by Faith Wood
“I remember—do you recall when Remington first showed her face around here? I think that was in your research . . .”
“Holy shit! You’re right—I think it was around that time. I’ll check to be sure, and get back with you to make certain we’re understanding the same thing. And, I think we are . . .” Ryan’s respect for Colbie inched higher each time they talked for her ability to dissect and understand was incredible, and he soon realized he could learn a lot from her.
“I think we understand it just fine. Now, we have to concentrate on why Alvin kidnapped Brian—in fact, Brian doesn’t have anything to do with it other than he’s involved with me.”
“You? What?”
“Think about it—three weeks ago, I told you enough for you to know Alvin hated my guts when I was at the precinct. I tried to avoid him, but, when he was on my team, he was nothing but trouble. He attempted to destroy my reputation and, when that didn’t work, he became absolutely unbearable.”
“Geez—nice guy.”
“Make no mistake, Ryan—Alvin MacGregor is a formidable foe. His involvement takes this investigation to a whole new level—a dangerous level.”
“You have a plan, I suppose . . .”
“Kind of—if Alvin is after me for some reason, we have to make sense of what Remington has to do with any of this.”
“Any ideas?”
“One—I need to find out why MacGregor was visiting businesses as if he were a beat cop. I have an idea, but it involves serious allegations and I damned well better be able to prove them.”
“Like . . .”
“What if MacGregor is on the take?”
“You mean like a Shylock or protection racket?”
“Pretty much—but, more on the money end. What if he’s playing a mafia game, and businesses have to pay up each week? Every Friday.”
Ryan whistled as he realized the implications of Colbie’s thinking. She was right—this was big and, when brought to light, it could bring down more than MacGregor and Remington. The whole damned precinct would be under the microscope.
After ringing off with Ryan, Colbie sat back, hands hooked behind her head, considering her next move. Before ending the conversation with Ryan, she picked his brain about the names of businesses where he saw MacGregor each week, all in a part of town she didn’t know well— she’d have to be careful not to ruffle any nerves. If she went poking around and pissed someone off . . . well, it could mean trouble for her as well as curtains for the investigation. And, who’s to say MacGregor was still involved with the con—if it were a con.
She fired up the laptop, deftly entering the names of the businesses, one by one. It was doubtful many of them would have websites given the area of town, but it was worth a shot. Ryan indicated there were seven businesses, in all—two restaurants, a dry cleaner and laundry, one grocery market, one Mahjong parlor, and a liquor store—all on one block. Her research of the area showed the area held a strong Asian component in the center of a fifteen-block area while other cultures conducted business as well as lived on the fringes.
Even though she were an ex-cop, it was a good idea to bring a friend along for back up—and, if she could swing it, she’d ask one of the cops at the precinct who had contacts in that area. One problem, though—Sarge was never going to believe her. He’d certainly stick up for one of his officers until he had irrefutable evidence that targeted allegations were true—not until. Colbie supposed it would be easier if she didn’t have such a soft spot for Sarge—this was the kind of thing that would not only piss him off, it would offend him personally, and she didn’t relish being the person to burst his bubble about one of his own.
By the time she got ready for bed, she whittled the scenario down to a couple possibilities—the first seemed far-fetched, but, up to then, nothing about Brian’s case was normal, so it was worth considering. What if MacGregor were a crooked cop with a long history of strong arming uneducated business owners into paying a fee for his looking the other way when it came to criminal acts? The far-fetched part wasn’t about the criminal acts—it was more about his being a dirty cop.
Of course, such things happened all the time in other cities, but they didn’t happen in her town. In her precinct. If, in fact, Alvin were dirty, were other cops in on it? A real possibility. If this scenario were correct, what was now a mess would turn into an absolute debacle the second the press got wind of it. When she thought about it, her first-case scenario was probably the easiest to figure out. On the surface it seemed cut and dried, but there had to be a lot bubbling beneath the surface—however, once everything started to deteriorate for the parties involved, the situation should come to fruition quickly. The second, though, wasn’t such a clear shot.
Optimum Security.
For Colbie, it was a hornets’ nest in the making. For all of her years on the force, she never heard of Alvin’s having a second career let alone a different life. The first thing she needed was an answer to the question of how long he was at the helm of the security firm. The second was a list of the company’s clients—next to impossible without the help of someone on the inside.
Perhaps the lovely Tammy . . .
The following morning, Colbie checked with one of her buddies on the force to see when Alvin was scheduled to work. She didn’t want to take any chances of running in to him—not because he was a total ass, but because he was a suspect. She didn’t need him poking his nose where it didn’t belong and, besides, she needed more than drop-in time with Rifkin. For this, she needed to schedule time with him, possibly away from the precinct if he could swing it.
According to her contact, MacGregor was off on Thursdays and Fridays—same days off for years—and, when she questioned her friend, she learned Alvin rarely showed up at the precinct on his days off. What didn’t track, though, was Ryan’s saying MacGregor was in uniform when he saw him on each of those Fridays. Or, did he? She flipped through her notes, double checking her recollection of the conversation. No, Ryan didn’t say he was in uniform, but he certainly implied it—the uniform was the main reason he noticed Alvin at the businesses in the first place.
