I braced myself. This whole fire-extinguisher trick was going to be as bad for me as it was for them. I don’t even know if it would make a white cloud like in the movies. If I jumped out maybe I’d live through hitting the water. Even then, I’d have to swim to shore and sneak away.
Fedorov looked rueful. It was the first time he had looked anything.
“I do not wish this, Ken Allen, but these murders must stop.” He gestured to Anatoly. The second it took me to process Fedorov’s words almost cost me my life.
“Wait. What do you mean the murders must stop?” I shook a finger at Fedorov. “You’re the killer!”
Fedorov’s confusion was slight, but he recovered in less time than I did, reaching over to push down an enormous pistol I didn’t even see Anatoly draw.
“I, you say? Nyet. It is you who has come to take my life.”
We stared at each other as the helicopter hovered over the moonlit ocean, reviewing our interactions over the past two days. Everything Fedorov had said, every topic he broached was him warning me. All that stuff about the making of Near Death, about Bowman Fletcher really being a spy, was him telling me he knew I was there to murder him.
Except I wasn’t.
“Why would I want to kill you?”
“This I do not know. Perhaps for your ex-lover, Dina Calabria. Or perhaps you falsely believe I was the one who sabotaged Kit Calabria’s plane, eighteen years ago. Or . . .”
Fedorov paused as if I already knew and he wanted me to confirm, but I had no idea what he was talking about.
“Or what?”
“Because you believe you are the secret heir, that your English father was Bowman Fletcher, and if the Calabria family loses the Brand franchise, it comes to you.”
“Bowman Fletcher my fa⎯?” My bark of amusement hurt Fedorov’s version of feelings, but it was the craziest thing I had ever heard. And I thought I watched too many movies. “I didn’t kill Sir Collin Prestor or Layne Lackey. I’m trying to find out who did.”
Fedorov wasn’t used to being wrong. “But the method in which they were killed. And your clothes, your weapons, your vehicle. The imitation speaks of obsession.”
“The killings are the cause, the rest are the effects,” I said.
Fedorov took time to calculate while I tried to kick my brain into gear. Anatoly didn’t have a problem holding his hand cannon level.
“I have watched Near Death enough to know acting is not among your skills,” Fedorov decided. “I know I am not the killer, and if you are not either, then who is?”
“That’s what I’ve been trying to figure out.”
If Fedorov wanted the murders stopped, then they were against his interests. I remembered the two non-names from the messenger app on Dean’s tablet.
“You’re trying to make a deal with Dean Calabria for the Brand franchise, aren’t you? If he marries Nat, you become family, and he can transfer the rights to you.”
Fedorov mumbled in Russian and the helicopter broke its hover. He had never had a problem with eye contact before, but now he was evading my gaze.
I ducked and weaved for his attention as I went on. “The killer must somehow know details of the Brand contract. He thought if he killed Sir Collin before Sir Collin died as Brand on screen, the rights would default.”
I wasn’t about to tell Fedorov that the killer was working off a false premise, as Dina had already filmed Sir Collin’s exit in secret.
Fedorov spoke into his phone in Russian but didn’t say a thing in English until we were out of the helicopter. “I will escort you to your motorcycle.”
I walked as slowly as I could without it technically being standing. When the carports were in view, Fedorov spoke again. “Uncover the murderer and you will be well compensated, Ken Allen. These killings are troublesome. Niles Endsworth has gone into hiding, convinced he is the next victim. We cannot locate him.”
“Because Dean told him about your deal. Niles would have to sign a new contract too. Who else knows? Whoever knows is a target.”
“Then there are no other targets.”
Handlers were waiting at the White Stag with my Quarreler and everything else I could have used to kill Fedorov. I took my time gearing up and strapping the case full of cash onto the Stag.
“If it’s not you, then who stands to profit?” I asked.
“I already told you.”
“Bowman Fletcher’s secret heir? Come on, you can’t really believe that.”
