Page 112 of Sinful Crimes for the Artistically Inclined
He got a wry smile in return. “Could we not?”
“We could.” Percy turned his body towards Joe and took up his hand. “So long as my buying this doesn’t unleash some kind of pent-up trauma for you.”
“No, I’m really fine,” Joe reassured him. “It’s your money. And it’s beautiful. If you want it, you should buy it.”
Percy gave his hand a squeeze and took the book to the counter. Almost another thousand of the twenty-five thousand down, but it was a done deal the second he set eyes on it and he wouldn’t let himself feel bad about that.
A few minutes later, Percy led them to a nearby coffee shop, where, immediately after sitting everyone down, he announcedhe needed to go find a restroom. Joe suggested he use the one there, but he resolutely refused. Joe suggested they simply down their espressos and all leave, but Percy insisted he needed a long black that afternoon. And a pastry. And an Americano. Leo declared he also needed a long black, changed his order, then turned to Joe and announced, “I’m thinking about joining the priesthood.”
“What?” Althea cried in a particularly inelegant manner.
Leo kept his eyes on Joe. “Can you walk me through that sort of thing?”
Joe sent an uncertain look to Percy, who only shrugged apologetically and ran out the door, telling himself he should be nicer to Leo in the future.
He ran directly to fifty-three Via Spaccaforno and rang the buzzer for apartment three, which sat on the top floor of the tall, skinny, beautiful, ivy-clad stone building.
A distant voice made its way through the intercom. “Chi è??”
In fluent Italian, Percy explained that he had a special delivery. The target said she wasn’t expecting anything. Percy said that was really nothing to do with him and she needed to sign for it. She refused and said to send it back to the post office and she would collect it there. Percy said she was wasting his time, and he’d throw it in a ditch if she didn’t take it now. She told Percy, “Vaffanculo,” and hung up.
With a sigh, Percy made his way around to the rear of the building, where a small alley gave access to the back of the block. It wouldn’t be easy like this, but Percy was both tall and strong, and with enough of a run up, he was just able to grasp the bars of the lowest balcony and pull himself up. He clambered over, slipping on the tiles of the first-floor balcony, before standing back up to look down at the pavement below.
It would certainly ruin their holiday if his skull shattered down there.
But a quick calculation of how much their dinner for four would cost at the restaurant that evening made him step up onto the thin railing and, with his very best and most careful balance, stretch up high to grasp the next set of metal bars. He could only reach with his fingers, but he curled them tight, and with an effort that felt like it might snap them, he lifted his body high enough to bring his thumbs around. One hand edged up a little, then the other, then the other again. His triceps and abdominal muscles burned with the effort, but he made fast progress to the top and swung a leg over.
Once he had obtained that level, he refused to look down anymore, only crouching on the second balcony for a short time to catch his breath, a thin trickle of sweat slipping between his shoulder blades. He wiped his clammy hands on his shorts, shook his aching fingers out, and wiped them again. He took out the small pistol, and he screwed its small silencer into place.
He looked up at the balcony above and felt a twang of guilt for what he was about to do, but he fought it, and stepped again onto a thin railing.
Using all his strength, cursing himself for having let his push-up regime lapse since he ran off with Joe, he wrenched himself up and up, slipping twice, but finally, he propelled himself over the edge, landing silently on his victim’s balcony.
Her glass door was open, the curtain blowing in the soft breeze, the sound of her television floating on the air. He felt a touch of relief. Smashing or shooting his way in would have been an irritating kind of noisy.
He took a deep, preparatory breath, then moved fast, wrenching the curtain back and storming into the apartment.
Faced with the vision of a strange man, gun in hand, appearing in her living room, the target screamed and ran straight for what he conjectured was the bathroom, slamming and locking the door behind herself. A reasonable decision. Yetthere she screamed and screamed again and shutting her up became imperative.
He didn’t want to leave too many bullets about the place for the police to find, so he counted to three, gathered his strength, and kicked the flimsy door in.
It smashed back against the wall with a bang to reveal the woman, shrunk into her towel rack, crying hysterically, begging him to spare her life.
He advanced three fast paces, levelled his gun at her temple, and said, “Your husband’s paid me to kill you. Tell me where he is, and I’ll take him instead.”
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
A SICKENING DIVERSION
Five minutes later, Maria, for that was the target’s name, was still shaking violently, so it was Percy who lifted the hissing coffeepot from the stove and filled two small cups.
“Fifty thousand,” he said.
“He must have mortgaged his apartment to do it,” she replied, as she looked over her own murder file.
“Apparently, he has someone wealthy on the line, and once you’re gone, he’ll marry rich.”
“She’s a slut,” Maria said.
