Kill Fee

by Owen Laukkanen

  The kid stared at Parkerson, waiting. Parkerson grinned at him. “Hi there,” he said. “Buy you a cup of coffee?”

  65

  Killswitch,” said Windermere. “What the hell is it?”

  Stevens stared at his computer. “According to Google, it’s an emergency shutdown trigger,” he said. “Used when normal avenues fail.”

  Windermere cocked her head. “That doesn’t help us. What else comes up?”

  Stevens scrolled down the long list of search results. Shook his head. “Not much,” he said. Then he leaned forward. “Wait.”

  “Yeah?”

  Stevens clicked through. “It’s an entry on a forum,” he said, reading, “for gun enthusiasts. Guy says he’s having problems at work. Hates his boss. His buddy says, ‘Let Killswitch take care of it.’”

  “And?”

  “And the guy says, ‘LMAO. Wish I could afford it.’” Stevens looked at Windermere. “What the hell’s LMAO?”

  “Laughing my ass off.” Windermere arched an eyebrow. “It’s Internet speak, Stevens. Thought you had a daughter.”

  “Guess I don’t pay enough attention to her. Too busy solving the FBI’s cases.”

  Windermere snorted. “Oh, is that what you’re doing?”

  “Trying to, anyway.” He turned back to the computer. “‘Let Killswitch take care of it,’” he read. “What does that mean?”

  Windermere walked around behind him. He could feel her body close, her breath near his ear as she bent down and read over his shoulder. “He’s a mercenary,” she said. “Killswitch. A hired gun.”

  Her face was close to his, very close. Stevens moved back a little. “Go on.”

  “Cody paid two hundred thousand dollars to Killswitch the week Spenser Pyatt was murdered. You said yourself Cody had a hate-on for Pyatt.”

  “Yeah,” said Stevens, “okay, but who in the hell paid to kill Eli Cody?”

  “Mickey Pyatt. Or some other Pyatt. Revenge.”

  “No way. Mickey Pyatt called my boss himself. Anyway, he wouldn’t use the same shooter that killed his dad. I think revenge is out.”

  Windermere picked up the phone. “I’m still telling Mathers to check out Mickey Pyatt. You BCA guys are a little too close to that family.”

  Stevens stared at her. “You’re kidding me, Carla.”

  “Of course I am, partner. But I’m still going to need to see bank statements and alibis before I’m convinced they’re the good guys.” Windermere straightened and started to pace. “If this Killswitch angle is for real, Stevens, it means the Ansbacher murder is totally disconnected from Pyatt and Cody. It’s a new job for O’Brien. Another assignment.”

  “Yeah, so who called it in?” said Stevens. “Who paid Killswitch to murder Cameron Ansbacher?”

  Windermere stopped pacing. “I don’t know, Stevens,” she said, grinning, “but we’re going to find out.”

  66

  Oh, my God. Are you insane?”

  Lind looked up and found a girl staring at his shopping basket, openmouthed. Not just any girl. It was the girl from the Delta counter, the pretty, pale-faced girl who’d recognized him before his flight to Duluth. She was here, in the Super Fresh, and she was talking to him again.

  “TV dinners and coffee.” She was pawing through his groceries. “Oh, and Red Bull. Not a vegetable in sight. What are you, a long-distance trucker?”

  Lind shifted his weight. Felt the first hint of panic, black and cold. He wondered how the girl had found him. “I’m not a long-distance trucker,” he said.

  The girl looked up at him with her big eyes. “You can’t eat like this,” she said. “So unhealthy. It’s a miracle you’re not three hundred pounds already.”

  Lind looked up and down the aisle. Wished the girl would go away. Wondered if he should just make a break for it.

  He’d run out of coffee. He’d nearly fallen asleep, and he needed caffeine. Coffee. Red Bull. And maybe something to eat. The man had told him to stay in the apartment, but he couldn’t expect him to starve, could he?

  The girl was still looking at him. “You okay?”

