by Michael Kerr
Jerry slowly worked his right hand under the desktop towards the drawer as Logan spoke. Let his fingers do the walking up the front of it and eased them inside.
Logan almost leisurely raised his foot and gave the back of the desk a sharp kick. The drawer snapped shut and broke two of Jerry’s fingers. He howled in pain and withdrew his hand.
Ten seconds later Marcie opened the door and stared at her boss, not knowing what had happened or what action she should take. Jerry was cradling one hand with the other. She could see that the stranger was sitting in a chair at the side of the desk nearest to her. He looked relaxed with his legs crossed and his hands clasped behind his head.
“Leave us alone, Marcie” Jerry gasped as he struggled to manage the pain. “I trapped my hand, is all. I’m OK.”
Marcie left as quickly as she had appeared.
“Put your hands on the top of the desk where they won’t get you into any more trouble,” Logan said.
Jerry complied.
“You need to know that whatever Jennings had on you died with him.” Logan said. “He didn’t pass anything to Rita or Sharon. As far as they’re concerned he was an honest, hardworking husband and father.”
Logan withdrew a cell from his pocket. Switched it on and put it on speaker so that he would hear both sides of the conversation. “This belongs to Sammy,” he said. “I’m going to dial Mendez’s number and hand it to you. I want you to tell him to back off. Impress on him that the contract is cancelled. And make sure he understands. Tell him that he’ll receive his fee in full, but that the women are no longer marks.”
“What if Mendez has already found them?”
“If he’s chasing down the GPS signal from the tracker on Rita’s 4x4, then he won’t have,” Logan said. “I need for you to know that their safety now and ad infinitum is all that will stop me from breaking your neck, Brandon. After today, if I ever have reason to look you up, it will be to kill you.”
Jerry’s face paled to almost the same colour as his white suit. He’d met many hard men and thugs in his life, but had never been this scared of a single unarmed man before.
Logan dialed the number, leaned forward and pushed the phone across the desktop. Jerry picked it up. It rang five times before Sal Mendez accepted the call and said, “Yeah, Sammy, whaddya want?”
Rita was walking back into the living area from the bathroom when the kitchen door burst open. Sharon was almost purple in the face, eyes bulging. A man that Rita had never seen before in her life was gripping Sharon by the throat with one hand and holding a gun up against the side of her head with the other.
“Sit down, lady,” Sal said to Rita. “All I want is the fuckin’ disk or memory stick. Mess me about any more than you already have and I’ll gut shoot your daughter and you can watch her writhe about on the floor till she croaks.”
Rita wanted to attack the man, but knew that it would be a futile gesture. She walked woodenly across to the timber-framed settee and sat down.
“Good girl,” Sal said, relaxing his grip on the girl’s throat and shoving her hard, causing her to sprawl out full-length on the large, forest-green rug that covered much of the planked floor. “So where is it?” he said.
“Logan has it,” Rita said.
Sal frowned. “Who the fuck is Logan?”
“The man who is helping us.”
“Where is he now?”
“He went to Charleston and took the USB stick with him,” Rita lied.
“If I search this shithole and find it, can you imagine what I’ll do to you both?”
“I give you my word, he took it.”
“Why.”
“Because he thought it would be safer. If anything happened to us while he was away, then he had evidence he could go to the police with.”
Sal thought it through. Just stood there with the gun trained on Sharon and wondered what to do next. He was used to straight hits without annoying complications like this.
“OK,” Sal said to Rita. “Tell me all about this Logan guy.”
“There isn’t much I can tell you,” Rita said. “When I was at the trailer park he turned up from nowhere and I asked him to help me.”
“Why would he do that?”
Rita hiked her shoulders. “I don’t know.”
Sharon sat up very slowly and massaged her throat. It hurt when she swallowed.
“He’s helping us because he has a sense of right and wrong and doesn’t like to see people like you threaten or hurt people.” Sharon said. Her voice was raspy.
