by PT Reade
CROSS FIRE
A Thomas Blume Book
P.T. Reade
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ONE
On the Sidelines.
I missed a lot about being in the States. There were certain foods that you could get in New York that were delicious beyond description. Roy’s donuts on Fifth. Sure, it was a living cliché, and Roy’s sugary treats had probably killed more cops than any strung-out junkies had done, but my god they tasted good.
So there was the food…but then there was also football. Or American Football as they called it here. I loved the game as much as any other New Yorker—I’ve always been a Jets guy, screw the Giants—but more than the actual sport, I missed the fanaticism around it; the fire.
That night—before everything went to hell—I spent a lot of time thinking about football.
I thought mostly about those commentators who used to be players. The gray-haired, surly old experts that knew more about the sport than they probably did about their own kids. They have the knowledge and the passion for the game, but they’re stuck in a suit and tie behind a desk, retirement forcing them to relive their successes by analyzing the game as others play it. Their glory days are gone, and while the devotion to the game is still there, they just aren’t capable anymore.
Like neutered animals clinging to their instincts.
That night, I was the guy at the desk, fearing my time on the field might be over. I was chained and degraded, out of my element, and not entirely sure what my element had ever been.
I’d seen some hostile places in my time as a cop in The Big Apple; drug dens in lower Manhattan, gunfights in Brooklyn and crime scenes in Hoboken, but this felt like a truly dangerous environment.
The lavish fundraiser had been going for five hours. I stood, uncomfortable in my new suit, near the corner of an opulent dining room. The one-percenters all around me were all either half-drunk or half-high, schmoozing around the place, peacocks, eager to impress.
This was the central hub of an expansive country club with three golf courses, six tennis courts, two pools, and one equestrian center. That was all I could count so far, anyway.
So, there I was, decked out in my smart new suit—something I swore I would never have to do as part of a job—and my hands were clasped politely behind my back. My face still bore souvenirs from my last case, yellowed bruising and an almost-healed cut lip, but otherwise, the dark hair and steel blue eyes were as familiar as ever. I wasn’t getting any younger, but I’d been lucky to keep most of the build from my youth, even if it was a little more weathered and rough around the edges now.
A group of people in expensive evening wear squawked with sycophantic laughter as they traveled from one end of the elegant party to the other, bringing my attention back to the gathering.
Hate it here.
Yes…I was working security. Protection for the kind of people who need protecting in this town. And what kind of people were they? The kind that paid well and didn’t water down their drinks, so for now, I didn’t ask too many questions.
Or maybe there was another reason, too. I only got this job because Amir landed it for me. After the first few cases I’d managed to wrap up almost wrapped me up, I’d had to face the facts that I needed to rest. My body was aching following the most recent investigation which had put me in the hospital, and I was getting frequent headaches. I’d taken too many blows to the head and had too many run-ins with too many scumbags. I was on constant painkillers and needed a break. So I shut down the office for a couple of weeks and tried to switch off. There was never any true respite, not from the demons in my mind, but physically, I took some down time. For once in my life, I had followed my doctor’s orders. It felt weird.
When Amir heard that I was itching to get back into the fray, he put me on to this security gig. It wasn’t much of a job, and I should have been insulted at the offer, but it was a way to ease myself back in, and well paid. Amir may have only been my landlord and friend, but his connections never ceased to impress me. His eighteen-year-old daughter Aisha had become friends with Chelsea Hyde—a young London socialite—the kind of girl with more money than sense. They’d met at some fashion show and hit it off immediately. I had no idea what Aisha, the daughter of a low-level restaurateur, would have in common with the heir to a multi-million-pound waste disposal business, but teenage girls were a mystery to most people—even other teenage girls. Chelsea’s father, city business magnate Andrew Hyde, just happened to be the brother of politician Gordon Hyde—newly Home Secretary and a man who’s previous activities aroused my suspicions. So I followed my gut and took the job to watch out for Aisha.
Besides, I figured it never hurt to rub shoulders with the bluebloods. As much as I detested them, the connections could be invaluable, especially if I wanted to make progress in the investigation into the death of my family.
Over the previous six months, I’d turned up hidden files, located contacts, and discovered more and more about the events of the day my wife and son were murdered.
Their deaths will always be seared into my mind, but for every lead and line of investigation, I encountered a hundred other road blocks. Witnesses I found would suddenly disappear and documents would be “misplaced.” It felt as though some unseen force was working against me—a nebulous ghost taunting me at every step.
If I were going to find my family’s killers, I would need help from someone with pull in this town. Someone who had influence.
So here I was, a decorated ex-NYPD detective turned private investigator, now working as a glorified security guard for rich assholes at a party. At this rate, I’d be a mall cop by the end of the week.
I sighed and checked my watch, trying to put the need for a drink out of my mind. I’d been standing in the same position for five minutes. It was time to move around and scope out the other rooms. I felt useless, though. If there were ever a party where security was not needed, it was this one. It was the stiffest and most pompous soiree I had ever had the misfortune to attend—not that I’d been invited to many in my time.
