by Sean Black
‘We have every crank from Long Island to Long Beach jamming the switchboards, but this one’s a bit different. The CEO of Meditech wants to clarify a few points.’
Carrie did her best to suppress a smile. Not at the thought of more ratings dynamite, more at the last thing Lock had said to her when he called to set up the interview with Richard Hulme.
Let’s see if we can’t rattle a few cages.
From the very corner of her vision, Carrie could see Richard being led out by a production assistant. As the floor manager counted her back in with a silent folding of three fingers, she stared straight down the lens.
‘On the line now we have Nicholas Van Straten, majority shareholder and chief executive officer of Richard Hulme’s former employer Meditech. Mr Van Straten, thank you for getting in touch. Our viewers will certainly appreciate your perspective.’
Eighteen
There was no need for masks. There were no cameras inside the apartment, and the only witness was the person they’d come to kill. The taller man knocked first, while the smaller of the two men stood off to one side of the door.
No one answered at first. The men traded worried glances, but said nothing. The taller man knocked again. Maybe the TV was up too loud. Or she’d gone out. They were just about to leave when the door cracked open and the side of the woman’s face pressed between door and frame. It was that kind of neighbourhood.
The taller man smiled. ‘Mrs Parker?’ he asked.
‘I told you people already, I don’t know where they’re hiding.’
‘It’s not about that, Mrs Parker.’
‘Did someone complain about my cats?’
‘I’m sorry to disturb you, ma’am, but may I come in?’
He could see her thinking about this, taking in that he was polite, well dressed and, most important of all, white. She closed the door so she could slide back the chain, then opened it again and let him in. He stepped inside.
‘Let me get that for you,’ he said, closing the door, but not all the way.
The smell was overwhelming. He didn’t know how anyone could live like this. A cat vibratoed a miaow and rubbed itself against his legs. He stepped over it and followed the woman into the living room. Sure enough, the TV was on, Cesar Milan lecturing an anorexic woman about how to talk to her Rhodesian Ridgeback. So much for people looking like their animals.
‘Now, let me tell you something about these people next door to me. They don’t like my cats, y’see.’
‘And they’re such lovely creatures,’ he said, moving so that if she was to stay facing him her back would be to the door.
‘You think so?’
‘Absolutely. My favourite domestic animal. By some way.’
‘Do you have one?’
She was side on to the door now. Almost in position.
‘No, afraid I live in a co-op with a no-pets rule.’
‘That’s a shame.’
The smaller man appeared in the doorway now, the woman oblivious to his presence. But the half-dozen cats dotted around the room weren’t. With some kind of feline sixth sense they began to yowl. First one, then another.
The smaller man moved fast, taking the last few steps in under a second, flicking off the plastic cap of the syringe as he did. As she turned, he plunged the tip of the syringe into her left buttock and pushed down on the barrel.
As she started to scream, the taller man wrapped his arms around her. The smaller man clamped his free hand over her mouth. A cat hissed and jumped on to the TV set where it stared, unblinking, as its owner slumped to the floor. Her mouth was open. So were her eyes. The expression on her face was one of complete bewilderment.
‘OK, let’s get her into the chair.’
Together, they hauled her into the solitary armchair, hands resting in her lap. The smaller man folded down her eyelids with thumb and index finger, then stepped back to admire his handiwork.
‘She looks too posed,’ said the taller man.
‘You’re right.’ The smaller man bent down and pulled at her right foot so that one leg was splayed at an angle. A final check. ‘Perfect,’ he said, bending down to retrieve the plastic cap of the syringe.
‘What about the cats?’
‘What about them?’
‘Well, won’t they starve?’
The smaller man took one final look at the dead old lady in the armchair.
‘They got a good three weeks’ supply right there.’
Nineteen
Stafford Van Straten appeared to be on the edge of an aneurysm. He combed his mane of blond hair with one hand while his mouth opened and closed with all the articulacy of a goldfish. ‘You’re putting Lock in charge of this?’
