Chaz Bowen lived in the second-floor apartment of a brownstone in east L.A. Donnie deciphered his name from the scotch-taped name tags peeling away from the buzzers, and rang the bell. There was no answer. He rang it again. Finally the intercom clicked on and a groggy voice growled, “Who the hell is this?”
“Donnie Martel.”
Moments later the door buzzed open. Donnie went up the steps to find Chaz hanging out his apartment door.
“You want to tell me what the hell happened?” Chaz demanded.
“I don’t know what the hell happened,” Donnie said, and walked in the door.
“You give me an assignment and you don’t know what’s going on? Piece of cake, you said. How hard can it be? Movie producer.” Chaz snorted. “If that guy’s a movie producer I’m a state senator.”
“I’m just as surprised as you are. We’re looking into it.”
“‘Looking into it’? Not good enough. I’m charged with attempted burglary. I can’t afford a conviction. What are you going to do about that?”
“Just keep your mouth shut and you’ll do fine.”
“That’s what the lawyer said. Then I got charged.”
“And released. That’s the important thing. Don’t worry about the charge. It’ll never get to trial. The important thing is you’re out on bail. You keep quiet, we keep you out of prison, that’s the deal. Let’s drink to it. You got any booze?”
“I got some sour mash.”
Donnie repressed a shudder. “Great. Pour me one.”
Chaz went to the cabinet and took out the bottle of whiskey.
Donnie stepped up behind him and shot him in the head.
Donnie was riding a huge wave of adrenaline. He got out of there fast, stopping only to wipe down any surface he might have touched. He skipped down the stairs, got in his car, and took off. Twenty blocks away his hands were still shaking.
Donnie pulled off by the side of the road, put the car in park, and tried to calm down. He’d done it, that was the main thing. Gino had backed him into a corner, and he’d managed to get out. There was nothing to connect him to the crime.
Except the gun. Small detail. He had to ditch the murder weapon. Where?
His first impulse was to throw it in the ocean, but he was in East L.A. How about a dumpster? The idea made him nervous. Should the gun be found, could it be traced back to him? No, he hadn’t bought it in a store. But could it be traced back to the guy who sold it to him?
Donnie put the car into drive and took off. He was driving on autopilot, still playing it over in his mind. The bottle smashing on the floor. Jumping back from the spray of sour mash. Had he gotten any on his clothes? No matter. They were off to the cleaners in the morning.
The car, as if it had a mind of its own, had driven into the Santa Monica hills. He reached a curve in the road overlooking the bay. He stopped the car and got out; he walked to the edge of the bluff and looked down. He could see the waves lapping against the cliffs below. There was no one in sight. He took out the gun and unscrewed the silencer. He polished the gun with his handkerchief and hurled it over the edge. It splashed into the water.
Donnie heaved a huge sigh of relief and turned to go.
What about the silencer? Could they match the fatal bullet to the silencer it had been fired through? Donnie didn’t think so. But he wasn’t sure. That was a pain in the ass. Good silencers were expensive and hard to come by.
So was his peace of mind.
Donnie polished the silencer and threw it into the sea.