I ventured out of the dining room and down the long hallway towards the kitchen. People were talking about books they had read, politics, wine, expensive vacations, and when they planned to purchase their second, or third, summer home. As I neared the kitchen, my cell phone vibrated in the breast pocket of my jacket. I pulled it out to see a message from Amir, who was working at his restaurant that evening.
“How’s it going?” His message read.
“Great,” I typed in reply. “Being paid to stand around and watch rich people drink is a piece of cake. Got more jobs like it?”
“Funny,” he said. “How’s Aisha?”
“Making out with tons of boys. I just saw her doing tequila shots out of some dude’s navel.”
“You’re a dick.”
“Yeah, but I’m a private dick,” I responded, smirking.
In the month that I had taken off, Amir and I had gotten much closer. We spoke nearly every day, and he kept nagging me to exercise and get back into shape after my recent injuries. He regularly hounded me about my drinking, but I couldn’t fault him for that. The thing getting to me, though, was that I was starting to feel guilty whenever I hit the booze and didn’t let him know. Remorse usually led me to drink—a vicious cycle.
I spotted Aisha near the kitchen. Despite what I had told Amir, she was a class act. She sipped delicately from a champagne glass and showed far more
reserve than the rest of the crowd. She stood by the appetizer table with two other girls about her age, one who wore an extremely short, shimmering, gold dress that looked expensive and gaudy. It was the kind of outfit that didn’t leave much room for either imagination or food. I knew from the photos that this was Chelsea Hyde.
Out of the corner of her eye, Aisha saw me enter and gave me a knowing little smile. I nodded, decided to leave the ladies to their fun, and walked through the kitchen and into the adjoining lounge area. I moved apparently unseen by just about anyone. No one here knew me, so to them, I was a nobody, just one of the hoi polloi, a man to be ignored.
These people made me want to throw up. I needed a drink.
I was content being unnoticed as it allowed me to slip over to the bar area and sneak a few gulps of the large gin and tonic I mixed for myself. At the far end of the counter, a woman who was two shades of drunk and about to spill out of her dress engaged the barman in deep conversation. I took the opportunity to take another sip and set it back down in my hiding spot behind one of the PA system’s speakers.
The booze started to hit me enough to get flushed, and the alcohol-infused heat rose from my belly. I hate crowds, and already sweat had started to bead on my skin. I took a quick look around the room and found no immediate security concerns. Everything was pretty much as it had been for three hours. With a shrug, I turned and headed for the relief of the exit door at the back of the room.
Outside, the night was crisp and cool. I stood on the back patio and gazed across the lush gardens to the skyline directly ahead. The country club sat atop a hill on the outskirts of London and gave spectacular views of the twinkling lights of the modern metropolis.
Nothing like a view of the poor people below to make a fancy shindig really swing.
It really was a beautiful city though.
While I was not yet ready to say it was growing on me, I was starting to hate it a little less. Not that it would matter. I was here to stay for a while. Amir had become a good friend, and because of his efforts and my accidental heroics, I had at least three cases waiting for me when I decided to pick the ball back up and run with it. There was no way I could leave all this behind. Not now.
Where would I go, anyway? Back to New York? While the thought had certainly crossed my mind multiple times, the Big Apple held nothing for me other than painful nostalgia. I was slowly building a life in London, and besides, if there were any remaining clues to be found regarding the death of my wife and son, I’d find them here. They had died in London, and this was where I would find the killers.
People told me to move on, rebuild my life. They were right of course, but something kept bringing me back to their case. The case behind everything.
Thinking of my deceased family while standing on the back patio of a palatial manor, I felt like a stooge. I should’ve been out cracking heads and looking for fresh leads into their deaths. I certainly wasn’t going to get anywhere dressed like a penguin and watching rich people get wasted.
I traced the skyline, searching for solace, but found none. A part of me was pretty sure there was none left to find, and that this might be as close to content as I would ever get. Only one thing could improve my mood—revenge on the filth that took everything from me. If I ever found the murdering pigs, they would pay. They would pay with everything they had.
The familiar spiral of despair whispered to me. When I fell into self-pity, I knew I could be there for a while. And with self-pity came the booze, usually. I typically drank heavily to numb the feelings, which was yet another vicious cycle of frustration.
I would have likely slipped further into it right with the city laid bare before me if I had not heard gravel softly crunching under someone’s foot.
I peered to my right, where the service entrance to the clubhouse stretched out behind half the building. Only the caterer’s truck and two other vehicles that had been there the entire night remained. But among those shapes in the darkness, I made out another outline, a shadow slinking closer to the clubhouse. Slowly, I moved down the back porch steps and crept up on the figure.
He was crouched, peering into the party. Face almost pressed up against the glass.