“You said it yourself, Ken Allen. Life imitates art. The killer does not have to be the heir. The killer only has to believe they are.”
17
When cellular reception came back, half a dozen voice mails were waiting for me. The first was from Missy, checking in to make sure I was alive. The next four were from Ray. The initial message was short: he had the flash drive, call him. In the second, he hoped I was okay. In the third, he said he would send air support but didn’t know where to send it. In the last, he apologized for enabling me. I’d never heard him so worked up. The remaining voice mails would have to wait. Like every other time I had called him, Ray picked up on the first ring.
“You can stop working on the trick coffin,” I said.
“Where the hell have you been?”
“What’s on the second flash drive?”
“Oh no pal, you first,” Ray replied.
It was a long story. By the time I wrapped up, I was back in Missy’s beach house. Ray’s periodic exclamations let me know he was still on the line.
“No one is going to believe this,” he said when I finished.
“I’m not worried about that. Anyway, it’s not like I really beat Alexi. I just pressured him into throwing in the towel.”
“Why doesn’t he get treatment?” Ray asked.
“That would take steroids, and they would pop on drug tests, which would tarnish his legacy. Unless he got an exemption. But exemptions need to be disclosed on his medicals, which would expose his issue and bar him from the ring.”
“Fedorov must have thought you were one cool customer,” Ray said.
“Russians don’t know cool, only cold.”
“Were all those hoops worth it?”
A polite knock on the door informed me my food had arrived. I checked the peephole anyway and rolled the cart in with the Quarreler in my other hand.
“Yes. Maybe. I don’t know. This whole thing is like you put three balls of yarn in a bag and shook it up. Here’s what we got: Dean maybe made a deal with Fedorov to sell the franchise when he inherits, which is in a few days. Fedorov thought I was there to kill him for Dina and stop the deal. Sir Collin’s killer is also trying to stop the deal, for reasons unknown. Fedorov has this crazy theory the killer thinks they are Bowman Fletcher’s love child, which means if the Brand contract defaults, they inherit a franchise worth a couple of billion dollars.”
“Life ain’t a movie, Ken, as much as we all wish it was.”
“Now that I think about it, Bryce Crisp also brought it up. When I said no one had ever been able to prove they were Fletcher’s kid, he corrected me and said no one had yet. I have to wonder why he felt the need to add the ‘yet.’”
Unable to wait any longer, I plowed into a steaming pile of chicken and mushrooms. On the other side of the phone, Ray drummed his fingers on a table. Halfway through, I reminded myself to eat slowly and restarted the conversation.
“Alongside that, Missy and Kit might have secretly married in Hong Kong, and Kit maybe left a lost will transferring the franchise to Missy. I don’t think the will is a written document. My guess is it’s a video. Film was Kit’s chosen medium. He used to make all these little movies with Missy.”
“Well, you know what they say, Ken, a picture’s worth a thousand words.”
Ray’s comment shook something loose. I about choked on my chicken.
“It was Layne Lackey who broke into Missy’s Ashland house last year. He must have been looking for the will.”
“W
hat makes you think it was him?”
“He knew the address—he sent her a letter there. And he had a picture in his place only Missy could have had. He must have taken a picture of the picture when he was in there. That’s why it had a weird reflection on it. He took the photo through the glass.”
Ray took over while I polished off the poultry. “Well, if he was looking for a will, I don’t think he found it.”
“Spill it. What’s on the drive?”
“Give me a minute,” Ray said. He took five. “Okay, so, right now we can view the root menus and unsecured files. Turns out Layne wrote Jove Brand fan fiction under the name Brice Crispies. It’s way gay.”
“You’re dating yourself, Ray.”
“No, I mean Jove Brand likes guys in it. A lot. Layne doesn’t leave much to the imagination. It gets monotonous.”
“You read it?”
“I was searching for clues,” Ray replied. “It was better than his screenplay at least.”
“What about the dossiers?”
