Gone Cold

by Douglas Corleone

  “So it didn’t reduce crime,” I said.

  “Oh, it reduced crime by more than a third. But only because everyone was scared out of their bloody wits that they were going to be captured live on camera. Little did they know, they had nothing to fear because the computer failed to lock on a solitary live target.”

  “On the bright side, I suppose what you’re telling me negates the advantage Scotland Yard has in finding this young woman Shauna before I do.”

  “Well, not completely, of course. You are one man, Simon. Last I checked, the Met employed over thirty thousand officers. Human beings still do some things better than computers after all. Especially in those numbers.”

  “So the only way to find her on video is to know precisely where she was and at precisely what time beforehand.”

  “That about sums it up. The half-million cameras in London may prevent some crimes simply because people realize that if the Met knows where and when a crime took place, chances are they can look at a picture of the perpetrator. By the same logic, the system is good for solving some crimes. It was useful after 7/7, and of course, just a few days ago, the Guards in Dublin caught on camera that little bitch who murdered Eli.”

  I looked away, hoping Wendy missed any reaction that may have momentarily appeared on my face.

  “But searching for a particular person who could be anywhere in all of London,” she said, “you might as well stand atop Big Ben with a telescope for all the luck you’ll have looking at surveillance videos.”

  “All right, then.”

  “So who’s this young woman Shauna you’re looking for?” she asked. “A runaway from the States?”

  I debated how much to tell her. I wasn’t sure as to the nature and extent of her relationship with Eli Welker. She’d never responded to the e-mail I’d sent her from Dublin. And she made no mention of it today. It was possible she simply didn’t recognize Welker from the small passport photo I’d sent her. In which case, she probably didn’t know him all that well. But then, maybe she’d never even received the e-mail. Maybe it was delivered to her spam folder, or maybe it was opened and discarded by an assistant or someone else who worked at her firm. Maybe she simply hadn’t gotten to it yet. Or maybe she’d changed her e-mail address and I just wasn’t aware. In the past, whenever one of us needed the other’s assistance, we’d pick up the phone.

  In any event, Wendy Isles clearly hoped Eli Welker’s killer would be caught. Imprisoned for life, if her tone of voice was any indication.

  But would her thirst for blood be so insatiable if she knew that the killer might be my missing daughter?

  Ultimately, I decided it was too dangerous to attempt to find out.

  Chapter 47

  TWELVE YEARS AGO

  “Despite our very different lots in life, I think I’ve told you before, Avery and I remained close mates.”

  “He came in handy, you said.”

  “Right you are. When me and the boys would get into scrapes, we’d just call on our favorite barrister and Avery would come running.” He pours me a cup of coffee and pushes it across the bar. “There was never any jealousy, you understand. Things happen as they happen, and that’s the way they are. He felt no different toward me, nor I toward him.”

  The coffee’s warm and only once I take the first sip do I realize a chill had moved through my body.

  “Then in the early seventies, I got me lady pregnant, and it was a difficult pregnancy, as you can imagine, with her being addicted to heroin and all. But we pushed through. And the baby was born. Healthy, to me pleasant surprise.

  “Less than a year later, Avery and his wife gave birth to a son. I played uncle to the boy, and Avery played uncle to me daughter, and all was right with the world. At least as far as I was concerned.

  “But then something happened. Avery’s wife began to fancy me. And if I’m going to be entirely honest, I began to fancy her as well. Still, though, I never would have acted on it. Because Avery was like a brother to me. Hell, he was a brother in every way except blood.

  “Unfortunately, Avery took notice. And it ate at him. Every time we were together, I could see it in his bloody eyes. A concern, but deeper than that. A fear, maybe. Envy too. And anger, plenty of anger. He was competitive, you see. As was I. But never for a bird’s affections. I thought he understood that. I think he did understand that. In his mind, at least. But sexual jealousy can’t be explained in logic. It’s part of our reptilian brains, isn’t it? Something ancient. Something primal. And it brought out the worst in him, it did.

