Stone Barrington 27 - Doing Hard Time

That is what I discovered in my investigation. I never spoke to Burnett, I just reported my findings to Pete Genaro at the casino.”
    “Please give me a complete physical description of Mr. Burnett and Charmaine.”
    “Charmaine is about thirty-five, five feet, seven inches tall, busty, but with an otherwise trim figure. She had blonde hair when I knew her, but since moving to Santa Monica she has dyed it a dark brown, blue eyes, very pretty.”
    “And Mr. Burnett?”
    “Mr. Burnett is difficult to describe because he is so ordinary-looking. He is between forty-five and fifty-five, about five-eleven, maybe six feet, maybe a hundred and sixty or seventy, fit-looking for his age. He was wearing a hat when I saw him, but I think his hair is dark, but graying. He was wearing sunglasses when I saw him.”
    “I believe you, Mr. Katz, so I will give you your life.” He walked over, the razor still in his hand.
    Harry winced as the man went through his pockets, relieving him of his pistol and cell phone.
    The man pocketed the cell phone and tossed the pistol into the next room. He tore off another piece of the tape and wrapped it securely around Harry’s head, covering his mouth completely, then he reinforced the bindings of his hands and feet. Finally, he unscrewed the silencer and put it and the pistol into his case and pocketed the razor. “There is your money,” he said. “Does a person come to clean your office at night?” he asked.
    Harry nodded.
    “What time?”
    Harry shrugged.
    The man found a sheet of paper and a marking pencil in a drawer and wrote DO NOT DISTURB on it. “I will place this on your outer door,” he said. “If you tell Mr. Burnett or Mr. Genaro of our conversation, I will come back and kill you slowly and painfully. Do you understand?”
    Harry nodded.
    The man reached over, lifted Harry’s glass of whiskey, sniffed it, then poured it slowly down his throat. Then he picked up his suitcase and, with the note in his other hand, left the office.
    Harry started to sweat at the thought of what he had avoided. He tried moving his hands and feet, to no avail. He was securely attached to the chair, and he needed badly to urinate. He would have to wait for the cleaning lady, and he didn’t know what time she came, or if she would ignore the sign on the door. After that, he would decide whether to call Charmaine.
    Harry held it together for nearly an hour, before he peed in his pants. Then he began to cry, softly.

When he was back on I-15, driving toward Los Angeles, Vlad telephoned Majorov.
    “Yes, Vlad?”
    “I have spoken with Mr. Katz and he has very kindly given me the address of Mr. Burnett.”
    Majorov was suspicious. “He did?” he asked incredulously.
    “He was not forthcoming at first, but after the sight of the money and a brief chat, he told me everything he knows. Believe me, everything.”
    “And where is Burnett?”
    “Living in an apartment building in Santa Monica.” Vlad gave him the address. “In the penthouse apartment, no less. I am on my way there now.”
    “Good. Report to me after your visit, and may it be successful.”
    “From your lips to God’s ear,” Vlad replied, then hung up. Using the GPS unit supplied with his rental car, Vlad had no difficulty finding the apartment building. It was now just past eleven PM . He parked his rental car on the street, went to the trunk, opened his case, and removed what he needed, secreting the implements on his person. He noted the building’s garage, but did not enter it. He did not know, after all, what kind of car Burnett drove.
    He walked into the building’s lobby, which was deserted, and examined the elevator buttons; there were eight of them, plus one marked PH. He pressed that button and got on an elevator, which rose quickly, then he stepped out of the car into a hallway. The elevator door closed silently behind him.
    He examined the edges of the penthouse apartment’s double door: no light escaped from the apartment. He removed the silenced pistol from its holster, then rang the bell. He waited a minute, put an ear to the door, heard nothing, then rang it again. There was no response.
    Vlad knelt by the doorknob and examined the lock. Very ordinary; no problem. He took a small leather case from an inside pocket, selected a pair of lock picks, and went to work. In under a minute the lock turned. Vlad stood up, put away his tools, and, holding his pistol in one hand and a small flashlight in the other,