The Extortionist

by Vincent Zandri

“I’ll be seeing you, kid,” I say.

  “Hope you feel better, Jobz,” she says.

  Just like I thought, she has no idea who Bogart was.

  It’s still early, so I don’t head straight home. Instead I go back to Lanie’s Bar. The happy hour crowd has dispersed, gone home to their families and their lives, which means the place is pretty much empty. Goateed Bartender sets me up with a round of Budweiser Beer and a double shot of Jamie, straight.

  “Quick date,” he says with pursed lips. “Hope you got some, at least.”

  “I’ve been promised a repeat performance tomorrow night,” I say, not without a grin.

  He holds his fist out over the bar. I punch it.

  “That’s what I like to hear Mr. Jobz,” he says.

  He goes back to washing some glasses and setting them out to dry on the rack under the bar. I pull out my phone, go to the pictures app. I pull up the cell phone picture I took of the framed photo in Kyle Carter’s house. The same one Brit has in her house. I gaze at all four faces in the shot. All of them smiling, holding up their drinks by the glass stems. I enlarge the picture with the tips of my thumb and index fingers. Suddenly, I see something. A reflection in the stainless-steel refrigerator. It’s a blurry face, but a face I recognize all the same. It’s Brit. She’s the one who snapped the picture.

  “Holy fuck me,” I whisper to myself.

  I dial Miller’s cell.

  “Thought you were on a date,” he answers.

  “I was on a date,” I say. “Keyword being was.”

  I can only assume there’s acid in my tone, because he doesn’t respond right away. Instead, he steals a beat or two to breathe.

  “What happened?”

  “Turns out you were right,” I say, “the sweet nurse, Brit, might not turn out to be so sweet.”

  I tell him about the date. The fly-fishing lesson with Brit insisting on using her left dominant hand, which led to some hot action on the couch, which led to her freshening up in her bedroom bathroom, to my stealing that alone time to examine the pictures on her wall, to my spotting the exact same picture that Kyle Carter has in her house. The photo I now have stored in my phone.

  “She’s the one who snapped the picture, Miller,” I add.

  “How do you know?”

  “You can see the reflection of her face in the stainless-steel refrigerator panel.”

  “Holy shit,” he says. “I’ll give it a good look soon as we’re off the phone.”

  I drink some beer, back it up with a swig of the whiskey. It’s gonna take a lot more of that to calm me down tonight.

  “As much as it’s a kick in the balls to admit, Miller,” I say, “Brit is somehow implicated in this whole shit storm. And what turned out to be an almost simple case about school cafeteria extortion is suddenly looking like it’s a hell of a lot more complicated.”

  “I see what you mean, Jobz,” he says. “And you’re sure Brit is left-handed, and her left hand is injured?”

  “I couldn’t be more sure if the hand were planted on my face.”

  “I could make a stupid joke about that, but I won’t, considering the circumstances.”

  “I’m not much in a joking mood right now, even if I did get laid.”

  “How did you leave it with her?”

  “Whaddaya mean, Miller?”

  “Do you think she thinks that you suspect her of being a murderer? Come on, Jobz, you were a tin junkie once. Do I have to spell it out for you?”

  “Once a tin junkie always a tin junkie, is that it?”

  “It’s why I hire you.”

  Drink more beer, more whiskey.

  “Here’s what I think. She believes I am entirely pussy whipped and that she’s got her little finger wrapped around my you-know-what. That putting it plain enough for you, Detective?”

  “Couldn’t be more crystal.”

  “I told her I wasn’t feeling good. That I had a headache and if she were up for it, we could rearrange the date for same time tomorrow night. She agreed.”

  “Perfect,” he says. “I want you to keep that date. The APD won’t be far from her apartment.”

  “What about my interviewing the women in the Loudonville Elementary School general office tomorrow? If I start asking questions, they’ll get suspicious and maybe say something to Brit. They might warn her about me. She might cancel our date then. Hell, maybe she’ll even skip town.”

  “She won’t skip town since I’m gonna put a team to work surveilling her.”

  “Sounds good, so long as they remain invisible.”

