A Dangerous Breed

by Glen Erik Hamilton

  A loose line of volunteers—flanked by SPD officers in crisp navy—ushered all of the entrants to the nearest escalator and up to the museum’s main forum, the launching pad of the party. I went with the flow.

  It was early yet. Most guests hadn’t advanced beyond the forum, enmeshed in politely chatting clusters. A coat-check service in the corner was doing brisk business. I wove around the knots of people.

  Elana would have coveted the jewelry adorning the necks and earlobes of many of the matrons. She could pass for a member of this class, probably creating a whole backstory about being the heiress to a lumber empire. My sharp tuxedo aside, I would have more trouble blending.

  The forum took up half the length of the long block on 1st Ave, a room as tall as a terminal in a regional airport. There were a few nods to the season in the holly branches placed on the front desks and at the corners of video screens behind the receptionists. Restrained, unlike the art installation that had many of the two hundred guests craning their necks upward.

  A representation of an old-growth tree, suspended horizontally. One hundred feet or more from its fan-shaped roots to the wiry upper branches at the far end of the hall. Its trunk had been segmented every fifteen feet or so, and the pieces rocked fractionally on their guywires in response to some movement in the air above us. It made the longest branches appear to be stretching toward the high windows of the lobby. As if straining to rejoin nature.

  A plaque on the wall told me the piece was crafted from over a million pieces of reclaimed cedar, off a plaster cast of a living tree. But the dappled surface looked less like wood to me than the skin of some great snake, cast off and wrapped around crooked tubes. Elegant and eerie.

  The thought of serpents brought me back to my purpose here. I went hunting for Ondine.

  On the third floor, the galleries had been opened to allow guests to wander freely about the twisting metal sculptures and abstract images in oil and aluminum filling the walls.

  Hard to envision Ondine gazing at modern art, unless it was brought directly before her after being liberated from a private collection by someone like my grandfather.

  Up to the fourth level. More galleries, with bristly costumes and ceremonial masks from Africa. More guards, too, wandering with slack expressions between rooms.

  One of the more imposing sentinels held his post by a red velour curtain that had been set up to block a wide entryway off the rear hall. A glowing screen past his shoulder read wyckoff porcelain room. As I watched, a crisp white-haired member of the gentry approached. The guard moved the curtain aside to admit him before the man had to break his stride, without so much as a nod exchanged.

  That would be the place. But from the look of the guard, I wasn’t going to bluff my way inside.

  I still carried the burner backup phone I’d been using since Bilal had hacked mine. I stepped into one of the side galleries to mess with the burner’s settings and downloaded a Migos song that Cyndra had been playing in her room before dinner the other night, until Addy had protested about the lyrics searing the paint from the walls.

  Down the hall from the Porcelain Room, past a collection of Catholic triptychs, I found a gallery dedicated to textiles from the Restoration Era, or replicas thereof. Gowns ten times as elaborate as any on the museum guests. I waited until the nearby guards circled away to check the adjoining exhibits before slipping the burner into the folds of an especially lavish bodice.

  Nothing I could do about the cameras, which would have caught my tuxedoed image near the gown and my profile leaving the gallery. But then I didn’t plan to stay and admire the culture all evening.

  One minute later the timer I’d set went off, and Cardi B’s voice-over began to echo through the galleries at the highest volume the little phone could manage. It was a shame I hadn’t had time to patch into the museum’s sound system. Cardi’s words were hard to make out from the adjoining hallway, but I imagine most guests got the tone if not the precise words describing her riding her man like a BMX bike.

  Guards hurried toward the textile gallery as if hot coals were frying their feet. Curious patrons joined the rush. The sentinel at the Porcelain Room resisted the pull for a slow count of three, then strode across and into the gallery, looking ready to crush the offending device in his meaty fist. I was through the red curtain in seconds.

  True to its name, the room was like being inside the world’s largest and most expensive china cabinet. Each dish and cup and tureen individually mounted within slim cocoa-brown display cases. Whatever viewing benches the room usually housed had been replaced by chairs and couches with velvet upholstery, arranged into seating areas around hexagonal glass coffee tables.

