Elena Breus
Hard Night in the Suburbs

Prolog

   Special agent Paul Krosby moved swiftly through corridors of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. His forehead was wrenched into a deep furrow, the corners of his mouth gloomily turned down, eyes squinted but glaring.
   His office assistant, Ms. Lind, beamed at him, but her cheerful smile vanished when she saw his face. Miss Lind secretly adored her boss and had studied him thoroughly during the last six months. This menacing facial expression obviously indicated that something horrible had happened. Neither said hello.
   "Is Briks here?" Paul asked abruptly. Without waiting for an answer, he added, "Find him! I need him immediately!"
   "Bammm!" He slammed the thin door of his small office, setting the French blinds on the windows trembling.
   Miss Lind exchanged scared glances with Sergeant Tubarik, who stood frozen next to the copy machine. Both clearly understood that this frame of mind could result in a bunch of trouble for all subordinates. The girl broke into a fast trot to look for the missing colleague. Fortunately, she was perfectly aware of his whereabouts. She ran directly to the smoking area. The numerous FBI smokers spent short gaps here between their accomplishments of secret operations and following successful writing.
   "Alan!" she yelled into the clouds of smoke, "Hurry up! Boss wants to see you!"
   "Hey, Rosa! What's the rush? Did he develop diarrhea and run out of toilet paper?" The speaker, a tall man with black, curly hair, comfortably occupied an armchair and obviously had zero intent to make a move. Colleagues around him met these words with loud laughter.
   "Alan! Something’s happened!" the girl repeated indignantly. "His face is such… Such…!" She was unable to find the proper words. Instead, she bulged her eyes and twisted mouth and brows, in an attempt to portray Paul Krosby in a rage.
   "Oh!" Briks was slightly puzzled. He paused for a moment and airily waved his hand. "Look, if he has THAT face, you'd better let him know that you didn't find me!"
   "Briks!!!" Ms. Lind went on, outraged, "If you don't report to him immediately, I would say that, that…" Once again, she failed to express her emotions verbally. Her face turned red with wrath. She breathed deeply and slightly inclined her head, like a goat ready for a head butt.
   "OK, OK, dear! Calm down! I'm coming!" Briks reluctantly raised himself up. "No more screaming, please!"
   The office assistant didn't grace him with an answer. She gave him a withering look and hastily turned back to the office. Any person who dared to make fun of the boss's orders did not deserve even her minimal respect. She ran quickly back to her desk and sat there, motionless and breathless, with eyes fixed on the door of her adored Chief.
   She wanted to be the most helpful person for him, and deep in her mind, she fostered a hope that at some time this iron man would come to appreciate her diligence, dedication, and hard work… as well as her blue eyes, long legs, nice personality, and all her other excellent features… These vague dreams raised blushes on her cheeks and increased her heart rate.
   Briks entered the room a minute later and his penetrating gaze recognized her secret thoughts. His mouth stretched into ironic smile and Ms. Lind turned scarlet.
   "OK! I'm here!" he announced loudly. He made his way in front of the now confused office assistant and approached the door of the Section Chief. Drawing a deep, heavy breath, he pulled the handle. The ironic smile disappeared immediately when he saw his boss. "Is something wrong with Robert?" he asked, his tone becoming agitated.
   "Robert is dead!" Paul Krosby shut his eyes in anguish.
   "What???" The blood drained from Briks's face.
   Their colleague Robert Magnus was assigned to a special undercover task and yesterday they had lost all contact with him.
   "His body was found this morning at the secret address and brought to the local police station,” Krosby explained. “I’ve already made arrangements to bring him here."
   Krosby spoke in a flat manner, but his tightly clenched fists revealed barely controlled anger. Agent Magnus had been planted into the secretive criminal structure oriented on narco-business. Because of its highest secrecy, they had managed to slip through the police nets for several years and the decision had been made that the best agents from the FBI should join an operation. This counter-drug action had been thoroughly prepared for several months, but now the sudden death of its key figure had rendered it totally ineffective.
   "How did he die? Who killed him?" Briks's fingers shook as he tried to loosen the knot in his tie. He found the death of that jolly fellow Robert hard to believe. Magnus’s cubicle was next to his. He’d never see Magnus, with his regular bottle of diet cola in his left hand, come strolling into the office again!
   A storm raging inside Paul Krosby launched him out of his chair. He raised his hand and slammed the defenseless desk surface. Pens and pencils jumped out of the jar and rolled around in panic.
   "These are the questions we must answer!" Krosby's roar of anger was heard far beyond his door. "And we will do this!"