His father pulled him to one side, out of earshot of his entourage. ‘I know you and he don’t get on, for whatever reason, but we can use him right now,’ he said, ignoring the fact that they both knew the reason Stafford and Lock didn’t see eye to eye. As reasons went it wasn’t one Nicholas Van Straten was likely to forget either. It was a reason that had cost him no end of sleepless nights, and a quarter of a million dollars.
‘But Richard Hulme’s not our problem.’
‘Listen to me. Whatever our problems with Richard Hulme, or whatever our lawyers are saying—’ Nicholas Van Straten stopped, lowering his voice to an urgent hiss. ‘A child is missing. What if it were you?’
Stafford smirked. ‘I’m hardly a child.’
‘Precisely, so stop behaving like one.’
Dismissing his son with a turn of his shoulder, Nicholas Van Straten waved Ty over. ‘Tyrone?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Any luck getting hold of Ryan?’
‘He’s still off comms.’
‘In English please, Tyrone.’
‘His cell’s switched off.’
‘OK, as soon as you get hold of him, I want him in here for a briefing. In the meantime, can you start actioning our other procedures?’
‘Yes, sir.’
Stafford strode into his office, picked up the putter leaning in the corner and swung it like a baseball bat, narrowly avoiding his desk. He was the heir apparent, the man who’d be running the company one day, and he wasn’t even asked for his opinion. The building’s super had more say in the running of the company than he did.
The door into the executive bathroom was ajar and he caught sight of his own reflection. He paused, pleased by his own image, by the bright blue eyes and thick blond hair, both inherited from his mother. Only his father’s weak chin let him down. With a solid chin it would have been a face for the front cover of Fortune magazine. The face of a man born to greatness.
‘You look real pretty.’
Stafford spun round to see Brand framed in the doorway. He let the club fall into a more conventional position and mimed sinking a twelve-footer. ‘Don’t you know to knock first?’ he asked, feeling like he’d been caught with his pants down.
Brand put a hand on his shoulder. ‘Don’t let the old man get to you.’
‘This was our chance to get past all this animal rights crap. Why couldn’t he have given this to one of your guys? I mean, anyone but Lock. I hate that guy.’ Stafford kicked out at the wall with the point of his English-made leather Oxford brogues.
‘You’re not the only one.’
‘So what do we do about him?’
‘Can’t you have a word with your old man? Maybe suggest to him that it’s time Lock pursues other opportunities outside the company.’
Stafford smiled. ‘And make you head of security?’
‘Hey, that’s not a bad idea.’
‘He won’t go for it. Not after what’s happened. He thinks the sun rises out of Lock’s asshole.’
‘There’s an image. You know what I think? Lock’s probably the one who set up this interview. The broad who’s doing it, Lock was seeing her for a while.’
‘Maybe I can use that.’
Brand clapped Stafford again on the shoulder. ‘Your chance’ll come, Staf
ford. You and me, we’re the ones to watch. Your old man and Lock, they’ll be history soon.’
Twenty
A ‘For Lease’ sign hung like a white flag outside the Korean deli. Further down, the Meditech building looked the same as it had before the shooting, albeit with one or two muscular additions in the form of half a dozen Metalith™ anti-ram barriers. The glass frontage had been made over too, the tint of the windows, even in this light, hinting at blast-proof capabilities.
They threw back Lock’s reflection at him as he stood outside, studying the face of an ever-changing stranger. What had once been a shadow was now the approach of a full beard. His eyes had large dark half-moons underneath them. His pupils were wide but the whites bloodshot. He was reminded of someone else. It took him a moment to think of who. That was it. He looked like Richard Hulme. He took off his ball cap, reached up and rubbed at the stitches in his scalp. Maybe they’d all end up looking like Richard Hulme before Josh was found.
He took three steps into the foyer.
‘Excuse me, sir, who are you here to see?’
It was one of Brand’s team. A baby-faced former Marine who went by the name of Hizzard.