  “They’ll be invisible, all right. You won’t even know they’re there, Jobz. Now, here’s what I want you to do. Interview the ladies tomorrow but be nice. Bring them donuts and coffee and tell them you’re just asking questions regarding the unfortunate demise of their former boss. Tell them the APD doesn’t have a clue as to who could have done this. But maybe you think it had to be a really big man. Something that’s as far away from Brit as the devil is to the Pope.”

  In my spinning head, I picture Frumpy and Cute Brunette Chris. It shouldn’t be too hard gaining their trust if I use my God given golden tongue properly.

  “What else?” I say.

  “Principal Anita Simon’s wake is tomorrow afternoon. I want you to go to it. See who’s there and not there. Text Brit. Tell her how much better you feel, how you can’t wait to see her. Buy her more wine and flowers and really lay it on. When the time is right, try to get her to spill some information that might suggest she had it in for Anita Simon.”

  “It’s not like she’s going to admit to murder, Miller.”

  “That would be like winning the Lotto,” he says. “But she obviously wanted the woman dead, and very likely went so far as to make her dead. Try to find out why she hated someone who used to be her friend. Between that, the untraced blood on the murder weapon, her being left-handed and wounded, we just might be able to make the arrest before you get to the dessert course.”

  “Roger that,” I say.

  I down what’s left of my beer and my shot.

  “And Jobz,” he says.

  “What is it?”

  “Take it easy on drowning your sorrows. I know how much you like or liked Brit. How much you were convinced she was into you even at your, uhh, advanced age. But this is no time for hangovers. I need you to be Johnny-on-the-Spot tomorrow. Got it?”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah,” I say. “I’ll take it easy. But it won’t be easy, taking it easy.”

  “That’s the spirit. Call me if anything else comes up.”

  He kills the connection. I order another round. I also make a mental note to make sure I pack my pistol during my date tomorrow night.

  By the time I leave Lanie’s, I don’t have a spring in my step, but instead, a bit of a stagger. Goateed Bartender asked me if I wanted to take an Uber home since the cops were said to be on the prowl tonight. I told him, I am the cops, and left him a hefty tip.

  “See you tomorrow, Mr. Jobz,” he said.

  “God willing,” I said.

  Driving back to the port, the top down, the cool air is doing a decent job of sobering me up enough to see straight. When the pair of bright headlights show up in my rearview mirror like they’re far closer than a pair of headlights should be, I go from mildly drunk to downright sober. After a time, a cop—even a former cop—gets a feel for the difference between some jerk who’s simply tailgating him and someone who is genuinely tailing him. Just to make sure the driver behind me is tailing me, I hit the Mustang’s brakes and make a hard right turn into a neighborhood. Do it without using my directional. Just like I thought. He hits his brakes and also makes a skidding turn into the neighborhood.

  Game on.

  Removing the carabiner key chain from the ignition key, I lean over the seat, unlock the glove box. I pull out my gun, set it down on the empty passenger side seat. Reattaching the key chain to the ignition key, I grab hold of the pistol, and take another look into the rearview. Ass
hole is still on my ass.

  I punch the gas pedal. The Mustang V6 lurches forward. I’m like a bullet shot out of the night. But he tries to keep up with me, anyway. If a cop is anywhere near us, like Goateed Bartender warned, we’re both toast. Doesn’t matter if I’m presently working for the APD. They’ll bust me anyway, not only for doing seventy on an otherwise quiet and peaceful neighborhood street, they’ll nail me with a DWI. That happens, I’m as good as terminated when it comes to working for the department.

  None of that changes the fact that this guy is following me, and I can’t seem to shake him. Coming up, directly ahead, an intersection. The road ends there. No choice but to go right or go left. I can go either way. I decide to blow through the stop sign, make a sharp left-hand turn. So sharp, the back end of the Mustang fishtails. I hit the gas, feel the wind whip against my face. Another glance in the rearview. He’s still on my tail.