When she got down to it, Colbie recognized there were at least two different investigations balled into one. Foremost was Brian—where they were holding him, and why they were holding him. Unfortunately, to figure those two things out, she had to get to the bottom of the crap she just learned about MacGregor and Alberico. If someone didn’t spill his guts soon, all bets were off.
Colbie needed an informant.
Chapter 15
Two candles leapt to life, casting dancing shadows across Nicole’s face. What may have been attractive and enticing at one time turned ugly and contorted as candlelight revealed hollowing cheeks, as well as a complexion turned sallow and ashen. No, time wasn’t being kind to Nicole Remington—it was kicking her ass.
Her fingers lingered on napkins as she lay them on the small bistro table by the bay window. How the hell did I get myself into this mess? she wondered. It used to be so easy—I could handle things. Now? If I’m not careful, I’ll wind up in freakin’ jail . . . One thing she knew for sure—she had to find a way out. She didn’t know how or when, but her evening with Alvin was a start. If she told him she wanted to end their relationship—completely sever it—there would be hell to pay. She was in so deep, she often wondered if she would wind up in a ditch somewhere, body broken and unrecognizable. Oh, she wasn’t being dramatic—it was a real possibility. The truth was she was afraid of Al Vincent, and if she didn’t tow the line, well . . .
Since moving into the brownstone, Vincent had his eye on her. Whether his interest were for more personal reasons, she didn’t know—but, since he was the owner of the building, she figured it a good idea to be cheerful and inviting. So, at the beginning of their relationship, things were pretty good—Vincent treated her with respect, always p
raising her success as a well-respected business woman in upper crust real estate circles. Five years ago, they were a good fit, and Remington thought he was the one.
My, how things change.
The day finally came when Vincent made his move over dinner, dropping the bombshell that he knew all about her nefarious real estate deals—and, if she didn’t comply with his requests, she’d be up the river in no time. He made it clear he had no intention of making their relationship legit because he only needed her for two things—snapping up real estate in an oil-laden region, and an occasional tryst. That’s it. Nothing emotional. Nothing at all. What she didn’t understand then was Al Vincent’s dual life—she didn’t have a clue he was a cop. She didn’t know about Optimum. She never saw his apartment in the building because he always visited her, so his living in a different location didn’t occur to her. Why would it? She regretted not vetting him during the neophyte stages of their relationship—partnership, if she wanted to get technical. If she had, she might not be in such a mess.
It also didn’t occur to her he used an alias.
To Remington, Alvin MacGregor didn’t exist. She knew him as a rich owner of a classy brownstone, dripping money. At first, they occasionally dined out and, when they did, he always kept a wad of cash rolled up in his pocket. He didn’t mind flashing it, either—she liked that. And, savvy real estate broker she was, there was always the possibility he may want to sell the brownstone. What better way to secure a contract? Truth was they were using each other, both of them knew it, yet each refused to admit it to the other. Whenever she asked him about how he knew of her felonious activities, he said it was none of her business. She finally quit asking because what he knew about her was true—knowing his source was moot.
It was then her career transformed into something she barely recognized. For the last five years, she researched and purchased real estate—cash—where there were untapped oil reserves, all under Vincent’s direction. He provided leads and money, and it was her job to persuade landowners to take it and run. Make no mistake—it was a lot of bucks. Vincent always believed money talks, and he knew if he offered a new life to many who didn’t have enough money to buy a loaf of bread, they’d jump at the chance. He was right, too—some deals were like slicing through room temp butter. What he didn’t count on was a ridiculous, emotional attachment to land—many owners didn’t want to sell because their property had been in the family for generations—a bullshit reason, according to Vincent.
The raucous call of the buzzer yanked Remington to reality—it was now or never. It was time to lay her groundwork carefully, and raising suspicion about her wanting out would derail any possibility that ever happening. At the second buzz, she checked her make-up in the hall mirror before opening the door, disappointed in the reflection. There was a new sadness in her eyes and, as she answered a second buzz, she wondered if it were too late.
She hesitated before opening the door. “Hey, Baby . . .” Al insisted she use the term of endearment, although she wasn’t sure why. She considered it an intimate greeting, yet he managed to turn it into something dark and unappealing. Vincent brushed past her, dropping his keys on the library table under the mirror.
“Smells good. What’s for dinner?”
“Roasted chicken—it’ll be done in about twenty minutes. Wine?” Remington plucked two wine goblets from her grandmother’s antique hutch, offering both in a toast as she grabbed a bottle of merlot.
“Red wine with chicken? What do you have that’s white?”
“Chard—good?”
“Fine. It’s a hell of a lot better than merlot . . .” Vincent muttered, his comment laced with obvious distaste, his bullying always an undercurrent. But Remington couldn’t take any chances at ruining the first stage of her plan, so she went along with his disrespect for there was more to gain by compliance. Besides, doing so bought a bit of time, allowing the wine to do its job. It wasn’t a ploy to impair his senses—only to relax him a bit. Anything more, and he would certainly blame her for his inebriation.