I shimmied forward, fist clenched and ready to strike. My depressing reverie washed from my mind as the action took over. It had been almost a month since I’d done anything active.
The figure had something in its hand, something blocky and metallic. In a quick and practiced motion, the man raised it towards one of the clubhouse windows.
Jesus. A gun!
TWO
Something rotten in the air.
I jumped forward, threw a fist at his face. He turned, hands raised in defense, brown eyes wide, lipstick-painted mouth open wide. She screamed. Not a man, but a woman. I pulled the punch before it landed, but only just. She almost dropped the object in her hand. A camera. A goddamned camera!
Probably more dangerous, in the right hands.
We stood, facing each other. Breathing hard. She was gorgeous and I’d nearly turned that perfect face into so much ground beef. Not only beautiful, she looked vaguely familiar. Slim but not tall, with long dark hair tied back in a no-nonsense ponytail and black rimmed glasses. Attractive, in a studious kind of way. I didn’t know her name, but I’d seen her several times on television, or the internet.
“Who the hell are you?” I asked, chest heaving. “I could have hurt you, goddamit!”
“Miranda Abbleton,” she said, clutching her camera to her body, trembling. “I’m not doing anything wrong, you know. What are you, security?”
“Something like that,” I said. “And no…you may not be doing anything wrong, but do you have an invite?”
She laughed and rolled her eyes. “Was I invited to a Hyde party? After the stories I’ve run on them in the news? Fat chance.”
“Then you need to get the hell out of here.” I extended my hand to her and added, “Camera, now.”
“No.”
I sighed and grabbed it. “Give it,” I said, and as I glanced down, the amateur photographer in me gave her some credit for her choice. “That is a very expensive Nikon, you don’t want it damaged.”
“This is my personal camera, and I am on public land here,” she said, pointing to the common beyond the grounds.
“See that fence? Yeah, we’re inside it, so you’re actually on private property. And you are photographing on grounds that have been rented for the night. You do the math. Try taking this to court.”
“Hands off my camera!” she said. “What the hell is so bad, anyway? The only shots I got were of rich toffs getting blotto.”
“Yes,” I said, only understanding about half of what she was saying. “Great tabloid fodder.”
“What the hell do you know?” she said. “You’re just a hired goon.”
Sparks of anger ignited in me.
Never hit a woman, I thought. Don’t be that guy, Tom.
As it turned out, I didn’t need to be. The door on the porch behind us opened up. A slim and smartly dressed, middle-aged man stepped out. He squinted at the scene unfolding.
“Blume? Is that you?” he asked, the refined accent carrying across the darkened back yard and service parking lot.
“Yeah. I caught a reporter for you. Shall we burn her at the stake now or wait until we can gather a crowd at sunrise?”
“Miss. Abbleton, I presume?” the man asked with resignation.
“Yes, it’s me,” she said. “I suggest you tell your hired muscle to get his paws off of my camera.”
Andrew Hyde, the man throwing the party, crossed the yard and seemed surprisingly relaxed. From his midnight blue tuxedo to his calm, assertive posture, he carried himself with a confidence borne only from experience and money. Hyde had made a lot of cash from handling the city’s trash. Ironic considering the pristine grounds surrounding us. His business had grown gradually, earning awards for its ethical practices and hiring policies. One of the good ones, or so they said.
He smiled down at Miranda Abbleton as if they were good friends. He held a martini in his hand and took a delicate sip before he spoke to her.
“Did you get any good pictures?” he asked.
She said nothing at first, but Andrew’s disarming personality seemed to wear her down, and she clearly decided it would be in her best interest to behave. “I got Shelly McCamden with her hand on a much younger man’s thigh. I also got a shot of Baroness Givens leaning over with her tits about to fall out of her dress.”
Andrew thought about this for a while and nodded. “How’s this…Susan Givens is a terrible woman. I can’t count the times she has damaged the good name of this town, just to promote her own political agenda. Shelly McCamden, on the other hand, has been widowed for about eight years and is probably just looking for some…well, release. You leave Shelly alone, and I’ll turn a blind eye if you print the picture of Sue. Fair?”
I raised an eyebrow at Andrew’s negotiation skills. The man definitely had a way with people. Abbleton paused for a moment in thought, then as if to prove my point she relented. “Ok,” she conceded. “Deal.”
“The other stipulation, of course, is that you get the hell away from here right now or I will be forced to call the police.”
“Fine,” she said, snatching the camera from my hand and again cradling it to her curvy chest.
“Where’s your car?” Andrew asked.
“Down the hill, by the gate.”
“Enjoy your evening, then,” he said.
Abbleton said nothing. She gave me a final menacing look and then sashayed off to the other end of the service parking lot. In any other circumstance, I might have appreciated the view. When she was out of sight, Andrew clapped me on the back.
“Well done,” he said. “That bloody woman can be sneaky.”
“I got lucky, I guess,” I said.
“I’ve heard about you. You’re Amir Mazra’s friend, right?”