“Who knows, Grayle?” she called after me. “Maybe we’ll get really lucky and Yannick Duclos is there, too—enjoying a siesta, blissfully unaware of all this hell that’s broken loose back here.”
“He’d be better off staying,” I said, stepping into the mid-day sun. She didn’t have a quick enough answer for that— the door was already shut behind me.
28
I left New Scotland Yard and headed towards Westminster station, dialing Ayesha as I hustled down Embankment, weaving between impatient tourists taking pics with the Eye or Parliament behind them.
“Yeah?” she said.
“Hey,” I said. “Still mad?”
“Better believe it.”
“Want to know how my interview went?”
“Well, I can hear you’re outside, so I guess they didn’t find a reason to arrest you.”
“True enough. But something came up. Thought you’d like to know about it since it could mean some work. Maybe even a little action.”
The line was quiet, but only for a moment.
“I’m listening,” she said.
“The cops had the full report on Annie Duclos death in front of me. It had everything about the case, including her full details. Date of birth, list of previous addresses, and her full name.”
“So? That’s pretty standard, I’m guessing.”
“Annie’s name was Annabelle Vivian Duclos, nee Ramsey.”
“Again: So?”
I was at the station. I popped into Café Nero for a quick caffeine lift and to catch my breath.
“Copta’s yacht. It was called Vivian.”
Another pause.
“And he said he had just gotten it about a year ago,” she said.
“Bragged, really. But yeah. About a year.”
“Which is when the kid started acting out a bit.”
“Mmm hmmm.”
I heard her suck some air between her teeth.
“God damn,” she finally murmured.
“Could be nothing.” I said.
“Listen to your voice. You don’t think that for a second.”
I mouthed a quick thank you to the girl behind the counter and headed towards the turnstiles.
“No,” I replied. “I guess I don’t. It’s a pretty weird coincidence.”
“So, what do you think? Copta and her were having an affair?”
“Maybe, yeah. Maybe Yannick finds out and runs off, cleaning them out.”
“Or Copta was jealous and had him taken out. Maybe Copta’s sitting on the money, waiting for this to all blow over.”
“Lotta maybes,” I said, sliding my Oyster card and picking up the pace towards the Jubilee line. “Wanna go get some definites?”
I could already hear the rustling on the other end. If she wasn’t already dressed, she was well on her way.
“I’ll see you at your office,” she said.
“Already on way,” I said. “You can bring two sandwiches this time, if you’re picking something up.”
About ten minutes later, I was bounding up the stairs at Liverpool Street Station, pulling my phone loose as I ducked around the corner. That, and my unchecked enthusiasm, had left me a little sloppy, exposed, so I didn’t see the flash to my left until a split-second too late. The fist came in hard and fast, but controlled—there was no energy wasted, nothing more expended than what was felt to be necessary. I dropped immediately to my knees, in time for the next blow—again, short, tight, like a crossbow string snapping off a bolt—to catch me on the right cheek, just above my lip.
The guy was a pro. He had angled me back into the alley and used his frame to block any view of me from the street. The morning rush hour crowd would never even think to cast us a sideways glance.
I still couldn’t breathe. My hands propped me up, but I was still on my knees, crab-like and defenseless. He roughly hooked his arm under mine and pulled me up. He had pale skin, and a healthy shock of red hair, tied back in a loose ponytail.
“Morning,” he said.
“Chrissakes,” I barely managed. Clean shot to the solar plexus. Again. It hurt to talk. Any air both coming in and out of my body was bringing a lot of complications to me, pain-wise. “What’s the matter with you guys? I still got a couple days.”
“Mr. Quigley wants you to know understand the seriousness of this deal,” Ponytail said. “We have heard you are encountering difficulties making ends meet.”
“The hell…?” I asked.
He shrugged. I finally twigged it.
“The Met,” I said. “Of course. You got a few cops running errands?”
He nodded.
“Your interview with the police did not go well. We are following up.”
I leaned against the wall behind me, enjoying the coolness of the stone as it worked its way through my suit jacket and sweat-drenched shirt.
“Well, you don’t waste time, I’ll give you that,” I said. “I got a lead. Tell Alphonse it’s coming together.”
“Good,” he said. He reached out, placing his hands and their overly-ringed fingers firmly on my shoulders. “Mr. Quigley intends to keep his end of the bargain if you keep yours.”
“Pay up or get a kicking,” I said. “Pretty standard arrangement, Patty. I get it.”
He gave my rapidly-swelling cheek a very gentle—yet very menacing—tap.
“My name’s Sean,” he said. “And the way we’ve heard it, some people don’t think you care about getting a kicking.” He gave my coat front a snap, straightening it out a bit. “And just so you know, it doesn’t matter to me if you pay up or not. I make a living either way.”
I braced for a parting blow, but he simply pushed off from my shoulders and walked away. I waited until he turned the corner before allowing myself to slide down the wall, holding my stomach, squeezing my eyes hard until the tears would no longer threaten to spill.
29
Ayesha was in the foyer at my building when I arrived, and I caught a glimpse of a slight smile on her face—evidently, she had forgiven me. I tried to hang onto that memory when she turned, saw me and that smile vanished.
