Sins Of The Father

by James, Harper

  ‘Only if you look after it.’

  She sounded just like Destiny. At one point he thought she was having second thoughts about selling it to him. She’d taken him through the three-part polishing and waxing process, demonstrated how to do it and then made him do a complete fender until she was satisfied. On the drive home, the tailpipe almost dragged on the ground from the weight of cleaning products in the trunk.

  ‘Where are you going to keep it?’

  Destiny asked him that too. He got the impression the correct answer was in my bedroom.

  ‘In my sister’s garage most of the time. She’s got plenty of space after her husband moved out. And I can give her kids a couple of bucks to wash it.’

  ‘You better hope, what’s his name—’

  ‘Mitch.’

  ‘Hope Mitch doesn’t come back and trash it. How are things between you and Charlotte?’

  Evan turned away from the window, most of the pleasure he’d got admiring the Corvette sucked out of him by her question. He dropped into his chair and spun himself back and forth.

  ‘She still blames me, of course.’

  ‘You should have told her no. What sort of a person asks her brother to tail her cheating husband? She’d have found somebody else to do it.’

  They’d been through all this before. There was no use trying to argue with her, she couldn’t understand. She wasn’t a man, and she hadn’t had to listen to his little sister crying pitifully down the phone line. It didn’t matter she could turn it on and off like a faucet. It had worked for the last thirty years, he saw no reason why it wouldn’t work for the next thirty. At least he had somewhere safe to store his car.

  ‘At least you’ve got somewhere safe to store your car,’ Guillory said. ‘You think I should put my hair in a ponytail when you take me to dinner in it?’

  The impatient sound of a car horn being leaned into drifted up from outside Evan’s window. He jumped up again and went to look, saw Tom Jacobson’s Volvo in the middle of the parking lot.

  ‘Gotta go.’

  He cut the call, dashed downstairs before Jacobson tried to push the Corvette aside with his tank-sized vehicle.

  ***

  EVAN IGNORED JACOBSON’S COMMENTS about a rent increase and turned the key. The big V8 engine roared into life, drowning out Jacobson’s voice, and settled to a deep throaty burble. A grin a mile wide split Evan’s face as he backed out of Jacobson’s space and pulled into the traffic.

  Half a block down the street Hugh McIntyre almost swallowed his gum when he saw what Evan was driving. He was so busy staring as Evan floored it, the sound of the exhausts loud even half a block away, he pulled into the traffic without looking in his mirror. There was a screech of brakes and a long blast on a horn as the car he just pulled in front of nose-dived into the pavement. He raised a hand in apology and set off in pursuit of the Corvette, following along by the sound of the engine as much as keeping a visual check on it.

  Evan pulled into the local DMV office and parked up, pulled out his phone and took a couple of photos of the car before heading inside. There was somebody very specific he hoped was working today. He was in luck, caught sight of her as he entered the office, sitting at the back. He went straight to the position reserved for private investigators.

  ‘Hey Rizzo.’

  She looked up and smiled when she saw him, held a finger up and mouthed one minute. He pulled the registration form and documents out of a plastic bag and waited for her to come over. She finished up what she was doing and came across, looking no more than half her thirty-nine years. And looking like she’d just walked off the set of the movie Grease. Despite the name badge she wore that said Janet, everybody called her Rizzo. Her eyes dropped to the documents Evan was holding.

  ‘I hope you’re not trying to abuse my good nature and jump the line, Buckley.’

  ‘Would I do such a thing?’

  ‘Only if you thought it might work.’

  He gave her his best you got me smile.

  ‘No, I’m here to do a search. I thought you might like to see these while I’m here.’

  He put the application form on the counter, turned it so it was facing her.

  ‘Wow. A registration application form. How can I resist?’

  She looked anyway. Then her head shot up, her eyes narrowed.

  ‘Told you,’ he said.

  ‘I’m sure it’s an offence to waste government stationery,’ she said, but the smile on her lips gave her away. ‘There’s no way you own that car.’

  He pulled out his phone, found the pictures he’d taken outside, handed the phone to her.