  On a loveseat at the far side was Ondine Long.

  She’d spotted me before the curtain had stopped swaying. Her soft smile for her companion—the stiff gentleman I’d seen enter the room earlier—didn’t change, but her eyes held mine for an extra second before turning back.

  If I gave her a few minutes, she might gracefully extricate herself from the conversation. Minutes I didn’t have. I wove through the standing knots of guests, absorbed in their close discussions over drinks they had acquired from some unseen server.

  “Ondine,” I said.

  The starched man looked up, thrown by the intrusion. Was I some impertinent waiter?

  Ondine hardly moved. She wore a green dress made of some kind of silk, high-necked and so restrained in its cut that it had to cost as much as a decent used car. Her hair was coiled in an equally minimal arrangement. Only her makeup was a touch too visible. I wasn’t precisely sure of Ondine’s age—her blend of Asian and Western heritages and the very best surgery complicated any attempt at analysis—but suspected that she’d had a professional apply her mask, and the artist’s hand showed in the work.

  “Good evening,” said Ondine, as if she’d been expecting my visit for the past week. “Van, this is State Senator Werring. Senator, Donovan Shaw.”

  “Hello,” the senator said, without another glance at me. “Ondine, I think if you’ll consider the party’s point of view, you’ll understand why your support—”

  “I promise you I’ll consider every perspective, Lyle. And I’ll have an answer for you by Monday. If you’ll excuse me.”

  “Of course. I’m overdue to check in with my campaign staff.” Werring stood up, adroitly turning the dismissal into the next move of a man of action. “Mr. Shaw.”

  I nodded, choosing the seat on Ondine’s right rather than the chair directly opposite. The angle let me keep half an eye on the entryway.

  “I’ll be astounded if you’ve begun patronizing the arts, Van,” Ondine said. Her words and expression and tone all projecting calm politesse. I wasn’t fooled.

  “You’ve branched out, too. Playing kingmaker.” I nodded to the chair the senator had recently occupied.

  “The recall election. Many candidates and very few days before February.”

  “Time is short all around. Tell me about Bilal Nath.”

  The corners of Ondine’s mouth twitched, which passed for disapproval.

  “I didn’t realize you two had met,” she said.

  Apparently neither Bilal nor Dr. Claybeck had shared the details of that stormy night with Ondine. No point in pulling Claybeck further into quicksand.

  “He tracked me down,” I said, “with the offer of a lifetime.”

  “I’m willing to discuss this matter tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow I’ll be busy dealing with the grenade you’ve dropped in my lap. We’ll talk right here.”

  Her direct gaze might have unnerved a more anxious guy. Or a less angry one. Having me tossed out of the museum would attract the kind of attention not in keeping with her stature. And she couldn’t be sure I wouldn’t tell the cops about the connection between her and Nath. Even if they didn’t believe me, it would be on record, and Ondine would find that unacceptable.

  “Start at the start,” I said. “Why did Nath hear my name?”
<
br />   “He inquired about people with your skill set. I gave him my top recommendation. But he wasn’t satisfied. He needed someone immediately and wanted options. I provided him with a short list of names—including yours—but cautioned that for various reasons they may not be to his liking. You, specifically. I told him that you weren’t manageable.”

  “So why mention me at all?”

  “What is it that Bilal wants to acquire?” she said, instead of answering.

  “He didn’t tell you?”

  “No. He was very closed about his intentions, even though it might have helped me find the best contractor for the job.”

  Contractor. Like I would be remodeling Nath’s kitchen.

  “He won’t tell me what he’s after, either,” I said. “What’s he into? His regular business?”

  “That’s not relevant.”

  “I’ll decide what’s useful. If Nath is my problem, then I’m yours.”

  “You are not as formidable as you imagine.”

  “Try me.”

  Ondine waited, still as one of the porcelain figurines in the nearby display case, until a tangle of guests had moved out of earshot.