“Jesus, Thad,” she said. “You all right?”
I nodded. My stomach was still a mess. Trying to buy a little time, I worked the key into my mailbox.
“Alphonse Quigley has formally sent his regards.”
“I thought you had some more time?”
I peered inside. Takeaway menus, the light bill and some other nonsense that would wait a bit longer. “He felt it necessary to impress upon me the importance of his deadline.”
“You OK? Any ringing in the ears? Nausea? Dizziness?”
I shook my head. “I know what a concussion is, Ash. The guy was looking to hurt me, but not enough to send me to emergency. I’m fine.”
She took the mail from me. “C’mon, let’s get upstairs. I’ll take a look at that cut.”
I fell into step behind her with a short laugh.
“What?” she grunted at me over her shoulder.
“Nothing,” I said. “I didn’t realize you cared, is all.”
As we got to the door she was, as always, unfazed by my attempts at banter. “I care about lots of things,” she said. “Like getting paid.”
“All I deal with these days are mercenaries.”
“When this over, you can make new friends,” she said, cocking her head to my name on the pebbled glass. “Open up, pretty boy.”
Any ice left in that tray would be a godsend. I gripped the handle as I fished the keys loose, and the door swung open.
We exchanged glances.
“You forget to lock up?”
I shook my head.
Ayesha unzipped her bomber jacket. I could see, once again, the heavy swell on her hip peeking out from under her hoodie, forged dark steel and semi-automatic peace of mind.
“Hello?” I called out. No answer, but I could hear music, fuzzy and distant. As I got closer, I realized it was from headphones, something British and oh-so-indie.
I stepped in. The track suit bottoms had been traded in for skinny Verdigo designer jeans, the Chuck Taylors swapped for pointed toe pumps. But I recognized the easy posture leaning those legs on the front desk very quickly, the relaxed tilt of her head.
I never asked for the key back.
I took the seat in front of her, waiting for her to notice.
She lowered her feet, looking up from the laptop’s screen. Its blue light flattered her face, her smile widening bit as she took me in. She tugged the white buds loose from her ears.
“Hi Thad,” she said. She lowered the laptop’s lid, sealing it with a gentle click.
“Hi,” I said. “Good to see you, Charlie.”
Neither of us said anything. I could hear car horns bleating outside, the buzz coming from her removed headphones, my pulse starting to pick up a bit of steam, a steady rhythm.
“You too.” She was nice enough to at least appear sincere. In front of her she had what looked like a takeaway cup of white tea. She sipped it purposefully, holding my gaze for a moment. She dipped her head towards the laptop and the seemingly ceaseless pile of paperwork on my desk.
“So,” she said. “How’s business?”
“You should really turn that down,” I said, nodding to her headphones. “That kind of volume is putting you in Pete Townshend territory.”
“I think I’ll be fine.”
I heard the tugging of a zipper behind me, Ayesha closing her jacket, apparently satisfied with the threat level. She stepped from behind me.
“Hey,” she said to the young woman at the desk.
“Hey,” Charlie responded. “All right?”
Ayesha shot me an Everything OK? look. I shrugged.
“Who’s this?” Ayesha asked.
Charlie looked at me with a slight smile, apparently equally anxious for the answer.
“Ayesha Gill, this is Charlotte Colbourne,” was all I said.
Charlie’s smile went a little sad then, a dip at the corner of her mouth.
I took off my jacket and unbuttoned my shirt, heading to the small kitchenette. I opened the freezer and pulled loose the ice tray. A few remained, thank God. I dumped the cubes onto a paper towel and pressed them to my cheek. I sat on the couch, trying not to wince.
They were both looking at me, clearly expecting something more.
I slowly lowered myself onto the cushions.
“She used to work here,” I said, shrugging again.
30
“You want to tell me about the case?” Charlie asked. We had moved to my office, where I rummaged at my desk and she sat across. I had sent Ayesha out to get some lunch.
“Can’t,” I said.
“I’m still covered by my confidentiality paperwork.”
I opened my own laptop. As it hummed to life, I looked over the screen at her, sitting where she had sat many times before, sitting with the same questions about cases, the same eager smile.
“You don’t work here,” I said. “It’s just a bit weird now, y’know?”
She sat back, crossed her arms, and uncrossed them just as quickly.
“Sure,” she said. “Sure, I get it.”
“What are you doing here?” I asked, careful to keep my voice neutral.
“Saw something about the case in the papers,” she said. “I know a couple of folks over at Bergman Hapsburg, and one of them mentioned there was a PI involved, fellow with a funny name.”
I smiled a little.
“So, not my hardest case,” she said.
“How’s the new job?” I asked. “Still liking it?”
“It’s good. But it’s been six months now. Not really new any more.”
“Six months?”
She nodded.
“Wow. Well, time flies when you’re having fun, right?”
She looked at the mess of my desk, the horror show of manila envelopes, yellow notepads and empty coffee cups.
“Yeah. Looks like a right blast,” she said.
We sat quietly for a bit. She tilted her head, giving a spot under her jawline a quick scratch.