  ‘Sitting outside as we speak. I’d take you for a spin if you weren’t working.’

  She nodded as he spoke, like she’d heard it all before.

  ‘Nice car. Be even nicer if you knew how to use a camera. I thought people in your job needed to know one end of a zoom lens from the other.’

  Her husband was a professional photographer who specialized in classic American cars from the ‘50s and’60s, often using her to model them.

  ‘Any time you want to catch the bus to work, I’ll give you a ride home. I’ll let you wax it too, if you play your cards right.’

  She handed him the phone back.

  ‘I might take you up on that. Here, give me those.’ She took the rest of his documents out of his hand. ‘I’ll get one of the girls on it. You said you wanted to do a search as well. Did you fill out the form?’

  Evan hesitated. She raised a perfectly drawn eyebrow.

  ‘Why do I get the feeling you’re going to owe me a ride home every day for a month?’

  ‘It’s not worth filling out the form. After what you just said about not wasting government property.’

  She shook her head like a disappointed parent, a gesture which immediately reminded him of Guillory. Of all the women in his life, in fact.

  ‘What have you got?’

  ‘A name. Margarita Narvaez.’

  ‘Well, at least it’s not Garcia. Date of birth?’

  ‘Sometime between June and September 1948.’

  ‘Nice and specific. Anything else?’

  ‘Uh-uh. Apart from the fact there’s a chance she’s not a U.S. citizen.’

  She nodded like she didn’t have anything better to waste the taxpayers’ money on.

  ‘Right. You’re not expecting to get a hit, are you?’

  He shook his head.

  ‘No. Probably not.’

  She gave him a big smile and waved his registration documents in the air.

  ‘At least it won’t be a completely wasted journey. You’ll get your car registered. Wait here, it won’t take long.’

  She headed back to her desk, handing his registration documents to a clerk at one of the other desks on her way. She was right about it not taking long. He watched her tapping away at the keyboard, saw her chew her bottom lip, the unconscious head shakes as everything came up blank. Then she sat up straighter and leaned forward, made a note of something. Even so, she was back in under five minutes.

  ‘You were right. As far as I can see, she’s never been issued with a driving license, never had a parking ticket or a speeding fine.’

  ‘Are the records accurate that far back?’

  ‘Pretty much. There might be the odd thing missing, but if she ever had a license, you’d get something come back. However ...’

  He looked at her expectantly, saw the grin on her face, the laughter lines around her eyes crinkling.

  ‘I forget, was that a ride home every day for one or two months?’

  ‘I thought I said three. What have you got?’

  She pushed the slip of paper across the counter.

  ‘Jesús Narvaez. Born August 12, 1948.’

  He thought about it. He didn’t know how unusual the name Narvaez was. If he was connected to Margarita, he must be her twin brother given the date of birth was in the exact same time frame.

  ‘Got a form?’

  S
he pulled one from under the counter, passed it across and waited while he filled it out. After he handed it back she took it to the same girl she gave his registration documents to, then got her coat from the back of her chair. She came around to his side of the counter, pulling it on.

  ‘Come on, I’m on my break. You can take me for a ride while we wait for Emma to process your registration and do the search.’

  Evan glanced across at Emma who looked up and smiled at him. It was a nice smile. He smiled back.

  ‘Do I give Emma a ride home too?’

  Rizzo slapped him on the arm and gave him a push towards the door.

  ‘It’ll be the last search you ever do in this office, if you do.’

  The minute they got outside, he saw something tucked under his windshield wiper blade.

  ‘I hate it when they do that,’ Rizzo said, as he pulled the folded piece of paper out.

  It wasn’t a flyer.

  You was so lucky. It wont last.

  He screwed it into a tight ball and went to lob it at the trash bin but stopped himself and stuffed it in his pocket instead. It would be worth asking Frank Hanna if he recognized the handwriting. He needed to speak to him about the possibility of a twin brother anyway. He scanned the parking lot. He couldn’t see anything unusual or suspicious, nobody sitting in their car trying to look inconspicuous.