  “Bilal Nath started as an early online entrepreneur. Mining personal search histories to encourage small payments from individuals, in the days before the Internet had many ramparts in place.”

  Even with Ondine’s oblique language, I grasped the extortion. Send $500 or we will email everyone in your contact list these sick webpages you’ve visited. Everyone will know you’re a pervert. A scam with a very low success rate, but minimal cost and no risk at all if carried out from beyond the reach of U.S. authorities. Run the job on a few million addresses, and even if only a tiny portion of one percent paid up, you’d still be rich.

  “I already knew Bilal was a hacker,” I said.

  “On a higher level than most, if not all. He transitioned into more targeted ventures before long,” Ondine said, “aimed at celebrities and public figures. I’m told he has a team in Lahore, which he hires out to acquire private information for political movements in South Asia and perhaps elsewhere. Nath is very adept at circumventing defenses.”

  She didn’t make it sound like a compliment. An inkling that where Bilal Nath was concerned, Ondine’s customary detachment might be shaded with something else.

  “Yeah, I had a demonstration of his skills,” I said. “So what does an international blackmailer need that he can’t buy or coerce?”

  Ondine turned over one palm, as if considering the question moot. “You may have also noticed that Bilal is ill. Perhaps he desires something of emotional value.”

  I thought of the cryo bottle I’d seen in their hotel room. Something personal?

  The door to the Porcelain Room opened and the thick-necked sentinel strode in, along with an equally brawny guy in a black suit and tie. He looked at Ondine. And me.

  “Yours?” I said, looking at the grunt in the funeral wear.

  “My driver.”

  “Surprised he wasn’t lurking near the soup tureens to protect you.”

  “I have Jessica for that.” I looked where she indicated. A fortyish Latina woman wearing a claret-colored dress and more sensible shoes than a formal party demanded stood off my left shoulder. Her hand rested, relaxed, at the open top to her Kate Spade handbag.

  “Diversity in bodyguards,” I said. “Good for you.”

  “Our time is up,” Ondine said.

  The museum guard was holding the burner phone I’d left in the antique French gown. A glance at his ruddy glowering face told me he’d seen the security video and identified me.

  “So it is,” I said.

  I stood up. Jessica moved to a position beside Ondine’s loveseat.

  “How’s the employee health plan?” I asked her. “Just in case I hire on.”

  “Profit sharing is the real draw,” she said. “Nice tux.”

  “Let’s go.” The guard, at my elbow.

  “Can’t take me anywhere,” I said. Jessica smiled minutely. Ondine looked undisturbed by anything around her, like she might already be weighing the merits of contributing to Senator Werring’s campaign.

  I walked out the open door, past Ondine’s driver. The guard followed close enough behind to pick lint off my collar. Two more guards joined our procession as we paraded down the escalators to the portico where I’d first come in.

  “Your wristband, asshole,” the guard said.

  He wanted to take a swing at me so badly it was making his fingers twitch. I held enough pent-up rage myself that I was tempted to ask him if he wanted to take it outside, where he could make a move free from any cameras or easily horrified party guests.

  But I’d started the trouble tonight. And this poor furious goon wasn’t my enemy. I tore off the wristband and handed it to him and left.

  Outside, the hammer of the giant statue rose and fell, rose and fell. I finally turned toward University Street and began walking. Just a well-dressed mutt, looking a whole lot better than he felt.

  I was tired. Which was no excuse for not having spotted Ondine’s bodyguard Jessica, despite the signifiers of her practical shoes and the handbag large enough to hold her piece and as many extra magazines as she could want. Sloppy.

  I unraveled my bow tie and unbuttoned the top buttons of the tuxedo shirt, grateful that I didn’t hold a job where a necktie was a daily requirement. I barely held a job at all. My gig at Bully Betty’s was just marking time. Betty had recognized it before I had. I didn’t need the income—though I would soon, the way I was burning through my savings—and as much as I liked the people at the bar, pulling drinks and keeping the peace weren’t any challenge.

