And at the top of the driveway, dwarfed to insignificance between massive white columns, stood Virginia Peppercorn.
Before Bic had fully stopped the cab, Virginia had marched down the front steps of her home and had already opened the cab door. She was in the cab almost before he realized it. Wasting no time, she said, “Alright, Penny. Talk to me.”
Bic glanced at her in the rearview mirror as he put the cab into drive. Virginia Peppercorn was in her late seventies, and despite her best attempts, she looked every bit of it. Her hair was dyed a bit too blonde; her makeup was too heavy, with thick foundation and lots of color around the eyes. She reeked of expensive-smelling perfume.
Penny began to cry, and Bic knew this could get real ugly, real quick.
“What is it? What did Sam do to you?” Virginia demanded.
“I’m so sorry.”
“Sorry for what?”
Bic drove through the gate and turned left onto the street. He kept one eye on the road and one on the rearview mirror. Penny just trembled as she stared at the back of his head.
Virginia put her hand on Penny’s shoulder. “It’s alright, dear, you can tell me.”
Penny’s lips quivered as she tried to speak.
“What is it?”
“We’ve been kidnapped.”
“Excuse me?”
“We’ve—we’ve been kidnapped. Sam and I… and now you.”
Bic pulled the cab over to the side of the road. He didn’t want to be driving while dealing with whatever was about to happen with his new passenger. They were still in the exclusive neighborhood. There weren’t any cars on the street, and he didn’t see anyone around at all.
Virginia pointed at Bic. “Kidnapped… by this man?”
Penny nodded.
“Sir, do you know who we are?” Virginia Peppercorn said haughtily. “If you don’t turn around this instant, the best thing that’s going to happen to you is you’ll spend the rest of your life in prison.”
Bic turned and rested his 9mm on the seat, pointed towards Virginia. “I’m only going to say this one time, ma’am. Shut your mouth.”
Virginia’s eyes narrowed to slits. Her aggressiveness took Bic by surprise.
“You, sir, are nothing but an animal.”
“Virginia, please, he’s serious,” Penny pleaded.
“He’s not going to do anything with that gun,” she said, pointing at Bic. “If he shoots me, he wouldn’t get one dollar—just the electric chair.”
“Virginia, please stop.”
“What are you looking for, some drug money?”
Bic just stared at Virginia through his dark sunglasses. He had never seen someone express this kind of courage when staring down the barrel of a gun. Old lady Peppercorn ought to be pissing her pants.
Virginia tried to unlock the cab door, but she couldn’t, so she rattled the door handle. “How much money do you want for your drugs? Hm? Five thousand? Ten?”
Bic smiled, thoroughly amused by this crazy lady’s actions.
“Well?” Virginia said with wide-open eyes.
“I want a billion dollars.”
“A billion with a B? Good Lord, you people are all the same. You’re probably no better than your deadbeat father. How many kids between the two of you have you abandoned?”
Bic turned away from her and tried to stop the fuse of the cherry bomb she had just lit inside of him.
“Daddy issues,” she continued, “what a big surprise. Is he the one who taught you how to cheat and steal like this?”
Bic looked out the front window, trying to stop the red sea of rage overtaking his body.
“Please stop,” Mrs. Wilkes begged Virginia.
“Here’s a novel idea—why don’t you get a job and pay your own bills?” Virginia said as she reached into her purse, pulled out a wad of cash, and shoved the money into Bic’s peripheral vision. “Here’s a couple grand—now let us out of here so you can go get high and then crawl back into your cardboard box.”
Bic slowly removed his sunglasses, still looking forward, as he asked calmly, “You want to know what my father gave me?”
“No, I couldn’t care less,” Virginia said.
Bic turned. His fiery eyes shook Virginia’s confidence as he said, with a tornado of fury swirling within him, “He gave me a pork chop.”
He squeezed the trigger. The lead slug made more noise snapping into Virginia Peppercorn’s chest than it did exiting the silenced weapon.
