William shrugged and blew cigar smoke in my direction. “It’s up to you, Simon. But if you’re not gonna run and you don’t enjoy being a sitting duck, I don’t see what choice you have.”
I sat there in disbelief, not willing to accept that what he said was true. There had to be another way. I wasn’t about to willingly be a party to murder.
“Aren’t there people you can hire for this sort of thing?” I asked. “Surely you must know someone.”
“Uh-uh,” he said, shaking his head and waving his cigar at me. “I don’t do that. Not anymore. Soliciting one criminal to help another is not good business.”
“I’m not a criminal!” I shouted.
“I know, Simon,” he said, with what sounded like genuine sympathy. “But you must know someone. Someone with, shall we say, questionable morals? Someone experienced in the area of taking life? Someone, maybe good with a gun?”
“What kind of people do you think I…” Then it hit me. I did know someone like that. I knew someone exactly like that. I fished my cell phone out of my pocket, scrolled to his name, and hit call. It connected on the second ring.
“Hey,” I said. “I need your help.”
Chapter 68
I’d gotten a hotel room as close to the house as possible so I could be near Sara and the boys. I didn’t even get to say goodbye to them or explain what was going on. I could only hope Sara would come up with an explanation that didn’t paint me as the asshole everyone had come to think I was.
As I sat and waited, it hit me what I was up against. I’d lost my practice, my reputation, and now my family. Everything that mattered to me had been taken from me. And the worst was yet to come. With my court date looming, I was facing jail time for manslaughter and now, possibly, a trumped up sexual assault charge.
A wave of depression washed over me and I sat on the corner of the bed submerged in a sense of complete and total loss. I hung my head and, for the second time in as many days, cried.
Something has to be done.
William’s words echoed in my ears.
After a few minutes of sobbing and self-pity, I realized he was right. I was tired of being the victim. Tired of sitting around waiting for something bad to happen, all the while being painted as the bad guy.
I decided I’d had enough, but what William had suggested wasn’t sitting well with me. I didn’t know if I could go through with it. Just as I was pulling myself together, there was a knock at the door. I wiped my nose on my sleeve, dabbed my eyes with my shirt, and stood. Ingo breezed through the door as soon as I opened it.
He was in a lunch meeting when I’d called, but when he heard the desperation in my voice, he cut it short and came to meet me. He took a seat at the small circular table and I offered him a drink. He declined.
I pulled out the chair opposite him and sat.
He looked at my face, still bruised, eyes red and puffy, and sat back with a sigh.
“Fucking A, Simon.”
I stared at the floor, feeling as broken as I must have looked.
“Tell me everything,” he said. “Don’t leave out a single detail.”
I nodded, took a deep breath, and let loose. After I called him, I decided to come clean. If Ingo was going to help me get out of this mess, he needed to know everything, going all the way back to the beginning. I gave him all five W’s—the who, what, where, when, and, most importantly, why.
I felt a tremendous weight lift off my shoulders as I unburdened myself of the entire truth. When I finished confessing, Ingo looked down on me in judgment for about three seconds, then a look of understanding appeared on his face.
He sat back in his chair and took it all in. I knew he would never look at me the same again, but there was nothing I could do about that. I was in deep and he was the only one that could help me.
We spent the next several hours devising a plan. In the end, what we’d come up with felt like the longest of long shots. It would require some help, patience, and a shit load of luck. But at least I wouldn’t be killing anyone.
“Think it’ll work? It has to work,” I said, desperation in my voice.
“It’ll work, mate. Relax.”
“Why do you sound so confident?”
“Because I don’t sit around wondering if shit will work, Simon. I make it work. Now screw on your balls a little tighter, pull up your panties, and let’s get to it.”
Ingo always had a way with words.
“One question,” Ingo went on.
“Yeah?”
“Why you?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, why you. A Jewish doctor from Boca. What are the odds?”
I hadn’t really thought about it, but he made a good point. Not many people knew I even owned a gun and even fewer knew I’d been trained to use it.
