by Jordan Cole
“Of course. Agatha, you need anything, call me. I’ve got lawyers that can handle all sorts of problems.”
“All right,” Agatha said.
“One more thing,” Riley said. “Agatha said she had a stalker a few weeks back in the office here. Scott Amundsen. You remember what he was like? What was he doing here?”
Ms. Farber craned her neck, thinking. Rubbed the dark bags beneath her eyes.
“I don’t quite recall why he was here. I believe he was a utility worker? A problem with the A/C, maybe? I never really spoke to him, and only saw him in passing.”
“Was he alone? Or were there others with him?”
She shook her head. “I don’t quite remember.”
“You see any of the funny business?”
“No. Just heard about it secondhand from what Agatha related to me.”
“You find any record of a Scott Amundsen, or the company he worked for, or the timeframe he was here, you let us know.”
“Okay. I certainly will.”
They exchanged awkward goodbyes. Ms. Farber jittery and emotional, like the sanctity of her safe-haven had been violated. Riley and Agatha headed back into the elevator.
“You didn’t mention this Peter guy,” Riley said. Not accusatory, just stating a fact. Agatha put a palm against her forehead.
“I really didn’t think it was relevant. Like Liz said, he’s always gone. I hardly worked with him. Wouldn’t have even crossed my mind.”
“Were you telling the truth back there? About the two of you?”
Agatha turned to Riley. Crossed her arms. A similar look on her face to when she drew the gun on him earlier, a steely determination.
“Yes. We had two dates. Two and a half if you count bicycling down the river. He was perfectly nice, but we just didn’t click. Every time I heard from him after that was in a professional capacity.”
Riley nodded.
“Farber made it out like he’s hungry for stories, digging up leads. Traveling. What’s a guy like that doing at Accounting Magazine? Sounds like he should be at the Washington Post or Time or someplace more high profile.”
“I don’t know,” Agatha said.
The elevator reached the ground floor, and they stepped out into the lobby.
7.
“We’ve got a visual on the two of them. Just came out of the woman’s office.”
The two men were parked in a white van beside a truck loading zone, across the street and maybe fifty yards south from where the Fletcher building’s doors opened into the street. The man in the passenger seat watched with a pair of binoculars behind tinted glass. The driver was relaying information to his boss via a Bluetooth headset, as his spotter clued him in. Both men were dressed casually, wearing loose athletic shirts and slacks. They both had Sig Sauer pistols holstered to their belts, each one serial number away from the other. A black duffel bag lay on the backseat, containing a Taser, duct tape, lengths of rope, brass knuckles, and an assortment of Ka-bar knives. The men had been watching the building since around seven in the morning, a half hour before it opened.
“We’ve got an ID on the guy,” came the voice through the headset phone. “Clay Riley the third. Former merc. Did bodyguard work in Iraq.”
“Never heard of him,” said the driver.
“She could have hired him for help. They’ve been together since yesterday.”
“Not a problem.”
“They’re moving,” said the spotter. “Just got into a cab.”
“Follow them,” said the voice.
The driver started the engine and slowly pulled out, a few cars behind the yellow cab. Kept pace as the cab made a slow circuit east, away from the Mall, traffic lights turning the journey into a mess of starts and stops. The cab drove on.
“Not trying to shake us,” said the man in the passenger’s seat. “Doesn’t look like they know we’re here.”
They continued to follow as the cab cruised leisurely through downtown, past the shops and businesses, into a residential neighborhood. The driver clicked his headset back on.
“Looks like they’re headed to the Berkshires,” he said. “Back to her apartment.”
“All right,” the voice replied. “We’ve got a team watching the front. Don’t lose the cab. If they get out at the Berkshires, swing around and cover the rear of the building. We’ll get them inside. We need the girl alive. The guy doesn’t matter.”
“Roger.”
The cab drove on and they stayed behind, peering past the cars between them.
