THE CRIME SCENE BUZZED with activity. Police officers swarmed the hallway, some rolling out yellow “Do Not Cross” tape, others interviewing shocked neighbours about what they had seen and heard. Touesnard’s and Larch’s guns were sealed in evidence bags. A medical examiner knelt over Larch’s body.
“Careful,” Claire protested at the paramedics bandaging her left arm. At least she was right-handed.
MacKinnon held up the hit man’s driver’s licence. “So who was Nick Pulovski?”
Daniel was puzzled. “I think I used to know someone by that name. But I can’t remember where or when. The name sounds familiar.”
Claire clutched a red passport. “But that’s not the name in his passport. It looks like him, but he’s Mitchell Gant here. British.”
I’ve heard of that guy, too, thought Daniel.
MacKinnon flipped open his notebook. “There was only one black Cadillac SUV rented two days ago. To someone named Walt Kowalski, using a fake U.S. passport.”
“It must be the same guy,” said Daniel.
“Odd choice of names,” said Claire.
“I’ve heard these names before.”
“Anything else in his bag?”
Claire dumped the contents on the floor. Another passport, American. Ben Shockley.
Daniel flipped through mental images of men with these names. He felt he had met all of them, and though he couldn’t recall the exact circumstances, he was sure that he knew them.
He squeezed his memory for one image. Mitchell Gant. In a plane. It was military. But Daniel couldn’t recall ever being in a military plane. But the image was sharper now, the face coming into view. A stern face, with a bit of stubble. Sharp, shifty narrow eyes. Eyes with a terrible purpose.
Then a second image. Shockley. He was in the back seat of a crappy car, next to a young prostitute, driving through a scorching desert. The same eyes, the same face.
Somehow they were the same person.
MacKinnon typed the first name, Nick Pulovski, into the Google app on his smartphone. He scowled at the answer. Same reaction after punching in the name Ben Shockley. And with Mitchell Gant.
“They’re not real people at all,” he said. “They’re characters played by Clint Eastwood in different movies.”
“Our hit man was a Clint Eastwood fan?” said Claire.
Daniel cracked a thin smile. He felt ahead of the curve for the first time since he had received Forrestal’s phone call on Monday morning.
Daniel’s cellphone pinged with a new text message. We need to talk.
His heart leaped. It was from Vanessa, no doubt at her parents’ house in trendy Devonport, across the bay from Auckland.
Sure.
When can you come visit?
I’ll find out. Soon. How’s E?
She misses you.
I miss her more. Where are you?
Mum and Dad’s. We have things to discuss.
Are you coming back?
That’s what we need to talk about. How’s your situation?
Improving. Hope to be able to come in a few days. Will let u know.
K.
Daniel wondered if the distance had deadened her anger toward him. Maybe he could see Emily after all, now that the assassin was no longer a threat.
Larch’s phone beeped. A message from the client. Leave town ASAP. Setting up major action tomorrow. Victoria Park. Noon.