied the streets of pedestrians. Even Denman Street was deserted, except for a quartet of late-night diners clustered in the doorway of the Three Greenhorns restaurant. The sniper averted his face as he hurried past them, but no one paid any attention to him; it was as if he didn’t exist.
It took him a quarter of an hour to make the trip from the Mercedes to his building. He turned his key in the lock and let himself into the lobby, which was small and bare, devoid of furniture. He punched the UP button. The doors to both elevators slid open simultaneously. He stepped into the closest elevator and hit the button for the twelfth floor. It was the last thrill of the night, this bold and risky ascent. But the elevator rose smoothly and without interruption. He saw no one, and no one saw him.
As he walked silently down the carpeted hallway towards his apartment, the sniper unbuttoned his mauve raincoat. The leather gun case hung straight down, suspended by a padded leather strap around his neck. He unlocked the door, went inside.
There was a tiny closet in the short entrance hall leading to the living room. The sniper pushed aside the flimsy louvred door and hung up his raincoat. Then he unhooked the padded strap and carried the rifle over to the pine table. Kicking off his high-heeled shoes, he reached awkwardly behind him to unzip the dress. The thin material was sopping wet. It clung tenaciously to him as he pulled the dress down to his hips. He wriggled free and let it fall in an untidy heap to the floor. Then he pulled off the blonde wig and tossed it underhand into the sink.
He was cold and he was wet, and he badly wanted a shower. But before he cleaned himself, he would clean the rifle.
Naked, shivering, he sat down on the bright orange plastic chair and went to work.
VI
A WHISTLE BLEW shrilly — one long, sharp note. The roar and clatter of power tools and hydraulic machinery stopped instantly, with all the precision of a superbly rehearsed symphony.
Bradley stood at his office window, looking down. He calculated that if the construction crew below him continued working at the same rate throughout the rest of the day, they would finish clearing the site by the end of the afternoon. That meant they could begin excavating first thing the following morning. Then, he knew, the level of noise would be truly horrendous. Sighing inwardly, he drank the rest of his lukewarm tea, put the Royal Albert gently down on the windowsill, and turned to face his two teams of detectives.
Claire Parker sat on one of
At the corner, Phasia Palinkas in her heavy black coat lay under the streetlight like a crumpled three-dimensional shadow. Nichos started slowly towards her, hesitated, broke into a trot. When he reached the body he skidded to a stop, fell to his knees. Her eyes stared through him. Rain streamed down her cheeks and into her open mouth, overflowed down her chin. A pool of blood seeped from beneath her, crawled slowly across the sidewalk towards him.
Nichos stole a quarter from the sidewalk. He looked around and saw no one, and hurried towards the pay phone at the far end of the block.
*
The sniper abandoned the silver 450SL in the public parking lot across from the tennis courts near the Beach Avenue entrance to Stanley Park. It was more than half a mile to the highrise on Jervis, and he had not thought to bring an umbrella. Within seconds of leaving the car, his cheap wig was plastered to his skull and his face was a ruin. But the driving rain that had reduced his disguise to an absurdity had also emptied the streets of pedestrians. Even Denman Street was deserted, except for a quartet of late-night diners clustered in the doorway of the Three Greenhorns restaurant. The sniper averted his face as he hurried past them, but no one paid any attention to him; it was as if he didn’t exist.
It took him a quarter of an hour to make the trip from the Mercedes to his building. He turned his key in the lock and let himself into the lobby, which was small and bare, devoid of furniture. He punched the UP button. The doors to both elevators slid open simultaneously. He stepped into the closest elevator and hit the button for the twelfth floor. It was the last thrill of the night, this bold and risky ascent. But the elevator rose smoothly and without interruption. He saw no one, and no one saw him.
As he walked silently down the carpeted hallway towards his apartment, the sniper unbuttoned his mauve raincoat. The leather gun case hung straight down, suspended by a padded leather strap around his neck. He unlocked the door, went inside.
There was a tiny closet in the short entrance hall leading to the living room. The sniper pushed aside the flimsy louvred door and hung up his raincoat. Then he unhooked the padded strap and carried the rifle over to the pine table. Kicking off his high-heeled shoes, he reached awkwardly behind him to unzip the dress. The thin material was sopping wet. It clung tenaciously to him as he pulled the dress down to his hips. He wriggled free and let it fall in an untidy heap to the floor. Then he pulled off the blonde wig and tossed it underhand into the sink.
He was cold and he was wet, and he badly wanted a shower. But before he cleaned himself, he would clean the rifle.
Naked, shivering, he sat down on the bright orange plastic chair and went to work.
VI
A WHISTLE BLEW shrilly — one long, sharp note. The roar and clatter of power tools and hydraulic machinery stopped instantly, with all the precision of a superbly rehearsed symphony.
Bradley stood at his office window, looking down. He calculated that if the construction crew below him continued working at the same rate throughout the rest of the day, they would finish clearing the site by the end of the afternoon. That meant they could begin excavating first thing the following morning. Then, he knew, the level of noise would be truly horrendous. Sighing inwardly, he drank the rest of his lukewarm tea, put the Royal Albert gently down on the windowsill, and turned to face his two teams of detectives.
Claire Parker sat on one of
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