  Lind didn’t answer. The panic was stronger now. His head started to buzz. He would attract undue attention, he knew, if he ran. People would stare. He would have to get through this. “Yes,” he said. “I’m fine.”

  “I saw you by the coffee,” she said. “Thought it was you. Do you live around here?”

  The pressure was building in his skull. The buzzing inside his ears. Lind tried to keep his breathing steady. The girl frowned again. “You sure you’re okay, man?”

  “I’m fine,” Lind said. “Really.”

  She studied his face for a moment, and Lind hoped she’d take the hint and just leave him alone. She sighed and straightened and started to turn away. Then she stopped. “I’m Caity,” she said. “Sorry. I don’t normally do this, I just . . . you know, I just wanted to say hi.”

  “Okay,” Lind said. “Hi.”

  She looked down. Shifted her weight, like she was deciding something. The pressure was back now, just behind Lind’s eyes. He watched her and waited and tried not to scream.

  “Do you live around here?” she said again. “I mean, I guess you must if you’re shopping here, right? I live down on Pine, like, a couple blocks that way?”

  Lind nodded. “Okay.”

  “Where do you live?”

  He shrugged. Thought of the man and wanted to pass out, to retch, to tear his face off. Anything to ease the pressure in his brain. “I live downtown,” he said. “I have an apartment.” He looked at her. “I need to go home now.”

  “Okay.” The girl frowned. “Okay, yeah. I’m sorry.”

  Lind didn’t say anything.

  “I didn’t mean to bug you,” she said. “I just thought, you know, it was cool. Running into you and everything. I’m doing this thing where I’m trying to push my limits, you know? Get out of my comfort zone. I thought, what the hell, just say something to him. I didn’t mean to make fun of your dinner.”

  Lind waited. She still wasn’t moving. “It’s okay,” he said finally.

  “Yeah,” she said. “Okay. Guess I’ll see you.”

  She turned and walked away. He watched her go, feeling the pressure ease as she drifted up the aisle. He’d upset her, he knew. That shouldn’t matter. He should pay for his groceries and go back to the apartment and wait. He knew the man would want him there. He knew the man might be calling right now.

  The girl stopped halfway up the aisle. Picked up a package of coffee and looked at it. Then she glanced back at him and frowned. “What?”

  Lind shook his head. It was time to go. He should just turn around and walk out of the store. Now, before the panic came back.

  He didn’t move.

  “I’m sorry,” he said.

  The girl furrowed her brow, but she relaxed a little. “What for?”

  Lind looked at her. He opened his mouth to say something, and then closed it. He didn’t know what to tell her. He wanted to disappear.

  She stared at him, waiting for his answer. The panic was beginning again. Soon it would overwhelm him. He knew it. But the girl was still waiting.

  Lind shook his head. “I don’t know,” he said. “I’m sorry.”

  67

  Cameron Ansbacher.”

  Windermere dropped a thick file folder on the table. It landed with a thud. Echoed around the boardroom. It was dusk outside the window. The highway was headlights and stop-and-go traffic, and inside, the FBI office was mostly deserted. Even Ojeda had begged off for the day.

  Stevens picked up the folder. “This is everything?”

  “Ansbacher’s life. Everything I could pull up from the National Crime Information Center database, plus a bunch of Google searches.” Windermere sat beside him. “It’s mostly Google searches. Apart fr
om a couple minor flings with the law a couple decades back, Ansbacher’s pretty well clean.”

  “He have family?”

  “Goes through girlfriends like water, apparently. Nobody closer.”

  “Known enemies?”

  “Guess we’re going to find out.”

  Stevens studied the folder. It was thick. “You know my first thought,” he said. “This guy’s in shipping. Dealing with a quote-unquote importer.”

  “Drugs?” Windermere shook her head. “My first thought, too. But the DEA tells me he’s clean, so far as they know.”

  “What about Peralta?”

  “Straight coffee, no sugar.” She looked at him. “Again, as far as they know.”

  “Sure. Can we trust their intelligence?”

  Windermere made a face. “Who knows? Let’s say yes, for the short term. See if any other stories present themselves. If not, we’ll circle back to the drug angle.”

