The Bear Trap

by Grant Pies

  THE

  BEAR

  TRAP

  A WILL CARTER INVESTIGATION

  BY

  GRANT PIES

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are of the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2019 by Grant Pies

  All rights reserved

  Being born is like being kidnapped. And then sold into slavery.

  -Andy Warhol-

  Table of Contents

  Let’s Make a Deal

  Two Months Gone

  Law Against Miserliness and Other Anti-Razors

  Good Fences…

  Partners?

  Girls Just Want to Have Fun

  But Other Than That, Was She Hot?

  Live Young, Die Fast

  Lessons on the Joy of Solitude

  The Space Between the Waves

  Better Off Dead

  What You Don’t Know…

  Gladiator in Arena Consilium Rapit

  Just One More Favor, Please

  Any Publicity is Good Publicity?

  Tit for Tat

  Sunken Cost Fallacy

  Empty By Design

  Corporate Incest

  Mise en Abyme

  Bullets in the Wind

  I Wanna Be Sedated

  Book Smart Anarchists

  Calling All Skeletons

  Poisoned Pawn

  Long Lost Father

  Blueprints for the Black Market

  The Never-Ending Darkness

  The Grim Mathematics of Harvesting Humans

  King M.I.D.A.S.

  When the Cat’s Out of the Bag, Kill the Cat(s)

  Dulce Et Decorum Est Pro Familia Mori

  L’appel Du Vide

  She Was Never Meant to Last

  Intravenus de Milo

  Felo de se?

  The Invisible Hand of William Blair

  Kotov Syndrome

  The Man Who Lives Forever

  Turncoat

  Arabian Mate

  The Yawning Conscience of Detective Shaker

  Today Belongs to the Light

  Part One

  Let’s Make a Deal

  The day was dark, as most were in the recent weeks. Will Carter shook his head and let out a short snort of disapproval as Sam gulped down a mouthful of cough syrup.

  “You really think you should—" He stopped mid-sentence, not seeing a point in asking, and not really expecting an answer anyways.

  Sam wiped the sleeve of his coat across his lips where some of the thick purple liquid pooled at the corner of his mouth. He peered ahead at the road, gripping the steering wheel with one hand, slouched down and leaning against the car door.

  “I should’ve walked,” Carter mumbled under his breath, but loud enough for Sam to hear.

  “Fine with me if you want to get soaking wet.”

  “I’ve got a coat,” Carter said, looking out the passenger window.

  Slowing the car down and pulling to the side of the road, Sam said, “Where should I drop you? Hm?”

  “Fuck off.” Carter finally turned to look at Sam. “First the pills, then the cough medicine, the whiskey this morning. You really think it’s all a good mix?”

  “I haven’t had a parent in my life since I was sixteen, and I don’t aim to have one now.” Sam pulled the car back into traffic and continued down the street.

  “Yeah, well I never aimed to have a child.” Carter turned back to the passenger window. Rain drops streaked across it, cutting through the dirt and grime caked on Sam’s car.

  Had he grown more irritable in the last month? Carter thought. Could it be me? Maybe I’ve had the bad attitude … no, no, it’s Sam. Definitely Sam.

  Six months prior, the two went from friends to co-workers when Carter hired Sam to help with some of the surveillance jobs he had piling up. Now, maybe the newness of their partnership had worn off. God knows he was growing tired of working side by side with someone … especially someone that smoked, chewed with his mouth open, and constantly mentioned that he used to be a real detective, not just a PI.

  “It’s just up here.” Carter pointed at the next traffic light.

  “Of course,” Sam muttered, looking up at the high-rise condominium buildings lining Lake Michigan. “Fucking Gold Coast. Is it just the rich ones that can’t keep their dicks in their pants?”

  “I’m sure people in Riverdale have a hard time keeping their dicks in their pants too, but people in the Gold Coast pay. Plus, don’t you feel better catching a piece of shit attorney like George Kingsley rather than some blue-collar factory worker? This guy isn’t the type of attorney taking pro bono cases for the poor. You know who he represents. I wish I could see his face when Lucinda shows him these photos. That’d be worth just as much as what she’s paying us.”

