The Palm Reader

by Christopher Bowron

“Perr, I need your help.”

  “Sure, whad’ya have in mind?” Perry sounded like he’d been napping.

  “I need you to pick me up at Doc Ford’s in half an hour. I’m going to take the boat.”

  “Mind me asking?”

  “Things are ramping up.”

  “Christ sakes, bro! How the hell do you get wrapped up in this shit? What’s happening?”

  “Perry, don’t ask. Hopefully we can talk about it soon. Until then, meet me there, please.”

  “I’m your man. I’ll head over there right away.”

  “Talk to Ron. He’s the manager; you know him.”

  “Yeah, I do.”

  “Make sure I can tie up there for the night.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  PETER ROBERTSON’S CELL RANG for the third time in five minutes. The call originated from a foreign country. It was 9:30 at night, and he had already put down a few bourbons and was currently enjoying one of his favorite cigars. He did not like talking business after he had been drinking, but the caller seemed persistent and his curiosity was piqued. He pressed the answer button and placed the phone to his ear. “Peter Robertson.”

  “Mr. Robertson.” The voice was that of a female Asian, most likely Chinese, but then again he was not an expert in detecting dialects. “Sorry to ring you so late. I’m calling from Singapore and my message is urgent.”

  “Okay. I’m listening. Does this have to do with law?”

  “So sorry again, yes it does. I am calling regarding Robert Lopez.”

  Peter put down his cigar and sat up straight. They had not heard a word since the shooting at the dealership days ago when he was taken, and Robert’s phone messaging was full. “Yes. He’s one of our clients.”

  “Exactly. Robert is one of our employees. Your retainer is paid by our company.”

  “Which is?”

  “I’m not at liberty to divulge that information.”

  Her quick comment angered Peter. “Then there’s really nothing to talk about. I can’t divulge information from a client to a non-disclosed source, nor a disclosed source, for that matter.”

  The woman sighed. “Very well. You can track the routing number of the check used by Robert and it will be linked to a Wells Fargo account, which is in turn linked to City Star, Inc. You can take the time to follow the routing and I can call you back. But, Mr. Robertson, what I have to say could be in your best interests.”

  Peter paused for a moment, his head spinning. “City Productions?”

  “One of our many subsidiaries. I have just sent you an e-Transfer. Please check your email. I’m increasing your retainer to $50,000. By you accepting the retainer, we technically become your client, correct?”

  “It’s a bit loose, but yes.”

  “Will you accept, Mr. Robertson?”

  Peter needed to think this through, but by taking the time to do so he might miss something important. He went out on a limb and said, “Yes. I will accept.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Robertson. I now assume whatever is said will be in the utmost of confidence?”

  “I’m bound by the law, Ms. . . . ?”

  “Ling. L-I-N-G. Ms. Ling will do, Mr. Robertson.”

  “Ms. Ling, I will start by saying we haven’t heard from Robert Lopez in several days.”

  “Nor have we, Mr. Robertson. This is why I’m calling you.”

  “I’ll be honest, Ms. Ling. The whole business is very ambiguous and we were sticking our necks out by taking on the case due to its unsavory nature. I’m fine defending pornography—we are criminal lawyers. However, the child porn angle had me a bit on edge. It was a damned if you do, damned if you don’t decision.”

  “Yet you did take it on, Mr. Robertson. Please don’t play coy with me. We chose you because we knew you need the money. Business hasn’t been good these past few years, has it? We know your wife likes to spend.”

  “You are out of line, ma’am.”

  “Am I? Let me get to the point.”

  “Please do.”

  “How can I put this? Robert Lopez is one of our controllers. We often put our people into a situation so they can ascertain if one of our suppliers is overstepping their bounds. You are familiar with St. Petersburg Inc?”

  “The Russians in Tampa?”

  “Yes. Tampa, Tallahassee and New Orleans, to be accurate.”

  “Why retain us in the first place? I don’t understand.”

