by Karen Rose
Decker shifted in the chair that dwarfed most men, but his shoulders were simply too wide for a comfortable fit. Giving up, he leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. His expression was troubled. ‘We have a problem, sir.’
‘I take it that this is regarding the computer alarm from last night?’
Decker nodded. ‘Sean in IT says a 501 is a tracker tamper alert.’
Ken did not allow his expression to change, but inside he was seething. He went to IT? After I expressly told him to drop it? ‘I told you to go back to accounting and to leave the alarm to Mr Blackwell. Why didn’t you?’
‘I did, sir. I stayed at my desk for an hour thinking Mr Blackwell would come to me to get my statement about what had happened with the alarm and the guy on duty. But he never showed up, so I went looking for him.’
‘There was no need for Reuben Blackwell to get your statement. He was fully aware of the situation because I spoke with him – after I told you to go back to accounting.’
Decker didn’t flinch. ‘But he never came in at all, sir. When I went up to the security office to find him, Jason Jackson was still lying on the floor, asleep. The 501 warning was still flashing on the computer screen.’
Ken couldn’t mask his disbelief. ‘Excuse me?’
‘I know, sir. But that’s what happened. I imagine the security office is wired, so there should be a video to prove what I’m saying.’
And Ken would be watching that video as soon as Decker had gone back to his office. ‘What did you do next?’
‘I helped Jackson to his feet, but he . . . well, he threw up.’ A slight grimace. ‘He had a fever and I wasn’t sure what to do with him, so I dialed “one” to get Mr Blackwell’s cell phone, but all I got was voicemail again. So I left a message with Blackwell, cleaned Jackson up, called him a cab, and sent him home. When I was cleaning him up, I found a bottle of cough syrup in his pocket. That could have been the alcohol I smelled on his breath. I saved the bottle in case you wanted to see it.’
Ken let out a slow breath, counting to ten. ‘And you just . . . sent him home.’
‘Yes, sir. In a cab, sir.’ A slight hesitation, then Decker barreled forward. ‘Jackson is a good man, Mr Sweeney. He’s loyal. I worked a few shifts with him when I was in personal security. We weren’t exactly friends, but we did share a few meals. I didn’t think he’d drink on the job. I was glad to find the cough syrup. Maybe it reacted with another medication he’d taken, I don’t know.’
‘I’ll send someone to check on him.’ And someone else to check on Blackwell. ‘I take it that you took it upon yourself to go to IT?’
A single nod, no regret on Decker’s face. ‘Like I said, the computer was still blinking with the 501 code. I assumed no one had taken care of it, and you’d made it clear you didn’t want to be called back, so I went to IT to find out what was going on. I was part of security before I got hurt. I didn’t think this was a huge issue.’
And that was where Decker was wrong. He’d been part of the legitimate security arm. The tracker wasn’t. But he had been right about one thing – the tracker alarm needed to be attended to, and quickly. Someone had escaped and could even now be revealing all to the police.
The escapee could not identify Ken, but he or she would probably report their owner. While the vast majority of the owners knew better than to identify Ken as their distributor, sometimes a customer tended to be less discreet when questioned by the authorities. Sometimes those customers needed a little reminder to keep their mouths shut. Some reminders needed to be stronger – and more permanent – than others.
‘All right,’ Ken said calmly. ‘What did you learn in IT?’
‘Not much. As I said, Sean told me that the 501 code meant tracker tampering. He brought the tracking map up on his computer and swore when he saw the tracker’s last location.’
‘Last location?’
‘Apparently the battery died, sir, at the corner of Fourteenth and Race.’
That was two blocks from CPD headquarters. Ken’s gut convulsed, but he managed to suppress his agitation. ‘I see. Did Sean identify the tracking unit?’
‘No, but the number on his screen was 3942139-13.’
Ken’s brows lifted. ‘You have a good memory.’
‘Not really. I wrote it down.’ Decker held up his left hand, showing the number he’d scrawled on his palm with a black Sharpie.