“Slowest cab on the planet,” said the spotter. Didn’t leave them with much to do. He tucked the binoculars under the seat and they waited. The cab turned left onto a wide avenue with cars parallel parked on both sides.
“Just pulled off,” said the driver. “She’s going home, for sure.” As if to confirm, the cab slowed its pace even further. Finally came to a stop outside the Berkshires. The man and the woman got out, headed for the lobby. The driver touched his headset.
“They’re here. We’re moving around back.”
He drove past them. When they were out of view, he made a right turn, on a beeline for the rear of the building.
“Got ‘em now,” said the spotter. “We’ll have this whole mess over with soon.”
The driver pulled into a perfect waiting spot with a clear vantage of the building’s rear doors. A delivery garage and a pair of double fire exits. He killed the engine, and they settled in to wait.
***
“We’ve been followed,” Riley said, once they were safely inside Berkshires lobby. A wide, circular area, shiny marble floors and a few plush couches arranged against the far wall. A computer-controlled set of glass doors, like a fancier version of a supermarket entrance. Two doormen sat behind a tall partition, in cap and uniform, watching a pair of security monitors. One of the doormen waved to Agatha as she came in, giving her a wide smile. A doughy guy of about forty. Alert and responsive, but not expecting trouble. The other doorman was a much bigger black guy, sitting towards the rear of the kiosk, reading a newspaper.
“Hey there Ms. Dumont,” said the doorman. Agatha waved, her mind clearly elsewhere. She turned back to Riley.
“How do you know?” she said.
“A white van’s been tailing us since we left your office. Keeping a good distance back. Someone who knows what they’re doing. If they followed us from Accounting Magazine, that means there’s probably another crew watching this building. That means two guys at a minimum, and if they’re working in teams, likely at least four.”
“Jesus Christ.”
The portly doorman watched their conversation. He couldn’t hear what they were saying, but he seemed to sense something was going on. The name Morton in gold stitching on his uniform.
“Friend of yours?” Morton asked. Agatha turned and gave him a strained smile.
“An old work buddy,” she said. “Got to grab a couple things from the apartment.”
“Of course.” Morton smiled. “Any friend of Ms. Dumont is a friend of mine.” He hit a button from behind his workstation and the glass doors opened. Riley and Agatha went through.
“You don’t think they’ll try anything here, do you?”
“They might. You’ve been in the wind for the better part of a day now. They’ll be getting antsy. They’re not used to loose ends.”
“How do you know all this?”
“Because it’s what I would do, if I was in their shoes.”
They followed a carpeted hallway down to a trio of elevators. Riley turned back to the building’s entrance, but there was no one coming in after them. Not yet, anyway. Just the doormen, waiting patiently in their little alcove.
“How would they get in?” Agatha asked.
“Maintenance uniforms. A fire exit. Brute force. Who knows? Morton and his buddy aren’t exactly top-tier security.”
“We should call the police.”
Riley shook his head.
“Police cars roll up,
whoever’s after you will hightail it out of here. This could be our one chance to get some information.”
“If we get killed in the process, that doesn’t help us.”
“Let’s take the stairs,” he said. “Head up to your apartment. I’ve got a plan.”
“I’m scared, Riley.” No beating around the bush. Riley looked at her face. A sagging expression. Like she wished she could go back in time to a week ago, when all this would have been the figment of a wild imagination.
“You have to trust me. I won’t let anything happen to you.”
But Riley had made similar promises before. Promises that, in the end, he couldn’t keep.
She nodded tersely. They turned left down a long hallway, opened the door, and went upstairs.
***
Carter and Spann entered the building. The fat doorman recognized them immediately, and he looked up at them with a wide grin on his roly-poly face.
“You guys back again? Thought you killed them all the last time.”
Carter chuckled. He and Spann were about the same height, six feet. They both had short brown hair, a medium build, and unremarkable features. Didn’t look particularly alike, but there was nothing major to differentiate them. Nothing a witness might be able to recall later with any kind of exact clarity. Spann pointed to the Orkin label on his exterminator’s outfit, like he was making a big point.