  “We like to handle our . . . situations in a very antiseptic fashion. We have the means to walk in and take out the bad clients. We could simply assassinate them. Robert is more than capable of doing so, but that would be messy. Wouldn’t it be much cleaner to have Eli Romanov and his associates arrested on the child pornography charges, after being linked to the material on Robert’s computer? The evidence is damning. You were given enough material to have the Russians investigated.”

  Peter smiled. “You were leaving a lot to chance.”

  “Perhaps, but we like to take the invisible approach when possible.”

  “What went wrong?”

  “We’re not sure. Robert Lopez was in the process of cleaning up and formulating his end game.”

  “When he disappeared, right?”

  “More or less. Perhaps he underestimated the Russians. By now, your district attorney should have had enough evidence to make arrests. Romanov goes to jail, eventually incarcerated. There is no link to us, business goes on. We arrange to have something slipped into Romanov’s food in prison, end of story.”

  “Hmmm, I don’t need to hear that, Ms. Ling.”

  “Tell me, Mr. Robertson, was the DA able to find anything after the Tampa strip bar was investigated?”

  “Actually, I was on the phone with her at about 4 PM. Thus far, they’ve been able to determine nothing from the computers or forensics.”

  “That is unfortunate. Perhaps we’ve underestimated Romanov.”

  “Maybe so. Tell me, surely you heard that Robert Lopez was last seen at a car dealership in North Ft. Myers, where he attempted to sell his sports car.”

  “No. Please tell me more.”

  “The salesman he had an appointment to meet with was shot dead in the parking lot. Lopez’s car remained on the lot and there has been no sign of him since.”

  “Very disturbing, Mr. Robertson. There is only one explanation as to what happened to our agent.”

  “Yes, he’s either dead or detained. So where does this leave us?”

  “Mr. Robertson, since you have been retained by us, I would ask that you continue your investigations. But I would exercise utmost caution. Robert Lopez is a pro, very capable of looking after himself. If he’s been taken out by the Russians, you would be wise to step back. If Robert Lopez was intercepted, your aids will stand no chance should they be implicated by Romanov. We will need your services to retain some degree of legality in the process, which could become messy. Part of the retainer you just received will hopefully ensure that you are quiet about what has been discussed this evening. Mr. Robertson, we know an awful lot about you and your habits—your family’s habits.”

  “That’s a threat?”

  “Take it for what it is, Mr. Robertson, but I would say yes.” The phone went dead.

  Peter poured himself another bourbon. He shook his head, knowing he should have listened to his inner voice and steered clear of the case. Once again, his greed and need for the money came between desire and reason. He picked up his phone and dialed Walker’s number. He needed to ensure Walker stayed away from Romanov at all cost. No answer. He left a message.

  “Jack, Janie, call me ASAP. Stay away from the Russians. Don’t do anything further in this case until you’ve contacted me.” He called Janie’s number. Same thing. He shot back the whiskey in one throw.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  BORIS’S SIXTH SENSE NIGGLED at him. He’d seen Walker and his tagalong partner enter the house a good fifteen minutes ago. No lights? He called Eli.

  Eli picked up on the
fifth ring. “Boris, you’re interrupting my blow job.” He looked down at the cute little French-Canadian number attentively kissing and sucking his semi-erect cock.

  “My apologies, Eli. I have followed Walker back to his house. I think he may have seen my car.”

  “Are you telling me you fucked up, again, Boris?” He swatted away the little slut, his erection instantly losing its rigidity.

  “Nyet, Eli, but I will not lie. The man is cagey. It is my professional opinion it’s time to take the fucker out.”

  Eli paused. “Okay, Boris.” He hung up.

  Boris reached into the glove box for his Beretta and carefully screwed the silencer onto the muzzle. Stepping out of the car, he stayed in the shadows on his way to Walker’s place. He patted the gun several times as he walked along the desolate sidewalk. Boris enjoyed killing. The act itself dispensed a surge of adrenalin into his veins. The high couldn’t be described to anyone who didn’t kill human animals for a living as Boris did.

