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Posted by Ultra-Humanite
on 5/14/2009, 6:37 pm
71.226.186.23
It would be nice to tell you that Ernie did the right thing, and turned over the Worm Virus to authorities. To tell you he did the noble thing. But Ernie didn't, and he was now in desperate need of leaving New York before Brownston finds out that Brandon Winslow gave him a bum fix for his super virus, and that Ernie has the real thing. The same day that he comes to the conclusion that he'd better turn high tail and run, there is already forces at work at putting a stop to his exodus.
"...just make sure he doesn't make it out of the city alive." The clearly angered voice quickly issued through the phone, and before hanging up added. "There will be a car, firearm, sidearm, and 50% of the payment left at Newark International." The call is kept to under a minute, if ever suspected of hiring a professional, Jonathan Browston cannot afford to be asked "Who do you know in England?", "what was so important that you were on the line for fifteen minutes?" But a quick explanation of how one of his employees was on assignment there, and he had dialed the wrong number would suffice.
30 minutes later, at Blackpool International, the passport bearing a fictitious name is stamped, the proper I.D.s checked and the man identified as Barry Giles is allowed to proceed to his destination.
At 6:46 PM. Barry slides into the seat of dark sedan, leans over to the passengers seat, reaches under the seat to retrieve the suitcase containing his $50,000. The suitcase lay flat on in the seat as the lid is opened revealing row upon row of crisp, clean $100 bills bundled together, just like in the movies. Barry replaces the suitcase, then reaches into the glove compartment for his sidearm, but their is none to be found.
All of a sudden a rasping clank comes from the driver's window. Barry turns to look, but before he gets sight of the .38 caliber handgun before its discharge shatters the side window, and bores a hole though his skull.
An hour later Brownston has learned about and, at least somewhat cooled down about the whereabouts of his hit man, and more importantly his money. When he picks up the phone this time he dials down to Paul Donovan, his lead henchman it was always a far better release to talk down to a stooge.
"Now this time, make sure the car has tinted windows, and for Christ's sake get me a weapon inside that car. Something big and powerful... Desert Eagle, 14 round clip,... I've already lost 50k on this if I lose anymore, it's your @$$!"
Through a nearly identical phone conversation that enlisted the services of Barry Giles, Paul has another professional on an airplane bound for New York. The flight: booked. The passport: stamped. Plane: boarded. Landing: smooth. This time the windows on the sedan are tinted, the guns are in place, and all goes according to plan.
The lone alleyway lays vacant with the exception of dumpster and its overflow of trash. The rain water swells and pours down the sides of the alleyway towards the storm drain. The rising waters are briefly dammed by the recently deceased.
Only a handful of minutes pass before police are notified, and police are dispatched. A few minutes after that, detectives are assigned, and make their way to the scene. A unmarked, nondescript crown vic. idles into a parallel parking space and Detective Homes steps out into the rain. The man, a season veteran in his field, stands at an even 6ft, his dark brown hair cropped into the near stereotypical flat top one would expect to see an officer wear. Every one on the force called him Sherlock, after Sherlock Holmes, even though his sir name was missing the 'l', it was more of an honorary nickname due to his thoroughness. He leans back into the car, and to his partner of the last 6 months;
"You planning to get out tonight, or you afraid you might melt?"
His partner, Detective Libowitz craned his thick neck downward to look Homes in the eyes. "Har har, I'll catch up to you in a minute, wise guy."
"Suit yourself." Homes says indifferently then lets the door close of its own accord. Taking long deliberate strides toward the crime scene. when he arrives, even though the mans remains are grizzly, Homes doesn't flinch, at least not outwardly. He takes mental notes of everything from shoe size, to position of the outstretched arms, paying particular attention to the surgical precision in which the mans organs were removed.
Out of the corner of his eye, Homes catches a glimpse of Libowitz jogging around the corner, now clad with all shower cap like devise over his hat and rain slicker. Watching the man lumber towards him is a humorous sight. If you can imagine a young John Goodman at a fast paced jog to get out of torrential rains, you'd chuckle too.
Homes reaches for the deceased mans back pocket and his hand comes back empty. Devoid of any identification, the duo will have to make camp at HQ until his DNA or prints one yield results.
"Got everything we can from here the scene, really..."
"Great!" Libowitz interrupts, "I got all geared up for nothing?"
"Geared up? You mean you meant to look like a walking condom?" His partner retorts with a sly smile and a gentle laugh. "Not to worry, friend. It gets worse..."
"No Wallet?" He forms his thought as a question, but knows it to be a given. These days, if you aren't killed for money or jewelry, some homeless person or a passerby will more than likely scavenge the valuables.
"No I.D., we'll have to wait this one out."
Poking back after Homes joke at his expense, Libowitz replies "Well no $h!t, Sherlock." with his own version of a sly grin.
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