  Bilal was a threat. And threats were a kind of challenge. The kind that kept me sharp, focused on something important, feeling the way I wanted to feel. I wasn’t suicidal, but I would have to be dense not to recognize the pattern of my own behavior. I liked the action.

  My grandfather had, too. Dono was never happier than when he was planning a score. Afterward, when the excitement and urgency had abated, he’d sink into what he called his black dog days. Growing morose and surly for no accountable reason.

  Screw it. Solve the problem right in front of you, Shaw. Get Bilal Nath off your back. Then you can sweat the small stuff, like the rest of your life.

  On a normal night, the garage where I’d left the Barracuda would have been nearly empty. But with half the hotels and restaurants at the heart of the city hosting end-of-year events, every parking space from the stadiums to Belltown was filled. I wound my way through the packed rows on the sloping roof level. I was five yards from my car when a tapping sound came from the dark at my nine, pebble on pavement.

  I dodged to one side, ducking down behind a blue minivan. Was it Bilal, or Saleem? How had they tracked me here?

  “Hold it.” A man’s voice, on my opposite side. Very close. He’d suckered me. “Get your hands up. Now.”

  I showed my palms. The man stepped out from the shadows of the elevator stand.

  Sean Burke. In the flesh. With an arctic expression on his face and one of his recently acquired SIG Sauer pistols in his hand. A suppressor extended the barrel like an accusing finger, pointing dead square at my head.

  Nineteen

  Burke waved me toward the other side of the elevator stand. Where someone returning to their car would be less likely to spot him holding me at gunpoint. Or emptying his clip into my heart.

  He walked steadily sideways as I approached, keeping at least a dozen feet between us. When I reached a spot in the center of the nearest handicapped space, with an SUV blocking us from the rest of the lot, he motioned for me to stop.

  “If you want my wallet, man, you can have it,” I said.

  With his left hand he removed something from his pocket and flicked it so that it landed at my feet. A thick square of folded paper.

  “Pick it up,” he said.

  I did, and unfolded it.

  It was a picture of me in
black and white, taken from a foot or two above the level of my head. The distance was tricky to gauge due to the fish-eye lens. But there was no mistaking my face, with my concentrated expression and every scar sharply detailed as I came toward the lens. Taking my first shoeless step through the sliding-glass door of Burke’s cul-de-sac home in Bitter Lake.

  There were more papers, more pictures. Me in Burke’s hallway, rifling through the closet. Me in the bedroom, opening a dresser drawer. Each image taken from roughly the same elevation. Each a prosecutor’s dream.

  Not that I thought Burke had any intention of involving the cops.

  “In the ceiling beams,” I said.

  Burke nodded. “Triggered by pressure plates in the floor.” If he had much emotion about our situation, he was keeping it to himself.

  The black paint on the beams had struck me as odd at the time. Now I knew why. It would have been almost impossible for me to spot a tiny camera lens in rough wood painted black. Especially at night. The part of me that wasn’t screaming at myself for fucking up admired the simplicity.

  “You’re not a shooter,” Burke said. “You didn’t bring a gun to the house. Who are you, Shaw?” he said.

  He knew my name. Son of a bitch.

  “Hey, I was just looking for cash, man. It won’t happen again, I swear.”

  “Burglars don’t leave flat-screens and stereos behind. And your car is registered to some dead shitheel in Oregon.” Burke lowered his pistol until it pointed at my left knee. “Last chance. Who do you work for?”

  The elevator motor started. Neither of us moved.

  Burke wasn’t bluffing. I tensed, waiting for the hot round to fracture my kneecap and shred the ligaments around it into wet mush.

  A car alarm beeped and parking lights flashed from the lower slope. In the instant Burke’s eyes flicked in that direction, I dove and rolled under the SUV. I came up on the other side and kept moving, bolting for deeper cover. Expecting gunfire to follow at any second. I heard laughter instead, and happy curses, as a small group of teenagers made their loping way off the elevator. On the row below us, the car whose alarm had beeped roared to life.