  On the far side of the lot there was a car with the driver’s door wide open, nobody in sight, but that was it. On the other side of the street, a dog’s muzzle poked through the halfway-wound-down window of a car, its owner hidden in the shadows behind.

  ‘C’mon, we haven’t got all day,’ Rizzo said.

  He went to get in and she looked up at the clear blue sky.

  ‘Top down, Buckley, top down.’

  He did as she said, folding the top into the small trunk behind the seats, and climbed in, the hairs on the back of his neck bristling as he imagined a rifle scope’s cross hairs on the back of his head.

  Chapter 9

  FLOYD GRAY STROKED MARLENE’S sleek coat as she sat on the passenger seat, her muzzle poking out the window, and grinned to himself. He’d just witnessed the strangest thing. He followed Buckley to the DMV in his fancy car, pretty sure another car was tailing him as well—and badly, at that. If it wasn’t for the fact Buckley had his head stuck up his ass as he drove around in his new toy, he’d have seen the guy almost get creamed as he pulled into the traffic.

  Floyd followed the pair of them to the DMV and parked on the street while the other guy followed Buckley into the lot. Five minutes after Buckley went inside, the guy got out of his car, looked around him—doing a great job of making himself look suspicious, Floyd reckoned—then approached Buckley’s car. From across the street, it looked to Floyd like the guy had his car key gripped tightly in his hand, getting ready to run a score down the length of the Corvette’s immaculate paintwork.

  That’s when it all kicked off.

  A black Mercedes SUV with vanity plates screamed into the parking lot, blocking the entrance. Two big guys in cheap suits jumped out. Floyd recognized their type immediately. They were enforcers. They looked the same the world over, apart from something indefinable that identified these men as being of Eastern European origin.

  ‘McIntyre,’ one of them yelled in heavily-accented English.

  Good to know the opposition, Floyd thought to himself, making a mental note of the name.

  The guy who was about to vandalize Buckley’s car—McIntyre—looked around, did a double take as he recognized them, then turned and ran back towards his car, not realizing he couldn’t get out of the lot, even if he managed to get into his car.

  Which he didn’t.

  The two enforcers were big, but they were young and fit and they were already running by the time McIntyre saw them. Floyd wasn’t one to pick holes in other people’s technique, but if they hadn’t called out McIntyre’s name everything would have been a lot easier. Despite that, they caught him easily as he got to his car and pulled the door open but before he could get in.

  McIntyre was no pantywaist himself. He threw a wild punch at the nearest man, lots of power in it, not much else, and the guy moved his head to the side. The second punch he caught in his own massive fist—Floyd was sure he heard the bones in McIntyre’s hand crack—and held it there as the other one put him in a choke hold. They dragged him kicking and fighting across the lot. A third guy inside the SUV pushed the back door open and they bundled their captive into the back seat, the guy who had him in the choke hold going in after him.

  The sun was reflecting off the tinted window of the SUV’s open back door, making it hard to see. Floyd leaned forward in his seat to get a better view. Inside, McIntyre drove his elbow backwards. He caught the guy climbing in behind him on the cheek, knocking him backwards out of the car onto his butt. He pulled himself free of the third guy frantically trying to get a grip on him and slid out of the car. The one he’d elbowed in the face clamped his arms around his lower legs and twisted. McIntyre hovered in mid-air, his arms thrown wide, then went down like a sack of potatoes, his head smashing into the SUV’s rear fender as he went. By the time he hit the ground, the driver was on him as well. The two enforcers manhandled him into the back, the one he’d elbowed climbing in after him again, a lot more watchful this time.

  It was hard to see. Even so, Floyd saw the two of them pull a heavy sack down over McIntyre’s head and throw a rope around him, trapping his arms against his sides. Then the driver straightened his jacket, rolled his thick neck and jumped in the front. A minute later they were gone. Floyd was the only one who saw a thing. He had to admire McIntyre, whoever he was, he hadn’t gone quietly. Even if he’d achieved nothing more than getting himself a severe beating when they got to wherever they were taking him.

  Buckley didn’t know how lucky he was.