  ****

  Another set of eyes watched the Walker house from the shadows across the street. Mason clearly saw the gun as the large man exited the car. He counted six times the man patted the gun with his free hand as if petting a dog. Mason frowned. Who could this person possibly be? It seemed as if Jack Walker made a lot of enemies. However, Mason would not allow another to circumvent his own plan for revenge. Mason moved from shadow to shadow, watching the large figure close in on the Walker house.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  PETER ROBERTSON’S NAME LIT up the cell screen as the phone rang. Jack looked at it and flashed the screen at Janie.

  She shook her head. “What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him. That’s the way you have to be with Pete; otherwise, he’ll get all preachy. Besides, if you intend to do what you say you are of a mind to do . . . he won’t want to know. He’ll look at it like you’re contravening the law, which you are, by the way. As much as Pete doesn’t mind bending the rules, he would never advocate total disregard for them.”

  Jack let the call ring out.

  Janie took out her phone and held it faceup. On cue, it rang and once again Peter’s name came up on the call display. She put the phone back into her pocket, dismissing any message Robertson might have left for the two of them.

  Jack went to the furnace room and hauled out his tool chest. Pulling out a multi-use screwdriver, a flashlight and wire cutters, he walked back into the kitchen. “You do carry a gun, right? I vaguely remember you telling me.”

  “I do. A girly Glock—that’s what the gun dealer called it. Although he said it would stop anyone in their tracks.”

  “Okay, let’s get going, then. It’s pretty warm out, but you might need a sweater for the boat ride. You can borrow that.” He pointed to the hoodie draped over a chair. “We need to be quiet.” He escorted Janie through the screened pool area to the rear yard, where Jack kept his boat on a lift.

  ****

  Boris peered into the front window and could not detect any lights on, which again seemed strange, unless the couple was enjoying sex in the dark. If that was the case, it would make his job that much easier.

  But then a light went on at the back, maybe even outside. He carefully walked around the house and stepped into the shadows of the backyard. He spotted Walker and the female in a boat. Walker was still standing and pushing it away from the dock with a paddle. Once the boat was afloat, Boris knew they would continue under low engine into the channel.

  “Bastards!” Boris said under his breath. They must have caught sight of him. He moved to a vantage point where he might get a few clean shots off before they were out of sight. Leaning down at the edge of the backyard terrace, he took aim. The slight chop in the water made it difficult. The silencer tip bobbed up and down with the figure of Jack Walker as the boat drifted out into Estero Bay.

  ****

  Jack waited for the pre-ignition light to go green after guiding the boat from the lift cradle. Once ready, he fired up the 250-horse outboard and directed the boat to the end of the canal.

  All of a sudden, he felt as if he’d been bitten by a monster wasp just above the elbow on his inner right arm. The windscreen on the central consul was shattered, his blood drops circling the small hole in the middle. “Janie, down!”

  Jack ducked as another bullet hit the consul where he’d been standing. Janie was slow to realize the danger they were in, but the shooter evidently had no interest in her as she fumbled to the deck of the fishing boat. Jack pushed the throttle forward and the boat surged in a wobbly, uncontrolled fashion, Jack doing his best not to expose himself. He narrowly missed his neighbor’s dock, the prop now digging into the mud bottom. He could not tell if any more shots had been fired due to the roar of the engine. Both he and Janie were still intact, though his arm burned like hell.

  Jack steered the boat out into the channel and pushed the throttle to three quarters, disobeying the idle signs. He prayed not to hit a sleeping manatee—the endangered species slept on top of the water after dark. He took a rag sitting on the consul seat and pressed it to his arm.

  Janie appeared at his side. “You okay? Were you hit?”

  “I think I’m damn lucky. The bullet nicked the soft flesh under my arm, missed my chest by an inch.” He slowed the boat to a stop. “Here.” Jack handed Janie the flashlight he brought. He lifted his arm so she could take a look.

  “You are lucky, Jack Walker. Hardly a nick. Keep that towel on it.” She stared back at the shore. “Now, who was that?”

  “Not hard to put two and two together. Had to be Romanov, or one of his thugs.”

  “Should we call the police?”

  Jack thought for a moment. “No. What good is it going to do us? They got Gramps and I don’t think they’ll hesitate to kill him. I’m surprised they haven’t called to threaten me. I don’t think they even fathom that we might be coming to them.”