“We don’t mess around,” he said. “Sometimes you gotta come back for another treatment. If you don’t want your tenants dealing with rats and cockroaches.”
“What starts in the basement can spread higher real quickly,” Carter added. He held a spray nozzle and pesticide tank in plain view. What wasn’t in plain view was a Sig Sauer pistol in a concealed shoulder holster. He also carried a black duffel bag that was not filled with pest killing equipment. Although, he mused, in a way it was--for a wholly different kind of pest. The bag contained a Taser, duct tape, lengths of rope, and plastic zip tie cuffs. It did not contain Ka-bar knives, however. Those were strapped to Carter and Spann’s utility belts, secreted beneath their uniforms.
“Well we certainly wouldn’t want that,” Morton said. But he hesitated a moment. Didn’t buzz them through right away. Carter and Spann exchanged a quick, nearly imperceptible glance. Waited a beat. Morton glanced down at his register.
“Don’t see you scheduled for today,” he said, apologetically, like he was sure it was some kind of clerical mix up. Carter shook his head, an exasperated gesture, like God, they always do this.
“Just got the call this morning,” Carter said. “Some more rat droppings found near the boiler. The building manager’s paranoid about that kind of thing. Doesn’t necessarily mean it’s an infestation, but I guess you can’t be too careful. Told us to come in and respray ASAP, and we had an opening.”
“Hmm,” Morton said. Flipped through the register a second time. Spann felt the first hint of agitation. Felt his fingers unconsciously caressing the knife against his waist. “Should be a note of it. Guess I could call Barry and let him know you’re here.”
“You could,” Carter said. “But he was just on the phone with our office this morning. I mean, he was the one who demanded we come down here.”
“That’s Barry, always wasting our time,” Spann said. He laughed. Morton laughed too, and shrugged, like what can you do?
“You gonna be down there a while?” Morton asked.
“Not even,” said Carter. “Pump ‘em and dump ‘em. Should be back up before you know it.”
Morton let out a long sigh. The other doorman behind him said, “Just let them in. My break’s coming up soon. I don’t want to be stuck here for another hour.”
Morton hit the buzzer.
“Kill a couple big ones for me,” he said. The twin glass doors swung open. Carter and Spann gave him appreciative nods.
“We will,” Spann said. “For sure. Don’t you worry about that. We’ll make sure to get all of them.”
8.
“Oh my god,” Agatha said.
She and Riley stood inside the studio apartment, spacious and sleek and modern and decorated in the pristine way that only a woman with an eye for interior design could manage.
And it was completely trashed.
Uprooted. The kitchen was cluttered with pots and pans strewn every which way, cereal boxes and soup cans plucked furiously from the cabinets and splayed across the countertops. Framed paintings had been taken from the walls and smashed, shattered glass everywhere. Riley went into the bedroom, which was in a similar state of disarray. A stout wooden armoire with its contents dumped onto the bed, clothes and skirts and lacy undergarments thrown all over. Boxes full of photo albums and old documents had been tossed around, a maelstrom of paper scattered on the floor. An Apple laptop sat on the counter, its hard drive forcibly removed.
“Tossed this place pretty good,” Riley said. “There’s no doubt about it now. Someone’s after you.”
“No,” Agatha said, shock and dismay in her voice. “No doubt.” She moved over to a fish tank, set against the window. There was a violent, spidery crack in the glass, and the hardwood floor of the bedroom was soaked. Dead fish lay in a slippery grave, their once vibrant color drained. No reason to bust up the aquarium. Just a sadistic gesture from intruders who were frustrated they hadn’t found what they were looking for.
“They were searching for something specific,” Riley said. “Any idea what it was?”
“I don’t know,” Agatha said, almost shouting. “I don’t know what the hell they goddamn want. Why are they doing this to me? Why’d they have to kill my fish? What are these assholes after?”
