“How long did he give you?”
“Few days,” Bowering said. “He was straight with you on that much, at least.”
“Don’t suppose you could send the bartender to do it. Like you said, he seems a gentle soul.”
Bowering’s laugh was short, and to the point.
“Yeah, that’s not an option. Look, just get the money, and this all goes away,” he said.
My phone twitched, and I stole a quick glance at it. A text from Ayesha: LET’S GO.
“Working on it,” I said. “Might have a break on the case.”
“Here’s hoping.”
Following my few dealings with him, I felt it safe to safe to say Shane Bowering was not a man given to introspection. He was, in his criminally specific niche market, a ruthless capitalist—a pursuit that left little wriggle room for things like empathy.
Still, I decided to push my luck. Desperation has a way of making one oddly optimistic.
“I’m in for ten grand,” I said.
“Well, that’s not great, but it’s not exactly the end of the world. Can you get it from someone else?”
Here goes. “I thought you could spot me it.”
Bowering laughed again, a chuckle cut through with pure pity. “I’m going to assume that was more of your famous wit.”
“C’mon. I’m scrambling here, and like I said: I got a good shot at covering this very soon.”
“No chance. I’m sorry, but you have proven yourself to be a risk.”
“Jesus, I’m not asking for a small business loan or something.”
“You’d have better luck,” he said. “because in our market, you are a proven credit risk. You’re on the hook to a psychopathic Irish gangster and loan shark. So, this is a no go. I won’t cover you.”
“Hey, I’d rather be into you than Quigley.”
I heard the snap of a Zippo case on the other end, and a deep, slow drag.
“No, son,” Bowering said, letting loose a stream of smoke on the other end. “You really don’t.”
32
Following Ayesha’s next and even less patient text, I found her around the corner waiting, drumming her fingers on the dashboard of a sleek, pearl-grey Mercedes. The speakers in back were shaking as music pounded the interior. She was in the passenger seat.
Charlie was in the driver’s.
“Get in,” Ayesha said, lowering her window.
I tapped on the driver side glass.
“Yes?” Charlie sweetly asked.
“I’m sorry, but I think Ayesha and I can find our own way.”
“She offered to drive,” Ayesha shouted over the music.
“Can you turn that down?” I asked.
“C’mon Thad,” Ayesha called out over the booming hip-hop, not hearing what I said—or possibly ignoring it. “Get in.”
I lowered myself close to Charlie’s face.
“Why are you doing this?”
“We talked about the case,” she said. “When you went outside to talk to your loan shark.”
“He’s a loan shark, not mine. And how the hell do you know about that?”
Charlie dipped her head towards Ayesha, who was now lost in the chorus.
“For Christ’s sake,” I muttered. “Did she even pretend to hold out a little?”
“Nah,” Charlie said. “She wanted to know what it was like working with you when I was there, so we swapped a couple of stories. She made a call about where this Copta guy is right now, and I said I’d give you a lift.”
“And hold onto this,” Ayesha said, holding up the satchel with Duclos recent financial activity. She tossed it into the back.
“Yeah, that too,” Charlie said. Then, to me: “She’s kind of a bad ass, hunh?”
I closed my eyes, hoping this would all be much different when I reopened them. No such luck.
I leaned towards the driver’s window
“Why are you doing this?” I asked again.
Charlie gripped and un-gripped the steering wheel, spreading her fingers wide, and I could see the perfect nails, painted hot-rod red and as sleek and unblemished as this Merc’s paintjob.
“It’s just a ride,” she said. “Don’t be so dramatic.”
I grabbed the back door, driver’s side.
“Where to?” I asked.
“Where do ya think?” Ayesha said. “Guy’s on his yacht. You had that thing, would you spend a lot of time elsewhere?”
“Probably not. Of course, I’d settle for his car. Spare me a lot of worries about every last bump and groan my Saab makes.”