Chapter 1. Behind the Dumpsters

   The Mokasche brothers returned home late that night. They had already made several miles on foot but were now so exhausted that couldn't argue any longer.
   The older brother, Gustav, suffered much more. His short legs not only had to carry an ample beer belly, but also felt every roughness of the pavement through the thin soles of his expensive shoes.
   Hugo, the younger brother, was in a better position, since he had neither excess weight nor money for good footwear. Nevertheless, he looked much gloomier and more distressed. His brother blamed him for spending the last fifty backs on the card table, although it was Gustav who had actually done the gambling.
   "Bloody fool!" wailed Gustav, as he stepped on a sharp stone. He had said the same thing more than a hundred times already. "You should’ve stopped me! And now, thanks to your stupidity, we cannot take a taxi and enjoy happy dreams in our beds!"
   Junior Mokasche didn't answer. He was used to the fact that he was responsible for everything bad that happened to his brother.
   Gustav had to eat stale bread for breakfast? It was because this bastard Hugo forgot to buy fresh rolls! Gustav was fired from his job again? Of course, it was Hugo's fault! He’d failed to wake Gustav up over the last three months and the poor guy was always late! The older brother was not on good terms with women? Oh, it was absolutely clear why he was still alone! If only this young idler of a brother would stop hustling around and messing up everything with his sweet, arrogant face!
   This continuous abuse boosted Hugo's immunity to harassment and he usually could take it rather philosophically, but today's rebukes were extremely unfair. He strode behind Gustav with a scowling face and aggrievedly sniffled from time to time. His overfilled bladder demanded an ease at the nearest corner, but he kept grim silence. He didn't want to please Gustav with a refusal to stop.
   Fortunately, Gustav's bladder also had limited capacity and pretty soon all the cocktails absorbed by him in the bar were ready to go out.
   "Halt!" The older brother pointed to a dark corner between two buildings and behind dumpsters. He raced there, unbelting his pants on the way.
   Junior Mokasche eagerly followed him, and in a few seconds, two powerful streams hit the wall.
   With his much anticipated relief, easy-going Hugo cheered up a bit. He opened his mouth to announce that they were not far from home, but his encouraging words were interrupted by a sudden noise.
   Coming on at a good speed, a car spun around the corner and stopped on the other side of the dumpsters with a loud brake squeal.
   Hugo was very glad that they had chosen the dark niche for their minor public nuisance, as they had escaped the beams of the driving lights. He zipped pants hastily and listened. The clang of a trash can lid and human wheezing left him in no doubt that the car driver was placing something heavy into the garbage. Seconds later, the invisible driver got back into the car and rushed away, leaving the smell of burning tires behind. Hugo craned his neck and observed the rear part of a white pickup racing away.
   The brothers exchanged puzzled glances. Respectable people do not dump their trash on a deserted street and race away wildly afterwards.
   "Go and have a look at what's inside!" commanded Gustav. He emerged from the dark corner and pointed his finger at the trash can.
   "Why should I?" protested the younger brother.
   "Open it, now!" Gustav raised his voice.
   Hugo rolled up his sleeves obediently and lifted the lid. The darkness inside the stinky and filthy can reported no details, but right at the top he could see two black leather soles. Hugo slightly pushed one of them with his finger and it slowly moved to the left, revealing a hairy leg in a raspberry sock.
   "Holy Bleu!" He turned away from the can in panic. "It's a dead body!"
   "What the hell you are talking about!" queried Gustav angrily. He raised himself onto his toes and looked inside the bin. For a moment, he was silent. "May be he is still alive?" he asked doubtfully, staring at legs.
   "He can't be alive! He's not moving! Moreover, who would put a living person into the dumpster?" murmured frightened Hugo, "Let's get out of here as fast as possible! We don't want trouble with police!"
   From time to time, the Mokasche brothers would be involved in some sort of illegal activity so trouble with police always needed to be avoided, but the older brother was looking at the black-shoe-legs meditatively and showed no indication of rushing.
   "Gustav! Let's go!" repeated Hugo, in agitation. He took several steps away from the scary place.
   The older brother didn't respond. He was deeply absorbed in thought. "Take him out of there!" He returned to his usual imperative tone after a few minutes of reflection.
   "Never!" exclaimed Hugo, moving further away from the dumpster.
   "Do what I said!" roared Gustav indignantly. "I should be getting lucky today! I knew that from the early morning! This must be the case!"
   "Gustav, you’re crazy!" Hugo yelled. After his brother's last remark, he understood why Gustav had spent his last cent gambling. He’d been sure of his good luck today!
   "If you don't help me, I take it out myself!" said Gustav angrily. "But then, I would not share with you whatever I found!" He grabbed one leg with both hands and tried to pull it.
   "I don't need a share of a dead body!" Hugo made a sign of the cross and peered nervously at the can, "Let's leave this place, please! No good will come of it!"
   "You damned fool!" snarled Gustav, as he grabbed the second leg, "He could have a lot of money in his pockets! Tons of money!!!"
   Hugo was going to say that any person, placing a dead body into the trash, would hardly leave cash in its pockets, but he had no time for that. The older Mokasche was already pulling both legs up.
   "I'm definitely lucky today…," Gustav murmured.
   The dumpster tipped forward and a body in a well-tailored brown suit fell out. Both the body and the can knocked Gustav to the ground. Hugo barely managed to step aside to avoid contact with the plentiful and smelly garbage coming out.
   "Don't just stand there, you idiot!" yelled Gustav, struggling helplessly on his back. "Help me!"
   Assisting his brother was well-established procedure and Hugo rushed to erect Gustav, ignoring his fear of the dead body. He stretched out his right hand to his brother and was going to push aside the corpse in a brown suite with the left one, but he suddenly froze in position.
   "Jesus…" His voice sank to a trailing whisper. The body had no face. Well, in fact, it had once had one some time ago, but now, in its place, was a bloody mask of a chopped meat with one intact eye and part of one brow. Hugo took a step back, turned as white as his cocktail shirt, and fainted.
   "I will kill you, you bastard!" snarled Gustav, furious that Hugo was now unable to help him. He turned onto his left side and managed to get out of the heap of junk himself. Climbing on all fours and shaking off stinky litter, he began to inform Hugo about everything he had in mind regarding the younger man’s behavior and personality, but he choked on his angry words. He too noticed dead man's face and his eyes went wide in horror. "My Lord!" he whispered and blessed himself with a cross several times, "Save and Protect!"
   "Let's run from here, Gustav! Hurry up!" Hugo came back to life and repeated fiercely, "Let's run!"
   "Shut up!" the older brother hissed. "We don't want somebody hearing us!"
   Junior Mokasche closed his mouth in fear and stared at Gustav, his eyes showing mute appeal.
   Gustav frowned and his nostrils quivered. He was thinking hard. A horoscope he had read that morning was quite positive that this day was going to bring him a lot of luck and success, increased income, and other gifts of fortune. He balanced in his mind these promises of fate with the natural fear and disgust induced by the dead man without a face. "Come here; don't be afraid!" he commanded his younger brother. "Search his pockets on the left and I will examine his right side!"
   "Don't do this, Gustav!" Hugo was almost crying, but his habit of obeying orders was already pushing him toward the dead body. His trembling fingers touched the brown wool suit, feeling for pockets.
   Gustav was actively doing the same job on the other side. "There’s nothing here!" he said, in frustration, after searching every stitch and fold of the clothing.
   Hugo was happy to finish with this terrifying task. "Nothing here either!" he said, but then stopped short. The left pocket of the jacket definitely contained something. Overcoming his disgust and panic, he grasped an invisible item with his shaking fingers and removed it.
   "What is it?" Gustav asked, impatiently, still believing in his good luck for the day. "Money? Credit cards?"
   "I d-don't know!" stuttered younger brother, quaking with fear, "S-something p-plastic!"
   "I knew it!" Gustav jumped up exultantly. "It's a credit card! Give it to me!"
   Hugo quickly passed him his finding without looking at it. He was extremely glad to get rid of it.
   "It's a driver’s license!" Gustav's face showed disappointment. "Are you sure there’s nothing else?"
   "Absolutely!" younger brother bowed with confidence. He would put his fingers back in dead man's pocket again only under the penalty of death.
   "Damn!!!" The older Mokasche spit onto the ground. He studied the picture on the driver’s license and his face distorted with anger. "Damn you, Andrews… What's your surname?" He raised the piece of plastic and had a closer look at the line with the owner's name. "…Andrews Corrado???" His mouth formed an "O" and has eyes flared with astonishment.
   He shifted a distrustful look from the piece of plastic to the body in the brown suit and then back to the license. "This is Andy Corrado???" Gustav’s tone suddenly became highly respectful, "Hugo! This is THE CORRADO!!" An excitement paralyzed Gustav’s knees and his backside heavily hit the ground.
   Hugo pulled a long face. He knew the name of the only son of the mafia boss, who had successfully controlled their district and overspread his long arms into all nearby areas. People said that Big Papa, Luke Corrado, was tied to the police and this fact made his business most effective.
   "Holy Virgin! The dead body of Andy Corrado is in the trash bin!" Gustav could not bring himself to believe it. He looked again at the driver's license and patted it affectionately. Suddenly, his eyes glittered. "The body of Luke's son is in the trash can!" he repeated, in agitation. "This is! Wow!" He jumped up, panting and gesticulating erratically. "Hugo! I knew! Knew!" he yelled in excitement, "Here it is – my good luck!!!" He looked at his brother with fiery eyes and upraised both hands to heaven. "Thank you, Lord!"
   The younger brother looked at him gingerly. Maybe Gustav was getting brain-sick? "Please, calm down, Gustav!” he said. “Let's get out of here!" he begged fervently, casting fearful glances around. "We'll have good luck if nobody hears you! Are you gonna get involved with the Corrado family?"
   "Yes!!!" exclaimed Gustav, "Exactly! I gonna get involved with them and as soon as possible!"
   "Gustav, you’re mad!"
   "No! This is it! My lucky chance!" Gustav clumsily danced along the pavement. "Can you imagine?"
   "I can imagine it rather well!" Hugo shivered with cold, his mind playing vivid pictures of possible actions that the powerful mafia boss could apply to them, if they were suspected in the death of his only heir.
   "You fool!" the older brother jumped for joy. "You don't understand!" He sprang towards Hugo and grasped his shoulders. Short Gustav had to raise his hands high to do this. "We'll bring Andy's body home! We'll save him from a disgraceful and obscure disappearance in a trash can! Look, the garbage collectors will be coming early in the morning and they'll take him to the city junkyard, and his family will never know what happened to their beloved son! But if we rescue him out of the dumpster, they should be grateful to us until the ends of their lives!"
   "Gustav!" Hugo gazed at his brother pleadingly, "Let's leave it as it is, please! Nothing good will come out of it!'
   "Shut up!" Gustav spat, getting annoyed. "Lift him up and put him on your shoulders!"
   "No way!" Hugo covered his face with his palms in fear.
   "Take his hands and hoist him onto your back!" Gustav scowled and lowered his voice in a threatening manner. He puffed out his chest, striking a superior posture.
   Hugo gave up. "Why don't we inform his family that we found him and they'll take care of everything?!" he suggested, as a last attempt.
   "Move on!" Gustav impatiently shook his head, without listening.
   Hugo sighed heavily and bent over the body. A sickening scent of rotten potatoes hit his nose. He closed his eyes and hastily grabbed the body's waist. Fortunately, smelly and mucoid potatoes didn't contact his fingers and he harshly hoisted the body over his shoulder. With the scary bloody mask out of his view, he felt somewhat relieved. In this position, he could easily imagine that these legs in raspberry socks, hanging from his shoulder, did not belong to a dead person, but, for example, to Gustav, when he was blind drunk and unable to stand up by himself, which was not an unusual thing.
   "Perfect!" wheezed Gustav, fussing around. "We are only a few steps away from his home! Do you have any idea where the Corrado family lives? I know that! I know everything! I am a King of this area!" Gustav puffed up with pride the area that he considered to be a chest but that all others considered a potbelly and started to splutter songs of praise to himself. His eyes twinkled.
   Hugo had gotten used to this behavior long ago and he headed the right direction without saying a word. He also knew location of the house occupied by the successful crime group and gave a quick thanks to the Holy Virgin that it wasn't far.
//-- * * * --//
   They stopped at the massive metal gates few blocks down the street. Gustav panted with excitement as though he had been carrying the dead body all the way along. He approached the door and knocked.
   "There is a doorbell button on the right," suggested Hugo sepulchrally. He was aching to drop the terrifying burden off his shoulders and run away as fast as possible.
   "I know!" snapped Gustav, and pushed the button hard.
   In a few seconds a lantern flared over their heads and an angry voice roared from the speaker: "Who's there?"
   "We need to speak urgently with Luke Corrado!" faltered Gustav. "Matter of the greatest importance!"
   "With whom??? You're at the wrong place, you dumbhead!" the invisible voice said scornfully.
   "We have his son!" exclaimed Gustav, triumphantly pointing to the body on his brother's shoulder.
   "What the h-h-h-h?" mumbled the black speaker box.
   "His son!!!" yelled Gustav at the top of his voice, making the wireless speaker system redundant. His screaming could already have awakened the house.
   Less than a minute later, the heavy gates slowly moved aside. The door entryway was filled by two bodyguards. Hugo looked at their massive shoulders and enormous claws and his knees quivered. Gustav was also scared, but he bravely went forward and presented the dead man's driver's license to the first guard.
   "It is Andy Corrado!" he said, inhaling. "We found his body!"
   The two musclemen exchanged glances. The taller one took the piece of plastic from Gustav's hand and shone a flashlight on it.
   "You read it!" encouraged Gustav. "It is his driver's license!" He made a mournful face and gave a quick sob. "Enemies killed Andy and trashed his body! If my brother and I had not been walking nearby accidentally, you would have lost him forever!" Gustav blinked away a non-existent tear from his left eye.
   Hugo made a mental note that the relatives had lost him forever anyway, and a nervous grin twisted his lips.
   The bodyguard thoroughly studied the driver's license for a while and raised his eyes to the partner. He looked confused.
   "So? What?" the second security guard asked impatiently. He was eager to get rid of the two idiots who'd dared to interrupt the privacy of the highly regarded Corrado family.
   "Well… Here is… Uhhh…" the first one murmured doubtfully, but the end of his phrase was interrupted by the gravel crackling and a vague scream from behind him.
   Everybody, including Hugo with the body on his shoulder, turned to face toward these new sounds. A slim, graceful figure was rushing from the house, her clothing flowing behind her. In a few seconds, she was standing next to the men.
   Her pretty face was tear-stained. Big, brown eyes flashed fire. "Wha-a-a! He's finally showed up!" said she angrily, panting after the fast run. "Bastard! Bloody creep! Where have you been? With whom?" She aimed scornful glance at the legs in raspberry socks, hanging freely from Hugo's shoulder, and pursed her lips in wrath. "Cannot even stay on your feet! Look at him! Which whore presented you with these socks, ah? What a disgusting color!" She glared around and screamed bitterly, "Why did I marry him? My Mom warned me! He was born a skirt chaser and will die a skirt chaser!"
   One of the security guards was going to say something, but while he was making up his mind, Gustav stepped forward.
   Gustav's face expressed an eternal sorrow. "I'm afraid, ma'am, that you're right!" he announced pathetically.
   "Of course, I am right!" wailed woman. "I always know when he tells me a lie! 'Dear, I have very important business' means that he's got his eye on a new bimbo from nightclub show!!!"
   "Well… Not about that, ma'am…" Gustav lowered his eyes with pretended embarrassment, "You were right about him dying!"
   "I wish this bastard dead this minute!" she sobbed with anger, and burst into tears, "I'm gonna get a divorce and the kids will forgive me!!!"
   "Ma'am, that would be impossible…" said Gustav delicately, "He cannot die this minute because he is… how do I put this… already dead, and has been for a while!"
   "What the hell you are talking about, you stinky creep?!" The woman's tears vanished in a moment. "I am asking you! What is this all about???" She rushed towards Hugo and her hands tightened over the body's brown pants. "Andy! Andy!" she yelled and shook the body vigorously, "Wake up, bastard!"
   Hugo had not been expecting an attack and lost his balance. His frightening burden slid down to the ground.
   "Ah!" The lady's eyes widened with horror when she saw the bloody mask. "Wh-h-o is it???" She looked around, horrified, and her lips started quivering. "Andy?" she babbled, "Is this Andy???"
   The men kept silent, in hesitation. At last, the senior bodyguard cleared his throat and stepped towards the lady. "Donna Klara, uh-h-h…" he stretched his hand, willing to give her a hug of support, but grasped only air.
   The beautiful and tear-stained eyes of Donna Klara rolled upwards and she fainted. Gravel stones harshly crackled under her body.
//-- * * * --//
   Four hours later, Gustav and Hugo enjoyed tea in the big kitchen room of the Corrados' house. The older brother was shining with self-satisfaction; the younger one was gloomy and worried. These four hours were not the best moments of their lives. Woken up in alarm, the crime group had conducted about fifteen rough examinations of their story.
   Grim and silent, the Mafia boss and father of the deceased showed up at the very end of inquisition. He stopped Gustav's logorrhea with a scorching glance and asked only one question, about the car that had brought Andy to the dumpster. Gustav could say very little because he had been standing further from the corner and actually saw nothing, so he began to stress the speed of the fast-as-hell car running through the night.
   "That's all?" asked Luke Corrado and ominously narrowed his inflamed eyes.
   "T-that's all…" Under this glance, Gustav shrunk to half his size and for the first time regretted that he hadn't followed his brother's advice to leave the body where it was.
   The atmosphere in the room began to heat up.
   "No, there is something else!" gloomy Hugo entered into the conversation. He had a gut feeling that negative consequences were coming pretty soon," It was a pickup. White Chevrolet pickup. Maybe light beige. It was hard to determine in the night, but it was close to white, for sure!"
   The eyes of the Mafia boss flashed. He slowly turned his head to the right side and one of the men sitting there gave him a knowing look and nodded. A wave of mumbling words rolled over the room. The white pickup clearly meant something to the audience.
   "We'll take care of this, Patron!" wrathfully yelled somebody from the back row.
   The red face of Luke Corrado bloomed with violet spots. He turned back in his chair, packed his head deep into his shoulders, and closed his eyes. The yell from the back row started a storm. Hoots of rage now came from every corner and Hugo uttered a sigh of relief when it became clear that the close attention of the crime group was now transferred from him and his brother to the real enemy.
   The old Mafia Boss opened his eyes and the room sank into silence. Black, widened pupils under the bushy eyebrows found every person and looked inside every heart.
   "We'll get revenge!" His low voice made everybody's blood run cold.
//-- * * * --//
   After this encouraging promise, the majority of the crime group disappeared from the room. Some went to organize the funeral; others went to get a doctor for the widow, and the rest initiated the necessary preparations for revenge. The two brothers were sent to the kitchen, where an immensely fat but nimble kitchen maid prepared tea and chicken sandwiches for them.
   "You see now that I was right?" Gustav dug Hugo in the ribs as he put a huge piece of bread into his mouth. "We accomplished a great deal for this family!" He gave the kitchen lady a patronizing glance and sipped his tea with a grunt of delight.
   Hugo could not touch the food. Every time he cast an eye onto the plate, a ghastly bloody mask came to his mind and he hurriedly looked away. He put his nose deep into his cup and gloomily sipped hot tea.
   "When we looked at his driver's license, we immediately knew what to do!" Proud as a peacock, Gustav was trying to draw the kitchen maid into conversation. Puffed up with self-importance, he was not able to sit still and keep silent.
   The woman met his words with no reaction. She grimly rearranged utensils in the cupboard and sometimes wiped tears from her face with a big kitchen towel.
   "I told my brother: Hugo, this is —"
   Suddenly, Gustav's speech was interrupted with a loud groan of the back door. The woman and both brothers turned around all at once.
   The rear door of the kitchen opened and a tall young man with black hair snuck in from the street. Seeing that he had company, he twisted his lips into an amiable grin, uncovering sharp and yellow teeth. "Luiza, you are not asleep?" he asked. "That's great! I'm dead with hunger!" He approached the fridge with fast steps and greeted both brothers with a formal bow. "Good evening, gentlemen! Or, it is good morning already?"
   The kitchen lady produced a big hiccup and dropped a fork. She rolled her eyes, pressed both arms to her heart area, and started to slump down.
   "Luiza, what's the matter?" The young man rushed forward, trying to prevent the heavy collapse of the fat lady. "Help me!" he called.
   Neither brother moved. Gustav stopped dead, with a piece of chicken in his open mouth, while Hugo almost suffocated with his tea.
   Andrews Corrado, safe and alive, although rather messy, and now tired of waiting for help, swore softly and carefully placed the unconscious woman's body onto the tiled floor.
//-- * * * --//
   "Uhhhh!" said Gustav bitterly, rocking on the passenger's seat of an old Ford, "Why did we mess this up?"
   Hugo didn't reply. He stared hard at the road and kept silent.
   Gustav carefully touched his scratched and swollen cheek and moaned again. "We should have left this damned body in the trash! Why didn't you persuade me?"
   "Shut up!" This was too much for Hugo. "Shut up, or I will throw both of you out!" He pointed to the trunk where their dreadful finding from the dumpster was placed.
//-- * * * --//
   After the happy return home of the real Andy Corrado, they were not even beaten. A few bruises and scratches on Gustav's face did not count. The furious wife of the recently risen from death was taken away before she managed to cause any real harm. Luke's deputy just gave them the keys of this old car and the dead body, along with instructions to melt away immediately. Hugo believed that they got off cheap. The Mafia Boss had become uncommonly kind after the arrival of his lost child.
   Their car hit a road bump and the dead body rolled over from one side of the trunk to the other. Hugo looked backward angrily and remembered the excited speech of the recent might-have-been dead.
   The real Andy Corrado had stood in the middle of the kitchen and repeated joyfully, "I've spent twenty-four hours on Regent Street, locked in the basement by this stupid bimbo because her husband happened to come home early! Please don't report this to Klara, folks!" He'd given a quick fearful look around, checking to make sure his wife was not nearby and he continued his story to his male relatives, who were buzzing around and amiably tapping various parts of his body to assure themselves that he was real.
   "… And couple of hours before, we were walking in the Zoo and I lost my driver's license! Who would have thought that poor guy who found it would be killed and you thought it was me!"
//-- * * * --//
   "Here!" said Hugo gloomily as he parked the pink Ford by the curb.
   They had just passed a small bridge over a deeply rushing river – the perfect place to get rid of the body. Frowning, Gustav dutifully got out of the car. Hugo opened the trunk and looked inside.
   "Grab his legs!" he commanded.
   They took the corpse out and carried it far into the bed of rushes. Their major concern was to stay unnoticed in the dim light of early morning. Fortunately, the road at this hour was absolutely empty.
   "Now, we should leave the car at the old boathouse, near the snack bar, and forget everything that has happened tonight," Hugo said, repeating the instructions of Corrado's deputy.
   "Yeaahh…" Gustav agreed sadly. He looked back at the bushes with a funeral expression on his face. Tricky Fortune had cheated him again and had made another misleading motion with her pretty finger. Gustav thought for a while and swore an oath that he would never ever believe in horoscopes.