“Right now I can see the list but no luck viewing the locked files. Without the password, the only way is to brute force it, which could take years if Layne was as long-winded with passwords as he was describing oral.”
“Wonderful,” I said.
“Any clue on what he might pick as a password?”
I imagined myself back in Layne’s apartment, sitting at the desk. Did Layne have a favorite Brand actor? A favorite film? There had been two of the same poster. What movie had it been for?
“What was the name of Layne Lackey’s screenplay?” I asked.
“Hold on, let me check,” Ray replied. “Ungentlemanly Warfare.”
Which, according to Fedorov, was the ministry Bowman Fletcher belonged to. “Try that.”
“You sure? We only got three attempts.”
“Not guessing because you have no idea is the same as getting it wrong.”
“Hold on, I’ll tell my guy.”
“This guy, you better trust him,” I said.
“Don’t you worry about that,” Ray replied. “Ungentlemanly Warfare is no good. Two tries left.”
I was sure I was right. Also, I had no other ideas. “The unsecured files—does Layne use proper capitalization or underscores in their names?”
Another pause from Ray. “Every time.”
“Capitalize each word and put in an underscore.”
Ray grumbled but didn’t argue. “Hey, it worked! Everything is accessible now. Files are on the way to your watch.”
“Is this watch secure?”
“Ain’t nobody cracking that timepiece.”
“All right,” I said. The breakthrough should have energized me, but it had the opposite effect. It had been a long day. Cracking the flash drive felt like plowing through the tape at the finish line.
Ray told me a bedtime story as I faded out. “That was a good guess about the coffin. I had it rigged to go up in flames. I was gonna shoot the arrow myself.”
My internal alarm had been reset for early evening. I was sore everywhere, but my left side really smarted from sleeping on the Quarreler. I sent my clothes out to the laundry and ordered a metric ton of sashimi from the private chef. The final voice mail was a terse request for a call back from Special Investigator Stern.
“You work weekends?” I asked when she picked up. “You need ‘you’ time.”
“I like my job,” Stern replied. “It’s time to come in, Allen.”
“Oh come on. You aren’t buying that I’m dense enough to keep Layne Lackey’s phone.”
Stern’s lighter sounded like a flamethrower. She took a drag before she replied. “Who said anything about a phone?”
“What else could the killer have to frame me with? But they don’t know the two of us already talked about Layne’s phone. After that exchange, why the heck would I keep it?”
“Because I admitted we couldn’t track it.”
I managed some simple addition in between flapping my jaw. “It was on, wasn’t it? You were staking my place out, waiting for me to show up.”
“Where are you, Allen? Let’s do brunch.”
Something in Stern’s voice made me thirsty. I drank a glass of water and thought a little. If she could track me through Ray’s security, we’d be talking in person.
“You got a warrant for my arrest, didn’t you? Sweet-talked some judge.”
I was trying to make her mad. It worked.
“I’ll see you soon, Allen,” Stern said and hung up.
The combination of the water and my imminent incarceration woke me up. The clock was ticking. I used Missy’s immersion blender to butter up some coffee and started in on Layne Lackey’s files. The watch screen was too small, so I read the files on my phone. I needed a tablet. Bogart would have had a tablet. I started with the file labeled Omg_Pulitzer_Prize due to its promising title.
The meat was in that first file. Everything else—all the interviews, the research, the documents—supported its thesis. My respect for Layne Lackey’s journalistic skill climbed to record heights, then plummeted to new lows when I discovered why he hadn’t gone public with the tale.
It took me past midnight to get through it all. Layne knew everything I had figured out on my own and almost everything I never told him.
He’d also figured out who killed Kit Calabria, and he had the flight manifests to prove it. I stared at the screen for a long time. All the guilt I had extinguished flared back to life, hotter than ever.
I forced myself to stretch and run a full diagnostic on my body. That I had avoided major injury was nothing short of a miracle. I couldn’t keep rolling sevens forever. Or maybe I could. The dice had no memory.
