by Faith Wood
“So—tell me what you need.” Mid-to-late thirties, she figured, assessing the timbre of his voice.
“In three weeks, I’m hosting a gathering for influential global investors—nothing big—just an intimate dinner for eight. Of course, a few will have their own security, but, for those who don’t . . .”
“Got it. Where is the meeting?”
“I’m in the process of finalizing the arrangements—if I decide on Optimum Security, I’ll provide the location in plenty of time.”
“Do you anticipate any of your guests being in peril?”
Peril? An odd choice of words—an educated man? “Perhaps—these are high level real estate investors, and a few tend to be a little—ostentatious, if you know what I mean.”
“I do, indeed!”
Trap set.
“Like I said, a few will have security guards with them—especially those from the Middle East. I’ll need your best men . . .” There. The oil connection. If Alberico had a brain, he’d figure out real estate investors from the Middle East are interested in two things—oil and hotels. If he turns out to be brainless, he’d approach the job from the view point of a thug—a ‘show me the money’ mentality.
“Will you need grounds security, as well?”
“Probably not. I’m more interested in having your men inside keeping their eyes and ears open.”
“Guest list? We’ll need to have names so we can pull photos, backgrounds, etc.”
“If I choose Optimum, I’ll provide the list of names at the same time I send the location info.”
“That’s fine. I’m assuming since the event is in a few weeks, you’ll be making your decision soon?”
“Of course—I’ll be back in touch within two days. But, the thing we haven’t addressed is cost—ballpark?”
“Normally, I could whip a number off from the top of my head—but, I’m thinking I should have a conversation with Optimum’s owner, Al Vincent. He’s hands-on, and I know your event will be important to him—and, he may have a couple of ways for you to save a few bucks compared to our competitors.”
He wasn’t a thug.
“Excellent! I’ll call you tomorrow, late morning . . .”
Colbie bade a hurried goodbye before Alberico had time to ask for her phone number. If he were suspicious or interested, he’d ask the receptionist for the number registered on her caller I.D. Will he call me back? Maybe. Or, will he try to investigate Kathy Simonson? She didn’t know—either way, Colbie would gain answers to her questions. There was something about the way he conducted business that intrigued her. Clearly, he was no dummy . . .
Her gut told her he would call.
“I spent the day researching Tamlet County—it took longer than I thought, but some of what I learned is pretty interesting . . .” Ryan sounded tired, but not discouraged. That was good—Colbie could deal with a lack of sleep. Discouragement, however, was the first sign of an investigation spiraling into a cold case file.
“Cool—fill me in.” Colbie grabbed her glass of wine, settling into Brian’s favorite easy chair. It was her place of comfort, and it was easier to tune in on him when she could feel his energy.
“Okay—the first thing I found out was within the last five years, seven properties sold—Remington was the primary broker. When I researched the sales within the last twenty-five years there were only two up to the point when Remington started snatching up land . . . kind of tells me there was a reason someone was interested in buying seven chunks of land.”
“I agree—do you know if the new owner changed the land in any way such as tearing down houses, or anything else that might indicate no interest in living on the property?”
“I don’t know. But, I also found out none of those seven properties were listed—they sold on the down low, and they were quick, cash deals.”
“Cash? That surprises me—do you think Remington has that kind of money?”
“Maybe. She’s pretty high up on the real estate food chain . . .”
“True, but I’m guessing she has someone behind her pulling the necessary strings. Someone who knows how to get a deal done quickly, efficiently, and surreptitiously.”
“Agreed. Are you ready for this? Remember the lady I talked to when we first began the investigation? The one with the dog? Well . . .” Ryan hesitated, as if preparing to deliver a powerful blow. “Remington tried to buy her property, but she couldn’t get the deal done. The guy in the planning office said she was pissed about it, too—according to him, the woman didn’t want to sell, and met Remington a couple of times with the double barreled at her side. Lassie, too.”
Everything was beginning to make sense—oil reserves. Buying land. Keeping everything hush-hush. Colbie wasn’t quite sure how to bring everything together, but one thing she did know—Remington was a pawn. But, why?
And, for whom?
Before she had a chance to pour a cup of coffee, the Wal-Mart phone vibrated on the kitchen counter. Already? She waited until the fourth ring, then picked up.
“Simonson.”
“Kathy? This is Vinnie Alberico with Optimum Security.”
Aha! “Good morning! What can I do for you?” No time for chit chat—if there were a point, he needed to get to it, her abrupt attitude signaling she meant business.
“Well, as we discussed yesterday, I wanted to speak with the owner . . .”
Colbie interrupted. “Al Vincent.”
“Good memory! Al—that’s right. Because of the caliber of guests for your dinner, he’d like to meet with you to make certain we present the best solution for your security needs.”
Meet me? Curve ball.
“You know my schedule is full—I believe I mentioned yesterday . . .”