Charlie dropped the car into gear, and it purred to action, gliding onto Morwell before doubling back to Oxford Street.
“We got a good deal on the lease,” she said. “Besides, Ayesha said business was good. You could always treat yourself for once.”
“That money has been spoken for, but thanks,” I replied. It was, of course, slow going in the heart of downtown London. “What else did you tell here?” I called out to Ayesha, who mercifully, finally turned the music down a bit.
“Pretty much all of it,” Ayesha said. “What’s the big deal? She worked cases with you before.”
“Yeah, Thad,” Charlie said, meeting my eyes in the rear-view mirror. “What’s the big deal?”
I was determined not to be seen sulking, so I simply shrugged. “No big deal. Let’s get to Copta and see what he knows about all this.”
“So you think he killed the mum?” Charlie asked.
“Maybe, yeah,” I mused. I poked Ayesha’s shoulder. “You really didn’t spare a single detail, did you?”
She smiled. “Relax—this might all be over very soon.”
“Yeah, we reckon Copta might’ve done the mom,” I continued. “But we’re not sure why. We are pretty sure they were having an affair, though, so it makes sense Copta killed Duclos.”
“Maybe Copta kills the other because he did all that and she wants to break it off?” Charlie mused.
“Yeah. And what about the kid?” Ayesha said. “Why leave him alive if he knew about the affair?”
“The kid?”
“Yeah, sorry. The Duclos have a boy. Around 12.”
“Wow,” Charlie said, again meeting my eyes in the rear-view. “What’s the son like?”
“Quiet. Book nerd. Awkward. Thad likes him.”
“You don’t say,” Charlie replied, trying to find my eyes. I had turned away. “Maybe he didn’t know what was going on,” she added.
“He knew,” I said.
“He’s convinced the son had some idea about the affair,” Ayesha said. “I don’t think it matters.”
“So why not go to the cops?” Charlie asked.
Ayesha and I were quiet for a moment.
“Guys,” Charlie said. “C’mon.”
“Your old boss took this on contingency,” Ayesha said. “There’s a lot of money missing, so if we can find it before the cops—”
“Jesus, Thad.” Charlie somehow managed to sound exasperated and disappointed in equal measure.
The sun had climbed a bit, and despite the window’s tint, I slid on my shades.
“It’s my neck,” I said. “No one else’s.”
“It’s not all his fault,” Ayesha said.
“Thanks, but I don’t need you to explain on my behalf,” I said.
“She already told me about Brock pulling a runner,” Charlie said, matching my tone and velocity. “I still can’t believe he hung you out like that.”
“They went back a bit, right?” Ayesha said.
Charlie nodded. “Yeah. They were friends for, like, ever.”
I watched the streets pass, the crush of people happily carrying on with their days, an almost even mix of briefcases and shopping bags dotting the sidewalks. I stretched out, making use of the leg room.
“Yeah, well. what can I say?” I said. This time it was Charlie’s eyes not to be seen in the mirror. “People have a way of letting you down sometimes.”
33
/> At the wharf. Ayesha and I hopped out. Charlie cut the engine and made to open her door. I stepped in front of it.
“What?” she asked.
“Stay here,” I said. She rolled her eyes.
“I still have my license. And I drove you guys here. C’mon, you’re being silly.”
I didn’t move out of the way, but lowered my head a bit closer to her window.
“Look,” I said, my voice a bit low. “I have no idea how this is going to go. But we need to talk to this guy because we still haven’t found the guy we really need.”
“Yeah, so? I know the basics, Thad.”
“This isn’t some small-timer or a guy faking a back injury. Besides, what time did you tell what’s-his-name you’d be home?”
Charlie smiled then, a thin little slit across her mouth.
“You know what his name is,” she said.
“Royce,” I said.
“Yes. Royce,” she said.
I looked across the top of the car. Ayesha was adjusting that peace-of-mind lump on her hip, re-holstering it after checking the clip. I was happy that Charlie was looking at me than at her. Satisfied it was concealed, Ayesha shot me an impatient look. Time to go.