  “Yeah, yeah. I guess I don’t care whose life we are ruining, so long as they pay. I’ve got child support payments.”

  “Reason number one hundred seventeen not to have a kid. Here. Park here.”

  “Yes, sir.” Sam gave a sarcastic salute and pulled to a stop abruptly, causing Carter to jerk forward. They stepped out into the rain, pelted by the large drops, like they were being thrown from the sky, not just merely falling at whatever rate gravity saw fit to pull them down.

  Carter tucked a large manila envelope under his raincoat, doing his best to keep it dry, and they walked briskly to a sleek forty-story limestone building. The doorman looked at both men with skepticism, but his eyes lingered on Sam the most.

  “Lucinda Kingsley is expecting us. Will Carter with Carter Investigations.” He slicked his soaking hair back and shook water off his raincoat. Sam glanced around the lobby with a smirk, ignoring his soaking wet clothes and hair. Carter had seen this smirk before. It was really more of a scowl, a feigned disgust at how the rich lived, when in reality, Sam would jump at the chance to lead a life like this.

  The last time the two men had been in the building was when they first met Lucinda Kingsley. They sat at her long table; a thick slab of marble surrounded by high back chairs. She sat, exaggerated posture, holding her head high, like she was posing for a portrait, chunky jeweled bracelets dangling from her wrists.

  “How long have you suspected him of cheating?” Carter held his pen over a small notepad.

  “Oh, I’ve known he’s cheated on me off and on our entire marriage. He fucked a masseuse at the resort on our honeymoon, our maid a few years back, clients of his, you name it, George fucked it.” Lucinda leaned forward, like she was telling the two men a secret. “You ever see an attorney like George who isn’t strictly a divorce attorney but takes on the occasional divorce client, they’re fucking them. Nine times out of ten. They get a vulnerable woman sobbing in their office, just looking for guidance, looking for yet another man to save them from the one they’ve already got. Pathetic.” She leaned back.

  “That’s why I hired a woman for the divorce. You already get fucked enough by attorneys. I don’t need to be looking out for my attorney to actually fuck me. I’ve got the papers drawn up,” she’d said to them, and her voice had echoed in the large apartment. “My attorney’s already done it. We already put in the bit about infidelity.”

  “You know he’s cheating?” Carter asked. “What do you need us for then?”

  Sam nudged Carter under the table.

  “I know it,” Lucinda nodded. “I have no evidence, but I know it. Well—" She caught herself. “I found the Viagra in his vanity. And he sure as hell isn’t using them with me. Limp-dick bastard. You know he went and got a spray tan the other day?” She smirked
and let out a quick breath. “Who’s he kidding? He looks fucking ridiculous.” Her smirk faded, and she tossed back the last of a glass of brandy. “But I need evidence. Photos. Something to turn over to the courts, or at least threaten him with. My lawyer tells me photos equals more alimony, and I want to squeeze everything I can from him.” She clenched her fist, like she was wringing out a sponge. “So, what I’ll pay you is an investment, even if it just tells me what I already know.”

  “How long do you want us to follow him?” Carter asked.

  “Three weeks. That should be enough to catch him with his pants down.”

  Now, with Lucinda’s ticket to more alimony tucked in his large envelope, Carter waited for the doorman to call to the thirtieth-floor apartment and confirm their appointment. They were ushered into an elevator and a short ride later, the doors swung open revealing an apartment wrapped in floor to ceiling windows. The gray Chicago skyline loomed beyond the glass.

  The elevator doors slid closed behind the men. No one was there to greet the detectives. Carter looked back at Sam, who shrugged. Eventually, a man Carter knew only from the incriminating photos he held in the large envelope stepped into view.

  “Hello gentlemen,” he said. His hands shoved in his pockets.

  “Where’s Lucinda?” Carter asked. When he’d confirmed their appointment, Lucinda told him George had a mediation to attend all day across town.