“Someone said something,” he said.
It didn’t take me long to figure out who.
Chapter 69
The range was usually busy on Friday mornings but we were there before opening, so we weren’t expecting much company.
As the range officer, Dave was required to be there as soon as the range opened. He got out of his truck five minutes before nine and headed for the door. When he saw us approaching, he stopped in his tracks. Dave was always armed, so we kept our hands in plain sight and walked cautiously toward him.
“Hey, Dave,” I said casually. “You remember Ingo.” I tilted my head in his general direction. Ingo and I had been to the range together a lot in the beginning. In fact, once I started practicing on my own, I regularly heard, “Where’s Ingo?”
“Hey,” Dave replied. It was obvious he remembered Ingo, but also that he was uncomfortable about being confronted in the parking lot.
“Question for you, Dave, if you don’t mind.”
“Can we do this inside? I need to help open up and get ready for the day.”
“Out here is better. This will only take a second.
He sighed before saying, “Okay. What’s up?”
“In the last year or so has anyone ever approached you about me?”
“What do you mean?”
“What do you think he means, fuckstick?” Ingo interjected.
I turned to Ingo and put a hand up. “Ingo…” I said. I turned back to Dave and apologized. “Sorry. What I mean is, did you ever talk to anyone about me? About my shooting ability, or maybe my performance in the shooting contest you had me enter?”
He paused for a moment, looking back and forth between us, but his face said it all. He was just searching for the right words. He let out a sigh and his shoulders sagged a bit. “Alright, yeah. A while back, a guy came to me. Paid me a thousand dollars in cash in exchange for five names.”
“Five names?” I asked.
“Yeah. He wanted the names of the best shooters we had at the range. Five of them.”
“And you gave them to him? Including my name?”
He nodded. “Sure. Why wouldn’t I? Easiest thousand bucks I ever made.”
“Who were the other four?”
“No one you know. Other range regulars, cops and ex-military types.”
“All of them?” Ingo asked. “Are you sure? The other four were either law enforcement or ex-military?”
Dave turned to Ingo with a look of mistrust and said, “Yeah, I’m sure. Why?”
“Can you tell us anything about the guy who paid you? What did he look like?” I asked, ignoring his question.
He thought about it for a moment before saying, “Young guy. He was tall, well built. Hispanic.”
Ingo and I looked at each other. With every word Dave spoke, things fell further into place.
“Nasty temper, too,” he added.
“Why do you say that?” I asked.
“He told me what he was looking for, though
he didn’t say why, offered me the money, and I agreed. But when I suggested we go sit down so I could think about it, he said no. Snapped at me. Other people in the store looked at us, but he didn’t care. He was in a hurry and didn’t give me much time to think about it. He had no patience and barked at me until I came up with the five names. Yours was the first one I gave him.”
“Thanks, Dave,” I said, and we turned and headed back to Ingo’s truck.
“What’s this all about?” he asked to our backs.
I just waved thanks and kept walking.
“I knew it,” I said when we were out of earshot. “Other than you, he was the only one that ever really saw what I could do with my pistol.”
“Yup. Now we know why they chose you. They didn’t want to be dealing with a cop or ex-military guy. Those guys have friends. Trained ones. They were obviously looking for a regular Joe. Just like you.”
I nodded.
“Time for phase two…”
Chapter 70
Ingo approached the front desk with an air of arrogance. He was certain things would go according to plan, and wanted to play the part to perfection. He was greeted immediately by a young, overzealous desk clerk whose name, according to his lapel pin, was Nero. Ingo was immediately annoyed. Nero was in his mid to late twenties, with smooth skin, slicked back hair, a pressed gray suit, and a thousand-kilowatt smile. He was clearly on the fast track to an upper management position.
“Good morning, sir. How may I help you?” Nero inquired, his smile beaming.
“Good morning. My name is Richard Blunt. I’m here to see my brother, Peter.”