Lock glanced at the bulge under the guard’s overcoat. ‘Hizzard, it might be freezing out there, but it’s eighty degrees in here. You look like a moron.’
Hizzard reluctantly took off his coat to reveal a Mini Uzi with what Lock guessed from first glance was a fifty-round mag.
‘Jesus, second thoughts, put your coat back on before someone sees that thing. What the hell is this? Get Rich or Die Tryin’?’
Hizzard looked sheepish.
‘Listen up, Fiddy,’ Lock said, ‘you pick a weapon based on its suitability for the job. No other reason.’
Footsteps echoed on the marble floors behind them. Lock looked over, pleased to see Ty loping towards him across the lobby.
‘They want you up on twenty-five. We can talk on the way up.’
‘Damn straight,’ said Lock, glancing from Hizzard to Ty.
Ty directed a ‘kids these days’ shrug at Lock as they headed for the first bank of elevators that would take them as far as the twentieth floor. They got in and Ty pressed the button. The doors slid shut. A camera concealed in the front right corner of the elevator was on them. Lock turned so his back was to it and counted to ten.
‘What’s with all the hardware, Tyrone?’
‘I told you, man, with you out we got the mother of all pissing contests here. Brand’s marking his territory.’
The doors opened on twenty. Waiting for them were two more members of Brand’s CA team. This time they were minus overcoats but both with the same model of machine pistol the boys downstairs were sporting.
Lock and Ty shared a look. The lunatics had clearly taken over the asylum.
Twenty-one
Walking into the boardroom on the twenty-fifth floor, Lock felt about as much at ease as a crack-head crashing the Rainbow Room. Not that anyone said anything – far from it. No one commented on his appearance. Or asked how he was. Or enquired as to how he was getting on as ‘official’ Meditech point man in the search for Josh Hulme. Instead, they all studied whatever pieces of paper they had in front of them and waited for their boss, Nicholas Van Straten, to start.
Nicholas Van Straten sat at the head of the table. Stafford was directly to his father’s right, Brand to his left. Not a good sign. Ty took a seat next to Lock, a few seats down. Scattered around the other chairs were five or six other employees. Some of them Lock could put a name to, some he couldn’t. It was a big company.
Stafford looked Lock up and down. ‘I didn’t realize it was dress-down Friday.’
The woman from the media relations department tittered like a schoolgirl.
Lock stared at Stafford. ‘My tux was at the cleaners.’
Nicholas Van Straten closed a thin manila folder with an expensively manicured hand and looked down the table, meeting Lock’s gaze for a second. ‘Thanks for being here, Ryan. I certainly appreciate it. How are you feeling?’
Lock directed his answer to Brand. ‘Ready for duty.’
Brand smirked.
Lock took a breath, and did his best to centre himself. ‘I apologize for my appearance. It’s been a hectic day or two.’
Lock could see Ty studying the table, trying hard not to laugh.
‘Quite,’ said Nicholas. ‘Now, shall we discuss where we go from here?’
The woman from public relations, who it transpired was the Missy of ‘outside press conference’ legend, launched into an enthusiastic pitch as to how best to handle the Josh Hulme kidnapping situation from a public relations perspective. Like the true professional she was, she started out with a little light ass-kissing. ‘Well, Mr Van Straten, with your brilliant intervention we’ve made a great start at wresting back control of this very delicate situation. Clearly our initial lack of involvement did some damage, but that shouldn’t last too long now that we’re being seen to help.’
The ‘being seen to’ jarred with Lock but he remained silent. The terrain had clearly changed a lot in a very short space of time and he needed to get an overview of it before he said anything.
As Missy continued, using words of three syllables or more when two would have been sufficient, Lock studied Brand. A square head on an equally square torso, he was sitting ramrod straight, staring directly at the woman speaking. His hands were folded on the conference table, his fingers interlocked. He gave the appearance of someone listening intently when, in fact, Lock knew from his experiences with him that he had pretty much no idea what was being said. Still, he looked impressive. Calm and in control.