  Janie raised her eyebrows, wide-eyed, her voice choked with sudden fear. “Jack, I’m gonna say this one more time. Is this worth it? We could be killed. No, I mean . . . we most likely will be killed.”

  He shook his head. “Gramps and some faraway relatives is all I got. The thought of that gentle spirit being in trouble because of me makes me madder than hell.”

  His phone rang. He pulled it out and looked. “Unknown Caller.” He stuck it back in his pocket, turning it off.

  “The Russians?”

  Jack shrugged. “No idea, but I’m not in the mood for talking to anyone.”

  ****

  Mason watched the large but catlike man maneuver toward the dock. Mason followed, careful not to make a sound, not to snap a twig. The crickets, loudly looking for love on this beautiful evening, gave his footsteps a little cover as he made his way to the dock entrance. Hearing the ignition engaging on the fishing boat and the low rumble as it caught hold of the gasoline, the man raised his arm and aimed a silenced gun. He braced it on the rail, firing off two shots.

  Mason heard a low curse in a foreign language, possibly Russian. He couldn’t allow anything to happen. Not wanting to use his pistol, which would attract too much attention, Mason picked up a thick piece of driftwood from a fire pit. The sudden roar of the outboard engine, followed by another shot from the man’s pistol, was all he needed to cover his own movement. He sprang across the twenty-foot distance to bring down the heavy piece of wood as hard as he could on the back of the big man’s neck.

  ****

  Boris didn’t know what hit him as he dropped to his knees. Then he felt the hit across his forearm and he thought he felt his bones snapping. His gun toppled into the canal. Instinctively, he turned to avoid another slam. As he did, a small man in dark clothing, with dark hair and a dark beard and moustache, squared off with him, keeping his distance from Boris’s long reach.

  Boris’s sore head made it painful to even think. “Who the hell are you?”

  The thin man said lots of words with a French accent. Boris didn’t like the French. “Your reference to
Hell may not be too far off the mark, but I don’t think you are in any position to be asking the questions.” The man pulled a thin-cased Beretta out of his pocket, pointing it at the Russian’s chest. “Indeed, I am thinking the same thing, monsieur. Who in the Devil are you?”

  Boris eyed the gun and made the slightest move toward the man.

  The Frenchman stepped back, both hands on the pistol. He shook his head. “Uh uh uh, I would not do that. Though I’m curious to find out who you are, it would not pain me to pull the trigger. Don’t move again! In fact, lie down facing the grass, arms out to the side.”

  Boris followed his orders. The little man walked behind him. Before Boris could roll to either side, he felt the hard whack of the gun butt on the back of his head. Then there were stars, and then there was darkness.

  ****

  Mason put the gun back in his pocket and pulled out his cell phone. He dialed Jackson Walker’s cell number. Events were ramping up and now another party was involved. Though he could empathize with the man’s need to kill Walker, whatever his reasoning, Mason couldn’t risk the new entity foiling his plans. Time to set the bait.

  No answer. “Merde!” He left a message. “Jackson, it is Mason. Could you please call me at this number? We have lots to talk about.” He hung up.

  Pondering what to do with the man lying unconscious—his body wouldn’t fit into the small trunk of his rental car—he went back and broke into the house, searching for something to tie up the big man. It didn’t take long to find duct tape in the furnace room. Returning to the man spread out in the grass, he dragged the giant by his feet inside the screened lanai, where he taped his hands behind his back, then his ankles, and finally his mouth a couple times.

  He fumbled through the man’s pockets but didn’t find a wallet. He took his keys, cell phone and a wad of hundred-dollar bills. Staying calm, he walked back to his car while he contemplated taking the luxurious BMW. Unfortunately, he did not want to leave clues behind in the rental car—fingerprints, rental agreement, etcetera. Taking note of the street address, he drove to the corner of Estero Boulevard and Ibis and turned left. He pulled into the plaza he’d visited the other day. Mason found a payphone in the large parking lot, next to newsstands and a mailbox. He dialed 911.