She died instantly, her painted eyes wide in shock. Bic grabbed the wad of cash from her hand and stuffed it into her slack, racist mouth.
Penny, screaming like a madwoman, tried frantically to open the door, clawing and pounding at the window like a trapped animal. Bic turned the gun toward her and shot her.
Bic then put the cab back into drive, and drove out of the neighborhood, making his way toward I-40. Several minutes into his drive, his fury faded, replaced by something else, something heavy and sore—he hadn’t felt guilt often, but he had when Killebrew died, and he felt that now. What was he doing? How could he justify taking out these innocent people? His father had become an excuse to do something Bic feared that he liked to do: kill people.
This feeling was redoubled when he pulled his car over to a secluded spot and put two bullets into Mr. Wilkes, still in the trunk from being tied up and thrown in hours before. The look on the man’s face—resigned. He had heard Bic kill his wife. His eyes had been red and wet, and he didn’t look away when Bic shot him.
Returning to the road, he buried the guilt and the brewing self-hatred. The question was how best to dispose of these bodies and get on to his next kill. There was also the matter of disposing of the Wilkes’s Town Car, which his employer had promised to take care of. Then it was off to a secluded area about forty miles east of Albuquerque to get the new vehicle and equipment his employer had arranged for him to pick up.
From there, it was on to the next kill.
90
Mack woke up in his bedroom with the taste of puke in his mouth. For an instant, he thought he might throw up again. With his head still thumping, he reached over to his phone. 9:42 PM.
He had a missed text from Caroline: Call me when ur up.
Somehow, he mustered up the energy to sit up. Miserable and with a head full of jackhammers, he dutifully grabbed the water glass. After the first few tough gulps, he found himself guzzling the cool water like a clean drain.
He was determined not to call Caroline, but seconds later, he had his cell phone to his ear, waiting for her to answer.
She picked up. “Mack, how are you feeling?”
“I’m okay.”
“About what happened at the bar—”
“I’d rather not talk about it.”
“Mack, I—”
“Caroline, what’s going on between us?”
A pause. “What do you mean?”
He sighed. “I don’t know how it happened, but I’ve started to look at you in a different way.”
“I’m sorry, Mack. I don’t know what to say.”
“I guess I needed to let you know where I stand.”
“You’re important to me… but right now, it’s just… ”
“I understand.” The knot in his stomach loosened a little. “How about we make this less awkward. Any thoughts on the case?”
She chuckled. “Right. I’ve been digging all afternoon and I think you’re dead on.” She took a deep breath. “You’re not going to believe this.”
“What?”
“I called the six remaining families to tell them what we thought was happening—and found out that Sam Wilkes, his wife, and their friend Virginia Peppercorn are unaccounted for.”
“They’re probably dead already.”
“I think so, too. And there’s something else,” Caroline added. “It was the Wilkes I saw on the list, not Heather Wright. I’m sure of it. And the numbers next to the name
s, they must have been net worth amounts. They were all very large.”
“So, if we’re right, then who do we stake out?”
“I’m looking here at a map. Logically, if he were coming from Arkansas, he would take out Colin Shepard next. He’s located just outside of Denver.”
“Who’s the next closest?”
“Frank Deeds, in Vegas. But his representative said not to worry about Mr. Deeds—he’s living inside his casino.”
“He might as well be living in Fort Knox. Looks like we’re going to Denver.”
“There’s one more thing.”
“What?”
Here she paused, “Who’s Brooks Balter?”
“He’s a stock analyst,” said Mack.
“So, who’s Brooks Balter?”
He took a deep breath and looked off to the side. “It’s ridiculous.”
“Okay. But I saw your notes in the file. You wrote ‘home wrecker’ next to his name.”
Mack felt something tightening his face. “He slept with my mother when I was a kid.”
“Well, that sucks. Wait, is that why… ?”
“Mom left? More or less.”
“The one-night stands, the non-committal relationships. This is something you never dealt with, did you? Like, seriously dealt with it.”
“Guess not. Anyway, just seeing the guy’s name with everything else going on, I just lost it.”