“We also might need to get out of here in a hurry,” I said, standing and—I hoped—ending the argument. “Keep it running.”
Charlie shrugged, and tilted the seat back a bit. Satisfied, Ayesha and I strode towards the St. Katherine’s docks.
“What was that about?” she asked.
“Nothing. Told her to wait, is all.”
I picked up the pace. Ayesha easily kept up.
“How’d you find out Copta’s whereabouts?” I asked her.
“I had drinks with one of the guys from the party on his yacht. He said he’s having some folks in today.”
“Seriously?” I asked, amused. “One of those City boys?’
She smiled. “What can I say? Rich and dumb is kind of my wheelhouse.”
Copta’s yacht was open and bustling. We could hear loud laughs ringing out before we even got close to the stern. We stopped.
“What’s the plan?” she asked.
“We get him alone and tell him we know about the affair. See if we can jolt him into yakking about anything else. He’s got to know something.”
“You still don’t like him for clipping the husband?”
I shook my head. We were almost to the boat.
“No. But you kill the woman you’re having an affair with whose husband is missing, a good reason to do it might be if she knew where he was—or was going to get him back.”
No sign of Copta as we approached the deck, however. Instead, a bloated, poplin-shirted guest was up and about, regaling the gathered with boasts of both his alleged economic and sexual prowess, pausing only to pick shrimp from his plate. Circled around him was a collection of about half-a-dozen of the rich and imperious, called in for what looked to be a pretty impressive brunch date. The usual high-end wares were being made available: Salmon terrine, eggs Benedict, bagels and lox. Plus, based on the volume and general energy coming off the boat, the Caesars and mimosas had been flowing and well-refreshed.
“Morning,” I called out from the dock.
The fat man turned and saw me. If he was annoyed or worried, he didn’t show it.
“Hello, hello,” he called out, jovially. “To what do we owe the pleasure? Never mind, come aboard. Room for plenty. Welcome.”
Not the reception I had expected, considering how we had left this boat the last time. I shot Ayesha a quick glance—Is this guy for real?—and she replied by stepping off the dock and onto the back of the yacht. I followed her lead. She picked up a flute of champagne.
“What brings you by?” he asked, reclining. “Looking for someone?”
“We were hoping to have a word with Mr. Copta,” I said. A young woman in catering whites offered me quiche from a tray. I shook my head.
“Mr. Copta is otherwise detained. My name is Baxter. He and I work together.”
I coughed politely. Ayesha took a respectable swig from her glass.
“Well, this is business. There is new information that needs to be discussed,” I said, straining over the chatter of the guests around me.
Baxter cupped his hand by his ear, smiling apologetically—and broadly. He was enjoying himself.
I was not.
“Baxter,” I said, raising my voice. “It’s either we talk to your boss here or he can talk to Scotland Yard later this afternoon—say, around four o’clock?”
The chatter slowed considerably. I heard one of the guests—another huge man, this one with a splotch of hollandaise on his shirt—clear his throat, its waddle vibrating accordingly. The beautiful young woman linked to his left arm dabbed the front stain to keep busy and have somewhere to put her eyes. The scraping of cutlery faded away.
Magnus, the driver, emerged. He had a plate, one he quickly lay down as he stepped towards us. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Ayesha make a half-step closer to me, on my right.
He dabbed the corner of his mouth with a cloth napkin, brilliantly white and clean.
“Thank you Baxter. I’ll take this from here. Mr. Grayle, Mr. Copta is booked up for four o’clock,” he said. “So maybe we should talk now.”
I nodded in agreement. He waved us to follow, and led us to Copta’s bedroom, where he and I had first spoken.
“Some bash,” I said.
“It’s been like that for the last couple of days.”
“Why’s your boss missing the party?” I asked.