“I know—I remember you’re on your way out of town. I respect your need for time, and I promise it won’t take long.”
Colbie paused, considering her options. She could refuse to meet him, and simply ask for a written quote submitted via email, or she could take a risk and agree to meet Al Vincent.
“I can’t come to your office, but there’s a coffee shop on First and Cross—what time?”
“Ten-thirty. Sharp.”
“I can only give you thirty minutes—what does Mr. Vincent look like?”
“About six feet. Greying hair. Big guy—solid build. You can’t miss him . . .”
“Confirmed. I’ll see you there at ten-thirty.”
Colbie rang off, the possibilities of something going horrifically wrong playing in her mind. Finally, her investigation was ramping up, and she had the distinct feeling it was about to bust wide open.
Things were about to change.
Chapter 13
Home away from home, Colbie thought as she placed the fanny pack on the table. With little traffic, she wound up with fifteen minutes to kill before meeting her mark. She positioned her chair for a clear view of the front door, making one last check to be sure the recorder was working. The shop was more crowded than last time, but there wasn’t need for quiet as there was when meeting with Alex and Kirk. She pulled out her legal pad, still pristine and without notes. If she scribbled notes on a pad filled with investigation information, there was always a chance of prying eyes—a chance she couldn’t take.
“Well, well—two times in one week! How did I get so lucky?”
Colbie cringed as Alvin pulled out a seat as if to sit down.
“What are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be on duty?”
“Nope—not for another hour.” He sat, knowing it would piss her off.
“Don’t get too comfortable—I was just leaving.”
“C’mon—don’t leave on my account!” Colbie gathered the fanny pack and tablet, scraping the chair on the floor as she pushed it back with her
knees.
“Don’t worry—I’m not . . .”
“Any news on the investigation?”
“Nothing since a couple of days ago.” She slipped her coat on, fishing gloves from the right pocket. She had no intention of blabbing what she learned over the last forty-eight hours. “Don’t get up . . .”
She turned her back on Alvin, and headed for the door. As much as she would have enjoyed seeing anger claim his face, she didn’t want him to relish the satisfaction of the last word. Since her departure from the force, she attempted to treat her old adversary with respect, but she knew he wasn’t worth it. He would always be a bully, never accepting the fact she promoted through the ranks because of her overall excellence.
She pushed on the heavy door, shifting her shoulder to give it extra force against a rising, stiff wind.
“Here—let me!” A man’s voice sounded familiar. “You have your hands full!”
“I do! Thank you—I can’t believe it’s so windy!” Colbie lifted her head to get a good look at him for no reason other than it was the way she was trained. Late thirties. Maybe forty.
“Tomorrow, too, from what I hear!” He held the door for her as she braced against the wind’s force.
Colbie thanked him again, and he disappeared into the coffee shop. Do I know him? A familiar feeling crept into her soul.
Something was wrong.
She didn’t feel right about leaving before her meeting, but she couldn’t risk Alvin’s butting into her business. Did he know I’m here? It doesn’t make sense—he wasn’t in uniform. Then again, his shift doesn’t start for an hour. Colbie stared at the front door. He doesn’t even live around here . . .
What’s he doing in my neighborhood?
“Vinnie Alberico, please.”
Tammy’s voice sounded tired. “He’s out of the office until this late this afternoon. Would you like to leave a voicemail?”
“Please.” No need to inform the receptionist of who she was—and, she didn’t ask. Colbie still wasn’t certain if the lovely Tammy had anything to do with anything. So, until she knew something concrete, Tammy didn’t need to be reminded of the caller’s false identity. Since leaving the coffee shop, Colbie questioned whether she made the right decision to call—dumping a connection or lead didn’t make sense, so it was in her best interest to reach out to apologize for missing the meeting.
“Thank you.” The receptionist clicked Colbie into silence as she patched her through and, within moments, Alberico’s voice greeted her with the usual prompt to leave a message at the tone. In that moment she realized why the voice of the man who held the door for her sounded so familiar.
It was Vinnie Alberico.
By six o’clock, Alberico still hadn’t returned her call. There was a definite possibility of his being pissed about her not showing up for the meeting, but if he wanted to get a deal done it wasn’t the best way to go about doing business. What bothered Colbie more, however, was her realization that the man who held the door for her at the coffee shop was Vinnie Alberico. When they made arrangements for her to meet Al Vincent, he said nothing of attending the meeting—if he were simply a go-between for Vincent, there was no reason for him to tag along. If, however, he were something more—elevated—then he had a personal stake in the possible security contract. Something wasn’t making sense—something that may clear up with a quick phone call to Ryan.
He answered immediately. “Hey! What’s up?”
“Just trying to figure out a few things—remember when you saw Remington and someone named Al at the restaurant?”
“Of course—why?”
“Well, when I went over my notes, I didn’t get a solid description of what the guy looked like . . .”
