Revenge Code

by Paul Knox

  Viktor didn’t have the conviction or the ideals that his loony father had, and that was just fine with Lucky. Lucky didn’t share any of their alternative Russian ideology either, and much preferred dealing with the ignorantly carefree, self-absorbed Viktor.

  As long as the money was right, it didn’t matter who the buyer was.

  And the money was always right.

  A knock at the front door signaled that Viktor had arrived for the spoils.

  Tall, dark blonde, a medium build and very white, he had the same weird tattoos his father also had. The symbols were part of their organization or something. Maybe in a different life, Lucky would have cared more about it all, but in his current one, he didn’t.

  Lucky opened the door, but instead of greeting Viktor, became focused on the car parked at the curb—a bright green Lamborghini. Viktor was going to buy a large quantity of drugs and then parade around in that?

  Hasn’t his father taught him anything?

  Lucky realized that Viktor’s pretentious grin indicated he was clueless to the lashing his father would give him over this.

  “Come in.” Lucky opened the door wide. “Nice ride.”

  Viktor grinned. “Just got it. I was growing tired of the old, boring sedan. We have one life to live. Shouldn’t it be glorious?”

  ◆◆◆

  Reece had just finished a call with someone claiming to have pertinent information, when Penny rushed over to her desk.

  “I’ve got a lead for you, Reece. It’s not the best, actually bloody weak, but—”

  “Let’s hear it. I’m on my way out. Maybe I can kill two birds with one stone.”

  “There’s a fellow that goes by the name of The Chef. Chris Cook is his birth name, and evidently he’s funneled mountains of cocaine from south of the border. He’s been in and out of jail, but as of today, is sitting at home probably playing video games or smoking a water pipe. There’s a sliver of chance he knows something about the dead guy from Shanahans.”

  “That’ll be a great start, Penny. Nice work.”

  On the way to her Jeep, Reece phoned the person she had spoken to minutes earlier—an old mentor and friend. “Hi, Michael, can we postpone lunch for an hour? I have a stop I need to make on the way.”

  About fifteen minutes later, Reece pulled up to Chris “The Chef” Cook’s apartment complex. It was in a not-so-nice part of town and the faded brown building looked dingy, like it had needed a fresh paint job years ago. Trash littered the parking area.

  She waited for the beep of her Jeep’s alarm engaging, before taking her eyes from the vehicle.

  Standing at the apartment door, Reece put her thumb over the peep hole and knocked.

  “Who’s there?” called out a voice from inside.

  “Pizza,” Reece called back.

  The door opened. “I didn’t order a—”

  “Detective Reece Cannon with the Pima County Sheriff’s Department. Mind if I come inside?”

  “Yes I mind—”

  “Is that the smell of marijuana, Chris?” Reece sniffed. The skunky-smelling smoke bellowed out of the door.

  “Oh.” Chris glanced behind him at the brown cloud. “Crap.”

  “You better let me in. I’m not here to bust you for some weed. That’s if you cooperate, though.”

  “I have a medical card.”

  “Let me see it.”

  “I lost it.”

  Reece pushed her way in. After verifying that no one else was in the apartment, she hesitantly sat on a generously stained, navy blue couch. She sank into the old cushions like a water bed.

  There was a colorful water pipe sitting right in front of her, on the table with some burned green stuff that still glowed orange-red from being recently lit. “Nice pipe,” Reece remarked, amazed that Penny was spot-on correct.

  Chris kicked a beanbag next to the couch before dramatically falling into it. He looked up to Reece with bloodshot eyes, waiting for her to begin.

  “There’s been a kidnapping, Chris. An innocent woman was taken from her home by someone connected to the cocaine world. Connected…to you.”

  “Not me!” Chris exclaimed. “I saw the news. The Heatmaker has a hotline and everything. I know nothing about that, though. I don’t even deal anymore. I swear.”

  “I can see that.” Reece did a once-over at the grungy interior. “Glad you saw the news. But during your…travels…did you ever meet any Columbians in the game? You might have some information that could save a woman’s life and not even realize it.”

  “I don’t remember.”

