Bruce Beauchamp parked his rusty Nissan pickup among the BMWs and Mercedes-Benzes in the lot outside a four-story glass and steel building. This was a part of town he didn’t know well, a part he associated with fat cats and corporate crime.
He set his sunglasses on the dashboard, looked at himself in the rearview mirror, then licked his palm and tamped down a cowlick sticking straight up from the center of his head.
He spotted four security cameras before he’d reached the automatic revolving door. The marble lobby featured a fountain and a half-dozen ficus trees.
A Muzak version of the Eagles’ “Hotel California” played through hidden speakers.
Hood Realty was located on the third floor. Beauchamp pressed the elevator button, then decided to burn off some energy by taking the stairs.
At first glance, Jim Hood’s office looked and smelled like a doctor’s waiting room. There were potted plants in every corner, silver-framed photos of luxury properties hanging on the walls, a mild odor of potpourri. It was the kind of place that tried hard not to offend and ultimately made no impression at all. The middle-aged receptionist in her beige pantsuit fit right in. She was working on a crossword puzzle and didn’t seem to notice Beauchamp enter. He wished he’d worn something fancier—not a suit, necessarily, but maybe a V-neck sweater instead of his plaid button-down. Maybe she would have noticed him then. He walked over to her desk, cleared his throat.
“My name is Bruce Beauchamp,” he said. “I have an appointment with Mr. Hood.”
She smiled without looking up, pointed to a door on the opposite side of the waiting area.
“He’s expecting you,” she said.
“Thanks.”
He felt off his game, out of his element. He turned his back to her, took a moment to gather himself, then marched into Jim’s office and shut the door behind him. Jim was sitting at a large oak desk, studying some kind of spreadsheet. A pencil pusher, Beauchamp thought. He doesn’t stand a chance. Jim moved back in his chair, gestured for Beauchamp to sit. Beauchamp shook him off.
“This won’t take long,” he said, leaning forward with both palms on desk. “I delivered on my end, but you—”
Jim held up a hand and smiled.
“I understand,” he said. “I had some cash flow problems, but I’m delivering now.”
He opened the center drawer of his desk, still smiling. Beauchamp stood up straight and seemed to relax. Without saying another word, Jim pulled out his .9mm handgun and fired twice into Beauchamp’s forehead. Beauchamp fell straight back, landing with an impact that shook every object in the room. Jim walked around the desk, stood over Beauchamp, and fired five more times into his chest. He heard a scurrying in the waiting area. He rushed over to his filing cabinet and took out a second handgun wrapped in a towel. Careful not to touch the weapon directly, he placed it in Beauchamp’s right hand and folded the large man’s fingers around the handle and trigger.
Outside, he found the receptionist gone and the front door wide open. He drew a few deep breaths, then picked up the phone.
“911, what’s your—”
“Help me,” Jim cut her off, his voice booming and hysterical. “The man who killed my wife came to my office. He pulled a gun. I shot him. He isn’t moving. Hurry. I’m begging you.”
He hung up, pleased with his performance, and stood watching the blood pool around Beauchamp’s head.