Magnus ignored the question as we got to the door, closed. He knocked. No answer. He opened the door and strode in.
Copta’s room was as we had left it, a testament to opulence as well as functionality. He again sat at the end of the bed, Magnus blocking the door. I stood in front of Copta, Ayesha just behind me, her stance bladed so she kept an eye on the way out.
“So,” Copta said, taking a healthy pull from his own champagne glass. “What brings you by yet again?”
“I think you should speak to them, Mr. Copta,” Magnus said. “Could be serious.”
Copta smiled.
“Is that so. Well, Mr. Grayle, what is this new information that brought you here to embarrass me in front of my friends and crash my soiree?” He emptied the glass and stood, heading to the bar on the other side of the room.
“You heard about Annie Duclos?” I asked.
Copta nodded. He decided against more champers and instead poured a heavy splash of scotch over a single ice cube.
“Yes. I did,” he said. His voice was thick.
I cast a quick look at his man at the door.
“You really want to do this with the hired help here?” I asked.
“Fuck you,” Magnus snarled.
Copta shrugged.
“Shut up,” Ayesha snapped at Magnus. “Thad, c’mon. Let’s get on with it.”
Copta had sat again. I sat next to him. He looked at me, puzzled and amused. I crossed my hands in my lap and leaned forward a bit. He matched my posture.
“We’re pretty sure you were sleeping with Annie,” I said.
He shrugged again.
“C’mon,” I said. “No reason to hide behind propriety now.”
He took another deep gulp from the heavy tumbler in his hand—crystal, by the look of it. A nice one. I watched Ayesha out of the corner of my eye. She wasn’t stupid or brazen enough to put her hand on her hip here, but I could see it hovering close enough by she could get to what was there fast enough. Magnus was apparently over my slight—his face was impassive, unmoved. He had either heard this before or didn’t care.
Copta let out a stream of air through his lips, steady and long.
“I suppose Vivian isn’t too common a name,” he finally allowed.
So far, so good.
He began to rise, seeking a top-up. I reached out and touched his shoulder.
“Need you sober, or close to it,” I said.
> Copta acquiesced, sitting back down. Magnus shifted. He knew his boss wasn’t anywhere near straight.
“Thad,” Ayesha said, her voice tundra-cold. “Jesus, get a move on.”
I ignored her. “How long were you guys together?” I asked him.
“About a year and a half, all told,” Copta replied. His eyes were glassy, and I couldn’t tell if it was the booze or something else, welling up from inside.
“How’d it start?”
“How do these things ever start?” he said. “We saw each other at a couple of functions, I made up a reason to get her number, we spent some time together.” He sighed. “Her husband did a lot of work for me. It wasn’t… that hard.”
“You got an alibi? Gonna hold up when we talk to the cops?”
He nodded.
“How about your boy?” I asked, nodding towards Magnus. If he heard me, he didn’t let it show.
Copta nodded again.
“I didn’t do it,” our host said. A new layer of glass glazed his eyes.
“I had a feeling,” I said. I took the empty glass from his hand and laid it on the corner of the bed.
“Do you know who did?” Ayesha said, her voice sharp.
Copta looked up at her.
“No,” he said, his voice finally steady. “No, I don’t.”
“And if he did, I imagine that would already have been addressed,” I said.
I rose, standing over Copta.
“Do you know where Duclos is?” I asked. “Or the money?”
Copta shook his head.
“Think hard on this,” I said. “’Cause he’s still missing, and if he’s alive he needs to know what’s going on. And if he’s dead—”
“I didn’t kill him—”
I held up my hand.
“We know about the gambling. We know about that—” I nodded towards the stack of mail, the one with the crown, on his desk “—so what’s your connection?”
Copta looked at the cards and shook his head.
“They invited me to play. I’m rich, Grayle. You should see the stuff people ask me to attend, spend money on, play with. It’s all part of the deal.”
“Did you get Duclos into that game, get him in trouble with these lunatics?”
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