  “Right.”

  WINDERMERE HAD BEEN DILIGENT. Every hit on Ansbacher’s name was printed and collated in the folder. And at first glance, the man’s life looked unique. Lots of pictures from Miami Beach parties. Lots of young women, a few celebrity snapshots. Articles in the local newspapers, trade journals. Shipping magazines. Stevens scanned them. Kept looking. Then he stopped. “Anyone talk to Peralta?”

  “Miami PD,” said Windermere, “and then Ojeda did. Why?”

  Stevens glanced back at the shipping magazines. “This guy was on Peralta’s yacht to close a deal,” he said. “Is it crazy that I want to know a little more about it?”

  “About the deal.”

  Stevens nodded. “Spenser Pyatt was murdered because Eli Cody held a grudge. Ansbacher was closing a pretty big deal. I’m still wondering if maybe—”

  “There isn’t another spurned lover in the background?”

  “Exactly.”

  Windermere stood. “So let’s talk to Peralta,” she said. “See if you’re right.”

  68

  The kid could hold his coffee. Not so much his liquor.

  His name was Wendell Gray, he told Parkerson. He’d finished his last tour in 2011.

  “Came home,” he said, staring into his beer. “Everything was cool for a while. The dreams, though. They got worse.”

  “Visions,” said Parkerson.

  “Nightmares. Couldn’t sleep.” He looked at Parkerson with those dead eyes of his. “Still can’t sleep.”

  “You did the right thing, though. You got help.”

  Gray scoffed. “What, the Vet Center? They can’t help me. Nobody ain’t been there can help me.”

  Parkerson caught the bartender’s eye. Motioned at the kid’s glass. Another round. Another couple of shots. The bartender nodded.

  “You got family, Wendell?” Parkerson said. “Friends, a girlfriend? Anybody could help you?”

  Gray shook his head. His eyes watered. “Got nobody,” he said. “I just got myself.”

  The bartender slid down another beer. Two shots of tequila. Parkerson placed them in front of Gray. Patted his hand. “You got me, kid.”

  IT DIDN’T TAKE MUCH before Wendell Gray was blackout drunk, head lolling. Parkerson paid the tab and carried the kid back to the Cadillac. Stuck him in the passenger seat and opened the window.

  He slid behind the wheel and studied his face in the rearview mirror. Tired eyes. He slapped himself awake and leaned forward and turned the key in the ignition, feeling the car rumble as the big engine fired up.

  Wendell Gray was leaned up against the door, snoring softly. Parkerson idled out of the lot, praying the kid stayed unconscious for the next 250 miles. Thinking it would be nice if he didn’t puke on the leather.

  69

  Holy cow.” Caity Sherman stood in the doorway, staring in at Richard O’Brien’s apartment. “You have an amazing place, Richard.”

  Truth be told, she still wasn’t quite sure what she was doing here. She’d struck up a conversation with the guy in the Super Fresh because, hell, why not? She’d seen him at the airport a few times now, and he was cute, even though he always looked kind of tired and mopey.

  Anyway, it wasn’t like she had many friends here. Might as well take a chance, right? The guy was a frequent flier, so he couldn’t be too dangerous.

  And then he’d kind of blown her off, and she’d figured, okay, another asshole in the world, and she’d walked away, no harm done. But then he’d called out to her, and the way he looked at her wasn’t tired or mopey, it was desperate, almost pleading. And she’d melted, okay, a doormat as always, but something told her maybe he was just as lonely as she was. Maybe he needed a friend.

  And now she was here, walking into his apartment, carrying two bags full of the groceries she’d helped him pick out, and she still wasn’t sure exactly what she was doing. It wasn’t like the guy was much of a talker—hell, he was awkward, and sometimes he got this spooky look in his eye, like he was somewhere else entirely. But she’d walked him through the supermarket anyway, replacing the TV dinners in the frozen-food aisle and clinging to that brief glimpse of life she’d seen in his eyes, telling herself she was doing her good deed for the day, totally altruistic, and it wasn’t just the prospect of her own sad little empty apartment that was keeping her by this guy’s side.