‘So, in summary,’ Missy was saying, ‘I think this is, in fact, an excellent opportunity to not only build brand awareness but reposition our company as one which truly cares about the wider community.’
Holy shit. Only in corporate America could a child abduction which had already yielded one dead body be seen as a way to make a business appear warm and cuddly.
‘I’ve an idea,’ Lock said.
All eyes swivelled round to him.
‘Maybe if we get the kid back in one piece we could do a tie-in with one of our drugs. You know, like Ritalin, or something.’
No one laughed. Or looked pissed. Missy jotted something down. ‘Or perhaps set up some kind of foundation?’
‘I think you’ll find Mr Lock was being facetious,’ Nicholas Van Straten said, drily.
‘Oh,’ she said, looking at Lock like he’d just taken a leak in the corner of the room.
‘If I may?’ Stafford interjected.
‘If you must,’ said his father.
Stafford pressed the palms of his hands together in apparent supplication and paused for a moment. ‘I don’t think we have a problem here. This is a public relations snafu, nothing that’ll affect us. And certainly nothing that’ll worry our shareholders. The animal rights protestors, now that was a problem for us. But seeing as they’re out of the equation we can get back to concentrating on our bottom line.’ Stafford stood up. ‘Now, this is what I propose . . .’
Lock shifted uncomfortably, his recurring headache beginning to gnaw away again at the front of his skull. As he watched Stafford drone on, his mind drifted back three months, to the first time he’d run into the man.
Lock had been supervising a sweep of the upper floors of the building, taking the newly recruited Hizzard through proper civilian search procedure of a location while the place was quiet. Even those employees desperate to avoid returning to an empty apartment, or clocking up unpaid extra hours to impress their line manager, had long gone.
Lock had left Hizzard to check one half of the floor while he did the other. Lock had one office to try. Stafford’s office. A floor down from his father’s, Stafford’s was close enough that he could feel important, but not close enough that his father had to see him all that much. The door was slightly ajar, and as Lock pushed it open he saw a woman bent double over the desk. In Stafford’s r
ight hand was a hank of her hair; his left hand was working its way up between her thighs. The woman was doing her best to fight him off, clawing at Stafford’s face with a free hand.
‘Shut the hell up, bitch,’ Stafford growled, sharply yanking her head back.
‘You’re hurting me,’ she pleaded.
Stafford’s face moved closer to hers. ‘Bet you like it rough, don’t you?’ he whispered.
Lock had seen enough. He stepped through the door.
‘This office doesn’t need cleaning, go somewhere else,’ barked Stafford, not bothering to look behind him.
When no answer came, Stafford let go of the woman’s hair and reached down to unzip his trousers.
Covering the distance between them with six large strides, Lock stopped as Stafford glanced round. The look on Stafford’s face wasn’t shame, or guilt, or anything approximating either of those. He just looked irritated that someone would have the audacity to disobey him. Never before had Lock felt such a strong urge to wipe a look from someone’s face.
He did it with a single strike to Stafford’s face, the ridge of his elbow meeting his nose with a soft crunch. If there was one thing guaranteed to make a rapist lose wood it was a severe jolt of pain. It usually worked a hell of a lot faster than a cold shower.
The woman disentangled herself and turned round. She was breathing heavily from the struggle. She put both hands up to her face and rubbed at it, as if wishing away a nightmare. She looked to Lock to be in her early twenties, either an intern or fresh out of college.
‘Are you OK?’ Lock asked.
She nodded, struggling to pull back up her torn pantyhose. Hizzard, the new recruit, blustered into the room and froze as he took in the scene.
‘There’s a bathroom just down the hall,’ Lock said to the woman. ‘Hizzard here will take you.’
She hesitated.
‘Don’t worry, you’re safe now,’ Lock said.
‘OK.’ Her voice wavered slightly. Pulling down her skirt, she walked out, head down, avoiding eye contact with Stafford. Hizzard padded after her, careful to keep his distance.