  The road ends at New York Route 9. The traffic light at the intersection is currently turning red, but I ignore it, and pull a right-hand turn. I gun the engine and put some distance between me and him. He has no choice but to stop at the light while a tractor trailer pulls out in front of him. That’s his misfortune and my good luck.

  I’m heading straight for the highway that will take me downtown to the port. If I can make it there without him on my tail, he’ll never find me. Or if he does, I can take up a defensive position in the dark and shoot his tires out. By the time I make the highway, I’m convinced I’ve lost him. Or, he’s lost me, I should say. But then, the same set of bright halogen headlights are coming up on me fast.

  Gunning the Mustang along the highway, I weave in and out of the lanes, trying to put as many cars and trucks between us as humanly possible. But he’s not only keeping up with me, he’s gaining on me. At one point, I turn around, extend my shooting arm, fire a round. But I’m not even close.

  He’s gaining on me.

  My exit, just up ahead. I wait until just the last second, until I turn the wheel sharply to the right. The car skids over the gravel-covered soft shoulder onto the off ramp. I feel myself smiling proudly because I’m convinced this time that I’ve lost him. Until I see him approaching my tail again.

  “What the fuck are you? A professional driver?” I ask myself.

  At this point, I don’t even bother speeding. I take it normal speed along South Broadway to the Port Entry. I don’t do anything stupid like pull up to my houseboat. Instead, I stop the Mustang in the middle of the massive empty lot, and throw the transmission into park, keep the engine idling. Both hands gripping the .45, I wait for him to approach me.

  My eyes focused on the rearview, I watch him get out of his car. He’s a tall man. By the looks of it, he’s young too. Younger than me, anyway. His long body is illuminated in the bright headlamps. Far as I can see, he’s wearing jeans, lace up hiking boots, and T-shirt under a khaki windbreaker. He’s not carrying a weapon, but that doesn’t mean he’s not concealing one.

  When he finally makes it to the driver’s side window, I point the gun at him.

  “Hands where I can see them, Chief,” I say.

  Slowly, he raises his hands.

  “I’m not what you think I am,” he says. “I’m not trying to scare you or hurt you, Mr. Jobz.”

  “You could’ve fooled me, pal,” I say. “How do you know my name?”

  “Because I know you work for the cops as an independent contractor. I also know your mother is very sick. And I also know you dated Brit Boido tonight.”

  I hesitate for a couple beats while I stare into this guy’s blue eyes.

  “So, who the hell are you that you seem to know everything about my life, Son?”

  “My name is Dave Barter,” he says, “and I used to be married to your new girlfriend, Brit.”

  Five minutes later, Dave Barter and I are sitting outside on my narrow houseboat deck with a stunning view of the moonlit Hudson River before us. We’re drinking from my personal stash of Jameson. This particular whiskey is the IPA version, which has a little more bite to it than the normal, everyday Jameson.

  “How’d you find me, Dave?” I say.

  “Call me, Barter,” he says. “I like it better.”

  Like I said, he’s a tall guy, dirty blond, fair skinned, and pre-maturely balding. I can tell he shaves his head on occasion, but he’s allowed some blond hair to grow out along the bottom and sides of his skull. His face is clean shaven however, and he looks muscular enough to pick me up and toss me off the boat if he so chooses, which I’m hoping he doesn’t.

  “I’ve been following you on and off for a few days,” he says. “Ever since they moved your mom to the hospital ICU.”

  I sip some whiskey, shake my head. If that’s the case, sounds more like he’s been following his ex-wife, and I just happened to get in the way. Me and my mother, that is.

  “Why?” I say. “Don’t tell me this is a case of jealously over your ex-wife’s suiters.”

  There’s that old word again. Suiter. I wonder if he even knows what it means. But he gets it and he shakes his head like I couldn’t be more off.

  “Nothing like that,” he says. “Brit and I were over a long time ago. I followed you because I don’t want to see what’s happened to so many others happen to you, Mr. Jobz.”

  I tell him to call me Jobz, because like him, I like it better.

  “Okay, Jobz,” he says. He drinks some whiskey, swallows, focuses his eyes on the slow-moving river. “You want the long or the short of it?”