When I trusted myself to talk, I called Ray.
“Do you know who the killer is?” he asked.
“No, but I know who he isn’t. The Black Knight has two targets left and both of them are going to be at Dean’s party. Problem is, the cops would arrest me at the gate, if Dina even let me that close.”
Ray practically sung his reply. “Sounds like you need a disguise.”
“I have one in mind, if you have the time,” I said.
“Ken, in three days I could forge you a suit of armor with a matching broadsword.”
“I was thinking of something a little more formal.”
I slept the sun away, which didn’t bother me any. Dean’s party was an evening affair and I wanted to be fresh at that hour. No wonder so many noir movies took place when they did. Detecting was definitely a night job. It took three tries to work up the courage to call Missy.
“Are you going to Dean’s party?” I asked after we exchanged greetings.
“How did you know I was invited?” She was slicing instead of chopping this time. Fruit instead of vegetables.
“Call it an educated guess. Are you going?”
“I am. I want to meet Dean. I’m giving him your watch from Near Death,” Missy said. “It’s time to let it go. I’ve been wearing it for eighteen years and it’s only gotten heavier.”
“You should know going to the party might be dangerous.”
“What did you find out?” Missy asked. All sounds of preparation stopped.
I knew I had to ask her about Kit, but I couldn’t do it. I knew I had to tell her about Kit, but I couldn’t do that either. “Nothing I can prove, and nothing I’m willing to tell you just yet, because I’m praying I’m wrong. Do you trust me?”
Missy didn’t hesitate. “Yes.”
“Are answers worth the risk?”
“How much risk?”
“Life-ending,” I admitted.
Missy took a long breath. “Yes.”
“Then come to Dean’s party.”
“Okay,” Missy said.
“Did you get a plus one?”
“Yes. Do you need it?”
“I have to crash. If I try coming in the conventional way, I’m going to get dragged out in cuffs. I want you to bring Yuen, if he’ll come.”
“I’d like that. I haven’t seen him since he tortured us in Near Death.”
“That was a long day. Eight hours strapped to a table, listening to him monologue.”
A fond chuckle escaped Missy. “I’ve had worse ones.”
“Here’s to hoping Dean’s birthday doesn’t top the list. If I’m right about all this, I’m going to need all the help I can get come Friday.”
The next two days crawled by. I kept my workouts light, drew a blank on how to sneak my gear in with me, and tried to decide what to do with a million bucks. At least I could afford Mercie Goodday now. Seeing as I was finally about to balance the scales between us, I didn’t want to owe Missy anything.
None of this had been about me. The killer’s frame job was a means to an end. I was a convenient sap, ready-made to take the fall. Except I wasn’t about to take the fall for anyone. No more than I was about to let a sucker puncher walk away with the prize purse.
When I got up Friday evening, I pondered eating carbs, in case it was my last meal. I decided that was a defeatist attitude and made an avocado salad instead. I left a little early to enjoy the cruise to Calabria Cove. The White Stag handled like we were made for each other. A perfect fit, like the blazer on my back or the Quarreler in my hand.
Whatever happened, I would always have these days. I had been cold and I had been starved and I had faced imprisonment and death. Still, sleeping wrapped in a sheet on the floor in front of a dying fire beat any hotel I’d ever stayed in. The walnuts pilfered from those centerpieces ranked among the finest meals I’d eaten.
What perfect days. My whole life, I had been the supporting player in someone else’s story. For the first time, I was the lead.
Ray updated my GPS destination when I was an hour out from Calabria Cove. His van was parked in a public beach turnoff. I was expecting a deluxe shaggin’ wagon with a wizard airbrushed on the side, but got a panel truck like contractors used, plain in every way. The back was already open with a ramp leading to a bike-sized space. Once I was in, the door lowered behind me. I was securing the Stag when Ray peeked out of the entry that led deeper into the truck.
Jove Brand is Near Death Page 22