  Reece jangled the handcuffs on her belt. “You sure about that?”

  “Alright, fine. I met Columbians before. They had fantastic stuff. Er, I mean, anyway…I met a few.”

  Reece pulled a photo from her pocket. “There’s a picture I want you to look at. But beware, it’s not pretty. The individual in the picture is deceased.”

  “Are you kidding me? Geez, man, you’re gonna blow my high.”

  “Looks like you have plenty more, Chef. Tell me if you recognize him.” Reece handed the picture over. Chris snatched it a little more eagerly than he’d let on.

  “Ah, grody, man. He’s all messed up. But, ah, wow. I do recognize him. I can’t believe he’s dead. His name was…Mickey. Mickey Money. Hard to forget a name like that.

  “Are you sure?” Reece asked.

  “Positive. He was all about, well, money. If the price was right, there was nothing to worry about.”

  “You were worried?”

  “I just know he had connections and what not.”

  “Who did he associate with?”

  “He got his stuff from some big-timer guy, or at least, Mickey made him seem all important like that. But I never met him. And anyways, I only dealt with Mickey a handful of times before I got locked up.”

  “Do you know the big-timer’s name?”

  “No.”

  “How did you meet Mickey Money?”

  “Happy hour. He used to come into this restaurant I worked at part-time, before I quit for more, shall we say, lucrative endeavors. One dealer recognizes another. The rest is history.”

  Reece tried to get The Chef to cook her up some more names or info, but he didn’t seem to know anything else.

  However, The Chef had divulged the identity of the guy Shanahan killed. Reece would ask around about Mickey Money and see if the name could be traced to Don Rico or some other associate.

  But first, Reece had a lunch date with Michael Alderidge.

  What information did he have?

  Eight

  “Oysters again?” Reece Cannon had just settled into a hand-crafted chair at a fancy table, for lunch with a long-time mentor—an acquaintance of her mother after her father had abandoned them—Michael Aldridge.

  “Not on a Monday, Reece. They’re not as fresh as when they’re flown in from the coast for the weekends.”

  “How is Affluent Alliance Group doing? Still making mountains of money for clients and yourself?”

  “I like to think of my clients as my employer. They’re the ones who pay—and trust—me. My firm is doing well, as usual. That’s what we’re here about, isn’t it?”

  “That and catching up with an old friend. I look forward to our sporadic lunches, Michael. And I appreciate your call. At this point in my investigation, any info is welcome.”

  A waiter approached. “Good afternoon, Mr. Alderidge. May I bring you the usual?”

  “I’d love some. Bring extra please, for my guest. And an order of the Osso Buco, thank you.”

  “And for you, ma’am?”

  “Osso Buco? I’ve never had that before. Make it two orders.”

  The waiter nodded and left.

  “You’re a popular man, Michael. A man who enjoys dipping fries in secret sauce.”

  “Reece, you know the secret sauce here is exquisite. It may be the number one secret in all the town.”

  “The number one secret?”

  �
�The tastiest secret, at least.” Michael winked. “And I believe this place calls them potato wedges. They come in various sizes and shapes. I can’t let people think simple, rectangular french fries are my usual.”

  “Ever since I was a kid, you’ve been getting secret sauce from somewhere. Ever since…he…left.” Immediately, Reece regretted bringing that up.

  The joy of discussing secret sauce and various shaped cuts of potatoes with Michael had caused her judgment to lapse.

  Michael frowned. “And now he’s back.”

  “You’ve heard?”

  “Sandy has invested with my firm. You knew that, didn’t you?”

  “How could I forget.”

  “Mental convenience, I’m sure. To be honest, I don’t like him, either. By law, I can’t refuse his patronage, however.”

  It was unbelievable that Reece’s father, Sandy, had recently returned to town, after being gone for twenty-plus years. On top of that, he came back to buy Galaxsea, a racy nightclub which he now owned.

  A nightclub with a plethora of terrible rumors surrounding.

  Needless to say, Reece wanted nothing to do with her father.

  The waiter returned, bringing them Michael’s usual. Potato wedges and secret sauce.