Chapter 2. At the Zoo

   A loud, reverberating roar flashed through the dark walkways of the Zoo. It broke into the peaceful silence of the office facility, which was converted into a living room, with a bed, stove, and TV set.
   "What's all this screaming about, Borgo?" Marcel Florenbosch murmured indifferently, as he stirred boiling soup in a casserole.
   Borgo, a young African lion, uttered his frightening roar again and the other zoo inhabitants echoed him with gabbling, howling, barking, and yelling in alarm.
   "I hope you have no hard feelings about me taking your slice of meat?" A sly smile touched Marcel's lips. "Don't be greedy! I don't like greedy-guts!" He waddled to the TV and increased the sound volume. His poor shelter was immediately filled with a sportscaster's yelling and the encouraging rumble of the crowd that was watching a hockey game between the Devils and Rangers. These sounds completely shut off the screaming of agitated animals.
   Marcel Florenbosch was not a sports fan. He didn't care about the subject on the screen of his old black-and-white TV, but preferred the sports channel to the others because the hectic atmosphere of competition and the excitement and exultation of the crowd gave him a feeling of participation and an illusion of involvement in real life.
//-- * * * --//
   If, twenty years ago, somebody had told successful accountant Marcel Florenbosch that he'd end up being a cage cleaner at the Zoo, he would have considered it a bad joke. Twenty years ago, Marcel had a good job, a beautiful wife, and nice house in a presentable district, which he would own outright in just a few more years. Everything was ruined in one day, when he returned home and in place of his wife found a farewell message from her, saying that she was leaving him for a new life with a real estate agent from Alabama. Marcel might have overcome this event, but trouble never comes alone, and marital infidelity was followed by the betrayal of the chief accountant of the company he worked for. His supervisor (and, supposedly, his best friend!), took really personal charge of the company's bank account and disappeared with it in an unknown direction, leaving all the blame with Marcel.
   Fortunately, Florenbosch did not go to jail, and after several months of distressful investigations he managed to rehabilitate himself, but the wounds to his soul from the beloved ones required treatment and Marcel started to cure himself industriously with an old, well-known method. The poor accountant started to drink: not much at the beginning, but then more and more, increasingly changing his work and living places, as well as his alco-friends.
   Twenty years of continuous deep drinking had had a very destructive effect on the gentle health constitution of the accountant and had converted him into a decrepit and shabby beachcomber. The truth was that if an old classmate had not helped him, Marcel would be already resting in peace under one of the gravestones at the local cemetery. Six months previously, he had happened to meet Bob Brunner, his classmate from middle school, and only because of the big heart of this man, Marcel now had a job and even tried to maintain sobriety, which was the most difficult part of his new life.
   Brunner worked as a senior administrator at the Zoo and for the sake of an old friendship he had not only hired Marcel and let him occupy one of the office premises, but he had also closed his eyes to the poor performance of his classmate, although his patience was now worn out. When Florenbosch had a drink, he could get mixed up and give the wrong food to the animals, or forget to fill some of the feed boxes and leave some of his charges hungry. Several times, Marcel had placed dung from the cages in the most popular public areas and a couple of weeks ago he had narrowly escaped being fired when he had left a monkey cage open and one of the apes had run out. Luckily, this had happened before the Zoo was open to the public. The ape was caught on the head of a cleaning lady, with whom it was trying to make bold in the excitement of regained freedom. Bob still felt sick when he thought that in place of the poor lady it could have been one of the Zoo visitors (especially a kid!) and he'd given Marcel a last warning.
//-- * * * --//
   "Go-o-o-o-al!" howled a sportscaster from the TV and the former accountant joined his scream. "Goal!" he yelled joyfully and turned to the window, "Did you hear that, Borgo?"
   The African lion could have probably heard that, but his roar was no longer audible because of the triumphant rejoicing of the sport fans, throwing out from the TV loudspeakers. The sportscaster started to gush about the private life of the Ranger's forward, who promised to get his team to the top of the list this season.
   "I should take a little drop for this!" Marcel's eyes glinted when he took a half-liter bottle with cloudy liquid from the cupboard. He threw a glance at the filthy glass and decided to skip laying the table. He admiringly patted sides of the bottle, extracted the cork, and took a big sip. "Yeahhhh!" a delighted sigh emerged from his throat as he placed the bottle onto the table. His cheeks immediately flashed red, his eyes became bloodshot, and his face shone with tranquility. He sat on the chair, relaxed, and waved his hand to the hockey players on the TV screen. "Hey!" he encouraged all of them, since it made no difference to him who won. "Kick them!"
   A suppressed lion's roar reached Marcel's ears again through the enthusiastic wowing of the stands.
   "Borgo, what the hell!" The cage cleaner's face twisted with dissatisfaction. He looked at his bottle, which still contained a few sips, and his face twisted even more. More than anything else in the world, he wanted to finish the bottle contents and he was almost ready to go ahead, but at that moment, the lion's cry was accompanied by a human scream.
   Florenbosch shook his head. Imagination? It's night time and no one can enter the Zoo! Vagrants will never cross its high and strong fence… On the other hand, young trouble-makers could do this on purpose?…
   The lion roared with renewed energy and Marcel realized that he had to go out and discover what was making him that angry. Otherwise, a scared yelling of Zoo inhabitants could cause public protests again, as had happened in the past, when Marcel forgot to feed part of the animals and Brunner had become upset.
   "I'll be back soon!" promised the former accountant to the filthy bottle, stroking it with a loving glance as he turned to the door.
   At the entrance, he grabbed his coat, checked if the flashlight was in his pocket, and lurched to the cages of predators. As soon as he got out, Borgo terminated his night performance and the other animals started to calm down. Marcel was almost ready to step back home, but at this very moment his flashlight shone on the grids of the lion's cage and terror turned his heart into ice.
   Part of the Zoo territory was under reconstruction, and a moat between the lion's area and a fence had been bridged by two big untrimmed boards by the construction team. To avoid an accident, the lion was to be thoroughly locked in his cage until the work was done, but now, in the dancing spotlight, Marcel could see that the door was open.
   "It's impossible!" he whispered, with discolored lips. "I do remember that I locked it after I brought meat to Borgo!"
   "You do remember?" The sarcastic tone of his inner voice ruined his confidence.
   His poisoned brains could not always recall what had happened five minutes ago and animal feeding was such a repetitive task! Bring the food – opened cage – place the food – close… Or had he not closed???…
   "My Lord! I hope he is still inside…" murmured the accountant. He turned his spotlight to the left.
   His eyes widened with horror. A hoarse scream emerged from his throat and Florenbosch sobered up in a moment. The flashlight illuminated the lion, who was lying sprawled on the ground with a dark pile of junk next to him, which had the vague contour of a human body. The flashlight slipped out of Marcel's sweaty hands and thudded into the dusty ground. While the cage cleaner was trying to find the flashlight with his trembling fingers, a vivid memory of the scene he'd observed at this place a couple of days ago hit his mind.
   One of the Zoo visitors had been tooting his horn in the presence of pretty young lady. He had climbed over the fence, crossed the board bridge, and come very close to the lion's cage. Security guards had managed to get the idiot out before Borgo had a chance to bite off his hand or leg, which the man had been dangling in front of the grids in a demonstration of his extreme courage. Could it be that someone else had repeated the "great deed" of that dumbhead, now, at night time?
   In place of the flashlight, his left hand discovered a piece of plastic on the ground. Florenbosch reflexively grabbed it and put it into his pocket. At the same time, he encountered the flashlight with his right hand. Dying from horror, he hastily focused light on the dark pile next to the animal.
   "My Lord!" The beam of light slid over the motionless figure on the grass. Shoes… Knee… Arm… Oh, it's a nightmare! There was no doubt… A man was lying next to the lion! Marcel neglected his fears and rushed forward.
   Looking at the approaching cage cleaner, Borgo licked his teeth with satisfaction and the legs of the former accountant weakened.
   The lion ate him! flashed into his mind. My Lord, he did that! Marcel rushed over the wooden bridge and dropped to his knees at the body.
   The lion paid no attention to the newcomer. He snorted and leisurely placed his huge head over the forelegs. Florenbosch grasped the dark figure over the shoulders and pulled it upside. A bloody mask in place of the face looked at him with its only eye.
   Marcel was frozen with horror, his mouth open. It happened! He didn't lock the cage and Borgo not only got outside, but also ate one idiot!
   "You bastard!" he yelled angrily and kicked the dead body, "Where did you spring from???"
   The African lion gave a loud belch and started to lick from his paws tiny pieces of what had been a human's face not long ago.
   "Why???" moaned Florenbosch in despair. "Why did it happen to me?" Such a bad coincidence! He'd forgotten to lock the cage. His safe and happy life in the Zoo was about to come to an end! Bob would never tolerate this! He wouldn't care that only an accomplished idiot could cross the fence and come close to the lion, but he would harp on one string – Marcel had not locked the door!
   "What the hell were you doing out of your cage?" yelled Marcel, craning his head toward the lion.
   Borgo could not stand the rich odor of alcohol and moved his nose away with displeasure.
   "I'm asking you! What the hell?" Rage made the accountant fearless and he continued his attack.
   The lion couldn't bear the high concentration of ethanol spirits any more. He snarled in disgust, raised on his four legs, and trotted back to his cage. Marcel had enough sense (or, better say, by force of habit) to lock the door behind him.
   He returned to the body, slumped on the ground, and took his head in his hands. His inner vision immediately presented gloomy pictures of the fast-coming future. His old mate Brunner would kick him away tomorrow morning and Marcel would have to say good bye to his tiny, but cozy, cabin with TV that he liked so much and return to the street to enjoy going through the garbage for food and sleeping in a cardboard carton under the bridge.
   "This is your fault!" He peered fiercely at the dead body. "Damn idiot! Why didn't you stay away from here? Dumbheads like you should not exist!"
   "… Should not exist!" Suddenly, a new thought lightened his brain, "Yes, exactly! I should arrange everything as you never existed!"
   Florenbosch anxiously gazed around. He was not the only employee at the Zoo at night time, but the second person – a night guard – was as deaf as a post and now must be sleeping tight. If Marcel managed to take the body out of the Zoo and eliminated all the traces, then nobody would ever know what happened! The next morning would come as quiet as usual! Nobody would have crossed lion's territory and nobody forgot to lock the cage!
   Marcel jumped up in excitement. Yes! Done deal! He would take the body out of here and would keep his lovely cabin! He waved both hands in agitation and compulsively plunged his fingers into his right pocket. What was it? Florenbosch took out the piece of plastic he'd recently gathered on the ground and squinted nearsightedly at the picture. Driver's license. Andrews Corrado.
   "Must belong to this poor guy!" guessed the former accountant. "He dropped it while crossing the fence!"
   He swiftly bent forward and put plastic card into the pocket of brown suit.
   "That's better!" he murmured, with a delighted smile. "No traces now!"
   He grabbed both legs of the corpse and dragged it towards the wooden bridge.
   Twenty minutes later, his old, white Chevrolet was stopped at the dumpsters in the remote city district and the former accountant, fortified with a remaining alcohol from his bottle, placed an unwelcome zoo visitor into the trash can.
//-- * * * --//
   Special Agent Paul Krosby searched through the papers of Robert Magnus's assignment again and again.
   "Where? Where did we make a mistake?" His brain was occupied with only one thought, "This action was thoroughly designed and worked out, and all over the sudden – such a failure! It's not possible!"
   The phone rang on his desk. Krosby started and hurriedly grabbed a receiver.
   "Paul, we found Robert's records!" It was Alan Briks on the other end. "Everything is encrypted, but our folks are already working on decoding! The only fact unscrambled so far is that he had a meeting with his informer at the Zoo!"
   "Great, Alan!" Krosby commended him lightly, "Continue working!"
   "I've already sent our people to the Zoo, but, of course, enquiry of their employees would take time…"
   "Doesn't matter!" said the Chief. "Take all the time necessary to find out what happened and who killed him!"
   "Yes, chief!" Briks eagerly responded. "We'll find out!"