“Anyhow,” she said. “Thought I might be able to help a bit. I still have my license, you know.”
“Probationary license,” I replied. “But yes, I know you do.”
“Didn’t realize you had brought someone else on board,” she said.
“Ayesha’s a freelancer, and she’s not really the office type,” I said. “I’m doing OK in here by myself, but I still need eyes and ears out there.”
She picked up an envelope from the pile, turning it to face me. There was something seemingly angry and red in block letters on it. I shrugged.
“OK, I’m behind. Look, it’s busy here. Work has been steady for months now.”
“So get a temp in.”
“Sure. Got your old agency’s number?” Charlie had started here as an office temp before graduating to investigator last year.
She opened her purse.
“Might do, actually. Unless you were just being a bastard, of course.”
She looked up from the open bag.
“There may have been a whiff of bastardness around that comment,” I acknowledged.
She snapped the purse shut.
“Do whatever you want, but don’t talk down to me. I know you’re angry I left.”
“You can do whatever you want,” I countered. “I’m fine.”
“It was a good offer. And it was in my field.”
“Is that what Royce had to say?” I said. Her boyfriend—they had been serious for about eight months or so. “You didn’t even finish grad school, Chuck.”
She smiled then, but not the kind she had shown before, the kind that wanted validation. This was more in tune with the smiles I had seen from a lot of women—somewhere between bemusement and disappointment.
“I make my own decisions, but yes—he did suggest that perhaps working at an NGO promoting economic development might be better for me then running around in the middle of the night taking pictures of people faking insurance injuries.”
“To be fair, we also do a lot of background checks and security consulting here,” I said. “And I’m guessing not a lot of the girls you work with at that NGO have shoes quite as nice.”
Ayesha stepped into the main office, interrupting Charlie’s response. She swept in with a paper bag full of sandwiches and a tray of coffees. She distributed them quickly and without comment, finally plopping into the chair next to Charlie, who simply sipped her coffee, looking straight ahead.
“Thanks,” I said, unwrapping my club.
“No worries,” she said. She dumped some cream into her own coffee, stirring quickly and bringing it to her mouth. No one had said anything else since she arrived, and Charlie had made no motion towards her own food.
“Not hungry?” Ayesha asked.
Charlie shook her head, a quick twitch.
“Hunh,” Ayesha said, taking another sip form her coffee and switching her gaze from Charlie to me. “Weird energy in here, yeah?”
31
When my phone buzzed shortly after lunch, I was more than happy to step out to take the call, even if it was Shane Bowering on the other end. I made it way outside to the street below. Bit of fresh air might help, I reasoned.
“Grayle,” he said by way of greeting. “Where’s my book report?”
Shit. “I’ll have it sent over in a bit, but I’ll save you the read. Your kid is clean.”
“Yeah?”
“Oh yeah. Squeaky. He knows some rough types but, by all accounts and observations, he is a bit of a Boy Scout. He’s solid.”
“Hunh,” Bowering mused.
“What? I thought that would be good news.”
“Well, I mean it’s great he’s an upstanding member of society and all, but now I am in a position of knowing my offer of further work could corrupt him.”
“Then don’t. You said yourself he’s a good enough bartender. Keep him there.”
“Damn it all
,” Bowering moaned. “Hard to find good help these days, in some areas at least.”
“Maybe have a job fair. An outreach program to local schools.”
“You’re pretty funny for a guy who almost forgot to deliver his promised work to me,” Bowering observed.
“Well, that’s fair. But I got a bit going on right now.”
“Yeah? How’s that?”
I pulled the phone away from my face, turning my face towards the unseasonably warm February sun.
“You there?” he asked.
“Yeah. I’m here.”
“Let’s have it.”
I sighed.
“I’m into Quigley.”
Now it was my turn to wait as Bowering presumably needed a moment to collect his wits, and if not those, certainly a bit of outrage.
“Grayle,” he said after a second. “You stupid, stupid man.”
“Would it matter if I told you it was for a good reason and borne of the very best of intentions?”
“Do good intentions power wheelchairs? Because that’s what you’re facing if you don’t square this.”
“I know.”
“Do ya, though?” he almost yelled. “Cripes, this could be bad news all around.”
“Calm down,” I said. “What do you care, anyways?”
Another pause. I could hear Bowering sucking air through his teeth.
“Quigley outsources on occasion. I’m one of his go-to guys to connect him with muscle.”
I laughed. “I think we’re clear. I already had a visit form whoever is going to be bashing skulls in a few days. And you’re no pasty Irishman with a bad haircut.”
“Grayle,” Bowering said. “I took the sheet. Tall guy, dark hair, flat on Seven Sisters Road?”
“You know where I live?”
“And where you work,” he said, rattling off the address.
“Why’d you take this? And why doesn’t it have my name?”
“I took it because this is my job, or at least part of it. And we don’t usually use names. Description, addresses, routines, sure. Photos when the day comes. Not knowing the ID gives us at least some, whattya call it—deniability.”
“If you get pinched, you mean.”
“Well, my guys. I don’t do that stuff myself anymore. And they don’t get pinched for this stuff, ever.”
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