The phone went silent.
“Caroline, you there?”
“Yes.”
“What is it?”
She took a deep breath. “Please don’t be mad, but I kinda called him.
Mack sunk slightly. “You called Brooks Balter?”
“I didn’t know, Mack. I swear. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry. Someone had to call the prick.”
“Good, because we may have something here. One of their accounts shorted 200,000 shares of Incubus just before Larry Tukenson’s death.”
“Did he give you the name of the client?”
“Here’s where it gets interesting. This account has been with the firm for over twenty years, and no one knows who really owns it. The account is set up as a limited liability corporation. Brooks says the account is now worth over a hundred million.”
Mack scowled. “So, did he say why he gave the recommendation to short the stock?”
“That was also interesting. He said the LLC makes only a couple of trades a year, but when it does, they almost always turn a big profit. Brooks then goes in and finds out anything negative or positive he can on the company, and puts out a recommendation in the same direction as the picks for the LLC.”
“So, he basically knows that whoever’s behind the LLC is getting inside information, and he’s not questioning it—he’s even taking advantage of it. Good old Brooks.”
“That’s what it sounds like.”
“Shady bastard. I’m going to report his ass to the NASD tomorrow.”
“Um… you can’t.”
“Why?”
“To get him to talk, I gave him a deal.”
“Screw him, he’s got no proof. We’ll still turn him in.”
“Yeah, about that. I already emailed a signed deal to him.”
Mack sighed. “What a slippery dick.”
“Brooks will get his one day, but for now, we need to focus on this LLC. They could be our assassin’s employer.”
“Good call. I’ll call my buddy Tom Walton at Langley. He’s good at digging out information. If anyone can find it, he will.”
“Great, so we’ll have this thing wrapped up by the end of the week,” Caroline said playfully.
“I’ve drunk to greater lies than that,” he said without a shred of mirth.
91
Mack and Caroline left Denver International Airport in a rental car on their way to pick up a surveillance van at the local FBI field office. From there, they were going to Colin Shepard’s house.
“Tell me about him,” said Caroline.
“Fourth wealthiest man in America. Worth around $62 billion.”
“Is he single?”
“I’m afraid you’re outta luck. Shepard is a notorious family man. Married for over thirty-seven years. Father of five. There’re all these photo ops of him at his grandkids’ soccer games and dance recitals and whatever.”
“Norman Rockwell material, huh?”
“Aside from the sixty-two bil, pretty much. But there’s a catch, and see if this doesn’t raise a few of those pretty little hairs on your neck. Why is Colin Shepard, dedicated family man, not leaving one stinking cent to any of his kids or grandkids?”
“Nothing?”
“Not a dime. When he and his wife are gone, all that cash is going into a foundation.”
“Jeez,” said Caroline. “I take back my question of his being single.”
“Makes you think, doesn’t it?”
“That we should be following this money?”
“Bingo. And I know just the guy.”
“Let me guess. Tom Walton from Langley?”
“Bingo again.”
A moment later, the man’s voice came over the car’s speakers.
“Listen up,” said Mack, “I got you on speaker, so none of your usual filthy talk about Caroline. Think you can put some of those MIT skills of yours to work for me again?”
“What’s the target?”
“I’m going right to the top of the food chain with this one. It’s in reference to all these billionaires that have been dying lately. Perhaps you’ve heard of them.”
“Um, yeah? What do you think, I live under a rock?”
“Well, listen, there’s an LLC created under the name J.F.T. Enterprises that shorted 200,000 shares of Incubus right before the CEO died. The LLC is supposedly over twenty years old, and we can’t figure out who owns it. I believe if we find the owners, we’ll find who’s behind these murders.”
Tom Walton scoffed. “I thought you said you had a challenge for me.”
“You the man,” Mack said. “Oh, one more thing. Could you check and see if a DEA agent named Philip Utah has any weird money flows or is associated with any offshore accounts somehow?”
“Yeah, um, you sure you want to go there?”