“What do you know about him?” Sal asked her.
“That he is an ex-cop. He s a drifter by choice, and doesn’t have any ties.”
Sal thought about it. If he whacked the women and Logan couldn’t contact them, then the contractor wouldn’t give Sammy the cash to pay the balance on the hits, and the police would be given whatever the information was that had set this ball rolling.
“When will he be back?” Sal asked.
“Before nightfall,” Rita said.
Sal didn’t want to wait for hours. There was the body of the resort’s owner going cold not too far away to consider. Maybe it would be better to take the women with him. Keep them alive until he could lure Logan in, kill him and get the stick.
Rita could almost see the cogs turning in the dark eyes that stared almost unseeing at a point somewhere between her and Sharon. She eased her hand slowly under the cushion nearest to her on the settee and touched the butt of the gun Logan had left with her. Could she do it? Did she have the ability to pull the weapon out, thumb the safety off and shoot him before he could put a bullet in her or Sharon?
The scene was like a tableau in a waxwork museum. All three occupants of the cabin were unmoving as the seconds ticked by.
The phone startled them all. Sal took it from his pocket and checked caller ID. It was Sammy Lester. He said, “Yeah, Sammy, whaddya want?”
“This isn’t Sammy,” Jerry said. “I’m the guy that arranged with him for you and Naylor to make my problems disappear.”
“How do I know who the hell you are?” Sal said. “You could be a cop.”
“If I was a cop and had this number, then you’d already be in custody, you moron.”
Sal let it circulate in his mind. It made sense. “So where’s Sammy?” he asked.
“He got to meet the guy that hurt Naylor.”
“Logan?”
“I don’t know his real name, only that he’s big and mean and that he’s here sitting at the other side of my fuckin’ desk in Charleston. So listen up real good, the contract is cancelled. I don’t want either of those women harmed.”
“I’m with them, now,” Sal said. “You sure that―”
Logan reached across and took the phone out of Jerry’s hand.
“Hey, Sal, how’re you doing?” he said.
“You Logan?” Sal asked.
“You’d better believe it.”
“Well, I’m in cabin number three with your two lady friends, you’d better believe that. And I still owe you for what you did to Roy.”
Logan didn’t take his eyes off Jerry, but his mind was racing. Was he talking to a professional killer or a psycho? Face to face he would have recognized which instantly and been able to play him accordingly. Over the phone was a big problem.
“I’m surprised, Sal,” he said. “I thought that when I found the tracker and fixed it to the semi you’d have been fooled.”
“So who’s the fool now, Logan?”
“I’m not sure yet. You have a lot of money coming for just walking away. The guy you were going to cap the women for is Jerry Brandon, and he’s just told you not to do it. As for Roy, he got off light. And I doubt you and he are big buddies.”
“I still feel I should finish what I started, after all the trouble you’ve put me to, Logan.”
“Your call, Sal,” Logan said. “But why would you want me on your case? Do you know who I am?”
“Yeah, an ex-cop, and now a bum. J
ust some guy.”
“That’s right, Sal, just some guy that knows who you are, and has all the time in the world to run you down. You’re a pro, right? Why make an enemy of someone like me?”
Sal knew that he was listening to logic, but the calm voice on the phone was pissing him off big-time, so he disconnected.
There was nothing Logan could do. He put the phone back in his pocket and kept staring at Jerry.
“Get real, Logan,” Jerry said. “What would you have done if you were me? You look like the kind of no-nonsense guy that draws a hard line and doesn’t let anything stop you doing whatever it takes to set things right.”
Logan said nothing.
“I was at high school with Richard Jennings,” Jerry continued. “We kept in touch down the years, and when he lost his job I hired him on. I trusted the guy. Thought he was a friend, for Chrissake. And then he tells me that he knows I’m cooking the books before he gets the paperwork. He gave me a choice, cough up half a million or he would make a phone call. Said he had proof of what I’d been doing?”
