Page 122 of The List

She never uttered a sound.

Jacks lowered the gun. “Nice breasts.”

“Yes, they were,” Jon said, standing behind him.

Greene was forced into the bedroom. One look at Vikki’s bloody body contorted across the bed and he started to panic.

“Why are you doing this? All I wanted was a simple deal. I want to play ball with you guys.”

Jacks and Barnard held the lawyer tight.

“We don’t need partners or assistance,” De Florio calmly said. Greene was thrust onto the bed and Victor Jacks fired three more suppressed shots through the pillow. The white robe splotched with a blood rose at each impact, Greene’s body contorting then draping across Vikki Wyler’s.

Jon checked both pulses.

Dead. Confirmation.

He then signaled Barnard and Jacks. Both headed back to Room 479.

He stood at the hall door and kept watch. A moment later they appeared with Burt Wyler, his outstretched arms across their shoulders, raising him high enough so the feet would not drag on the carpet.

No one in sight.

He signaled.

They crossed into Greene’s suite where Wyler was laid on the bedroom floor. Jacks then placed the gun used to kill the two on the bed into Wyler’s hand, which would assure that enough residual prints were left to suggest the obvious. Jacks and Barnard brought Wyler’s body up to its knees and helped the hand raise the gun to Wyler’s temple. Jacks adjusted the angle for the expected upward trajectory, then helped Wyler’s finger pull the trigger. The round entered the head and quickly exited, splattering more blood onto the wall. Jacks released his grip and allowed Wyler’s lifeless body to slump into the carpet. He released the gun, which settled on the carpet too. Carefully, Jacks bent down and unscrewed the sound suppressor, pocketing it. The pillow lay off to the side. They then stood back and surveyed the scene.

So did Jon.

A double murder then a suicide would be easily presumed, and everything would point to Burt Wyler.

Or would it?

“Mr. Jacks, there’s an error,” Jon said from the bedroom doorway.

Jacks looked around.

“You shot the man in the right temple. There’s an entrance wound and powder burns. The gun, though, is at an odd angle to the body, suggesting something different.”

Jacks looked down. “You’re absolutely right. A stupid mistake.”

“The kind that could raise questions. But it’s okay, this one time. That’s why I’m here. This was a rush job and complicated. Mistakes will happen under such circumstances. Use it as a learning experience. Now please, adjust the gun’s location. That way the evidence will not be ambiguous.”

Jacks did exactly as instructed.

He re-surveyed the scene. Perfect.

“Start searching,” he said.

They knew what to look for and Barnard quickly found the copies of the two handwritten notes to Brent Walker, the list Hank Reed had provided, and the tape recorder with tape. No originals were there beyond the tape recording. But De Florio had already concluded that Greene didn’t have the originals.

All part of the bluff.

He was confident Brent Walker had retained those.

“The champagne bucket,” he said to Barnard, who retrieved the tray from the table in the other room. Jacks grabbed the pillow.

They left.