  “We never talked about it. That would have been unimaginable at the time. Because there was nothing tangible. It didn’t exist in the material world. It was in our eyes, in our hearts, in our loins, if you’ll permit me to be crude about it.

  “But for Avery, it was ever present. Like a cancer. And cancers need to be removed, don’t they?”

  Terry leans forward on the bar, looks me in the eyes. “Remember now, Avery knew every aspect of me world, every minutia of me business. As me solicitor it was practically required of him. So when he finally did what he did it was with pure, unadulterated malice.”

  I wait for him to go on.

  He takes a breath, says, “Lona, the girl’s mother, with whom I lived after our daughter’s birth, was in no way the perfect mother, mind you. Was I even in love with her? I can’t say. We had more of an arrangement than anything else. And yes, she benefitted from what I did for a living. Financially, of course. But in other ways as well. I was handling large shipments of cocaine at the time. I thought, well, far better her being on coke than on heroin. She had a child to care for. A toddler, two going on three.

  “The coke made Lona sharper. And there was never a shortage, so there was no coming down. When she needed to sleep I simply supplied her with some downers.

  “Of course, Lona hadn’t had an easy life. There was good reason she was a prostitute when I met her. She’d grown up in an awful home with an alcoholic mother and an abusive father. Clichéd as it sounds, it was true. And so it shouldn’t surprise you that Lona herself had a temper.

  “Not a terrible temper, mind you. I’ve seen far worse. But a temper all the same. And at times she was short with the child. I’d talk to her about it. I’d watch closely. But with me business, I couldn’t be there for them at all times. And so once in a while I’d return home to find a bruise on me little girl.

  “Make no mistake, Simon, it infuriated me. I confronted Lona, threatened her with the police, did everything I could short of dishing out some of what she gave our daughter. And for months at a time it stopped, and everything was fine. In me mind, I said, ‘If it happens again, I’ll take me daughter and walk away.’

  “Then one day, I had to leave London for a meeting in the Netherlands. I asked Uncle Avery, as he was affectionately called, to keep an eye on things for me. Just check in with Lona and the child, make certain everything’s going smoothly and there are no troubles.

  “He readily agreed. The thing between me and his wife had by then—at least I assumed—become a nonissue for him. Like a noise in your automobile. Something you eventually come to accept because it would cost much more to fix it than to let it go.

  “When I returned to London a week later, I had just about settled in, kissed me daughter and her mother, when a pounding came from me front door. I didn’t even have time to get out of me chair to open it when the filth came charging in.

  “Avery had evidently seen a fresh bruise on me daughter. And instead of contacting me, he’d gone straight to the filth. And he’d told them about everything, Simon. The shipments, the buyers, the money, the people I’d had to lean on. He’d told them about everything. Every bloody thing I’d ever done to earn a quid.”

  Chapter 48

  There was a good reason my Google search of “Night’s End” in London didn’t turn up any relevant results: The pub was actually named Knight’s End.

  When I arrived at the pub that afternoon, Ashdown and Zo
ey were already there, having driven straight from Liverpool in the Chairman’s Grand Cherokee. During the four hours I’d spent driving to London last night, they’d gotten some much-deserved sleep at Hotel Indigo on Chapel Street a few blocks east of the River Mersey.

  Knight’s End didn’t offer espresso so I ordered coffee. “Black, no sugar, please.”

  When the waiter moved off, Zoey asked whether I’d gotten any sleep.

  “A few good hours,” I told her. “Ostermann lent me his suite at the Corinthia.”

  “Posh,” Ashdown said.

  “Since his corporate client was paying, Ostermann also insisted I take advantage of room service.”

  “Oh? What did you have?”

  “What didn’t I have is more like it. After that tremendous breakfast at Gilchrist’s and the Corinthia’s room service, I don’t think I can ever settle for my regular breakfast of an English muffin and jam again.”