  “It’s just me here,” Mr. Kingsley replied.

  Carter took note of the two umbrellas sitting in a tall cylinder by the front door. A woman’s raincoat hung nearby.

  “Did she leave without an umbrella? Or coat?” Carter asked, taking a couple steps forward.

  Mr. Kingsley motioned to the large marble dining table.

  “I think you have something for me.” Mr. Kingsley was dressed for a boardroom. He wore navy blue pants and a crisp light blue dress shirt unbuttoned just enough for loose strands of chest hair to poke out. Shiny cufflinks sparkled from feet away. During their surveillance, Carter had only ever seen George Kingsley dressed this way. He was a man who needed to announce himself.

  “We have nothing for you,” Sam said.

  “Then maybe we can reach an agreement.” He motioned once more at the large table. Carter stood still, his wet clothes making the chilly apartment even icier.

  “Our agreement is with Mrs. Kingsley.” He tucked the envelope back into his jacket and turned to leave.

  “Then a new agreement,” George said, then yelled, “Lucinda! Can you come here, please?”

  Carter turned back. Lucinda shuffled into the foyer, wrapped in a silk robe she cinched tight around her neck. Her hair was disheveled and her left eye was blackened and swollen shut.

  Carter stepped forward. “Mrs. Kingsley! Are you okay?” Sam grabbed Carter’s wrist and kept him from walking towards Lucinda any further.

  “She’s fine.” George waved a dismissive hand, the light catching a gold pinky ring on his right hand. Rain pelted against the wall of windows, and somewhere in the apartment a TV was on, two men debating whether the Fed would lower interest rates this quarter.

  “I believe she was to pay you two thousand dollars for what is in that envelope.” George nodded at Carter and pulled a stack of hundred-dollar bills from his pocket. “I’ll pay you three thousand dollars. All you need to do differently is hand the envelope to me.”

  “No fucking way.” Carter locked eyes with Lucinda. The fiery woman he met weeks prior was not there. Her one good eye teared up, and her split lip quivered. He could tell she wanted this to be over. For the entire job to be put behind them. Right now, more alimony was the last thing on her mind.

  “Sorry,” he said to Lucinda, then to George he said, “No.” Carter knew the types of people George did business with, the types of things they had their fingers in. Carter wasn’t there to join Kingsley, do business with him. He didn’t know what his plan was necessarily, he only knew he wouldn’t deal with Kingsley.

  George closed his eyes and exhaled deep through his nose. “This is the only deal on the table. Leave the pictures with me, and get three thousand dollars, or you just wasted three weeks of your life. And by the looks of you two”— he pointed at Sam, his clothes a touch too baggy and his shoes marked and scuffed— “you may not be able to cover your rent without this money.”

  “Take the money,” Sam whispered, standing behind Carter.

  “I’m not making a deal with Monty Hall over there,” Carter whispered back and jammed his thumb in Kingsley’s direction.

  “It’s three weeks of work. We need the money. I need the money.”

  “So, what’s it gonna be gentlemen?” Mr. Kingsley flapped the stacks of cash in the air and then tossed them onto the table. The money landed with a thud and spread out over the thick marble slab. “There’s one deal to be had here, or you leave empty handed.”

  Carter gritted his teeth and sighed. Fuck, he thought to himself. Sometimes you’re left with no choice … no good choice. “Okay,” he said to Sam, then turned back to George. “My partner’s right. We need the money.” Carter nodded at the table. “Go get it,” he said to Sam.

  Sam stepped towards the table and gathered the loose hundred-dollar bills, water still dripping from his clothes onto the shiny tile floor.

  “I’ll give you the envelope, but only if Lucinda leaves with us.” He peered around George Kingsley, and said to Lucinda, “Go pack a bag. We can drop you at a friend’s house.”

  Mrs. Kingsley nodded quickly and disappeared down a long hall.

  “The envelope.” George held out his hand, unconcerned by his wife leaving. He was single minded in his goal.