  Reece picked up a wedge and dunked it. “Enough on him. Didn’t you say there was someone else invested in your firm I needed to know about?”

  “Yes, yes I did. Rather, he used to be invested. He pulled all his money out a couple years ago and I haven’t heard of him since. I can’t divulge any financials without a warrant, for confidentiality reasons, but after seeing Kevin Kelvin’s news report, my memory was jogged.”

  “You could have mentioned the warrant-thing to me before lunch.”

  “What I want to tell you is all on public record. There’s a man named Raymond Miller who I want to bring to your attention.”

  “On public record?”

  “Yes. Raymond is a former doctor. Years ago, he pulled his money out after being convicted of distributing Levamisole to cocaine dealers. What dealers do with Levamisole, I haven’t the faintest. But I know he served time for selling an extremely large amount of it.”

  “That rings a bell, yes. The Levamisole, not Raymond Miller. It’s used to cut cocaine, to make it more profitable on the street.”

  “Try to follow my line of thinking, Reece. Columbian cartels have been a problem for decades. They’re the biggest suppliers of cocaine to America. Everybody knows that.”

  “I follow. Go on.”

  “Therefore, if this whole kidnapping mess is related to large amounts of cocaine, then there’s a good chance it was from Columbia. At least, some of it. What do you think?”

  “Could be, sure.”

  “Then most likely, someone who dealt huge amounts of Levamisole might know a name or two for you. Maybe not, of course, but I just wanted to help if I could—and have an excuse to see you over a plate of secret sauce.”

  Reece tossed a potato wedge she’d been holding on her plate. “Since Raymond Miller sold Levamisole, you think he might know a Columbian, or someone who knows a Columbian, possibly involved in the kidnapping. Not a silver bullet, but not bad, Michael.”

  The Osso Buco arrived—in a much smaller portion than Reece would have imagined. Reece tasted the dish. “What exactly is this?”

  “Veal shanks. Very tender and garnished with gremolata. Absolutely delightful.”

  Reece enjoyed the tenderness, but preferred the potatoes and secret sauce.

  “You know,” Michael said in between bites, “that Shanahan is quite remarkable. Is it true he took down one kidnapper while still in his robe? Or was the Heatmaker just sensationalizing the story?”

  “It’s true. But what the Heatmaker didn’t say, is that there’s a ransom.”

  “How much?”

  “Fifty grand.”

  “If he needs to borrow anything, let me know, Reece. I’ll help. Except, I’m betting he’s not planning on paying, is he?”

  Reece chewed on a blackened end of one of the wedges. “Let’s just say this: I hope I find the kidnapper before he does.”

  Later as they stood outside saying farewell, Reece muttered, “If you see Sandy, tell him I’m still investigating his club. He’s not off the hook.”

  “He’ll never be off the hook, I’m sure.” Michael smiled.

  “Do you blame me? You’ve heard the rumors, haven’t you?”

  Michael simply said, “You’re my little firecracker. I don’t know how anyone could’ve left you.”

  ◆◆◆

  While Viktor stood in the kitchen scrolling through his phone, looking at Instagram models and crunching on a juicy apple, Lucky went to the black safe and removed the cocaine he’d already finished cutting with Levamisole.

  “Columbian’s finest?” Viktor asked, not even looking up from his phone, as Lucky returned.

  “The best there is. I did the usual to it. It was extremely pure to begin with, so this end product will still amaze. It’s sure to sell well on the streets.”

  “Same discount, though, correct?”

  Lucky contemplated his answer. He wanted a raise. That ransom he’d demanded would be a little bump if Shanahan came through, but Lucky had his doubts about Shanahan’s willingness to wheel and deal. And, plain and simple, fifty grand just wasn’t that much.

  What would Lucky ultimately use Jessie for?

  He’d have to think about that later.

  For now, Viktor had reluctantly peeled his lustful gaze away, waiting impatiently for Lucky’s correct answer.

  “Yes. Same discount.” Lucky threw the duffel bag on the island counter, next to the fruit bowl.

  “From the Rico family? You know, Lucky, I’d like to meet them some day.”