  As we talked, I kept my eye on the middle-aged female behind the bar. She appeared none too friendly, and from the looks of this place I couldn’t say I blamed her. Still, I wanted to show her a picture of Shauna and ask whether she’d seen her before. Since our waiter was just a kid who said he’d only started this past week, I didn’t bother asking him.

  “So, little brother,” Zoey said, “how does it feel to be back home?”

  “I’ve been back before,” I said. “Always feels the same. As though I’ve always lived in London, in every universe but this one.”

  I thought about the day I arrived in London from Saint Petersburg ten years ago. Finally back in the west following my most eventful case yet. Relief flowing through me even as I continued looking over my shoulder. Adrenaline still pumping through my veins, keeping me alert despite my exhaustion. Scared to death in that good way that helps keep us among the living.

  I removed my phone from my pocket and rose from my chair. The bartender had just served fresh pints to the two silent old soaks sitting at the end of the bar. She’d since returned to wiping down bottles of vodka and gin.

  “Now or never, I guess.”

  I walked up to the bar as though to order a drink. From my periphery, I could see our young waiter bussing his own table nearby. Watching me, probably a little nervous that he’d done something wrong. That he was too slow or that he’d forgotten to bring one of us a drink. He spied on Ashdown and Zoey for a clue, but they’d begun an argument before I’d made it halfway to the bar.

  “Need a bevvy, love?”

  Why not, I thought, if it’ll make this go down easier.

  “Bombay and tonic,” I said, pushing the notes across the bar. “And one for yourself, Miss…”

  “Lizzy,” she said. “Thanks, love.”

  She set up two rocks glasses in front of me.

  I scanned the bar to make sure we were out of earshot. After the Sherlock Holmes, it was nice to be inside a pub with no theme whatsoever. A simple black-and-white bar, nothing fancy. With the usual mirrors and neon signs and posters touting the usual brand names of beer and liquor and colas and energy drinks.

  Lizzy slid my glass toward me and scooped up hers. We lifted them at the same time. She said, “Cheers m’dears,” and we drank.

  And I instantly remembered how much I loathed the taste of gin. It had always been Terry’s drink, not mine.

  “What the hell kind of Englishman are you?” he’d asked me one night after I’d declined a Tanqueray and tonic.

  “Apparently, one with taste buds,” I’d told him.

  I set my glass down and called up Shauna’s picture on my phone. Held it out to her. “Recognize this girl?”

  She frowned, tossed her own drink into the sink and started wiping down the bar.

  “So you’re a rozzer, are you?”

  I said nothing.

  “What did she do? Beat the piss out of one of your mates?” She looked up at me. “Or maybe she beat the piss out of you.”

  “I’m not with the law,” I said. “I’m private. And I’m trying to help her.”

  “Help her?” she said. “Or help yourself to her?”

  “You have no idea how off you are, Lizzy.” I leaned forward, lowered my voice. “Listen, she got herself in some trouble up in Dublin. I’ve been hired to find her and get her out of it, not to turn her in.”

  Her face closed down in skepticism. “Hired by who?”

  “That I’m not at liberty to say.”

  She thought about it, shrugged. “I don’t know where she is, love, so I can’t help you either way.”

  “But you do know her?”

  “You know I do. Or else why would you be here?”

  I took a swallow of my gin and tonic. “How do you know her?” I said.

  She stopped wiping down the bar to study my face. Either realized the question was sincere or decided the answer didn’t matter one way or another.

  “She’s the boss’s daughter,” she said.

  I swallowed my next question.

  She caught my reaction, said, “You all right, love? You’re white as a sheet. You look as though you’re going to tip over.”

  She looked past me toward Ashdown and Zoey and tried to wave them over, but they weren’t looking.

  “What’s your boss’s name?” I managed.

  “Isn’t that part of the public record?”

  “Sure,” I said quietly, leaning onto the bar for support. “But you can save me some time and effort.”

  My BlackBerry began buzzing along the bar.

  “You answer that,” she said. “I’ll be right back. I’ve got to pour an order for Andrew over there.”

  It was Ostermann’s number. I pressed the phone to my ear, all the while following Lizzy with my eyes.