They settled into plush leather armchairs, facing each other, the fireplace turned on for ambiance. When Remington bought the flat it had a wood-burning fireplace, but she couldn’t be bothered with actually ordering wood. Within a week of taking possession, the new gas version was in place, adding false comfort to a life about to spin out of control.
“I’m thinking of selling . . .”
“This? You’re thinking of selling this?” Over his dead body.
“Yes—I haven’t decided for sure, but I think I need to be somewhere warmer. Maybe the southwest . . .” Remington presented her idea with a soft voice, glancing at Vincent over the rim of her glass. “Will you come?”
“With you? Are you serious?” Vincent’s florid complexion turned deep crimson at the mere suggestion of her leaving.
“Maybe. I don’t know. All I know is I feel as if I need a change, and I’m hoping we can move—maybe carry on what we’re doing somewhere else.” First twist—run the same game only in a different place? It was possible, and Remington knew it would appeal to him.
“You’re serious . . .” More a statement than a question. He shifted in his chair and crossed his legs, placing more weight on his left hip. He resembled a caricature of an English lord, ascot and all. Good—his body didn’t tense, she noted.
“Tell me more . . .” The idea of moving the operation wasn’t a bad one—Remington didn’t know anything about Optimum, but he could operate the company from anywhere. Of course, he would demand Alberico move with him. Tammy? He wasn’t sure—she was good for ordering around, and she was great with customers, but there was always the nagging question of her being not too bright. Even though she presented herself as a professional, truth was she was a high school graduate who somehow managed her way into a cream-puff job—good pay for doing her job and keeping her mouth shut.
“Look—if we stay here, it’s a fact our luck will run out,” Remington continued.“Why wait until then? Isn’t there somewhere that will provide us the same opportunity? There has to be oil just waiting to be sucked from the ground . . .”
“Maybe. I can check it out.”
“Well, how did you find out about the oil here?”
Vincent wasn’t comfortable sharing particulars with Remington. It was none of her business about anything—her job was to negotiate real estate deals, and close her yap.
“I know a guy . . .”
“Contact him, then—see if he can help us find new territory!”
He was quiet as he drained his glass. “It’s something to think about—but, it won’t be as easy as you hope it will be.”
“Why? What do you mean?”
“I’ll have to think about it.” He looked at Remington, trying to decide if she were on the up and up. She could be up to something, but she wasn’t bright enough to put one over on him. He knew it, and she knew it. So, maybe her suggestion had merit. Maybe not. But what about his career as a cop? Letting go of that weakened his position in more ways than one—for starters, he would lose considerable income in the Asian district. He might also lose income by relocating Optimum Security, although he knew he could easily build it up again. The real crapshoot was Colbie Colleen—and, he wasn’t done with her yet.
Chapter 16
Colbie listened again to her professor’s lecture on willful blindness as she flipped through her tablets, extrapolating and combining each note about Nicole Remington. Even though she knew them by heart, she wanted to see them in front of her to make certain she wasn’t missing something. Doing so ensured her investigation didn’t dilute due to lack of cohesion—it was something Sarge taught during her first weeks on the force. Her vision of the blindfolds made perfect sense and, when coupled with her police and psychology training, they added up to the same thing—where there’s smoke, there’s fire. Of one
thing, she was certain—it was time to confront Nicole Remington, yet something told her she needed to tread carefully, almost as if family relations were at stake.
A face-to-face could end up a bust, but Colbie doubted it. Her gut told her Remington was business savvy, but when it came to a personal life, things weren’t so rosy—if she came down too hard on her with a bad cop routine, it probably wouldn’t play well. No, as with Alex and Kirk, her best bet was to meet her somewhere neutral yet more concealing than a coffee shop. A place with low-light. More secretive. If she met with Remington in the evening, it was likely she would be tired and, perhaps, more prone to letting down her emotional guard. Even so, it would be a tricky conversation to balance, and it all boiled down to discovery.
Her psych and police training ingrained when the mind is curious and seeking something such as deception, it tends to pop off the page—of course, it was there all the time obscured by a willingness not to see. Not to recognize. But, by casting aside willful blindfolds, clarity is always the inevitable result.
Since her professor’s lecture, Colbie incorporated his training into her investigation, and it were as if the room exploded in brilliant light. She couldn’t dispel the benefits of removing her personal blindfolds, and she was ready to continue pursuing Brian’s kidnapping with each of her senses ready to receive the most subliminal information. The notes in front of her were concrete, but it was time to let her intuition guide the investigation without distraction.
It was time to turn herself over completely to what she already knew.
She pieced her notes together as she would a puzzle, each according to chronological time frame. Remington’s name was always in the wings waiting for Colbie to recognize its significance as it pertained to each aspect of the investigation, and she was certain Al Vincent held Remington emotionally hostage. It was up to her to break through on a level she knew instinctively would force Remington’s emotional dam to break.