  “Give me whatever it takes,” I say.

  He nods, then refocuses on me.

  “First off,” he says, “Brit Boido isn’t her real name. It’s Tracy. Tracy Ferguson. I used to call her Fergie when I first got to know her in Santa Monica after college.”

  “You met in school, out west?” I ask.

  “Yup,” he says. “We were together for almost the entire four years. We rented a place in Venice Beach soon as we graduated. I worked two jobs to keep up with the rent which was out of sight.”

  “Nice place, gorgeous weather,” I say. “I’ve been there a few times on vacation. Bit beyond my pay grade in terms of setting down roots, I’m afraid.”

  He rolls his eyes, then stares not at the river but into the depths of his drinking glass.

  “It was for us too,” he says. “But here’s the thing. My folks had money. My dad, I should say, since my mother passed when I was still in high school. He used to send us money every month to help us live.”

  “Nice of him,” I say. “Not many young people have that luxury.”

  “Brit,” he says, “or should I say, Tracy, took a liking to him. She would visit him on her own, make him meals, walk with him, or sometimes just sit with him for hours and hours.” He drinks a little, exhales a profoundly sad breath. “Then something started happening.”

  “What’s that?” I ask.

  “He started losing weight,” Barter says. “He wouldn’t eat. He started repeating over and over again about how he missed my mom.”

  My pulse begins picking up speed. My gut speaking to me. Because what he’s describing is my own mother and her present condition.

  “Let me guess,” I say, “he started becoming delusional. He’d say things like your mom was coming to get him. Or they were going to take a trip together somewhere.”

  He focuses his eyes on me.

  “Sound familiar, Jobz?” he asks.

  Me, biting down on my bottom lip. The bottle set on the deck by my right foot, I pick it up, and pour us both another finger. Set the bottle back down.

  “Go on,” I say.

  “Eventually, my dad ended up in the hospital for malnutrition. He slipped into a coma, and they put him on all sorts of life support. He eventually passed away. I was at home asleep. But Tracy—Brit—was right by his side.”

  He’s talking about his father, but I’m seeing my own mother lying on her back in a hospital bed at the Albany Medical Center ICU.

  “After he wa
s buried, I had a meeting with my dad’s lawyer to discuss his estate. He informed me that all his financial assets—his cash, stocks, bonds, you name it—were all signed over into Tracy’s name.”

  “Son of a bitch,” I whisper, my hand holding to the glass so tightly I feel like it might explode.

  “I went back to my place. But Tracy was already gone. Disappeared. I looked everywhere for her for a full year until I just gave up. Until, maybe a couple years after that, I read about a woman who’d not only stolen a chunk of money from an assisted living facility in Indiana, she and a couple of the other employees were robbing the food and drug stores and selling the merchandise on the black market. The woman busted for the crime was named Katy Evens, but she was a dead ringer for my Tracy.”

  Me nodding.

  “That’s because it was Tracy or Brit,” I say.

  “Yes, sir,” he says. “They sent her up to Pendelton’s Female Reformatory for a reduced seven to ten year stay since she gladly ratted out her co-conspirators. She got out after only five years for good behavior. She then disappeared again until I found her working here at the Ann Lee Assisted Living Home for Seniors.”

  I drink some whiskey, look out onto the river. A bass jumps out of the water catching a fly in its mouth. It falls back into the water making a small splash.

  “She know you’re following her?” I ask.

  “I don’t think so,” he says.

  I tell him about the Loudonville Elementary School cafeteria extortion, and about the murder of the principal. I also tell him about my mother who’s dying in a hospital bed as we speak while Brit/Tracy/Katy watches over her on a daily basis. Then, I tell him about the photo of the four women sitting together at the kitchen table. Finally, I pull out my phone, show him the picture, pointing out Brit’s reflection in the stainless-steel fridge.

  “That’s her,” he says, nodding. “I’d know her face anywhere, even reflected on a refrigerator.”

  I explain the investigation I’m conducting. How close we are to nailing her.

  “If she goes down for murder,” I say, “she’ll never see the light of a free day again.”