Ingo placed a phony driver’s license on the desk for inspection. Acquiring the fake ID had been easy. Getting Richard Blunt’s vital statistics equally so. Upon discovering his name, Ingo distinctly remembered thinking Peter and Dick, and wondered if the Blunt’s had some kind of fetish.
The only thing that was genuine on the ID was the picture of Ingo taken two days ago. The desk clerk eyed Ingo, looking him up and down. Ingo was dressed comfortably in jeans, a t-shirt, and a hooded sweatshirt. A little more casual than Nero was used to. He picked up the ID for perusal and was convinced. “Ah, yes. Certainly, Mr. Blunt. Shall I announce your arrival?”
“No. I’d prefer to surprise him. I can’t wait to see the look on his face.”
Nero smiled. “Very good. He’s in the Presidential Suite. Would you like a key?”
“Absolutely!”
“Shall I add your name to the room?”
“No, that won’t be necessary. I won’t be here long. In fact, let’s pretend as though I was never here,” Ingo said with a wink.
“Of course. Enjoy your visit, sir.”
“Oh, I’m sure I will. Thank you.”
“It’s my pleasure,” Nero said and smiled.
Ingo retrieved the ID and room key and headed for the elevators.
Who the hell names their kid Nero? he thought.
Once inside the elevator, he pressed the button for the Presidential Suite on the top floor. Of course, Ingo thought.
It had been easy enough to find him. Blunt was too stupid to be secretive about his movements or his whores. A few phone calls and Ingo knew exactly where he was and who he was with.
The elevator doors opened and Ingo took a half-step into the hall and looked around. With no one in sight, he stepped out of the elevator, facing the wall to his left. With his back to the cameras, he pulled the hood of his sweatshirt over his head and a black ski mask up over his face. Head down, he moved quickly to the Presidential Suite.
A quick swipe of the key and he was inside. The door closed quietly behind him as he stood there and listened. There was music off in the distance, Sinatra or some other crooner from the sixties. It was hard to tell from this distance. He moved through the foyer into the main living room.
Definitely Sinatra.
Across the room, Peter Blunt stood at the bar sipping on a dirty martini. His back was to Ingo, and he appeared to be staring through the wide bank of glass that looked out onto the ocean. The hooker was nowhere to be seen. He scanned the room twice and was about to move on Blunt when he heard the flush of a toilet to his right. The door opened and she stepped across the threshold, stopping in her tracks at the sight of Ingo behind his hood and mask. She screamed, startling Peter, who dropped his martini glass onto the marble surface of the bar, shattering it.
He turned and saw Ingo looking ominous behind his black hood and mask. Ingo turned to the whore. “Excuse us,” he said. His tone made it clear that it was not a request. With a terrified look on her face, she scooped up her small bag from the sofa and bolted from the room.
Ingo turned and strode to Peter, shoved him against the bar, and pressed a small knife firmly against his throat. Peter’s eyes went wide as he felt the cold steel of the blade against his throat. Mere contact was enough for the sharp blade to break the skin, and Peter clutched the bar tightly when he felt the warmth of his own blood trickling down his neck.
“Do I have your attention, mate?”
Peter barely nodded, afraid to move his head, terrified to speak.
“Good. Now listen to me very closely. You are going to withdraw the charges against Dr. Simon Spero. He will be completely exonerated of any wrongdoing. Do you understand me?”
Peter stared blankly at the eyes glaring at him from behind the mask. After a moment of uncomfortable silence, he uttered, “I can’t.”
Ingo laughed aloud. “I don’t think you heard me, mate.” He leaned into Peter harder, the knife digging a little deeper.
“I… can’t,” Peter sputtered. “They’ll kill me.”
Ingo pressed his face against Peter’s ear and whispered, “And what do you think I will do if I don’t get the answer I’m looking for?”
“It doesn’t matter... what you do.” Ingo eased up on the pressure so Peter could speak. “It’ll be nothing compared to what they will do. They won’t stop with me. They’ll kill everyone I know. Everyone that matters to me.”
