THE SLANTED LIGHT of another frosty morning streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows. Larch felt a weak heat on his face. He waited in a café across the street from a small condo on Barrington Street, in the heart of downtown Halifax, and only a few blocks from the Westin. Commuters rushed along the sidewalk, leaving moments of conversations in discrete puffs rising in the air. The target should have arrived by now. He checked his watch for the umpteenth time.
And there he was. Across the street, opening the door of the condo entrance. Larch waited a few moments. The light flicked on in a condo on the second floor. The one he expected. He knew the target lived alone.
It was time to move. He stood up, parked his empty coffee mug in the grey plastic tub, strode out the door, and crossed the street busy with passing cars. The lock on the outer door was easy to pick, no more than ten seconds. He shifted, so he looked like he was fumbling for his key. In the morning rush, he was sure no one would notice him.
The elevator dinged and the doors slid open to reveal a short hallway, a small mirror on the opposite wall, and doors to two condo units. Light seeped from under the door on the left.
Larch knocked five times in a broken rhythm so the sound would jump out from any background noise of the city. He heard footsteps from the other side of the door. The handle turned, and the door opened to reveal a middle-aged, balding man in a wrinkled white shirt and black slacks. There were dark circles under his eyes, evidence of a long, uninterrupted shift at the hotel.
“Yes?” His expression was one of unfamiliarity, surprise, or maybe disdain.
Larch didn’t give him any time to react. He pushed the man aside, stepped into the room, and closed the door behind him.
“What are you doing? You can’t just barge in,” the man said.
Larch put a finger of his left hand to his own lips, ordering the man to be quiet, while his right hand fumbled in his jacket pocket.
“You don’t know me, Mr. Carignan, but we need to have a chat.”
“How do you know my name?”
“Please sit down.” Larch pulled out his Beretta and pointed it at the man. He motioned to the chair behind him. Mr. Carignan sat compliantly, while his face betrayed the shock of finding himself in such an incomprehensible situation.
Larch grabbed a short, black cylinder from his other pocket. He began to screw it onto the muzzle of his pistol while he walked to the only window in the living room and checked over his shoulder for any sign that he’d been followed.
“You’re the hotel manager at the Westin, are you not?” A police car crawled southward in the morning traffic.
“How do you know that?”
The cruiser moved down the street and then out of range. Satisfied that he could detect no suspicious movement along Barrington Street, he turned to face his target.
“Yesterday, you saw a dead body at your hotel.”
“Who told you that?”
“There was another man with you.”
“What do you mean?”
“The man who was in the elevator with you.”
“You mean poor Mr. …?” Carignan’s expression went blank for a moment, and then anger stressed his eyebrows, chin, and cheeks. “Oh, him.”
“Tell me about this other man.”
“Why do you care?”
“Because I do.” He waved the gun.
“He said he was a colleague of Mr. —”
“Forrestal. Go on.”
“Yes, Mr. Forrestal. This guy bothered the entire front staff. Very pushy.”
“So you just let him in the room?”
“I asked him whether he had a relationship with Mr. Forrestal.”
“Did he?”
“Not at first. But then he did admit that he was worried about Mr. Forrestal’s health. He wanted to be sure that he had taken his heart pills for the day.”
Larch’s mouth dropped open. “And you believed it?”
“We have provided Mr. Forrestal with special services before. He had a wide range of, let’s say, diverse personal needs.”
“So you opened the door, just like that?”
“He thought that Mr. Forrestal had forgotten his pills. I had no reason to doubt him. He seemed to know a lot about him, things even I didn’t know.”
Larch’s eyes narrowed. This professor was no bookworm with limited social skills. He was able to convince the manager of a five-star hotel that he knew about the private medical condition of a very prominent and powerful businessman. The professor deserved further investigation. “And it was you who called the police?”
“Who are you?”
Larch raised the pistol, aiming it at the man’s chest. “I’m just cleaning up a loose end.” He only needed to fire once. He fired three times, picked up the ejected shell casings with his handkerchief, and stuffed them in his jacket pocket. He was a professional, after all.