“So you had him murdered, right?”
“He was trying to blackmail me. Wouldn’t listen to reason. Like I said, what would you have done?”
“I wouldn’t have been ripping the IRS off to start with,” Logan said. “So I wouldn’t have had to do anything.”
“And now you’re just picking a side and playing God. Who made this your business?”
“I walked into a situation. Decided that nobody had the right to murder a defenceless woman in cold blood, so made it my business. I’ve got choices, now. I could just phone the police and the IRS and give them what I know. Let them investigate you. Or I could kill you now and walk away. What do you think, Jerry?”
“That we should be able to make a deal. How much will it cost for you to just forget all about this and vanish?”
Logan smiled. “Maybe if I needed money and thought that having possessions was important, and I was an asshole like you, then I’d give it some serious thought. But I’ve got everything I need, Jerry, including integrity. What you need to do is convince me that this is over, and that Rita and Sharon can get back to their lives.”
“OK. You got it,” Jerry said. “But what about Mendez?”
“Hope that he listened to what we said to him. If he harms them, then he dies. And so do you, Brandon.”
Logan got up and walked around the desk. Took the short-barreled .38 from the drawer and slipped it in his pocket. Grasped hold of Jerry’s right arm and wrenched it back, straight out at an angle, so that Jerry’s head was forced down onto the desktop. He then drove his right forearm into the elbow joint and broke it. Even as Jerry’s mouth opened to form a scream, Logan’s left hand clamped over it to stifle the sound.
Thirty seconds later, Logan removed his hand. Jerry was shaking, tears ran down both his cheeks, and he was grinding his teeth against the all-consuming pain.
Logan took Jerry’s cell phone and wallet from him. He was accruing quite a collection.
“Remember, Brandon,” he said. “I can always find whichever stone you crawl under. If I have to come back to Charleston, you’re history. I don’t have an address, or a phone of my own, or usually stay in one place for more than twenty-four hours. I’m untraceable. I’ll just check in with Rita and Sharon on a regular basis to make sure that they’re healthy. If they so much as catch a cold, I’m going to blame you for it.”
Logan walked to the door of the office, opened it and gave Jerry Brandon a last, hard stare, before ambling out past Marcie into the sunlight.
His own throwaway phone only had two numbers in its memory; those of the other two phones that Rita and Sharon had. Logan tried both numbers. No answer.
Back behind the wheel of the Discovery, he left town in a hurry, heading northeast on I-79, more uptight than an over wound watch spring. He was feeling culpability for what may have happened to the two women whose safety he had assumed responsibility for. Knew with hindsight that he should have stayed with them. Maybe he was getting rusty. He’d always thought situations through from every angle, to cover every possible eventuality, not making any assumptions. Above all he had made certain that he was where he needed to be to deal with danger when it presented itself.
He had to stop for gas. Bought a coffee to go in a foam cup with a lid and hit the road again, driving ten miles an hour over the speed limit with the flow of the main outside lane traffic.
After the call, Sal thought it over as he put the phone back in his pocket. What the hell! He took careful aim at the younger woman on the floor. He wasn’t going to be dictated to by some jerk who’d threatened him. As for the payoff, if Brandon was still alive, then he would collect it.
CHAPTER TEN
Three gleaming white patrol cars slid to a stop at the curb outside the house where Sammy Lester’s apartment was situated. The anonymous caller’s mention of a firearm and drugs had generated a quick response from the Charleston Police Department.
Officer Clint Horton stood to the right of the door. He noted the splintered wood around the lock, and could see that the door was closed but not locked. He nodded to Officer Louis Catlin who was standing on the landing at the other side of the damaged frame.
Clint didn’t announce himself, just used his foot to push the door open and moved inside, down in a crouch as he went left and searched for a target; his gun held two handed, the barrel and his eyes tracking in conjunction.