Ken unlocked his desk drawer and ran his finger over the spines of the notebooks stored there, checking the dates. These notebooks held all his most personal notes and records. As much as he loved gadgets, he did not trust any computer system to keep his personal data secure. The only way anyone was getting access to his notebooks was by taking the key from his cold, dead fingers.
He chose the notebook he’d used three years before, found the tracker’s serial number in the index, then flipped to the correct page. The tracker had been assigned to Charles ‘Chip’ Anders, who lived with his wife and daughter in Hyde Park.
I remember him. Anders was a tall, thin man who’d made his first million honestly enough, but for whom a merely comfortable lifestyle had not been enough. He’d been spurred to earn more by his brash wife, who’d grown up solidly middle class. Mrs Anders had wanted diamonds and furs, a vacation home in France. Servants. She’d wanted to hobnob with the rich and famous.
Ken inwardly winced. Her words. Certainly not his own.
Anders himself had craved the power he could broker among that same crowd. So he’d expanded his businesses, riding a swell of prosperity, until the market tanked and Anders’s factories were no longer churning out the profits he required to support his new lifestyle.
Which was when Ken had stepped in, offering him a way to keep it all. To have his cake and eat it too.
Anders personal fortune had rebounded and he’d returned to giving his wife and daughter everything their greedy little hearts had desired. The daughter drove a luxury car and attended an Ivy League school. Anders and his wife had bought a house in an exclusive Cincinnati community where they’d partied with the wealthy elite, “hobnobbing” until the cows had come home.
There had been costs involved, of course. And responsibilities. And consequences for carelessness.
‘The customer received five trackers,’ Ken said. He had the serial numbers for all of them recorded in this notebook. ‘Did Sean in IT tell you which wearer had triggered the alert?’
Gene shook his head. ‘I don’t even know . . .’ He pursed his lips, apparently having edited himself. ‘No, sir. He didn’t tell me. I only saw the number.’
Ken’s brows lifted. ‘You don’t even know what?’
‘What you’re tracking.’
‘Didn’t you ask Sean?’
‘I did. He told me I should ask you.’
‘Just like that?’
‘Well, no, sir. He looked a little alarmed, then looked me up on his computer. Apparently I do not have clearance to view this information. I supposed that by asking, I revealed my position on the need-to-know totem pole.’
Score one for Sean in IT, Ken thought, satisfied. Ken’s son with wife number two shouldn’t have talked to Decker to begin with, but unlike Alice, Sean didn’t spend much time with the employees, preferring to stay holed up with the computers. Most of the employees weren’t even aware that he and Ken were related, as Sean had kept his mother’s last name, which had also been an alias. Sean’s mother had been no angel herself.
Decker hadn’t been cleared to see or know anything other than the legitimate side of the business. That he had even known about the alert had only been because the man on duty – who had had top clearance – had been derelict in his responsibilities.
Jason Jackson better be sick. He’d better be so sick that he was dead, or close to it. Otherwise he would be punished accordingly.
Perhaps it was time to reward Decker’s creative accounting and initiative with a bit more responsibility.
Ken filed the notebook, then locked the
drawer. He looked up to find Decker watching his every move. ‘Do you want to know what we’re tracking?’
Decker didn’t even blink. ‘Yes.’
Ken’s lips curved. ‘If I tell you, I might have to kill you,’ he said lightly, but Decker’s gaze didn’t waver.
‘I figured that,’ he said quietly. ‘I’ve figured that for some time.’
Ken tilted his head, genuinely intrigued. ‘How?’
Decker’s chin lifted a fraction, just enough to be assertive without being arrogant. ‘Because I see the books and I’m not stupid.’ One of those big shoulders shrugged. ‘You sell children’s toys. You make a respectable amount of money with it. But your organization is far too big to exist on what you bring in from video games and stuffed animals.’
Ken wasn’t sure if he should be angry or more intrigued. The video games covered their illegal porn distribution, and stuffed animals were one of the best ways to hide the pills that, even though not as big a business as they’d been a decade ago, were still one of the company’s biggest money-makers. ‘I see.’