  “You think these photos are the only thing we learned in the last three weeks?” Carter set the envelope in George’s hand. “You think we don’t know who the other woman in these photos is?” George’s smirking scowl began to drop, his lips shrinking into a straight line.

  Lucinda came back out with a bag slung around her shoulder, likely only holding enough for an overnight visit. George held his arm out, barring her from getting closer to Carter.

  “Yeah,” Carter continued, seeing the change in Kingsley’s demeanor. “We know who the woman is. But more importantly, we know who her boyfriend is.” George’s arm slowly dropped, and his shoulders slumped, like a marionette whose strings were slowly lowered.

  Mrs. Kingsley passed her husband then passed Carter. She tapped the button, calling the elevator up. She and Sam stood, waiting to leave.

  “It’s bad enough fucking your firm’s largest client, but him…” Carter shook his head. As George’s smirk had dropped, Carter’s smirked had grown. To him, this was better than $3,000.

  “I know you and your firm have worked many hours, billable hours, to convince the courts that Mr. Muratov is nothing more than a Russian businessman. I read about one of your cases in the paper just earlier this year. The news article painted a very different picture of Mr. Muratov from what your court documents did. Illegal gambling. Arms dealing. Human trafficking.”

  “Get the fuck out of here,” George said. The elevator dinged and the doors slid open. Lucinda went in first, then Sam.

  “Carter.” Sam held his arm across the door to keep them from closing. Carter stepped back towards the elevator, but kept his eyes locked on George.

  “I’m just saying, Mr. Muratov would be interested in knowing about those photos. What would he do to the man who slept with his girlfriend?”

  “Who do you think he’s gonna believe?” Mr. Kingsley said. “His trusted attorney? Or some low-rent private detective?

  “He doesn’t need to believe me. C’mon, you can’t think those were the only copies?”

  “We had a fucking deal!”

  “The deal was for that envelope.” Carter nodded at the manila envelope clutched in George’s hand. The elevator doors tried to close again. “Don’t worry, I’ll send you all the copies once we know Lucinda is safe, once you two are divorced, once you’ve signed the
agreement her attorney has drafted—with not a single change. Once that’s done, once Lucinda gives me the go-ahead, then I’ll send you the photos.”

  “You cocksuckers! I am going to fucking kill the two of you if you show anyone those photos,” George said through clenched teeth.

  Reaching into his pocket and pulling out a business card, Carter said, “Here.” He flicked it out of the elevator, and it fluttered through the air towards George. “We do work for law firms too, you know, if your office ever needs our services.”

  The elevator doors slid shut.

  Two Months Gone

  Back at the office, after dropping Lucinda at a friend’s house, Carter counted out the bills Sam collected from the Kingsleys’ dining table. The bills were wrinkled and wet from the rain. He took two thousand dollars and handed it to Sam.

  “Here.” Then he stuffed the rest towards the back of his safe. Inside were other envelopes, each with the name of the client written on them in permanent marker, then, in parenthesis, the name of the people in the photos. Insurance, Carter called it.

  Almost six years ago Leland Garrett took Carter on as his apprentice investigator. The man taught Carter most of what he knew about surveillance and investigations, and keeping these photos as insurance was one of Leland’s first lessons.

  It paid off today, Carter thought of his old friend. His old mentor had been a man stuck in his ways, probably even more than Carter was.

  Other than the envelopes in the safe, there was cash, a .40 caliber Glock handgun, and two boxes of ammunition. The gun was loaded, alternating one hollow point round and then two full metal jacket rounds, the idea being the first hit would be the hollow point, dealing the most damage, then the full metal jackets would be secondary shots to finish the job.

  “No need to waste good hollow points on a fella who’s on his way out anyways,” Leland had told him. Carter stood for a minute and looked at the desk where Leland used to sit, picturing his nimble wrinkled fingers sliding ammunition into his magazine. “The hollow points’ll look much worse coming out than they do going in. Not like the .22. That’ll go in and get lost inside of ya, but not before it bounces through your guts like a goddamn pinball machine.”