Chapter 3. Hardware Store

   Ann Tanner opened her eyes and tried to understand what had interrupted her sleep. She threw a glance at the clock. Almost two a.m. What was that? She raised herself up on an elbow and gazed around the dark room, but heard nothing and decided that it was a dream. Ann looked at her husband, who was wheezing peacefully on the other side of the bed, put his blanket straight, and lay back again.
   Bammm! The moment her head touched a pillow, she has heard the clang of broken glass on the first floor. She jumped up, startled.
   "Billy, wake up!" She shook her husband's shoulder. "Somebody's broken into the store!"
   "Ah?" Bill Tanner – or, to close friends, Billy Sledge Hammer – whipped up in bed. "What?" The bed rocked heavily from the movement of his big body. Still half-sleep, he gazed at his wife with his right eye, while he ineffectively tried to open the left one. "What did you say?" he rumbled hoarsely.
   "I think we have burglars downstairs!" Ann said feverishly. "I heard the sound of breaking glass!"
   These words shook off Bill's slumber with magic speed. He jumped onto his feet and surged to the door.
   "Billy!" screamed his wife in fear. "Don't go down there! Let's call the police!"
   Her husband disregarded this remark and rushed downstairs without saying a word.
   When Billy Sledge Hammer was young, he could easily knock out four opponents, and even now, in his fifties, one or two burglars who dared to break into his store would have a very hard time. Now, for whatever reason, somebody had the nerve to intrude into his small hardware store despite the absence of expensive goods and his well-known reputation.
   "It can't be burglars! Must be a cat!" frowned Bill, treading cold steps with bare feet and watching around.
   At the bottom of the stairs Billy slowed down. There was silence around. He wanted to switch on the light, but changed his mind. A big, unglazed door that separated the living space from the store was open and gentle moonlight from the street illuminated all the details of the inner space. Tanner took one more step forward and stopped.
   The central part of the store window looked unusual. Bill narrowed his eyes and understood that he was missing several letters. The name of his store "TANNER'S HARDWARE" now read only "TAN.....DWARE".
   Bill rubbed his eyes and peered again. Gradually, he got to the point that the letters had disappeared with the glass. He shifted his glance to the floor and saw splinters of glass everywhere. My God! Ann was right! Burglars are in here!!! They broke the window and got inside!!!
   Shock from the impudence of the loathsome thefts grew into a rage. Who dared do this??? Bill glared around and clenched his massive fists.
   "You! You…" he mumbled, in a vain attempt to find the right swear word. The nastiest word on earth would not successfully describe person who had the nerve to get his hands on the property of Bill Tanner!
   At that moment, somebody's head showed up in the broken window frame. Bill narrowly restrained his triumphant cry. It's time to get things right!
   "Get me the gun!" he whispered to Ann, who was watching him fearfully from the second floor.
   "No, Billy, let's call the police!" she murmured rapidly, nervously wrapping herself in a night robe.
   "The gun!" bellowed her furious husband. "Hurry!"
   "W-which one?" stuttered Anna, giving up.
   "Any one!" There was a sinister tone in his voice.
   The owner of the hardware store had a long lasting passion for guns in general and rifles specifically. Part of his workroom resembled a gun-shop, where every gun sat in its place, oiled, polished, and ready to use. This burglar must be a stranger, unaware of this collection or of the variety of diplomas and prizes for shooting proficiency that decorated the walls of the second floor.
   Ann slipped into the workroom and came back in a few seconds, gripping in her shaking hands an old Winchester that must have seen use during the Wild West Colonization: not the best weapon in this situation, but Sledge Hammer didn't mind. He stepped forward, grabbed the rifle, and checked that it was loaded. Damn! There were only two bullets there! The silly woman should have brought an ammunition box, but what could you expect from the silly woman? Anyway, this was enough for Bill to take care of the intruders!
   He checked his perfectly adjusted sight and quietly waddled towards the robbery site. His eyes blazed furiously.
   Suddenly, a muffled noise came from the broken window and the same head showed up again. Billy froze next to the doorway and a cunning smile twisted his lips. Come on, boys! Come to daddy! A warm welcome awaits you!
   Unaware of the danger, the burglar kept climbing the window and now Bill could see the contour of his shoulders and part of his chest. He was moving in a weird way, jerking in different directions, probably trying to avoid splinters of glass.
   "Halt!" bellowed Sledge Hammer and he put rifle bolt into the active position with a loud click, "Or I will shoot!"
   The burglar stopped for a second, jerked again, but instead of raising his hands and capitulating, he continued to move up. In the next minute, half of his body was visible, along with one of his legs coming over the windowsill.
   Bill was taken aback by the burglar's insolence. "I could skip the warnings!" he roared. "You broke into my house and I am within my rights to shoot you like a rat!"
   In his earlier years, Billy had met with a certain amount of trouble with public law and since then, he had become well educated on things you can or can't do.
   "Kiss my …, you old …!" responded a harsh voice from the window.
   Tanner's eyes darkened with wrath. "Son-of-a-bitch!!!" Bill almost lost his breath. He whipped the rifle to his shoulder and pulled trigger, without aiming.
   The small store was rocked with the deafening sound of the report. The figure in the window frame froze for a moment and then began to topple inside.
   "My God! Billy, you killed him!!!" Ann gasped faintly from behind.
   "Yes!" her husband said belligerently, boiling over with hatred, "Call the police now! Let them know it's a burglary and they should come and take out this shit!"
   He came close to the stranger and poked him in the shoulder with a toe. The body turned over and a small wound came into sight on the burglar's chest. The thief's dark eyes stared blindly at the ceiling.
   "Right in the heart," certified Tanner, gradually calming down. He breathed heavily, mopped his face with the sleeve of his pajama top, and turned to his motionless wife. "Don't just stand there! Call the police!"
   "… But… What if they say…" Ann nervously bit her lips, "…What if they arrest you for murder?"
   Mrs. Tanner remembered very well the wild youth of her beloved husband – the years before he transformed into the respectable owner of the hardware store. At those times, the word "police" would have made Sledge Hammer grind his teeth in anger and prefer to sneak away.
   "Silly woman!" chuckled Billy, "Perhaps they would be happy to arrest me, but I have this!"
   He pointed his hand to the black eye of the video camera at the top of the wall over the counter. This camera had been installed there only couple of months earlier, when Tanner's son had started to work for a company that sold surveillance equipment and this had been his first sales contract. Although Sledge Hammer considered these electronic toys to be wastes of money and counted only on his own eyes, he could not say "no" to his beloved child.
   "Ha! Who would ever imagine it could be useful!" he snorted.
   "Oh, yes! Yes!" Ann brightened up. "Of course! Everything is recorded on the tape!" She breathed a sigh of relief and rushed upstairs to call the police. Her arm had almost reached the phone, when the thunderous voice of Billy held her up.
   "Wait!!! Don't call!!!"
   Ann hastily took her fingers away from the receiver. "What? What happened?" She surged backward and bumped into her husband, who had come upstairs.
   Sledge Hammer was carrying the rifle with both hands in front of him and his face was full of indignation. "What did you bring to me???" his husky voice wobbled.
   Ann's eyes rounded in panic. "A rifle… As you asked!" She stuttered in fear and took a step back.
   "Rifle???!!!" yelled Sledge Hammer. "Which one???"
   The woman blinked nervously, trying to understand what had caused this drastic change in his mood. "You said any one!" was her careful reply.
   "Anyone, but not this one!!!" groaned Bill, with a martyred look. He placed the old Winchester against the wall and collapsed onto the armchair.
   "Billy, dear, calm down!" Ann rapidly mumbled, coming closer with caution, "Let me bring you some water!"
   "I don't need your damn water!!!" Bill said, outraged. "Do you have any idea WHAT gun this is???"
   Ann took another quick step back again and kept her mouth shut. A gun is a gun. So what of it?
   "What did you do??!!!" moaned Sledge Hammer in a pained voice, as he clasped his head. "This is the gun I shot Sheriff Wolles with!"
   "Oh! Th-that gun?" stammered his wife, still unclear about the subject, but having a gut feeling that something was wrong.
   "Yes! It's THAT gun!!! How can I present it to the police now??? It even has the same bullets inside! They've not been able to find out the truth for ten years, but today I myself will show up with this evidence! Look, gentlemen, I killed a burglar in my store, and I have a video tape about the whole process!"
   He pulled a silly face, representing his vis-a-vis:
   "Great, Mister Tanner! You've helped us to maintain law and order in our city! I'm sorry, Mister Tanner, but we have to borrow your rifle for ballistics expertise… Oh, Mister Tanner, we've discovered an interesting fact! How could you explain that, ten years ago, Sheriff Wolles was killed with a bullet from your gun?"
   Ann fearfully clasped her hands to her breasts. She clearly remembered the story. It was a wonder Billy hadn't been charged with murder back then. Nobody cared that sheriff Wolles was a rotten spot on the healthy body of the doughty police forces, because he had an affection for bribes and small boys. Honestly speaking, the police department should have rewarded Sledge Hammer for good shooting at a long distance instead of dragging him through numerous interrogations. Thank God the police hadn't found enough proof to imprison Tanner, but with the gun, this case might be opened again!
   "But… You said 'take any rifle'!… I grabbed the nearest one!" she sobbed plaintively and her eyes filled with tears. "Billy, what should we do?!"
   "What should we do?" repeated her husband reflexively. He paused and added with determination, "We ought to do something! I'm not going to go to the jail for this bastard!"
   He rose to his feet, surged to the window, and looked out. The Tanners' house was at the end of the street and he knew that both of his neighbors had left on vacation the previous week. The landscape was quiet and apparently deserted. Bill thoroughly examined the area and decided that the chance of somebody observing the whole incident was equal to zero.
   "I wonder if your crazy uncle went completely mad?" Billy turned to his wife.
   "Uncle Albert?" said Ann, very surprised, "Why do you ask about him?"
   "Your weak-minded relative could be useful to some extent." scowled Sledge Hammer taking off his pajamas and getting into jeans. His body movements now were filled with confidence. Billy had developed a plan and started to follow it.
   "I will bring this dead burglar to your uncle," he explained to Ann. "He used to be a veterinarian and knows what to do with a lancet. He will take my bullet out and you should sweep the store. We'll tell everybody it was me who broke the glass, while throwing a shoe at a cat. Tomorrow I will replace the window and everything will be OK!"
   "But… What about him?" Ann peered at the thief with a worried expression.
   "When the bullet is taken out, I will take him to the vacant land far away from the city. It'll take weeks or months until he is found and by that time nobody should be able to find a connection between us!"
   "Oh, Billy!" beamed Ann. "Oh!"
   "Stop talking!" Sledge Hammer silenced her. "Move and clean everything up here!"
   "Yes, yes!" agreed his wife, rapidly nodding her head as she hustled for the broom.
   Bill carefully examined the thief's pockets, but found nothing. Then he loaded the dead body into his car and drove to the west part of the city, to the home of Uncle Albert.
//-- * * * --//
   As he'd expected, Ann's uncle was not in bed yet. He was absorbed in a TV show. Without asking questions, the old veterinarian, who had seen a good deal in his long life, told his relative to place the body onto the couch and he took out his medical instruments. After a few manipulations, he handed two bullets to Sledge Hammer.
   "Why two?" asked Bill, rather surprised.
   "How should I know?" responded the old man, bewildered. "Two wounds – two bullets. What else do you want?"
   "But I think I shot only once…" murmured Billy in confusion, "… or twice?"
   "If there are two bullets, there must be two shots!" remarked Uncle Albert, logically. "And now, take your stuff and get out of here! I'm sick of you! Why did Ann marry you? You always cause a lot of trouble!" The old man frowned, turned around, and shambled back to his TV.
   "Thank you!" said Billy, looking a trifle embarrassed. He hoisted his burden to the shoulder.
   Despite their overly strict manners, both men liked each other.
   "Don't forget to close the door!" shouted Uncle Albert, snuggling into his heavily used armchair.
   "Aha!" responded Sledge Hammer, overfilled with unspoken gratitude, and thinking hard if he could do something nice for the old guy in the near future. "I'll buy a new TV for him!" Bill decided on the way to his car, "Great idea! He'll like it!"
   This thought boosted his spirits. Now he needed to get rid of this damned body and everything would be OK! He put the corpse into the car and threw an angry glance at it. The two straight lancet cuts on its chest drew his attention.
   Tanner frowned. Hmmm… Lancet cuts on a body at the deserted wasteland… God knows in what direction the cops will start digging when it is found…
   In the past, Uncle Albert (with some assistance from Bill), had been identified in police records as a person who would help certain people to heal knife or gun wounds without official reporting. If the cops managed to tie lancet cuts with an old veterinarian, then even his old age would not prevent him from trouble.
   "Wound edges are so strict! A lancet – any fool can see that!" brooded Billy, as he peered at the wounds. "If only they were curved or ragged!"
   Ragged! A vivid picture flashed into his memory. As a teenager, Billy had worked as a cowboy in Wyoming and once happened to see ragged wounds on the body of another cowboy, who had been attacked by two wolves. The beasts had crunched the hands and belly of this poor guy, making him look like minced beef. The man was lucky to have survived. If there were wolves in the wasteland, they could take good care of the body with their teeth, so that nobody could discover lancet cuts. However, the last wolf in that area had probably been shot a hundred years ago.
   "One can only find wolves at the Zoo these days!" Tanner thought sadly and then immediately recalled that he had passed the Zoo on his way to Uncle Albert's.
   "Yes, correct!" An idea clicked in his mind, "No need to drive to the wasteland! The zoo is empty at night! I can just throw the body over the fence with wolves and it will be the best solution!!!"
   Billy's eyes flashed with self-congratulation. What a smart guy I am! Ah! Perfect idea! He started the engine with a loud squeak and rapidly drove back.
//-- * * * --//
   The high fence of the Zoo was not a problem for him. He just picked up one of the wrought-iron bars that seemed to be less connected to the cross-bar and pulled it hard. Then he got into the newly created entrance himself and dragged his dead burden through.
   The dark pathways of the Zoo met him with misty air, somber squeals of invisible night birds, and a whisper of trembling leaves. The last time Billy had visited the Zoo was far in his past and he stopped in hesitation. Where was the wolf cage? He glanced around and a big smile appeared on his face. He found something better than wolves!
   Through the thick grids of the fence, he saw a big lion, comfortably sprawled beneath the tree. A moat, separating the lion's grounds from the fence, was bridged with two planks, and if he climbed over the fence and made a few steps over the wood, he could easily throw the body in front of the lion's nose!
   Lady Luck was on Billy's side, and in a few minutes his plan was almost accomplished. The lion produced a couple of warning roars while Tanner was crossing the fence, but didn't try to rise on his four feet and attack the visitor. Bill carefully stepped onto the small bridge, raised his arms up, and threw the body forward with all the strength and anger he had accumulated during this tough night.
   When the corpse slammed onto the ground, about four feet away from the beast, the lion jumped onto his paws and uttered a deafening and frightening roar. Instincts forced Billy to take a flying leap back over the fence and rush away with a scream of fear that outshouted the lion. Accompanied by the agitated cries of the Zoo inhabitants, he rapidly went through his hand-made entrance, sprang into his car, and vanished into the night.
   A hundred feet away, the former accountant was stirring his bouillon and frowning, annoyed with the loud roar of the African lion.
//-- * * * --//
   Paul Krosby hurriedly grabbed the receiver of ringing phone.
   "Krosby here!"
   "Paul, not many results so far, but we found a remark in Magnus's records about a small hardware store. Not a very clear note, but… Please, ask the guys from the record-keeping office to check everything we have regarding small hardware stores."
   "Yes, of course!" responded the Chief, making notes on the piece of paper in front of him, "Anything else?"
   "No. That's it for now." said Briks, and he hung up.
   "Hardware… Small stores…" murmured Krosby and scowled, "Will check them all!"