Ingo expected Peter to say something like that. He knew whoever coerced Peter into bringing charges against Simon had some serious influence. But he wasn’t about to let that stop him. He had to press him, and press him hard. He needed those charges dropped. That’s why he was here, taking such an insane risk. This was, after all, the Attorney General for the entire state of Florida.
He took the knife away from Peter’s neck, grabbed him by the arm, and threw him into one of the oversized wing chairs in the living room. Peter groped at the cut on his neck, trying to assess the damage as Ingo deftly tied him to the chair with a fine nylon rope. He bound his feet and then his hands, using constrictor knots, the kind that tightened the more one struggled against them.
Ingo reached under his sweatshirt, removed a compact pouch from the small of his back, and placed it on the end table next to Peter. He dragged the table so it sat directly in front of him and unrolled the pouch. In it were a collection of small blades and what Peter could only assume were other torture devices.
“PLEASE!” he shouted, straining against the ropes, causing them to cinch tighter around his wrists.
“Oh, don’t worry,” Ingo said calmly. “I have a feeling this will be over quickly. You’ll probably beg me to kill you before we really get going.”
“You don’t understand! You can torture me all you want. It won’t matter. I can’t give you what you want. They will do so much worse!”
Shit.
He was right and Ingo knew it. Peter had called his bluff. Ingo thought it would be easy to scare the pants off him and he’d give in. But clearly there was something, someone, that he was far more afraid of. Killing the Attorney General was not high on Ingo’s to-do list. He had to think fast.
Ingo walked over to the bathroom, grabbed a hand towel, and returned to the pouch on the table. He removed
a small, razor-sharp blade from the pouch and approached Peter. He held the towel over Peter’s mouth and made a few small, quick cuts to Peter’s arms, his upper thigh, and chest. Peter howled in pain, but the towel muffled the sound nicely. Ingo withdrew the towel and surveyed his work as Peter gasped for air.
Satisfied, he wiped the blade on the hand towel, placed it back in the pouch and tossed the towel onto the sofa. He rolled the pouch back up, returned it to the small of his back, and glared at Peter who was whimpering and sniffling in the chair.
“Now,” he said, “here’s what will happen next. They will find you here, bleeding, obviously tortured. They will think you talked. It doesn’t matter that you didn’t, they won’t believe you. Then they will most likely kill you because you’re a liability, they may even torture you some more. Soon after you’re dead, a new Attorney General will be named. It doesn’t matter who it is, they won’t be in anyone’s pocket. Not right away, anyway. You’ll be dead, and we will get the charges dropped, one way or the other.”
Peter’s face quickly changed from one of pain to one of understanding and fear. He knew what Ingo said was true. Whether they believed him or not, he was as good as dead.
“Oh well,” Ingo said. He turned away from Peter and walked to the double doors of the suite. With a quick look back at Peter, he said, “Have a nice day,” and opened the door.
“Wait!” Peter shouted. Ingo turned around to face him. “Maybe we can work something out…”
Chapter 71
While Ingo was paying a visit to the Attorney General, I headed to the office, mainly because I had nowhere else to go. The walls of the small hotel room had been closing in and I hadn’t been sleeping well. Between the nightmares, the fear of going to prison, and the plan we had just set into motion, I spent the better part of most nights staring at the ceiling, my mind racing. By five, I’d had enough and climbed out of bed.
I arrived at the office shortly after six. The sun had barely begun to peek over the horizon as I pulled into the empty parking lot. The office was dark, and while I was less than thrilled to be exchanging the silent solitude of the hotel room for that of the office, I was happy to be here. This place had been my second home for more than a decade. I’d come to the office every day over the past week, hopeful, but even my most loyal patients were in a holding pattern as my trial date approached. William still had no real defense for the money in my account, so if I wound up in prison, as I fully expected to, my patients would be seeking a new optometrist anyway.
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