  She’d walked him into the produce section. Picked out fresh vegetables—peppers and spinach and broccoli and tomatoes. Found pasta and sauce and extra-lean ground beef. “Normally, I wouldn’t advocate eating meat,” she said. “Humans don’t need it. But you don’t look like you want to be a vegetarian yet.”

  He’d blinked. “I’m not a vegetarian.”

  Caity grinned at him. “Not yet.”

  He hadn’t complained. Not until she’d tried to get him to replace the Red Bull. Then he put his hand on her arm. “I need it,” he said.

  She paused. His touch was firm, but not threatening. More like clumsy, like he didn’t know his own strength. Like he wasn’t exactly experienced in the physical contact department. “It’s so unhealthy,” she said.

  “I just need it,” he said again.

  “Okay,” she said. “Keep it, then. If you eat right, though, you won’t need it as much as you think. Trust me.”

  She’d filled up his basket with good stuff, kale and quinoa and even a little tofu, and after they’d both paid for their groceries, they walked out onto the sidewalk together. He looked down at his grocery bags. Then he looked at her. “Yeah?” she said. “Everything cool?”

  He hesitated. “I don’t know what to do with this.”

  He looked small. Small and helpless, and Caity wondered how he managed to do anything on his own, anything at all. She felt her maternal instincts kick in, and she sighed. “You have a kitchen?”

  He nodded.

  “Come on.” She reached for his hand. “I’ll teach you.”

  HE’D MADE A TERRIBLE MISTAKE. He’d talked to the girl, and now she was here. Lind stood in the front foyer and felt the panic squeeze his brain, paralyzing him. The girl was in his apartment now, and he didn’t know what to do.

  She’d set the grocery bags in the kitchen and wandered out into the living area, staring out the windows and up to the ceiling. “My God,” she said. “What a place. Do you rent it?”

  Lind shook his head, and she gasped. “You own. Oh, my God. Look at those ceilings. Is this a penthouse?”

  Lind looked at her. “I don’t know,” he said. He watched her explore the apartment and wondered what the man would say if he found out she was here.

  Kick her out.

  That’s what the man would say. Kick her out, or kill her. Lind looked at the girl. She was very small, five feet if she was lucky. He could kill her easily if he needed to.

  Caity spun around to look at him, her eyes wide. “What do you do, Richard?”

  She kept calli
ng him Richard. She’d asked him his name in the store. Waited as he searched his brain, fighting off the headache that threatened to overwhelm him. Then she’d answered herself—“It’s Richard, right? Richard O’Brien?”—and he’d felt the panic get worse. He wasn’t Richard. He knew that much, at least. He knew he was no longer Richard O’Brien.

  No connections. No friends. That’s what the man said. You’re alone in this world but for me.

  The man would expect him to kill her.

  Caity crossed the living area to him. “What a place,” she said. “What kind of insurance are you in? You must be very successful.”

  Lind didn’t answer. Caity waited. After a moment, she frowned. “You don’t have to tell me,” she said. “I get it. You don’t want to talk.” She turned toward the kitchen. “Let’s get started on dinner.”

  He didn’t want to kill her. He knew the man would expect it, knew the panic wouldn’t disappear as long as the girl was around. Knew the man wouldn’t make the visions go away if he found out about her. He knew he was supposed to kill her.

  He couldn’t. Not yet.

  Caity poked her head out of the kitchen. “What, you think I’m just going to cook for you?” She laughed. “Get in here.”

  Lind looked around the apartment. Then he looked at her. She stood there, one hand on her hip, smiling at him. He closed his eyes and tried to chase off the panic. Then he followed her into the kitchen.

  70

  Peralta knew exactly what they were looking for.

  “Phillip Comm,” he said, between puffs from a fat cigar. “TransCaribbean. He bid just a little too high.”

  Stevens looked around the penthouse. The lights of the city twinkled far below. “How’d he take losing?”

  Peralta sucked on the cigar. “Not well.”