Chapter 4. Motorcycle Racing

   Two best friends, Roy and Sandy, were riding a motorcycle along abandoned country roads. Drunk with a speed and four cans of beer, they were screaming, shrieking, spitting, and jumping on the leather seat, not able to cope with the excitement with their raucous ride. The powerful Kawasaki engine filled the quiet night air with a deafening roar – the boys were pushing the maximum speed.
   Sandy and Roy proudly called themselves Sauron and Aragorn, but were better known by the rather representative names of Pimples and Bag-of-Bones. The two friends represented the classic category of dumb losers and none of the local street gangs wanted to be affiliated with them, so the boys had to enjoy communication with each other only. They occupied themselves with minor hooliganism and jealously listened to the stories about cool folks from Western district and unbeatable gangsters from Southern quarter, circulating in the bar.
   This night, the criminal career of the two young loons had apparently reached its peak. Pimples Sandy accidentally overheard a conversation between his mother and a neighbor. The neighbor was leaving on a business trip and asked his mother to water her plants while she was away. The lady owned a new, green Kawasaki "Volcano" and Sandy could not resist the temptation.
   When night came, he and Roy broke into her garage and took the mechanical wonder outside. To avoid unnecessary attention from neighborhood, they didn't start the Kawasaki's engine until they had wheeled it far enough, but when they reached a remote district, they had a lot of fun.
   The boys sped down an empty country road (chosen on purpose, for they were less likely to run into the road police there), changing with each other at the handle bars and pushing the gears to the maximum extent.
   "Wow-a-a-ho-o-o-o!!!" yelled Pimples Sandy gleefully and he stretched his legs forward.
   Skinny Roy at the handle bars joined his scream and was going to accelerate the bike, but his glance landed on the fuel sensor.
   "Sandy, do you have any money?" He frowned, craned backward, and decreased the speed.
   "Money? No!" responded Sandy. "Remember? We spent our last bucks on beer!"
   "F.....!" swore Roy. "We have to turn back, for this horse will die soon! The gasoline is at the zero level!"
   Sandy's Pimples face took on a pained expression. He looked like a child whose candy was jockeyed out. It was not fair! This wonderful game could not be stopped by such a stupid and banal reason as lack of fuel!
   He frantically waved his hands in acute disappointment and got in touch with the back side of the bike.
   "Wait!" he bellowed directly into the ear of his friend. "I have an idea!!!"
   Skinny Roy obediently turned the Kawasaki to the roadside. When he stopped, Sandy jumped out of the seat and started to pat his pockets, looking for a knife.
   "The carrier!" he shouted, in response to his friend's puzzled glance. "We didn't check the carrier! It could have money in there!"
   "Aha!" Roy joyfully agreed.
   Sandy at last found his knife and tried to stick its end into the lock of the carrier.
   "Damn, I'd better have a strand of wire!" he mumbled, unsuccessfully picking a tiny hole.
   Roy helplessly glanced around, found nothing useful, and peered at the carrier again.
   "Maybe there's a wire inside?" he asked, with hope in his voice.
   "You fool!" his friend angrily snorted. "You'd better look inside your own coat! Or, no, you'd better hold here and I'll try to slew round!"
   Roy already understood that he said a stupid thing and quickly seized the plastic tank with both hands, looking guilty. His left finger accidentally pushed the lock button and the top of the carrier smoothly went up.
   "Ahhh!" exclaimed Sandy, in amusement. "It's not locked!"
   "Aha!" Roy eagerly joined his excitement and both rushed to look inside.
   The spacious carrier was empty. The only object inside was an old newspaper.
   "Nothing!" said Roy, in an acute disappointment.
   Sandy stretched out his hand and grabbed newspaper. A heavy, dark item slipped out of it and landed at the bottom of the carrier with a thud.
   "What the crap is that?" murmured Sandy suspiciously, and he put his second hand inside.
   "This is…" The words stuck in his throat, his brows went up, and his eyes flashed. "Roy, this is a gun!!!"
   "A gun?!" echoed his friend, peering at the small pistol. "What is your neighbor? A special agent?"
   "Who knows?" Sandy stared at the gun in a daze. "…No, she is some sort of a dancer at the nightclub. I heard her once telling my mother that single women must have a gun nowadays…"
   The cool metal sides of the weapon warmed up under his trembling fingers. Exultation was rising inside him. The dancer neighbor and the lack of fuel were quickly forgotten.
   "Start the engine!" vowed Pimples. "Guns on fire!!!"
   What could be better than to speed through the night, with a pistol in hand, towards unknown dangers?
   The friends got onto the bike again and engine roar was accompanied by the loud squeal of tires over asphalt.
   "Ya-a-a-a!" bellowed Sandy, shaking the hand with the pistol over his head,
   " Y-o-o-o!" wailed Roy in his turn, pushing the gears hard.
   They were overwhelmed with excitement. Ha-ha!!! Watch out, everybody!!! We are the top guys!!!
   This demonstration of self-importance required an audience, and Roy, instinctively, turned the Kawasaki towards the city. A few minutes later, they started to meet the occasional vehicles.
   "Sandy, look, this is Three-fingers-man!" called Sandy, pointing to the motorcycle in front of them, "Ha-ha!!! It's money coming! He owes me twenty bucks!"
   Roy nodded obediently and increased speed.
   Sandy's debtor with three fingers was curled on the seat of an old Honda bike. Another person was clumsily frozen behind his back.
   "Who's he riding with?" asked Roy.
   "Who cares? I need my money back! Hey!!! Three-Fingers!!! Wait!!!" yelled Sandy and commanded, "Get him!"
   The sound of the Kawasaki engine went higher and the distance between two bikes started to shorten.
   "Three-Fingers!!!"
   This time, Sandy's voice reached the ears of the Honda driver. He turned his head backward and twisted his lips in a scornful smile.
   "Wait!!!" shouted Sandy at the top of his voice. "I'll get you!"
   The old Honda was well-used, but still a powerful vehicle. Its engine gulped an additional portion of fuel with a roar of satisfaction, and readily carried the passengers forward at increased speed.
   "You f…!" bellowed Sandy and clasped the gun with both hands, "It's the last warning! Stay put!"
   He imagined himself to be James Bond, Rambo, and the Terminator all at once, chasing a vicious criminal. Sandy quickly aimed and pulled the trigger of the pistol.
   The report right above Roy's ear startled him and he lost hold of the handle bars. The bike wheeled aside and ran into the drain. Skinny hands caught the bar at the last moment, but gravity was stronger. The bike grunted, sputtered, stopped, and fell on one side.
   "Damn! Roy, I didn't know this thing is loaded!" The deeply shocked Sandy scrambled out of the seat, goggling at the small pistol.
   His friend was sitting on the ground and vigorously shook his ear with a finger, trying to recover his hearing.
   "Aha…" he nodded gloomily and rubbed his bruised leg.
   "Holly Hell!" Sandy could hardly breathe with agitation. He gazed around, overloaded with excitement, but then suddenly shut up, with his eyes fixed at some point ahead.
   His friend, surprised by the prolonged silence, raised his head and asked, "What's there?" Receiving no reply, he peered in the same direction.
   A strange, dark mass ruffled the surface of the flat grey road several yards ahead.
   "What the hell?" murmured Sandy, and moved forward.
   Roy eagerly got to his feet and followed him, slightly limping. "This is the guy from the back seat of Three-Fingers' Honda!" he said, very surprised, when they approached the strange mass, "Look, he fell out of the seat, but Three-Fingers didn't even bother to stop and get him back!"
   Sandy didn't answer. He got to his knees and started a fast search over the hands and head of the motionless guy.
   "Roy!" he croaked and raised his eyes, filled with horror, at his friend. "He is not breathing and there are no heart beats!"
   "Oh!" noted the skinny boy, with commiseration. "Must have been a strong crash!"
   "It wasn't a crash!" The fear in Sandy's voice switched to panic. "There is a small hole in his back! I shot him!"
   "How did you shoot him?" the not very bright Roy was puzzled.
   "With-h th-this g-gun!" stammered Pimples and his lips, cheeks, nose and even ears started to tremble. His hands and legs followed, shuddering with horror. The small pistol danced in his quivering fingers.
   "Ah?" Roy's jaw dropped when he realized what happened. "You mean, you… Killed him?"
   "Looks like that!… Killed!" Sandy's body was shaking as if he had been struck by electricity.
   "Bloody hell!" his friend concluded dazedly, staring at the dead stranger on the road.
   They goggled at him for a while in a deep silence. Roy was the first one to collect himself. "Need to run away!" he noted thoughtfully, turned, and went towards the bike.
   "… run away!" echoed Sandy and took a step back. Then he made one more step, turned around, and reached Kawasaki, which was lying on the side of the road before his friend. His shaking began to cease. "Wait!" he frowned, coming back to senses. "What's the use of running away? Three-Fingers saw us and will report everything to the police!"
   "Of course, he will!" agreed Roy, "Then, no need for him to give you your twenty dollars back!"
   Sandy stopped, deeply absorbed in his thoughts. His brains, not very much used for thinking, worked hard. "We need to hide the body!" he decided at last and he repeated a phrase, heard somewhere, "No body – no crime!"
   "Aha!" Roy eagerly agreed. "How?"
   "In a smart way!" said Sandy meaningfully. "So the cops will never find out!"
   "We'll burn him?" proposed his friend, but he quickly changed his mind when he met Sandy's look of deprecation, "Or, we can throw him off the bridge?"
   "No!" Pimples firmly brushed away these possibilities. "Three-Fingers will go to the police and they'll come to us anyway! We need this guy to be shot by somebody else!"
   "Right!" Roy enthusiastically exclaimed. "How?"
   "I've seen it in the movies!" Sandy eagerly responded. "We'll bring the body to the gunfight place and then it would be unclear who shot him!"
   "Super!" Roy's listened with rapture. "Where is there a gunfight now?"
   This question cooled Sandy down. He thoroughly measured all possible options, but nothing of this kind was outlined in the near future.
   "We'll ride around and find something!" he decided. "TV news keeps telling about the bad crime situation in the city!"
   "Ride on what?" noted Roy logically, throwing a glance at the prostrate Kawasaki. "The bike is out of fuel!"
   Sandy bit his lip in frustration. A great plan was ruined with a trifle! "Eh-h-h! I wish we could find somebody armed and ready to shoot on sight!" he scowled.
   The friends exchanged glances and the same thought hit both minds. "Sledge Hammer!" they bellowed in unison.
   The previous year, they'd had a first-hand experience with the austere personality of Sledge Hammer, who owned a small hardware store in their district.
   "If we broke his show-glass, he'd start shooting immediately!" Sandy's eyes flashed.
   "Exactly!" agreed Roy, "Like when we're stealing apples from his garden!"
   "Great! Start the engine!" Sandy's tremor disappeared completely, "There should be enough gas to reach his store!"
   They hurriedly hoisted the body between them and sped down an empty streets of the suburb. A few blocks away from Billy's house, the bike snorted couple of times and died. The rest of the way, they had to carry the corpse with four hands. When they finally got to the place, Sandy rummaged over the dusty ground, grabbed the biggest stone, and threw it directly into the window glass with the big letters "TANNER'S HARDWARE." With a loud "Bammm," part of the window burst to splinters, and Ann Tanner opened her eyes and tried to understand what had interrupted her sleep.
   "Move up!" commanded Pimples in a muffled voice. "Let's push him into the window!"
   Together, they started to propel an inert body towards the glass frame.
   "It can't come through!" wheezed Roy, "Hole is too small!"
   "Yes!" Sandy agreed. "Need to make it bigger!" He grabbed another stone, raised his hand, and the rest of the window glass crashed loudly onto the tiled floor.
   "Push him higher, so Sledge Hammer won't miss, but keep your own head down!" directed Pimples, grasping the left leg of the corpse. He was following his own instructions industriously and didn't notice when the small black pistol slipped out of his pocket and quietly dropped to the ground.
   Roy, hugging the right leg, gave him a comprehensive nod and the dead body started its slow and clumsy move up, right into the gun point of Bill Tanner's Winchester.
//-- * * * --//
   The phone in Krosby's office rang again.
   "Paul, we found out that Magnus was renting a motorcycle, but there is no one around! Our experts are trying to determine its trademark and the name of the rental company. You need to contact road police. If we find the bike, we can probably find the person who took it out!"
   "Got it!" responded Krosby succinctly. He made a few more notes in his old notebook.

