Remo placed his hand over his heart and said, "Son, if I'm lying, may God cancel my soul."
The clerk's eyes widened. "I believe you," he gulped.
"Good for you," Remo said, pushing the hamper out to the sidewalk.
Remo pushed the hamper across the street to the hotel and registered under the name "Remo Ward."
A bellboy came up to him and said, "Luggage, sir?"
Remo pointed out the hamper.
The bellboy went over, peered inside, and said, "This is a mail cart."
"And five bucks says it's my luggage," Remo retorted.
Five bucks was five bucks, so the bellhop obligingly pushed it to one of the regular guest elevators. The police guard and the media got out of his way.
Once they were in the room, Remo paid the bellboy the five dollars and, after he had gone, got on the phone.
"Smitty?" he said. "I have in my possession the sniper who took a shot at Esperanza yesterday."
"Who is he?"
"Good question. There's no ID on him."
"Make him talk. Find out all you can."
"That would be a trick. He's dead."
Smith sighed. "What does he look like, then?"
"Oh, about five-foot-seven, brown complexion, black eyes, and hair you could use for a dry mop."
Remo heard the clicking of rapid keystrokes coming over the phone.
"Distinguishing features?"
"He's got a sniper scope sticking out of his right eye socket. "
The keying stopped. The pause on the line was long.
"What about the other one?" Smith asked, his voice like lemonade.
"What other one?" Remo countered.
"Yesterday's attack was the work of two assailants. You say you have only one."
"Good point," Remo said. "I found only one. Maybe he had an accomplice waiting in a getaway car."
"Please investigate further. We need answers."
"Right away," Remo said.
Down on the boulevard Remo circled the neighborhood, checking out parked cars for suspicious people. The only cars parked near the office tower were empty.
Remo pushed into the office building through a revolving door. The minute he started through, he picked up the faint smell of burned gunpowder. Remo kept pushing, following the scent and ending up back in the street.
It was identical to the aroma that still clung to the sniper rifle Remo had left on the top floor of the building.
Out in the open smells were almost indistinguishable, given the metallic residues in the smog-ridden air. But now that he knew what to smell for, Remo picked up the scent.
He did not sniff. That would have abraded his sensitive olfactory nerves. He simply walked in a careful circle, drawing in a long inhalation through his nose.
The odor seemed to be trailing west, so Remo went west. It grew more bitter. Remo's lungs, taking in the acrid smog, began to burn. He hoped the second killer hadn't gotten far. This was murder on his system.
Around the corner came the sound of a car engine starting. Remo picked up the pace, following the cordite stink around the corner.
He was in time to spot the brown-skinned man pulling away from the curb. In the backseat of his red convertible, a thick mailing tube shifted. It looked like the same one Remo had removed from the mail cart. It was big enough to contain the pieces of the rifle, if it had been disassembled first.
Remo took off after the red convertible, pacing it from the sidewalk. It was easier that way. Less traffic on the sidewalk. Although the roller-blade artists were a problem. Remo sent one into a traffic light and another whipping around a corner, and out of his way.
The typical L.A. traffic helped to slow the red car. Remo came abreast of it before it had cleared the block.
"Pull over!" Remo called, flashing an ID badge. It didn't matter which. The guy wouldn't be able to read it from this distance anyway.
The driver refused to stop. He floored the pedal, and shot out in front of a cab as it came around the corner. The cab driver hit the brakes, spun out of control, and bounced up on the sidewalk.
Remo got out of his way just in time. The driver banged his face on the inside of his windshield. When he took his face out of his hands, Remo saw it was as red as a candied apple.
Angrily, the driver threw the cab into reverse, spun around, and raced off after the red convertible. Remo raced after the taxi. He drew up behind it, his feet seeming to float along the street. When he was in perfect sync with the cab, Remo gave a graceful leap.
The leap looked weak. To a bystander, the cab should have outdistanced Remo easily. Instead, Remo's right foot touched the cab's trunk. His left kept going and found the roof. The other joined it.
Arms wide, bending at the waist like a surfer, Remo kept his balance as the taxi accelerated. He called down, "Don't lose him!"
"Who the fuck are you?" the cabby yelled up.
"A creative passenger," Remo shot back.
"What's your beef with that guy?"
"Tell you when we catch up."
"Well, I want that guy's ass!"
"I won't need that part," Remo said. "It's yours."