Between them the officers cleared the rooms in seconds. One of them found the gun and bag of coke on the kitchen counter. The others gathered in the bedroom where Sammy was still lying on the carpet all trussed up and feeling sorry for himself. He was in a lot of pain, his vision was blurred, and he’d thrown up.
Clint radioed for EMS to attend, and then asked Sammy who he was and what had gone down.
“A guy broke in and attacked and robbed me,” Sammy said. “He had a gun. Took my wallet and phone and then knocked me out. I woke up a few minutes ago. Then you turned up.”
Clint and Louis searched Sammy’s pockets, and then unwound the tape that held him almost doubled up by his wrists and ankles.
Due to the discovery of the Glock pistol and drugs, Sammy was in more trouble than he realized. After being checked over and treated at a medical centre on Morris Street, he was released into police custody and taken to the Charleston Police Department headquarters on Virginia Street East.
Sammy was left alone in an interview room for an hour to think things over. A cop brought him coffee in a paper cup, but wouldn’t talk to him or answer any questions. Sammy sipped the coffee and ran a few stories through his mind. He needed to come up with a plausible story, because he was sure that the cops would be in possession of the pistol that he’d shot Roy and Carmen with.
Detective Charlie Garfield was big, black as tar, and was the kind of cop that usually put two and two together and came up with four. This was turning into a busy day; just how he liked them. A couple had been found dead from gunshot wounds in a downtown apartment. And before the blood had had time to dry, a guy with a long rap sheet had been brought in for questioning. He had been beaten up a little and left tied up in his apartment. That in itself didn’t ring any bells, but a gun had been found, and three rounds were missing, which was the exact number used on the couple. Add to that the fact that the deceased guy was Roy Naylor, an ex-con, and that the gun had been found in the apartment of Sammy Lester, another lowlife, and a coincidence reared its ugly head.
Charlie didn’t like coincidences. He knew that they occurred, but had long since decided that it was best to be suspicious of them. He saw the link and had a good feeling about it. There was a connection, and he would find it.
Sammy wanted to snort a couple of lines then go to bed for twenty-four hours. He was tired and hurting.
Charlie entered the interview room and took a seat across the desk from Sammy Lester. The young man had a large, bruised lump in the middle of his forehead, and looked as sorry
for himself as a three-legged dog with no bone.
“This interview is going to be videoed,” Charlie said to Sammy, nodding toward the camera bracketed to the wall, just below the ceiling and angled to show the pertinent area of the room. “So for the record I’ll be stating the time, date and place, and who is present, and reading you your rights. OK?”
Sammy shrugged. He’d wait and see what was on the cop’s mind before asking for a lawyer and clamming up.
Charlie started the interview and asked Sammy for his name and address to get the ball rolling.
“You know my name and address,” Sammy said. “It’ll be in the file you’re holding.”
“For the record.”
“I don’t think so,” Sammy said. “I’m the victim here. You’re acting as if I’ve done something wrong.”
“We found a Glock 17 and a bag of coke on your kitchen counter, Sammy.”
“So?”
“So it’s your apartment. Follows that it’s your property.”
“No way,” Sammy said. “It was planted. You think I’d leave shit like that out in plain sight.”
“Who’d you reckon would plant it?”
“Must’ve been the guy that robbed me.”
Charlie grinned. It made him look a lot younger than his fifty-two years. “Let’s get this right, Sammy; a thief breaks into your apartment, takes your phone and wallet, then leaves a semiautomatic pistol and some nose candy behind. Does that make any sense to you?”
“I was knocked unconscious. I have no idea what happened. But the gun and coke are not mine.”
“So we won’t find your prints on them?”
“If you do, then I’ve been set up.”
“I wonder if a jury would buy that, Sammy. I’ve got a feeling you’re on thin ice here. There were three rounds missing from the Glock’s mag. That’s how many were used at a double homicide this morning. Wouldn’t it be a bitch if it turns out to be the same gun?”