Chapter 5. The Old Boat

   Dustin Popescu, the captain of the old rusty boat "Abigail" (he called it a yacht in moments of high spirits or mental darkness), looked at his watch. He still had fifteen minutes before the meeting and a content smile appeared on his face. Dustin hated to be in a hurry and didn't like people always rushing to and fro.
   He threw a glance at the illuminator and wondered if he could smoke a pipe.
   "No," he decided after reflecting for a while. "Payk could come ahead of the established time and disturb the tranquil and serene process of pipe-smoking. I'd better relax with a pipe in my hammock when everything's over."
   Rusty "Abigail" was rocking at anchor under the cliffs. Deep water close to the shore and road over the cliff made this place to be an ideal meeting point for Payk and Dustin.
   The captain of the old yacht represented one of the links in the long chain of drug dealers. Oh, no! His honorable soul never approved of this business, but what else could a poor old sailor do for a living nowadays?
   "I have to fall in line with life!" Dustin sighed sadly, receiving a regular portion of freight. The same words, but much more gaily, he repeated when getting money for this work.
   His job was to get a parcel on his boat – roped and lowered by Payk, who parked at the roadside on the top of the cliff – and deliver it to the pleasure crafts already inspected by the harbor police. This smart scheme had worked successfully for a few years already, right under the noses of the patrol boats. If Dustin was just able to resist his strong passion for whisky, he could make a handsome fortune at this job, for it was well-paying and organized with high conspiracy.
   Popescu saw his deliverer only two times, and in both instances Payk was wearing dark glasses and had raised the collar of his coat up to his ears. Dustin pretended to conduct the secrecy, but chuckled at the partner to himself.
   He knew that Payk's real name was Robin Wolter and that he was a clerk at the bank office in the district that Dustin lived in. He identified this fact by the sound of an old Mitsubishi engine Payk drove to the bank and to the cliff. Not far in the past, Popescu used to be a good engine operator, able to distinguish the slightest differences in the engine sounds that a layperson would never hear.
   Dustin sat back in his chair on the deck and stretched legs forward. Despite the close proximity to the city, it was unbelievably quiet around. Stars twinkled in the night sky, infrequent cars sped down the road over the cliffs, and the sea whispered its endless stories to the black rocks. The old captain of the "Abigail" closed his eyes and relaxed. He still had plenty of time.
   Suddenly, a familiar engine sound came from above. A car came close to the cliff edge and stopped.
   "Here is Payk…," Dustin murmured and frowned, looking at his watch. "…Five minutes ahead of time!"
   He reluctantly got to his feet, took a jackknife out of his pocket, and opened its blade. The usual portion of white powder was already coming from above, at the end of the rope.
   "Zing!" and cut off rope went up, leaving a package in the captain's hand. Tires crackled over the gravel, the roar of engine, and Payk was driving his way away from the cliffs, as if he had never stopped here. The entire action had taken not more than a minute. The harbor police would never manage to get them!
   Dustin chuckled to himself and weighed the parcel in his right hand. Everything was correct. This day's package was heavier than usual. Before the weekend, demand for the hell potion increased. Tomorrow, the crystals would turn into blessed liquid for the lovers of chemical pleasure.
   Before placing the jackknife and the package into a safe place, Popescu carefully looked around. Everything was quiet. That's great!
   "Now, engage the boat engine and head to the 'Southern Rose', anchored at the far end of the harbor!" he commanded himself.
   A sudden noise from above stopped him. He raised his head. It was a car engine, no doubt.
   Payk is back? thought the captain, rather surprised, and corrected himself. No, this is another car. Who the hell is that?
   Cars never stopped at this abandoned place, but this one was definitely repeating Payk's maneuver, with the only difference that the new visitor shut off the engine. In the sudden hush, Dustin was able to hear a muffled noise and somebody's heavy breathing.
   Further developments of the situation were so fast that the only movement the old sailor was able to produce was to raise his eyebrows up in great surprise. He was standing at the same place, knife in one hand and a package in the other, when something dark and heavy collapsed on top of him from the cliff top and crushed him down to the deck.
   Dustin lay spread-eagled on the floor and enjoyed orange circles caused by the tough contact of his head with the deck surface.
   "What the hell?" he mumbled, trying to regain a sitting posture and coordinate his eyes.
   When he managed to do this, and stared in a numb surprise at the object that pressed him onto the floor, he realized that he was very lucky today. If the man had crashed onto him slightly more to the left, the captain's backbone would be broken for sure. Instead, all his weight had hit the captain's right shoulder.
   "Madonna Mia!" he whispered, with dry lips. He tried to get his right hand from under the body, but the hand was not getting out, despite his continuous efforts. Something was keeping a tight hold of it.
   "Knife!" Dustin understood. "This dumbhead fell directly into his fist with a popped-up knife blade and it got deeply into the belly of this unwelcome height-jumper! You brute!" Popescu burst with anger, looking at the unknown person, "Can't you find another place for suicide???"
   When he'd settled in this suburb fifteen years ago, he was told that this cliff used to be a favorite place for self-killers, but after construction of several new bridges and skyscrapers, they'd all moved to the city center.
   Dustin pulled his hand stronger and the bloodstained knife, with a disgusting croak, came to the light.
   "You bastard!" he scowled ferociously. "If you gonna get drowned, why on earth do you jump on another people's boats? You nearly killed me! Idiot!"
   The idiot didn't respond. His vacant eyes stared up at the sky.
   "What crap!" Popescu angrily shook his head, when he realized that suicide had achieved his goal, but his death was caused not by the water, but by the captain's knife. "Hmmm… May be he didn't jump himself?" he thought, "May be somebody helped him?"
   He raised his head upward again, but it was quiet there. If this fallen stranger was not alone, the car that had brought him here had already left while the captain had been struggling for freedom on the deck.
   "Jerks!" he said angrily through his teeth and switched his glance to the left hand. The picture he saw forced the old sailor to remember all the swear words he'd ever known. Even though carefully packed in several layers of paper and cellophane, the parcel also had suffered from the jumper's crash. One corner of the wrapping was torn and valuable white powder was disseminated over the wooden deck.
   Dustin immediately forgot about his burning shoulder, jumped onto his feet, and tried to pull together the torn edges of the package with his quivering fingers.
   "My Lord! What should I do? It's just a little bit thrown out!" he murmured hastily, trying to persuade himself. "They won't notice!…"
   The powder that was lying on the flat surface was collectable, but how could he reach what had dropped deep between the planks??? Popescu was perfectly aware that every milligram counted here.
   "They won't notice!… Won't notice!" he repeated as a spell, carefully gathering the white crystals into a small pile, but he didn't believe himself.
   He'd happened to hear couple of stories about the serious guys he was working for. If they suspected him of stealing part of the freight, he would be sent to feed the fish at this very moment. And they will suspect, for sure! Who on earth would believe that an idiot had crashed on the top of me and had torn the package as well?
   "I will show them this idiot! And I will show the crystals between planks!" Popescu debated with himself, but his inner voice laughed mockingly and knocked down all his reasons.
   Nobody would listen to him! The freight he was responsible for was damaged and partly lost and they had a perfect solution for this category of trouble – one more old sailor would stop striding the earth, that's all!
   Deeply absorbed in his internal dialogue, Dustin missed the moment when the sound of another engine roared next to the "Abigail." The searchlight from a patrol boat illuminated the deck and the captain crawling on it.
   "Here!!! Here they are!!!" exclaimed Popescu ebulliently, when the spotlight made the white crystals between the planks visible. "I didn't take it!"
   "Ahoy, 'Abigail'! Who is on board?" a loud voice from a megaphone asked.
   Dustin went cold. He began to feel that his previous accident shrank to trifles in the face of this new problem. A few yards away from his yacht, a police boat was softly rocking on the waves and a cop, undetectable in the darkness, repeated his question, "'Abigail'! Respond!"
   Popescu got together all his will power and slowly rose to his feet, sweating heavily with horror. "Ah… Kh-h-h… Mna…" His lips and tongue became stiff and unable to produce words.
   "Who is on board?" demanded the police boat.
   "It's m-me!… Captain P-Popescu!"
   "Ah, that's you, Dustin! I thought you'd fallen into the water!" chuckled a man from the boat and Popescu recognized Sergeant Quinn's voice. "Who is there with you?" A spotlight went to the left and outlined the motionless figure on the deck.
   All Dustin's guts fell down somewhere and his empty belly was immediately filled with a sickening fear. Oh, Lord! I'm in real trouble now! If only the sergeant would overlook the package!!!
   "This is old MacGregor!" he croaked, as though at his last gasp. "Drunk to death; cannot even stand up!"
   "Hmmm…" said Quinn doubtfully. "I guess he is not the only one drunk here!"
   "How can you say that, boss!" shouted the old sailor in a harsh voice. "I didn't drink at all!"
   "Drunk persons cannot drive a boat!" roared the sergeant austerely.
   "I'm telling you, I haven't been drinking!" pleaded poor Popescu, "It's all about MacGregor!" He threw a quick glance at the body and thanked God, because from its posture, nobody could identify if it was his old friend or somebody else.
   There was a short silence, followed by a loud clang, and Dustin lost his breath. It was the sound of the anchor chain! They are going to come closer and get on board Abigail to discover my full house: a dead body with a hole from my knife and a package of heroin!
   "I swear on Bible that I haven't been drinking!" Popescu vowed desperately. "Sergeant!… You know me!!!… I would never!!!"
   "Shut up!" said the sergeant coldly, and Dustin merely saw his scornful smirk. "Okay! Go home with your companion!" commanded the policeman after a short silence, "Move on!"
   "Yes. yes!!!…" Popescu hurriedly responded. He rushed down to the wheel room. He started the engine with shaking hands, peering in panic at the patrol boat through the glass, but no more commands or signals came from there.
   In a few minutes, rusty "Abigail" hit a pier, a quarter mile aside. Dustin stopped the engine, got onto the deck, and saluted farewell to sergeant.
   Quinn switched off the spotlight, for there was no need for it – Dustin's boat was now illuminated by a big lamppost over the pier, but showed no intent of moving away. He lazily returned the salute, clasped hands on his chest, and continued standing at the board, watching every step of the old captain.
   "Damn!" Popescu thought irritably, "He's waiting until I completely get out of here with MacGregor!" He went on his knees close to the body and hastened to pull together the torn wrapping of the package with his stiff fingers. There was no time now to worry about the fallen crystals. He created a sort of patch, stealthily put the package into his inner pocket, and turned to the supposed MacGregor. Dustin placed one hand over his shoulders and began to rise to his feet, and, although the stranger was almost double his weight and height, fear boosted the captain's strength remarkably.
   Breathing hard and sweating profusely, he lugged the motionless body along the pier, in the desperate hope that, from this distance, the sergeant wouldn't be able to notice that MacGregor had become taller and had a hole in his belly.
   Breathless from this hard job, he reached his bike and turned his head back. Perfectly bored, Quinn was still at his place. Quietly cursing his meticulousness, Dustin started to settle the corpse on the bike's seat and only his fifth attempt was successful. Ineffectively trying to stop the shaking of his own hands and knees, he flopped onto the bike himself and put the stranger's hands under his arms to prevent it from falling over.
   "My Lord! Do something to get that sergeant out of here!" pleaded the exhausted Popescu, but the Highest was not on his side today.
   Damned Quinn continued to stare indifferently at the captain's torment from the deck of police boat.
   "Don't you have another work to do?" murmured Dustin in anguish and started the bike's engine.
   The challenge of riding a bike with unstable corpse behind his back was not very much encouraging. "If only I could get to those trees!" decided Popescu, viewing the road. "When I'm past them, I can't be seen from the water and I can throw this blasted suicide into the nearest ditch!"
   The captain's right hand nervously pushed the gears on the bike handle. His left hand clenched the bar so hard that the knuckles of its three only fingers went white. It was a terribly painful experience to ride a bike with one's arms tightly pressed to one's body to prevent the slipping out of a corpse and Dustin was as twisted as a paper clip.
   When the much anticipated trees were very close and Popescu was ready to get rid of the dead body, he was suddenly blinded by driving lights.
   "Damn you all!" The captain's eyes flashed with wrath when he saw a few vehicles going in different directions on the recently abandoned road. "Why don't you sleep at night?"
   He could not throw a corpse into the bushes in front of the eyes of other people. Popescu decreased his speed and waited for a moment for the road to be empty.
   "Three-Fingers!" he heard a voice behind his back.
   "For goodness sake!" vowed the old captain, raising his eyes to the sky, when he recognized the owner of the voice. "Don't you think, God, this is too much? You must be confusing me with Saint Joseph!" He spat angrily to the side, pushed the gears hard, and made an oath that his legs would never cross the doorstep of a church again. Suddenly, a deafening bang came from behind and the Honda bike rocked. Dustin began to feel a breeze at the back of his neck and realized that his blasted burden had disappeared.
   "It fell over!" he gasped in horror and he was going to turn back, but at that very minute, the faint bell of Saint Nicholas' church, announcing midnight, reached his ears.
   The captain thought for a moment and then gratefully looked at the sky. "Okay, Godfather, if that's your mercy, then okay, I will attend service every Sunday!"
   He pushed gears again and the Honda, with its reduced load, eagerly sped down the road.
//-- * * * --//
   "Paul!" Alan's voice in the phone trembled with agitation, "Folks decoded one more note in Magnus' book! It was highlighted, which means it's something important!"
   "Go on!" Krosby responded impatiently and grasped a pencil.
   "It says 'need to contact harbor police,' with an exclamation mark and three thick underlines! Phone to boat patrol guys. He might already have contacted them and they could have something for us!"
   "Coming!" said the Chief abruptly, rising from his chair.
   "We'll get your murderers, Robert!" said he darkly and his eyes glared, "We'll get them!"

Chapter 6. Two pretty girls

   Brenda Maxwell angrily pushed down the radio button, shutting off one more squeaking singer. The occasional vehicles were quickly passing by, and the lights of a skyscraper were slowly looming out of the darkness in front.
   "What's wrong?" the girl on the passenger's seat aggrievedly said. "Let me listen!"
   "Listened enough!" Brenda austerely said and concentrated on driving. The girls were coming back home from a new bar in the suburbs, recommended by their manicurist as a place where you could hook up with a nice guy.
   After four cocktails, Brenda should not have been driving, of course, but how could she entrust the wheel to this foolish girl? She threw an unfriendly sidelong glance. The girl in the passenger's seat sat back comfortably and tunelessly murmured some sort of song.
   "Do me a favor: shut up!" said Brenda, not able to stand the singing.
   "Why shut up?…" responded the girl in an injured voice. "Radio's prohibited, singing's prohibited, what is permitted then?"
   "Alice Soliers!" Brenda scowled, "Don't even start!"
   Alice pouted her lips with an expression of extreme offense and went silent, but her silence didn't last long. She leered at Brenda, curled a string of blond hair over her finger, and said with feign innocence, "Don't be nasty! I told you: he is not my sort!"
   Brenda's hand on the wheel jerked and the car swerved with a loud squeak. "What are you talking about?" Her eyes flashed.
   "You know what about!" responded Alice, with a certain triumph.
   "What do you mean?"
   "Oh, come on! Stop pretending! That guy in the bar with the stiletto tattoo! I'm telling you, I didn't like him! It's not my fault that he chose me!" Her lips twisted in a foxy smile.
   "I don't care about that damned fool!" shouted Brenda angrily, but her face clearly reflected the opposite feeling.
   Brenda Maxwell was Alice's aunt, but as her sister, Alice's mother, was much older, Brenda was only three years older than her niece. She was twenty-nine and Alice had just celebrated her twenty-sixth birthday.
   A few years previously, Brenda had left home town and moved to the big city. There, she rapidly went through an unhappy marriage and the following divorce, before Alice, also magnetized by the lights of the megapolis, joined her. Brenda worked as a supermarket cashier and Alice had started to sell tickets at the cinema. They shared an apartment and had gotten along together rather well for more than a year already. Usually, two pretty ladies –one blond and one dark-haired – attracted the attention of different male types, with rare incidents like the one that had happened couple of hours ago in the bar.
   It was unclear what appeared to be the main reason – consumed cocktails or the handsomeness of the guy with the stiletto tattoo – but Brenda went off more than usual. She shook her curly head vigorously and hit the gas pedal with all her strength. The car roared ferociously and jumped forward.
   "HE is not my type! He is starting to go bald and has bad teeth!" she yelled with anger.
   "Hey, slow down!" Alison's blond head heavily bumped into the head cushion as the car raced forward.
   "He is!… He…" the black-haired girl spluttered with rage.
   What other bad features the guy with the tattoo possessed remained unknown. Suddenly, a faint shadow shot over the windshield and the car jumped high, with a loud bang. Safety belts pressed both girls down, preventing them from making holes in the cabin roof with their heads.
   Brenda's eyes widened with fear and she hurriedly hit the footbrake.
   "What was that???…" mumbled Alice, with stiff lips, turning to her.
   "H-have n-no idea!…" Brenda's fingers were shaking, and her face turned pale, "Might be a stone?… Or blowout?"
   "Ought to have a look…" remarked Alice, but she remained motionless. She always knew when to take advantage of being younger.
   "Let's go out and have a look then!" scowled Brenda, very familiar with that trick.
   To run into conflict with a furious aunt was quite dangerous, so Alice reluctantly pulled the door handle, keeping to herself the comment that it was not her problem because she was not driving.
   Both girls got out of the car and slowly went to the back. A full moon illuminated an empty road and fields around.
   "Oh, my!…" Brenda gasped faintly. She was the first to notice him and clasped her hands to head in horror. "Alice, we hit a man!"
   Not we, but you! corrected her Alice within herself, and loudly announced, "We should call nine-one-one!"
   Brenda didn't respond. She jumped to the ground at the lying person and began to shake him vigorously. "Hey! Stand up! You, stand up!…"
   Her niece also got down and tried to feel for a heart beat at the wrist and neck of the man. At the tender age of fourteen, she'd wanted to become a nurse and had dutifully attended first aid courses at school.
   "Brenda, stop it!" she said in a low voice and her heart faltered. "He cannot stand up! He is dead!"
   "Don't talk nonsense!" her aunt angrily responded and strongly shook the poor guy once more. "What the hell's up with you?… Stand up!!!"
   "Brenda, don't be fool!" Alice raised her voice. "I'm telling you, he is dead!"
   "Dead? How could he being dead?" Brenda opened her mouth wide. "Why???"
   "Because you hit him!" explained Alice, slightly annoyed with her slow-witted relative.
   "But how could I?… I can't!… It's not me!" stammered Brenda. Her thoughts were all jumbled together, bringing to the forefront old offenses. "It's your fault! You should not drive me nuts!"
   "You should not drink and rush at this speed!"
   "You, bitch!"
   "You bitch yourself!!!"
   In the next second, the ladies crashed into each other, screaming, hissing, and shrieking, and started to tear blond and black hair from their opponent's head.
   Unfortunately, they couldn't enjoy the fight to its full extent. A big white jeep sped along the road and the driver inside it beeped the horn, shouted out something, and vanished in the distance.
   The girls sprang away from each other in alarm and tried to put their hair, clothes, and thoughts back into shape. Alcohol melted away from their heads and the dreadful situation with the dead man came out in very dark colors. Brenda had been driving, but the car was registered in Alice's name. What if Brenda said she was a passenger? There were no witnesses to prove it either way!
   "What are we going to do?" Alice frowned at her relative.
   Her aunt didn't respond. She looked totally confused: vacant eyes, open mouth, and slightly swinging head.
   Alice uttered a sigh. Playing "junior" in this situation wouldn't help. "We should move the body from the road and rush out of here!" she said, with grim determination.
   "Rush?" Brenda's vacant eyes became more conscious.
   "Yes, rush! Nobody saw us! It could be anyone that rammed into this guy!"
   "That driver in the white jeep! He saw us!" Brenda started, recalling the car beeping at them.
   "So what?" responded the blond-hair girl. "He saw two girls fighting on the road! Moreover, he was driving at such a high speed that he could hardly detect things clearly!"
   "Right!" exclaimed Brenda, with enthusiasm. "He saw nothing! It's dark night now!" She stared around. Roadway M49, as it was marked on the nearest road sign, was still quiet and abandoned. She cheered up and quickly returned to her usual mood. She paused for a moment, thinking, and then commanded, "Open the trunk!"
   "What for?" asked her niece suspiciously.
   "We'll stuff him inside and drive back a few miles. This road goes very close to the cliff edge and we will throw him down there. If we leave him here, that driver from the white jeep could possibly report to police that he saw two women at the accident scene. And if he has good vision and noticed our plates…"
   "Oh, yes! You're right!" Alice shuddered with fear, thinking about this prospect, "Let's throw him into the water before someone else comes here!"
   The two relatives combined their efforts and placed the body into the trunk, acting in a never-achieved-before harmony. In a minute, their car sped towards the high cliffs where the old yacht "Abigail" slowly rocked on the water in the darkness below.
//-- * * * --//
   The phone had been silent for forty minutes already. Krosby's mood darkened more and more. Miss Lind dared to enter his office with a cup of coffee and was frightened by his gloomy glance.
   "Coffee!" she squeaked, hurriedly placing the cup on the table and then sweeping out.
   Deeply absorbed in his thoughts, her boss didn't even pay attention to the intrusion, but the rich aroma of coffee penetrated his cranium and gently accelerated his brain activity. Krosby hurriedly grabbed the receiver and dialed Briks's number. The phone line was full of atmosphere and static interference.
   "Alan!" he shouted through squeaking and hissing. "Ask the guys to look for the notes about roadway M49 in Robert's records! It connects the eastern suburb with the city center; it's not overloaded with traffic and at nights is almost empty. Part of it goes very close to the shore and we discussed the possibility of organizing a drug transit point somewhere there!"
   "OK!" responded Briks hoarsely. He sounded exhausted.
   Krosby looked at his watch. No wonder, it's five o'clock in the morning. He rubbed red, inflamed eyes and returned to his notes searching for the only answer – how could it happen? It was, no doubt, the best operation developed by him. How could it fail???