“Why? Do I have to worry about you leaving any fingerprints?”
“Not a chance.”
“Then what could it hurt? If he’s clean, he’s clean.”
“But if he’s not …? Tell you what, I’ll call you when I’ve got something.”
“That’s what I like to hear. I owe you big time, buddy. Talk to you soon.”
“Checking Utah’s sheets, huh?” Caroline commented. “If Bender finds out, he’ll have your hide.”
“He’s got a connection to Gabriel Hernandez that he’s not owning up to. I just have a bad feeling about him.”
“You’ve got a bad feeling about everyone lately,” she said.
92
While Mack and Caroline sped along the Denver roads, Bic Green was glancing at his reflection in the decorative mirrors of the Grand Cayman Casino foyer in Vegas.
He was more than a little embarrassed by his appearance. He had changed into a black Adidas sweat suit with a red three-line pinstripe, a Yankees ball cap tilted to his right, old-school Jordans with fatty red laces, grossly oversized rings with diamonds, and Gucci shades—and to top it off, a large steel chain with a big-ass padlock dangling from his thick neck.
His employer had arranged for him to check into the penthouse of the Grand Cayman under the alias of Black Magic, a little-known rapper from the East Coast who had just dropped his first album. The Grand Cayman was located on the Las Vegas Strip directly north of Frank Deed’s casino, South Beach. The north end of the penthouse at the Grand Cayman, according to Bic’s intel, was exactly 702 feet from the south end of the penthouse where Frank Deeds was currently living.
Bic felt like he was wearing a bad Hal
loween costume—in his business, you didn’t want to be memorable, and you especially didn’t want to draw extra attention to yourself.
At the same time, he realized he didn’t have to worry about casino security snooping into his business. As long as he was disguised as Black Magic, security was used to every wannabe newcomer to the rap game coming to Vegas and throwing money around like it grew on trees. He knew they wouldn’t give a second thought to him renting the penthouse; it was almost part of the cookie-cutter marketing plan of the music business.
Bic had never been to Las Vegas and was amazed by the grandiose magnitude of everything. At 1:00 in the afternoon, the place was hopping, the huge room echoing with the ringing of slot machines and sporadic howls from the craps and blackjack tables as people cheered on a hot roller or a dealer bust.
“May I help you, sir?” a young, dark-haired lady asked him with a brilliant smile.
He hesitated as he prepared to talk like he figured Black Magic would. “Yeah, yeah, I could use a little help.” He smiled, showing off the gold front in his mouth.
He was nervous, waiting for the girl to burst out laughing at how ridiculous he was acting—but to his surprise, the lady looked at him with a flirtatious grin.
“Your name, sir?”
Bic cleared his throat, “Black Magic.”
Her eyes enlarged a little. “We were expecting you. Welcome to the Grand Cayman. I see you’re staying in the penthouse. You’ll love it.”
Bic nodded. “Ya know it.”
Twenty minutes later, Bic stood on the balcony of the Grand Cayman’s penthouse. The area on the roof of the hotel was more like a backyard, completely planted with grass, a sundeck area, and a nice-sized pool with an offset Jacuzzi. More importantly to Bic, this area was on the far north end of the building and couldn’t have been more perfect for the job he needed to do tonight.
Bic walked to the railing and looked over at the top floor of the South Beach casino. Just like his penthouse, the one on the top of South Beach was built with ceiling-to-floor windows.
After determining the angle was acceptable for a kill shot, Bic rolled his golf travel case into the bedroom and lifted it to the bed. He opened the case, but where a true East Coast rapper might have been greeted by the sight of gem-encrusted platinum Honma clubs, this golf case had been retrofitted to hold his own special type of equipment. A .308 sniper rifle with Sound Tech M-CAM suppressor, a Raptor 6-power night-vision scope, an Omni-Mission telescopic sight with Horus reticule, a Leica LRF 1200 laser rangefinder, all set snugly in the case, along with a pair of Leica 8X32 binoculars and a box of HJ Ballistics 168 HPBT ammo.
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