‘Do you?’ Decker asked, his expression intensely serious. ‘Do you really? If I can see that the legit profits don’t balance with the visible spending, don’t you think others can?’
Ken drew a quiet breath. ‘Others . . . like who?’
‘Competitors. Law enforcement.’ Decker exaggerated a grimace. ‘And even worse, the IRS. Trust me, you do not want the IRS noticing you.’
Ken suppressed a shudder. No, he certainly did not. ‘I suppose you have a solution?’
‘Yeah. I do. But you’re going to have to let me see more than I see now.’
‘You must know I’m not going to give you full access right away.’
‘Like I said, I’m not stupid.’
‘I never thought you were.’ Leaning back in his chair, Ken crossed his legs and flicked a piece of lint off the knee of his trousers. ‘People.’
Decker blinked once as Ken’s meaning sank in. A few seconds ticked by, during which Ken could almost see the wheels turning in Decker’s mind.
‘Sex, labor or both?’ Decker finally asked, as if inquiring as to what Ken wanted for breakfast.
‘Labor. Mostly.’ Some of their choicest acquisitions went to the sex trade. Some went to the production of the porn they distributed illegally. But most did go to labor.
‘Sales and distribution territory?’
‘Large.’ Which was all he’d say on the matter until Decker had proved himself further.
‘Fair enough. Sourcing? Domestic, international or both?’
‘Both.’ Ken didn’t feel he’d revealed too much with that answer. The man was smart enough to guess that on his own.
‘Okay. I’ll need to see the accounts so that I can recommend actions to make your legit books less of a flare to the IRS.’
‘Of course. But first I have another task.’
Decker’s jaw tightened and his eyes flashed with something stronger than annoyance but not quite anger. When he spoke, it was with tempered restraint. ‘You’re testing me?’
‘Shouldn’t I? Wouldn’t you in my place?’
Decker exhaled quietly. ‘Yes. Yes, I would. What’s the task?’
‘I want you to deal with the tracker issue. Go back to IT and find out which wearer’s tracker was tampered with, and where. Retrace the tracker’s last movements. And check the tapes. Report back ASAP.’
Decker rose to his feet, but didn’t immediately turn to leave. ‘Can I assume Sean will be informed of this before I get to his office? Otherwise he’ll just tell me to go away again.’
‘You may assume this. Any other questions?’
‘What tapes am I supposed to check?’
‘We get an audio feed from each tracker. All conversations are recorded. I don’t think they’re actually on tapes anymore,’ he added with a self-deprecating eye roll. ‘But they are recorded, and the recordings are stored.’
‘For how long?’
‘You don’t need to know that. They’re stored far back enough for you to determine what happened this morning. Obviously there’s no need to check the tapes made before the alarm went off. It could be that the wearer of the tracker escaped and has since been recaptured. If that turns out to be the case, I’d expect a call from the customer to whom the tracker was assigned, requesting a replacement. I would provide one once I knew how the wearer managed to escape and what has been done to ensure that doesn’t happen again. If the wearer is dead, I want to know how and when. The customer to whom the tracker is assigned is required to inform me, but they don’t always do so in a timely fashion. I’d expect you to deal with that.’
Decker nodded grimly. ‘I understand.’
‘You also understand that you’ll be under very close scrutiny.’
Another nod. ‘That’s a given. I’ll get to work.’
Ken waited until Decker had closed the door behind him, then punched ‘1’ on his speed dial. His chief of security did not pick up and the call went to voicemail.
Shit. Where the fuck are you, Reuben? he thought, dialing the next number. Demetrius, the director of purchasing, picked up on the first ring, his smooth, deep bass booming over the car noise in the background. ‘This is Demetrius.’
‘Demetrius, it’s me. Have you seen Reuben?’
‘No, I was about to call you to ask the same thing. He and I had a meeting scheduled with a supplier for nine thirty, and Rube never showed. I ended up closing the deal myself. That boy’s got some serious ass-kissin’ to do to make this up to me. He was supposed to keep Morticia occupied while I negotiated terms with Gomez, but noooo. I had to concentrate on the contract and keep that damn little bitch’s hands off my privates at the same time, without breaking any of her bones. Which I really wanted to do,’ he finished in a growl.