Chapter 7. The Grey Van

   "… if you didn't change the air filter on time, the engine would not get enough oxygen, which means that…"
   The monotone speech of Zach Berton was getting into the ears, under skin and caused itchiness of the entire body.
   Sam wanted to cover his head with hands and let out a howl of anger at his poor life. Why???? Why did he, Sam Mattinson, a normal guy from the suburb, have to be shaking in this lousy truck and listening to the tiresome monologs of this crashing bore Berton, instead of hanging around a football field or beer-bar, or having another sort of fun, as all his friends did?
   "You must obey Uncle Zach in every matter!" The preaching tone of the voice of his mother sounded in his head. "Only for him you are not in the jail now!" After these words, she always made a sign of cross, hastily sweeping away the vision of her son in prison uniform.
   "It must be more fun in jail than with this damned Berton!" Sam thought gloomily, as he looked at the passing vehicles with vacant eyes.
   "… but if you change air-filter on time, the engine has enough…" The steady waterfall of words from his uncle's mouth never stopped for a second. It slowly streamed down and seemed to cover people and things in the cabin with a thick layer of boredom and mold.
   Sam thought that one more minute – and he was suffocated by this lethargic cover that uncle could pour on his audience endlessly. He stretched a hand and lowered the window. Fresh air brought him minor relief.
   Mattinson threw a quick glance at his uncle, who was driving the truck.
   "He saved me from prison, ha!" he smirked.
   The irony was that now they were driving directly to the prison. To be precise, to prison's morgue, delivering one dead guy from the small ward of the local police department to the central office.
   Uncle Berton was his mother's cousin and the only male relative she could entrust the future of her sole son. When Sam, along with couple of buddies was caught on shoplifting, he not only vouched for him, but also got him employed.
   "Dream job with great career opportunities!" Sam's lips twisted with annoyance, "Today you are a junior laborer at the morgue, but in just only twenty years, you'll grow up, as uncle Zach did, to be the senior laborer!"
   Mattinson looked outside with anguish. The landscape was also not very encouraging: an empty night road, dark fields alongside and only far in front, the big city illuminated the sky with a yellowish glow.
   Suddenly, the endless stream of uncle's logorrhea stopped in the middle of the phrase. He craned his head forward and listened. "Do you hear that?" he asked austerely, twisting his eyebrows into a knot.
   "Hear what?" Mattinson was puzzled.
   "Something's rattling inside the van!" responded the uncle worriedly, and he wheeled to the roadside. "Let's go outside and check!" He stopped the engine, got out of the car, and rushed to its back.
   Sam also scrambled out of the passenger's seat and delighted himself with a good stretch. A fresh breeze from the sea gently cooled off his face. The night air was filled with shrilling cries of cicadas and frogs croaking and Mattinson's spirit went up a little bit.
   "Sam, come here!"
   His uncle's voice from the back of the car knocked him back to reality. The boy sighed deeply and bitterly, stooped his head, and dragged himself dismally to the call.
   Uncle Berton was standing at the open rear doors and was regarding the inside of the van with a look of great reproof. "Look, Sammy!" He pointed his finger accusingly at one of the locks on the wheel-stretcher. "Laborers from this morgue are extremely unprofessional!" He shook his head disapprovingly. "That was my fault also. I should have checked myself, but they hustled us away and drove me crazy, saying 'It's a very important corpse! Extremely urgent!'" He scowled. "I will never trust them again!"
   Mattinson was staring at the wheel-stretcher, trying to understand the reason for his uncle's anger.
   "Look!" Berton's finger hit one of the metal clips. "This should be fastened, but it's loose! That's why the stretcher rolled aside! It could go off completely!"
   Now Sam noticed. One of the metal clips was not locked and the stretcher with the dead body had moved slightly to the right side.
   "Clips are always shaking during the drive and could unlock if not properly fastened!" His uncle's voice trembled with sacramental horror at the thought that something under his authority could go wrong.
   Sam was going to say that since clips on the locks didn't come loose, there was nothing to worry about, but having a look at indignant uncle's face, he decided to keep silent.
   "If clips are unlocked, the wheel-stretcher could overturn and scratch the walls of the van box! Moreover, our load could be injured!" Uncle Zach locked the hook of the clip and returned to his usual, boring murmuring.
   The boy turned away and rolled his eyes to the sky.
   "What kinda crap are you making up, uncle!" he wanted to shout out, "Our cargo cannot be injured! It's dead already!!! As for the walls of this damned van, they are heavily scratched everywhere, don't you see that? And the key point: WHEN ARE YOU GONNA SHUT UP, OLD IDIOT!!!"
   Nothing of that was pronounced, for his mother's frowning face materialized in his head quite on time and Sam ground his teeth with an impotent rage.
   "Look here, boy!" commanded Uncle Zach. "This clip holder should be in this position during transportation!" He connected two metal parts together with a loud crack. "Got it? Try yourself now!"
   Mattinson obediently repeated his hand movements. Damn! This night lasts forever! If only we could be at the destination point already! Then he could run away from his relative to the smoking room, cafeteria, or somewhere else!
   "Correct!" Berton commended him, watching closely. "Now check all the other clips!"
   Sending his uncle to the hell in his thoughts, Sam started clacking hooks and holders.
   "Great!" Berton returned into the peaceful state of mind. "Close the door now and let's go!" He rubbed his hands and headed to the cabin.
   Mattinson soundlessly threw a few blasts to his back, uttered a sigh, and began to close heavy doors of the van. Suddenly, a playful state of mind came upon him and his eyes twinkled with mischief. Sam took a look to make sure Zach was already settled in the cabin and rapidly opened rear doors again. Scratching his fingers in a hurry, he unlocked all four clips of the wheel-stretcher, paused for a moment, and locked one of them again. He stretched his lips in a pleased grin, closed the van doors, and instead of securing them with a locking bar, just unsteadily placed it on the dowel. "We can move now!" he eagerly reported to his uncle, and he flopped down onto the passenger's seat.
   Berton nodded and engaged engine. The van moved forward and Sam's ears identified a faint metal clang. It was a door locking bar slipping out of the dowel. "Oh!" he exclaimed, trying to cover up this sound. He swiftly pressed the radio button, "Let's listen to the news!"
   "… anticyclone is going to the West…" loudly announced an invisible weather person, successfully shutting out the rustling and crinkling inside the van box.
//-- * * * --//
   "Cr-r-r-a-ck.!" The last clip jumped out of its place. No longer supported, the stretcher began to swing gently on its wheels over the aluminum floor of the van. Sam kept peering at the window and quietly smiled to himself.
   The weather forecast was followed by the church chorus, singing with great enthusiasm "Do you love your Jesus deep down in your heart?…" and Zach pressed the radio button to the maximum. He eagerly joined in the song and didn't hear that on the next turning, the rear door of the van opened and the stretcher, with its dreary load, ran out with a faint squeak of the wheels.
   Both holding belts ripped when the stretcher hit the ground and the body rolled onto the asphalt. The lightened stretcher wheeled farther and after a short ride over the road, it crashed into the ditch, but all these incidents remained unnoticed by the driver. Uncle Zach dutifully articulated words of his favorite carol and gently swung his head in line with the tune.
//-- * * * --//
   The motionless body sprawled on the asphalt and if had an ability, it would have strongly objected to Sam's statement that nothing could harm the already dead, for, besides two pretty girls – one blond and one dark-haired – who couldn't come to an agreement regarding one tattooed man and now were rapidly approaching this place, the poor corpse was up to many other unpleasant challenges during this night…
//-- * * * --//
   "My Lord! Oh, my Lord!" repeated Uncle Berton with stiff and pale lips. His dark skin turned grey and eyes became unbelievably wide.
   "I did everything just as you said!" mumbled Sam again and again, with his most innocent face expression. "I locked all the clips. You saw that! I have no idea how could it came unlocked! Maybe it's the weakness of the old metal?"
   Zach Berton seemed not to be listening. He stood in front of the open door in a daze and stared inside the van with vacant eyes.
   After the "Jesus in your heart" chorus from the radio started "Heaven's Glory," then "Saved by Faith" and other hymns he liked so much. The next forty-five minutes of the way went by fast. Spiritual singing made him tender-hearted. The stronger was his shock, when during the words "… say "no" to sins!…" he threw a glance into the side mirror and discovered that one of the rear doors was swinging freely! He had hit the footbrakes and brought van to a tough halt, so Sam narrowly escaped contact of his nose with the dashboard.
   "Oh, my Lord!" Uncle Berton uttered a deep sigh and pressed hands to his heart area.
   Watching his relative rolling eyes as though at his last gasp, Sam got frightened. "No, no, uncle Zach! No need to worry like that!" called young Mattinson. He stepped forward right on time to catch his uncle's short body just a few inches before it hit the ground. "Don't get upset about this stiff! What could happen to him? A big deal – it rolled out! We'll come back and get him!" Assisting himself with a knee, he returned his uncle to a vertical posture. "Let's turn the car back and find him!" wheezed Sam, trying to keep his balance. The well-nourished bulk of uncle Zach was trying to slide out of Sam's hands, but his last phrase returned him to life.
   "… Find?" he asked, with a faint hope.
   "Of course!" responded his nephew confidently. "Let's go!"
//-- * * * --//
   For the next several hours, Sam belched out blasts and curses. He cursed everything and everybody: his uncle, who'd got him on this damned job, the church chorus that was vowing for such a long time, the road that was too straight, and his own stupid mischief with clips and locks.
   The damned corpse had disappeared. They couldn't find it. The distance they covered was quite significant, the scenery around had no landmarks and after forty minutes of intense searching, everything was messed up in his head. Looks like they stopped near this small hill? Or slightly farther? On the other hand, it could be those rushy slopes down the road!… Or not?…
   The grey van was rushing back and forth along the road. Zach and Sam alternated enthusiasm with depression in rotation, thoroughly examining ditches and roadsides, but discovered only a rubber ball with a hole, a chair leg, and other garbage.
   At three in the morning, they suddenly got lucky. In the drain ditch, next to the post, they found the slightly misshaped stretcher. Both jumped high with triumph, but this was the end of their good fortune. They rummaged every foot of the surface close to the retrieved stretcher, but found nothing, as though the dead man had become alive and had raced away from the tumble site.
   Berton exercised his imagination and dutifully designed various punishments for them – from the very earthly ones, such as firing without severance pay and indelible disgrace until the end of their lives, to the heavenly driven sanctions, in the form of different tortures upon their arrival in hell.
   When the rose-pink light of dawn glittered on the East, they realized that it was time to admit the truth. The very important dead body had dematerialized and they had to return to the morgue and report the incident. Zach completely lost heart and shambled along the roadside with a big stick in his right hand, that he pricked shrubs with. Sam, on the other side of the road, was so exhausted that he was no longer afraid of his mother's rage. His only wish was to get home and have a sleep. He could hardly keep his eyes open and his head straight.
   The sky in the East turned pale and an occasional vehicle began to appear on the road. Asleep on his feet, Mattinson barely escaped getting under the wheels of a pink Ford, racing at high speed. He shook his head vigorously, trying to awaken, and announced gloomily, "We have to go back!"
   His uncle didn't respond. He turned around, threw his stick on the ground, and headed to the van without saying a word. He waited until Sam took his seat, engaged the engine, and they slowly continued their way along roadside M49. Uncle Berton was unusually speechless and dark, and Mattinson realized that he'd preferred him bubbling about air filters, or other nuisances. They were going towards imminent payback in total silence.
   "Ehh… I need… Stop by those shrubs, please!" asked Sam, fidgeting in his seat.
   Berton nodded indifferently and changed gears. The grey van passed a small bridge and stopped near a deeply reeded slope.
   Mattinson dove into the green mass of reeds, unzipping his pants on the way and … didn't believe his own eyes. The main purpose of his visit was forgotten immediately. Sam uttered a triumphant cry and surged back. "It's here! I found it!" he shouted at the top of his voice.
   It took a while for Uncle Berton to get the meaning of these words. He continued to sit at the wheel and doggedly designed the forthcoming penalty for himself. Everlasting pan frying, shower with boiling oil, and collection of glowing coals with bare hands he considered to be not strong enough. "What?" he gasped, becoming aware of the fact that frying pan and coals might have to wait. "You found???!!!…" He scrambled out of the van and rushed to the reed bushes with the fastest possible speed for his fat body. "Are you sure it is our corpse?" he whispered in horror, peering at the bloody mask with one eye instead of a face.
   "Who else's?" asked Sam, surprised. "Don't you recognize him? Brown suit, leather shoes!" He threw a quick glance at the dead body and hurriedly averted his eyes. "Got somewhat injured during the fall, of course…" he murmured with embarrassment. He paused and added fervently, "If only the laborers from that morgue had locked stretcher properly, nothing would have happened!"
   "Really?" asked his uncle doubtfully. At the bottom of his memory there was an impression that a laborer's mistake was corrected afterwards, but his tired brain could not think logically.
   "They loosened our locks and everything fell apart!" persisted the boy vigorously.
   "You think so?" asked Zach, with hope.
   "There is nothing to think about!" concluded Mattinson, frowning. "It's their fault and we should report it!"
   "Eh… Yes" hesitated Uncle Berton.
   "Everything in our van was in perfect order until they touched our stretcher clips!" Sam said with determination, "Ham-handed bastards!"
   Berton blinked his eyes, twisted his eyebrows in a knot of thoughtfulness, and slowly announced, "No, I think this is not a Christian way! They'll be punished, but they could have wives and kids… Let's better keep our mouths shut… I could say to the motor pool supervisor that we had to stop on the road for some repair work!"
   "OK. You are the boss!" Sam indifferently shrugged his shoulders.
   "Well… If only we're inquired why the corpse looks … A little bit worse… We would have to report their negligence!" concluded Zach thoughtfully and commanded, "Go and bring the stretcher! Let's take the body and hurry to the morgue! They must be looking for us already!"
//-- * * * --//
   "You should have some rest, Paul!" said Briks, concerned at the red, bleary eyes and quivering fingers of his boss, who kept outlining possible versions, links, and names with question marks in his notebook.
   "I can say the same to you!" snorted his chief and that was true.
   Both hadn't slept more than twenty-four hours and had gotten through enormous amount of work, but the mystery of Robert Magnus's death was still unsolved. Briks had just returned from the forensics department and had brought the latest news from other offices. If Krosby had not been so tired, he would have noticed the unusual behavior of his subordinate.
   Alan reported new facts rapidly and looked quite embarrassed, which differed significantly from his normal lazy and self-confident manner. "Autopsy was done only recently because the van with the corpse had some mechanical problems on the way and came late, but the first results are ready." he said, looking somewhere aside. "The forensic pathologist ascertained poisoning to be the cause of death. Robert must have gone too deep into this crime group and discover too much, because after being poisoned, he was also shot several times, poked with knife and defaced!"
   "He might have been defaced to hinder identification!" remarked Paul.
   "Yes," Alan nodded in agreement. "But why shoot and poke a dead body with a knife?"
   "Monsters!" Krosby ground his teeth in anger.
   Briks paused for a moment and continued slowly and reluctantly. "You know, Paul… I went to all those places highlighted in Robert's records and everywhere I had a very strange feeling…" Alan looked confused. "… I felt his presence! As though he'd just left!"
   Krosby raised his eyes from notebook and observed his subordinate carefully. "It happens…" he said thoughtfully, after a short silence.
   "I'm serious!" Alan faltered. "He went through every step and disclosed every link of Corrado's drug chain, although I don't understand how he managed to do it in this limited time! Robert is a real hero! He was already dead, but continued his work, for only because of his records were we able to connect the Zoo, roadway M49, and the boat patrols!
   When we visited Zoo and started a search, one of the employees – Bob Brunner – became very nervous and appeared to have good reason for that. Boxes labeled with exotic fruits contained cocaine from Columbia! He confessed immediately and reported that he delivered drugs to the Corrado family under the guise of food. His evidence was not sufficient to imprison Andrews Corrado, although he was the person to get the cocaine from Brunner, but when the guys from the road police started to check hardware stores from our files, they found Robert's bike without fuel next to one of them and a gun he was shot with, after death!
   We found out that bike was registered in the name of Marsha Rauglend, a dancer from the third-rate nightclub show "Girls in bikinis." She is not in the city now, but the most interesting fact here is that Marsha used to be a girlfriend of Andrews Corrado not long ago!"
   "Great!" was Krosby's grim comment, "This gun must have been given to her by Corrado himself!"
   "Certainly!" agreed Alan, "And borrowed when he needed it! Maybe without her knowledge. As I said, she is out of the city now."
   Paul Krosby briskly tapped desk with his fingers and made a couple of new notes on his complicated drawing.
   "… and the last nail in Corrado's coffin was placed by Dustin Popescu, boat owner. When he was stopped on the roadway M49 – and we stopped everyone there from four to six in the morning – he had a package with cocaine, identical to the drug from the Zoo! By that time, we already contacted harbor police according to Robert's note, and one of their officers recalled that Popescu was acting in a weird way a few hours before, when he had run into the patrol boat. Nailing down Popescu provided us with the name of his vendor and that vendor, in his turn, revealed his own deliverer, who appeared to be Andrews Corrado himself!" Briks spoke in a flat voice and avoided direct eye contact with his boss.
   Krosby brooded for a while and decisively crisscrossed his list. "Impossible!" he said firmly. "It's an established fact that Corrado has an alibi for the time of Robert's death!"
   "Impossible…," Alan quietly responded, looking down the floor.
   "Alan!" frowned Krosby. "Is there something else you didn't tell me?"
   Briks twisted his lips nervously and looked into his bosses' eyes for the first time. "Top management of our department thinks the same way… Corrado had no chance to kill Robert." He pronounced these words with visible effort.
   "Top management always knows better!" scowled Krosby. "Who HAD a chance, then? What do they think?"
   Briks took a deep breath and shot, "They think it's you!"
   Krosby froze in his chair. His face showed no emotion, but his fingers betrayed him with involuntary convulsion and he dropped a pencil.
   Briks jumped to his feet, rushed to the door, and looked out to ensure that nobody was listening to them. "Paul, I don't believe that! I've known you for so many years!" he said rapidly, returning to his seat. "But they are certain that you are guilty!"
   "… but why?" asked Krosby harshly, "… why are they certain???"
   "I'm violating instruction telling this to you, but I'm your friend! And I think it's a terrible mistake, but they have proof and witnesses!" Briks's agitation was rising.
   "Go on!" his boss encouraged him coldly.
   "They decided that for newspapers and public, Corrado should be announced as the murderer of Robert Magnus. This bastard will get a life sentence anyway, but you… They conducted an internal investigation and… Well… I don't know details, but you've been seen coming out of the secret address!"
   "The one where Robert was found dead…," murmured Krosby.
   "Yes, the one he was poisoned at, as stated by forensic specialist. And you never reported this contact!"
   "People, who saw me… They could be mistaken!" Paul's voice sounded fiercer than he intended.
   "Yes, they could." Briks uttered a deep sigh, "But there is something else…"
   "What else???" Krosby's eyes glared.
   "Look, have you agreed on a special signal, when received indicated that he should come to the secret address?" asked Alan, ignoring Paul's question.
   "Yes." The Chief slightly nodded his head, "So what?"
   "It was message with the words "evening news"? Alan agitatedly peered at his bosses' face.
   "Yes, correct!" confirmed Paul. "A message in the post box of his own apartment…" He shut mouth fast and his face expression changed dramatically. "… are you saying that?…" His jaws clenched, struggling for control. "But nobody knew this password!…"
   "Yes…" said Alan gloomily, "And this message was found in the pocket of Robert's suit. With the password that only the two of you have knowledge about…"
   Krosby's eyes flashed with obvious fear. He tightened his fists nervously and a blue, throbbing vein on his wrist became visible. "Do you believe that I didn't visit Robert at that apartment and never wrote this message?" asked in a low voice, looking openly into the eyes of his partner.
   "I already told you. I do believe you!" said Briks tiredly, and wiped his front. "But my opinion is of interest to no one… They believe you invited Magnus to the secret address by special signal and got him poisoned by adding cyanide to his favorite diet cola."
   "But why???" Krosby's eyes narrowed with anger, "Why did I do that???"
   "You had no promotion during the last five years, but had a divorce, huge alimony, and depression. They think…," Briks put his eyes down again, "that in these circumstances you could have…"
   "… Sold myself to the Corrado clan?" continued Paul bitterly. He was totally disheartened.
   Alan shook his head mutely. "… and when Magnus came too close to Andrews Corrado, the clan told you to get rid of him… Our management also believes that you are a good professional and they'll never find other proof. During an official investigation, you'll, of course, say that message is fake and witnesses were mistaken…," he continued sadly. "That's why there won't be an official investigation, but now there is a deep mistrust of you…"
   "Point taken…" Krosby's lips twisted in a scornful smile, "What does it mean?"
   "You know…" Briks shrugged his shoulders, "It means – good bye to central office, greetings to a sheriff's position in some godforsaken place, where the most serious crime is stealing linens from neighbor's clothesline…" He sighed sorrowfully and rose up to leave. "Sorry, I couldn't help…" said Alan darkly and he extended his hand for a farewell handshake.
   "Never mind…" Krosby uttered a hollow cough, "And thank you!"
   Briks went out of the office and smoothly closed the door.
   After his departure, the Chief heavily sat back in his chair with vacant look. The saturnine grimace put ten more years on his face.