“Take it easy,” Riley said. “We don’t have time to commiserate. They’re coming.”
“What are we going to do?”
Riley went back into the kitchen. Scanned the chaotic piles of silverware and utensils. His eyes came to rest on a solid piece of metal, maybe a foot long. Topped with a square, blunt edge, serrated steel. A meat tenderizer. He bent down and picked it up, feeling its weight.
“They’ll have to assume you’ll be calling the cops, when you see what they did to this place. So they’ll want to do this quickly. Bundle you out the back door before anyone has a chance to react. Right now, I need you to listen to me, and do exactly as I say.”
***
Carter and Spann waited in the basement for seven minutes. No choice, really. If the fat doorman saw them head upstairs instead of downstairs, it could lead to all sorts of questions. Thus they had to waste a little bit of time. For appearances.
The basement was spotless. Just a bunch of tools on shelves, janitorial equipment stacked neatly into closets, the massive water heater and fuse boxes lining the wall in a neat little grid. No mouse droppings, no insects. No security cameras either, at least none they could see, but they kept up appearances anyway, spraying inert, harmless water from the tanks they carried. The whole routine was only for show. Nothing down here except a well-swept concrete floor and a musty underground smell.
“Time to go,” Carter said, and Spann nodded in agreement. Cinched the duffel bag around his shoulder and checked the action on the Sig Sauer. Fifteen round magazines with a pair of extras on the utility belt. But in all likelihood they wouldn’t be needing them. Two targets: one woman; one guy whose combat experience probably consisted of babysitting an oil refinery in Iraq and was now playing private detective with his free time. A negligible threat, but better safe than sorry. Guns to make them compliant, then the Taser and knives. Keep the noise to a minimum. Grab the woman and leave the guy bleeding out on the apartment floor. Could be weeks before the cops put together what happened. By that time, this whole matter would be long finished.
“How you want to play it?” Spann asked, as they climbed the stairs back up to the lobby maintenance center. From there they swung east, out of sight of the cameras, through the fire doors to the lesser-used stairs at the rear of the building.
“We do it quick. Go in with m
aximum surprise. Neutralize the guy, gag the girl, get her out back.”
Carter touched his earpiece.
“Bravo, check in” he said. A voice rumbled deep into his eardrum.
“You’re all clear. Banks went around to watch the front. We’re waiting on you for the package.”
“Should be no more than ten minutes.”
The voice shut off.
“Let’s roll,” Carter said.
They reached the fourth floor and went out into the hallway. Quiet and deserted in the early afternoon, a row of plain white doors set against the wall. Walked briskly to apartment 415, matching each other stride for stride, just two professional bug-killers going about their business. Spann reached into his pocket and came out with a small keycard. Dipped it into the reader and heard the little electronic click of the lock being released. Carter drew his gun and Spann did the same. Turned the handle slowly, then kicked the door open with his boot. They burst forward, guns at chest level, fanning out into the kitchen. Stepping over the silverware and broken plates, just as they’d left it.
Carter put up a hand, and they stopped. The bathroom door was closed, and a sliver of light peeked out from underneath. The sound of water spraying down into the tub. The shower was on. Spann darted into the bedroom, his gun swinging ahead of him in a steady arc. The closet was open and empty. He kicked the bed hard, and it jolted forward on its frame. No one underneath. The rest of the apartment was clear. They both raised their guns toward the bathroom door. Carter tried the knob, while Spann turned to guard the rear. Unlocked. Carter paused a beat, then twisted. The door opened.
Carter saw a sink below a steamed mirror. The shower curtain pulled tight against the tub. He paused for a moment. Considered. Then he smiled. He wasn’t buying it. This had to be some kind of ruse. No one comes home to a trashed apartment and decides to take a shower. The man and the woman were on their way out the backdoor, ready to be snatched up by Bravo team. Carter placed a hand against the shower curtain, his gun outstretched. Fully expecting it to be empty inside.