Ken glared at the speaker phone on his desk, totally confused. ‘What the fuck are you talking about, Demetrius? Who the fuck are Gomez and Morticia?’
‘You know. The Barbosas. They run shipments up from Rio. The wife sits next to the negotiator from the other team and pets him under the table, messing with his lower brain so that her husband can sneak all kinds of shit into the contract. But if you’re rude to the wife and tell her to get her mitts off your junk, she cries and the husband up and leaves. They’re a coupla scam artists. Well, duh, of course they are. But their shipments are really nice quality and Reuben doesn’t mind the petting, so he takes one for the team so that I can get through the negotiations – except for today he didn’t show. I am so gonna kick him into—’
Ken cut off the diatribe. ‘He’s missing.’
‘What? Reuben? Since when?’
‘I talked to him just before six this morning. He was on his way to the office but he never showed up.’ Ken quickly filled Demetrius in on the situation. ‘I don’t know where he is or what the hell’s going on.’
‘What about this Decker? Can he be trusted?’
‘I don’t know. I want him watched, but I wanted to be sure that Reuben wasn’t with you before I brought anyone else into this. Get back here just in case we have to do damage control.’
‘On my way.’
‘I’m texting you the address for Jason Jackson, the man Decker sent home. Stop there first and find out what the hell’s going on with him. He better have fucking Ebola or his ass is fried for sleeping on the damn job. We’ve had an unaccounted-for tracker floating around out there for three hours.’
‘I’ll call you from Jackson’s house.’
Ken hung up and called Sean in the IT office. ‘Decker is headed your way. I’m bringing him in on this missing tracker. Give him access to the audio feed for the last twelve hours. While he’s listening to that, I want you to map the tracker’s path for the last twenty-four hours and give that to him too.’
‘You’re just going to give it to him, boss?’ Sean was always careful to call Ken ‘boss’ while they were on the job. Rarely, if ever, did he call him Dad, even when they were alone, bu
t Ken didn’t let that bother him. Sean had always been a weird kid, always tinkering with some gadget or other. He’d already been working to bring their operation into the twenty-first century when Ken had been forced to eliminate the boy’s mother a few years before.
Sean believed his mother had run away with her yoga instructor, which was what Ken and Reuben had made sure everyone believed, including their business partners, Demetrius and Joel. It didn’t pay to allow too many people to know the details of an execution.
‘Yes, but I’ll assign someone from Security to watch him. Make sure Decker doesn’t have any recording devices on him. Call me if you see anything squirrelly.’
‘Will do.’
Seven
Cincinnati, Ohio
Tuesday 4 August, 7.55 A.M.
‘I fucking love Tuesdays.’
Marcus glanced up at the growled greeting, halting the coffee pot in his hand mid-pour. Diesel shuffled in and flopped into one of the padded swivel chairs surrounding the mahogany conference table that had been Marcus’s grandfather’s pride and joy. At six-six and a muscled two-seventy-five, Diesel made the long table look like a little girl’s tea party.
Marcus finished pouring the coffee and gave the first cup to Diesel, who guzzled it down without a flinch, despite the beverage being scalding hot. After the life Diesel Kennedy had lived, he probably didn’t have any taste buds left on his tongue, and the lining of his esophagus had most likely petrified years before. God only knew what the man’s stomach looked like, because Diesel hadn’t seen a doctor in more than ten years.
Marcus knew exactly when that had been, because he’d been with him at the time. Moral support, he’d thought back then. But Diesel hadn’t needed it, leaving the doctor’s office with no emotion on his face, not a flicker of recognition that he’d just been handed a death sentence. Instead, he had taken to drinking booze, smoking like a chimney, driving his motorcycle like a bat out of hell, and drinking coffee by the pot . . . and no one said a word to him. It wasn’t like any of those vices was likely to kill him any faster than the bullet that hovered millimeters from his heart. Too delicately placed to remove, and able to kill him at any moment.