  He said, “I just received an e-mail from Eli Welker’s final client. He’s arrived at Heathrow. I set up a meeting with him. The Corinthia, in one hour. Best you meet me in the lobby beforehand.”

  I pocketed the phone as Lizzy warily moved back toward me.

  She said, “So you need the owner’s name, do you?”

  I nodded and pushed another wad of notes across the bar.

  “All right, love. But anyone asks, you bloody well didn’t hear it from me.”

  Chapter 49

  When we arrived at the Corinthia forty minutes later, we found Kurt Ostermann standing near the front desk, flirting with an alluring desk clerk who looked an awful lot like his wife Magda back in Berlin. After several seconds I managed to summon his attention and he marched over to us while working a wide grin off his face.

  “Kurt Ostermann, my sister Zoey Carlyle and Detective Chief Inspector Damon Ashdown of the National Crime Agency.”

  During introductions, Ostermann’s gaze lingered a bit too long on Zoey for Ashdown’s liking, and Ashdown made it known by suggesting Ostermann return to the front desk to continue his seduction of the desk clerk.

  “Perhaps it’s you I’d like to seduce,” Ostermann said, no longer attempting to wrestle the grin from his lips.

  “There’s no time for this,” Zoey said, stepping between the German and her ex. “Damon, if you want to be a complete arse, please do so outside on the footpath.”

  Ostermann ignored Ashdown’s persistent glare and handed me the key to his suite. “Wait upstairs,” he said. “Make yourself at home. As soon as the client arrives, I’ll escort him to the room and introduce you as my associate.”

  In the light flooding into the lobby through the two-story windows, I noticed Ostermann’s blond hair was graying ever so slightly at the temples. He might have put on five or ten pounds since I last saw him in Berlin as well. Although, I had to admit, having lost as much weight as I had over the previous eleven months, that particular observation might have been the result of a highly skewed perspective.

  “Zoey,” I said, “why don’t you join me upstairs? A female presence might put this client, whoever he is, more at ease.”

  “A good idea,” Ostermann deadpanned.

  I turned to Ashdown m
id-seethe. “Detective, mind keeping an eye on the lobby in case Mr. Welker’s client decides to run?”

  As Ashdown moved off in silence, Zoey and I headed toward the elevator bank.

  “So what’s your mate’s story?” she said as we walked.

  “Married.”

  “Happily?”

  “Loves her like the sun,” I said.

  “Poetic.”

  “I thought so too.”

  We stepped into the lift with a young family, a handsome Irish couple and their two preteenage boys whose eyes had been following Zoey’s ass through the lobby as though it were magnetized.

  “Your German mate did seem rather randy,” my sister said at her usual pitch. “I imagine he fancies playing away on that wife in Berlin. If he’s on the pull, I assume you won’t mind if we have it off later? Shite, I could use a good, hard shag after that dreadful quickie with Damon in Liverpool last night. Might as well have given him a gobble for all that I got off.”

  I stifled a heavy sigh and the six of us, packed like sardines, waited for the elevator doors to close.

  * * *

  As Zoey and I waited on either side of a small table in Ostermann’s room, my phone went off. I lifted my BlackBerry and checked the caller.

  Kati Sheffield, full-time mommy and part-time miracle worker.

  I put the phone to my ear, said, “Rising with the sun these days, Breaker?”

  “Actually I haven’t slept yet, Finder. Miles decided to turn his bed into a trampoline at eleven o’clock last night, so he and I spent the night in the emergency room.”

  “Sorry,” I said. “He’s all right, then?”

  “Fractured clavicle.”

  I grimaced. “Broken collarbone? Those hurt like hell and take forever to heal. Twelve weeks, if I remember correctly.”

  “About half that for a child. I take it you’ve suffered one yourself?”

  “I ride motorcycles,” I said. “Sometimes rather recklessly. Comes with the job, I’m sorry to say.”

  “Speaking of which, I finally heard back from Her Majesty’s Passport Office.”

  “And?”