  “Someday, maybe—because I like you, Viktor.”

  Lucky couldn’t have the Russians meet his guys. Then, they wouldn’t need him. That would never do. Mentioning the Rico name to the Russians had been a miscalculated gamble.

  But Viktor didn’t need to know all that.

  Years ago, when Lucky had borrowed the first large sum from the Russians, he needed credibility and a story. He’d also been new to the scene, unskilled and in need.

  But now Lucky had been playing the cocaine game long enough to know better and was much smarter these days.

  Fortunately, even back then he’d never mentioned M. Knight—Lucky’s connection to the Rico family—or M. Knight’s thugs. And he’d managed to pick out a disguise and stick with it.

  The Russians didn’t know the real face behind the name Lucky.

  It was too bad Don Rico did.

  Lucky watched the kid stare at his phone.

  Maybe Viktor could give him a raise after all. Just not in the way Lucky had originally envisioned.

  Viktor’s father was a real pain in the ass, and Lucky knew he gave Viktor a rough time.

  “Check these curves out. Makes a man want to click a pic.” Viktor held his screen outwards, displaying a young woman that Lucky wasn’t interested in.

  Lucky was lucky. Not lecherous. And not like the Russians.

  Regardless, Lucky was sure there was a special place in the fiery inferno of the damned that awaited his arrival. But before all that, there was a tropical island somewhere far away that had his retirement written in the sand.

  “Just click bait, Viktor. Can’t you get the real thing? What are you always on the phone for?”

  “Eye candy, Lucky. Every man likes candy, am I wrong?”

  “Your father, Dmitry, would frown on that.”

  “He frowns on everything. He’s all about ‘Mother Russia’ this, ‘Mother Russia’ that.”

  Viktor slipped his phone in his pocket. “That stays between us.”

  “It’s too bad your uncle has a son, too. Obviously, Dmitry thinks highly of them. They’re more…what’s the right word?—disciplined—than you.”

  Viktor narrowed his eyes.

  Lucky hastily added, “Not that
I agree. Don’t get me wrong, I’m on your side. I like you, Viktor. I just think you should be the one who takes over the business someday, not them. I think you’d do a better job. You know how to enjoy life. They’d just waste the money on other, more un-fun things.”

  Viktor’s mind went somewhere else for a moment, possibly contemplating what Lucky had said. He took another crunch from his apple.

  “Anyway, Viktor, come with me to the casino. Casino Del Sol is the fanciest place in town. Lots of money, lots of girls, lots of drinks. Let’s enjoy our time on this generous earth, shall we?”

  “You’re right, Lucky.” Viktor tossed the apple core in the waste bin. “I need to get out for a minute. Father doesn’t have to know.” Then, Viktor smiled extra wide. “I’ll drive.”

  After Viktor threw the duffel bag in the backseat, like an amateur, they roared off in the neon-green Lamborghini.

  The inside cabin of the sports car was airtight and virtually silent except for the purr of the engine.

  “Excuse me for a moment. I need to make a call.” Lucky started dialing from his burner phone. He had to first call a special number that would bounce the signal halfway across the world, before coming right back to Pima County. There was no tracing his call.

  “Who is so important?” Viktor asked.

  “I’m holding someone hostage. I need to talk about ransom and blah blah blah.”

  “By all means.” Unfazed, Viktor stared ahead at the road.

  All of Lucky’s plans seemed to be going well. He felt good. Superb. Maybe even a little cocky. Maybe Viktor was rubbing off on him.

  While Lucky waited for the signal to be routed, he kept talking. “My hostage has a husband—Shanahan—that I need out of the picture. Permanently. Slowly but surely, I think he’s losing it. But his partner, Reece Cannon, is proving to be a nuisance, too.”

  “She have a kid or something? A lover?” Viktor asked.

  “No. But you’re kind of on the right track, just backwards. She’s lonely. And she doesn’t want to admit it.”

  “What’s her deal?”

  “Isolation. Death. Same thing that affects everyone, but most refuse to admit. Everyone leaves this world alone. Denial is insanity.”