“I didn’t get to see how tall he was, but he was pretty solid—he probably works out would be my guess.”
“How old?”
“About forty-five. Not young, but not old.”
“What color was his hair?”
“Greying, but it looked like it was on last stages of red.”
“Red? You’re certain?”
“Pretty sure—he looked Irish, or something close to it.”
“That’s what I thought, but I wanted to make sure.”
“Why? Do you think you know him?”
“Maybe. I have to put a few pieces together, but let me put it this way—it’s all starting to make sense. I’ll fill you in, but I have to sort out a few things—I think I’m on the right track. Back at you later . . .” Without saying goodbye, Colbie ended the call.
One more to go.
“Sarge? Colbie. I have an odd question for you—what’s Alvin MacGregor’s middle name? I wracked my brain, but for the life of me, I can’t remember . . .” Colbie counted on Sarge’s being busy, not having time to talk to her about Brian’s case, or why she wanted to know Alvin’s middle name.
“His middle name? Geez—I’m not sure, but something tells me it’s Vincent.”
“Vincent! That’s right! Thanks—I owe you one!”
“What does . . .”
“I promise—I’ll tell you later!” She clicked off, holding the phone against her chin, thinking about what she just discovered—the missing link.
Al Vincent was Alvin Vincent MacGregor.
Chapter 14
Something was bugging her. Colbie still couldn’t believe Al Vincent was Alvin MacGregor, her nemesis at the precinct for over a decade. None of it made sense—why would Alvin live a dual life? Why was he involved with Nicole Remington? Most important, why would he kidnap her boyfriend? There was always the possibility she was making a mistake, but she didn’t think so—the pieces fit, leaving coincidence a distant second.
It was well into three weeks since Brian’s disappearance and, from everything she learned so far, it made sense the kidnappers needed him alive—always subject to change, of course. The revelations of the past couple of days began to fill in a few gaps, but a thorough review of every note Colbie scribbled since the beginning of her investigation would make certain she was connecting the dots—the right dots. With Alvin in the mix, what seemed inconsequential then may be of import now.
The time for organization had long since come and gone, legal pads stashed in every room. Knowing her propensity for writing down ideas and notes wherever she happened to be, she rifled through her car receipts, napkins, or anything else that could accept a pencil or pen—even a gum wrapper. Man—I need a better system! she thought as she stuffed her pockets with bits of paper. Twenty minutes later, her kitchen table was scattered with legal tablets, tiny note pads, sticky notes, and miscellaneous stuff.
She was ready to dig in.
Nothing caught her eye until she reached the part of the investigation including Nicole Remington. Her review reminded her she first saw Remington in the parking lot driving the green Subie—some of the questions she scribbled had answers, others were no longer germane. Then there was the brownstone—for the first time, she knew exactly where Remington lived, her apartment number, and the names of each owner or tenant—Brownburg, Jamison, Carson, Marshall, Vincent, and Remington, she recalled.
Colbie picked up the small top-spiraled notepad, adjusting her glasses to make sure she was reading her notes correctly. Vincent? She couldn’t believe it! Why hadn’t she noticed that before? Her blood pressure spiked as she realized the significance of her find—Alvin lived in the same brownstone as Nicole Remington under the last name of Vincent, his real middle name. Now, there were more questions than answers, and she had to rearrange the puzzle pieces to include a scenario she hadn’t considered.
This wasn’t about Brian—it was about her.
“I know . . . I can’t believe it, either. I never would have thought—ever—that Alvin MacGregor was involved in any of this. But, everything points in that
direction, and I don’t think there’s any way we can ignore it.” Colbie got Ryan on the line as soon as she was certain MacGregor was a critical element of the investigation. His reaction was the same as hers, and both asked the same question—what the hell does MacGregor have to gain?
“Do you remember when I told you the guy in the restaurant looked familiar? Now I know why—I used to see MacGregor on the streets as he went from business to business, checking on things. I guess that would be when he was a beat cop . . . “
“Good idea, but, as far as I know, Alvin was never a beat cop—always squad with a partner.”
“Why does that make a difference?”
“Because at the precinct there was a distinct separation between the cops who walked the streets, and the guys who patrolled the streets with a bigger territory. Their paths would cross once in a while, but not often. How many times did you see him?” One or two times wouldn’t be of much interest—more than that would be and, if that were the case, Colbie had a hunch as to why.
“Oh, man—several times. Always around the same time, too. I had a standing meeting on Friday afternoons with a particular client, and I was there every week for about five months. I’ll bet I saw him twenty times—maybe more.”
“Twenty? Are you sure?
“Pretty sure—I just can’t believe I didn’t put two and two together when I saw him in the restaurant.”
“How many years ago did you see him every week?”
“Mmmm—five. That was the summer when it was so stinkin’ hot . . .”