  As soon as the SUV was out of sight, Floyd got out of his car and jogged across the street. He pulled a notebook out of his pocket, tore off a page and scribbled a quick message. Then he folded it and tucked it under the wiper blade. He was sure Carl Hendricks would approve.

  Ten minutes later Buckley came out again with a woman who looked like she was stuck in the 1950s, her clothes, her hair, everything. Floyd grinned as Buckley pulled his note out from under the wiper and read it, then screwed it into a ball, staring all around him. He looked straight at him without knowing it.

  Floyd had no idea what was going on here and he’d watched it all happen. Buckley didn’t have a clue.

  ***

  HUGH MCINTYRE SAT BETWEEN the two guys in the back seat, the sack over his head rough and scratchy, his shirt sticking to his back with sweat. He tried to stay calm, to remind his stomach that it belonged inside his rib cage, not his mouth. The air in the car was thick with sweat and testosterone and the cloying smell of too much cheap aftershave, a suggestion of strong European cigarettes in the background.

  Everybody in the vehicle was breathing heavily after the energetic scuffle, all trying to look like it was no big deal, the guys in the suits tugging at their collars. Next to him, the guy who had him in a choke hold, the one who wore the most cheap aftershave, talked on his cell phone, his voice low and guttural. Despite the hood, McIntyre was aware of the animated hand gestures, the guy’s elbow digging into his side. McIntyre knew exactly who was on the other end of the line, knew what he wanted as well, even if he couldn’t understand a word that was being said.

  Trouble was, he didn’t have it to give to them.

  He was sure they wouldn’t kill him, wouldn’t do anything to him that prevented him from getting it for them. That still left them with plenty of options. He tried not to think about it. His bowels had turned to ice water, his legs wouldn’t stop shaking. He blamed the adrenalin let-down. Then the one on the other side of him said something and they all laughed, the atmosphere of excited anticipation that filled the car reaching a new level. He would pay for putting them through their paces.

  He lurched
sideways into the guy still talking on his phone as the driver threw the car into a hard left turn. The guy pushed him away. The gentle hiss of tires on the smooth pavement was replaced by the crunch of gravel, the car rocking and bucking as they headed God knows where. A couple hundred yards further on they came to a halt. Three doors opened as one as they all jumped out. A powerful hand grabbed him by the collar and heaved him out of the car. His feet hit wet, slippery ground and went out from under him. One of the men gave him a helping hand with his foot, pushing him into the dirt. With his arms strapped to his sides, he couldn’t protect his fall. He hit the ground hard, knocking the wind out of him.

  Outside the car, there was more light. Through the sack he was aware of a feeling of open space, trees and sunlight. The sack was suddenly ripped off his head, the sun dazzling him momentarily. They were parked on the edge of a picnic area, next to a decrepit old outbuilding, like something from a slasher movie where campers are slowly killed off. Fifty yards away a wooden picnic table sat on the shore of a lake. Despite the bright sun behind the man sitting and reading the paper at the table, making him nothing more than a dark silhouette, McIntyre knew who it was.

  Behind him the guy who’d been on the phone opened the SUV’s tailgate and pulled out a carpenter’s tool bag. The other two men hooked a hand under his armpits and dragged him towards the man at the table, his feet kicking uselessly as he tried to gain some purchase.

  The man he only knew as Vasiliev continued to read his paper—the Wall Street Journal—his glasses perched on the end of his nose while the two enforcers held him upright. The third man dropped the tool bag on the wooden picnic table with a heavy thump earning himself a disapproving look from Vasiliev.

  Vasiliev was immaculately turned out as usual, the difference in the quality of his and his men’s suits stark, his tie costing more than their three suits put together. He sat on a plaid rug protecting his pants from the rough wood of the picnic table seat. He looked every inch the successful businessman which was no doubt how he saw himself. McIntyre knew he was nowhere near the top of the tree in the organization for which he worked. Even so, he was high enough to hold McIntyre’s life in his well-manicured hands. Was that why they were here at the lakeside? Maybe they were planning on killing him after all. They had more money than they knew what to do with already. What he owed them was as insignificant as if he spat in the lake.