Epilogue

   "Come on, Denny, open your mouth! One more time, please, for mammy!"
   The slightly overweight young woman was feeding a one-year-old boy with a spoon. She stretched another hand and drew a bowl of lettuce nearer. Dinner time was coming and she should cook something tasty for her husband.
   The cozy kitchen in the nice wooden house was filled with warmth and tranquility. Denny's belly was full and he didn't want to open his mouth again; he vigorously shook his head and turned away from the spoon.
   There was a bump of the entrance door and familiar voice came from the hall. "Darling, I'm home!"
   "Oh, Denny!" beamed the woman, "Daddy is back!"
   The toothless baby gave a wide smile and happily bubbled something in his own language.
   Paul Krosby, who had lost a noticeable part of his hair, but gained additional twenty pounds on the belly during the last few years, entered the kitchen. "How's life, honey?" he greeted his wife from the doorway.
   Denny uttered a joyful yell and eagerly stretched small hands to his father.
   Paul grasped his son under arms and lifted up. "U-u-u-uah!" he vowed, swinging his hands. "Let's fly!"
   The boy splattered with laughter and excitement.
   Paul bent forward and gently kissed his wife.
   "Be careful, dear! You'll drop him!" she said.
   "Don't worry, Rosa, I'll never drop him!"
   Former office secretary Miss Lind and now Mrs. Krosby, smiled happily, watching her laughing husband and son, who continued their flight into the living room and further, through veranda to the garden. She followed them with an admiring glance and returned to cooking.
   When she was taking vegetables from the fridge, a small Coca-Cola bottle caught her eye and a faint shadow ran over her face. She remembered another bottle, similar to this one.
   "Fancy that: without one bottle, nothing of this would exist!" murmured she quietly.

   When she'd met Paul Krosby, she'd immediately recognized the man of her life, but unfortunately, he never paid attention to her.
   Sharp-eyed Alan Briks was the first one to notice her unrequited love and gave her a friendly recommendation to drop it. "Paul Krosby is married to his job!" he'd said, with a patronizing smile. "You can't do anything about it, so aim for somebody else, baby!"
   But Rosa wanted nobody else. She desired to become the spouse of only this person in the entire world – her unapproachable boss. "You don't mean to say that he was never interested in plain family happiness?" she'd asked, very upset.
   "His former wife successfully discouraged him in this interest!" snorted Briks, "So, for now, his only woman is his job!"
   "You could change or lose your job!" protested Miss Lind, almost in tears. "But your family is always with you!"
   "Why should he change his favorite job?" Alan's smile became wider, "And there are no chances of him losing it because he is one of the best professionals! Well… if, for example, he would ruin an important action, he could be downgraded, but this would never happen because, as I said, he is one of the best!"
   "Yes, he is the best!" Rosa had sobbed sorrowfully and had thrown a glance, full of passion, at the door of her boss.
//-- * * * --//
   It was amazing how easily the puzzle pieces came into order when she'd overheard a conversation between Krosby and Magnus. She just slid under the table to pick up a dropped stapler when the two came out of Krosby's office. They were sure nobody was around and agreed on the secret password for emergency contacts.
   Her plan was designed in a moment – a very simple and effective one and Rosa completed it successfully. It was easy to invite Magnus to the secret address and to drop cyanide in his diet cola, especially bearing in mind the fact that Magnus was a naughty person and often treated Rosa with offensive jokes. Just one problem arose with Mrs. Woodworts, who lived on the upper floor, but finally, she agreed to be a witness and to confirm (for fifteen thousand dollars – all the capital Miss Lind had) that she had seen Paul Krosby in a certain place and at a certain time! Overpriced, of course, but family happiness was worth that!
//-- * * * --//
   Rosa sighed deeply and swept out her memories. "Hey! Where you are? Come back! Dinner is ready!" she shouted cheerfully at the window.
   Paul Krosby was rocking son on the garden swing. He waved back, grasped the boy with both hands, and hoisted him onto his shoulders.
   "Coming!" he responded, heading for the porch. Passing the mail box, Krosby took out the day's newspaper and quickly ran over the headlines.
   International affairs… Stock exchange… Tornado in Florida… Successful action of FBI in New Orleans…
   Paul frowned and got unpleasant glance off newspaper. It was long ago that he had banned himself from thinking about his previous job and he'd even started to discover nice sides of his new position as sheriff in the small town. He had a wonderful wife and a lovely son. What else did one need to be happy?
   * * *
   Only sometimes, awakening in the night, he would return again and again to one vexing question. Who killed Robert Magnus?

Elena Breus Hard Night in the Suburbs