by G. K. Parks
“Make a call and see what our friends can tell us,” Mercer suggested, checking the time to make sure he wasn’t late to pick up Katia. “What about Styler’s phone?”
“After I broke the password, I went through his list of contacts, recent calls, text messages, and even locations pinged on the GPS, but there’s nothing sinister.”
“Katia said Styler owed someone money, and Pierce was under the same impression. Shouldn’t there be a record?”
“It’s not on his phone or e-mail. He might have a burner, or he handles deals like that in person. I’ll see if I can get his business records. Maybe there’s something buried within his online day trading. I’ll pull up everything I can. After that, I’ll check out Pierce’s two co-workers. If all else fails, I’ll have a chat with them.”
“Bas,” he waited for the other man to turn around, “thank you.” It wasn’t a typical sentiment for Mercer to convey, and Bastian simply nodded.
“You might have to run this information by our copper pal. I’ve run his background, and I’d say he’s one of the good ones. He’s not particularly highly ranked in the department, which probably means he doesn’t cater to his superior’s every whim, but it also means he’s probably honest.”
“That will be our last resort,” Mercer decided. “Any progress on rooting out the connection between Carlton and the homicide lieutenant?”
“Not yet. I only have two hands,” Bastian smirked, “and one of them has to hold my nuts.” He popped a handful of cashews into his mouth, having raided the newly restocked mini-bar again this morning.
Mercer rolled his eyes and continued out the door. Instead of picking up Katia, he went to the hospital and switched with Hans. He needed access to Styler without the hysterical liar manipulating him with her outpouring of emotion. With any luck, Ben would be awake and alert today. The doctors were decreasing his medication as his condition improved, and it was about time since someone needed to provide Mercer with a few honest answers.
Upon entering Ben’s room, the recovering man put down a spoonful of green gelatin and looked up. He offered a friendly smile, looking better than he had in days.
“Mr. Styler, do you remember me?”
“Julian, right?” He squinted, making sure he recalled the correct name, and Mercer nodded. “Katia hired you.” Again, Mercer nodded. “Before you ask, I don’t know who’s responsible. I didn’t see anything.”
“What is the last thing you remember?”
“Are you a detective? You sound just like the police officers that were here last night and this morning.”
“I’m not a detective. I’m a resolution specialist.”
“So you’re going to resolve my problems?” Styler snorted. “Good luck with that.”
“Answer the question.” Mercer’s mind turned over Styler’s attitude and remark. Bas was right. There was more to the story.
“The last thing I remember is the sound of my zipper and Kat’s warm breath then searing pain cutting through my chest.” He chuckled. “I thought it was a heart attack. But then I saw red. She screamed, and everything went dark. I guess that’s what it’s like to get shot.
“Sometimes,” Mercer mused. “Do you mind if I ask why you were engaging in oral sex in the middle of a dark alley?”
Styler laughed and then winced, clutching the side of his chest. “Katia recently moved back in with her dad while her apartment underwent some renovations. So we have to sneak a few moments here and there.” He rolled his eyes. “Her father treats her like a little girl, not the grown woman that she is.”
Mercer nodded, no longer interested in the reason for their public tryst. “I spoke with Jack Pierce this morning.” He watched for some telltale sign to emerge on Styler’s face, such as fear, anxiety, or unease, but all he saw was guilt.
“Jack didn’t do this.”
“How can you be so sure? Katia said he threatened to kill you, and you told her to stay away from him.”
“Kat has a complicated relationship with the truth. She tends to be overly dramatic at times, but Jack’s my best friend. Well, he was. Business got in the way. We had a falling out. He said he’d kill me. Destroy me. Make me lose the thing that I love most since I lost his millions.” He snorted. “There are a lot of things Jack might do to get even. He’d probably try to woo Katia. Shit, I wouldn’t put it past him to screw her in my own bed, just so he could gloat about it. That’s just how we are.” He blinked, toying with the gelatin container. “Were. But he would never actually resort to physical violence.”
“And you consider this individual your best friend?” Mercer asked, clearly confused.
“Yeah. At least that’s how we were in college. Everything was a competition. We liked to make bets and play our games. Things lacked real meaning. I kinda forgot what the real world was like when I invested Jack’s money. I thought the tips I gave him were sound, but,” he shrugged and sighed, “I was wrong. Jack flipped. We haven’t spoken since.”
“I see.” Mercer picked up the medical file at the end of Styler’s bed and skimmed through the pages. There was no indication of previous injuries, so no one had beaten Styler or roughed him up prior to the shooting. The chance of his attack being the result of a loan shark or someone collecting on a debt was dwindling. “Katia believes she saw Mr. Pierce and two of his associates on the street around the time of the shooting.”
“Maybe. This is a big city, but we hang around the same neighborhoods. Jack and I used to frequent a few bars on that street back when we were buds. Jack probably still goes to them. He works just around the corner.” He exhaled slowly, physical discomfort beginning to reflect on his face. “But I’d say Kat’s probably imagining things. She’s never even seen Jack up close. Her only knowledge of him has been through old pictures. I doubt she could pick him out of a lineup.”
Mercer’s brow furrowed. “If you and Jack were practically inseparable, why didn’t the three of you ever spend time together? How long had you and Katia been involved?”
“Kat and I have known each other for a while, but we didn’t get serious until my falling out with Jack. That put a lot of things in my life into perspective, and three months later, I proposed.”
“She mentioned some men leaving your building recently. Was Pierce one of them?” Mercer made a mental note to ask Bastian about the surveillance from Styler’s apartment. Hopefully, they’d be able to identify someone suspicious. Perhaps the guilty party stopped by to deliver a threat, or whoever was hired to commit the hit scoped out the area and conducted some surveillance prior to the shooting.
“Jack hasn’t been to my place in forever.” Styler squinted, trying to figure out who these men were that Mercer was asking about. “The only people who’ve been to my apartment in the last few months are Kat, her dad, a couple of investors, and a few of my business associates.” He pushed himself upright, wincing. “Shit, that hurts.”
“I’ll need names.” Mercer said, waiting expectantly.
“Do you have a pen and some paper?”
“I’ll remember.”
Ben rattled off a list of six names, not including Katia or Carlton. When he was finished, he took an uneasy breath and hit the button on his morphine drip. “They said the bullet broke two of my ribs and lodged in my lung. A few inches higher and it would have gone through my heart. But still, it hurts like a motherfucker.”
“Well, it’s either this or death,” Mercer said. Ben let out an uneasy laugh and closed his eyes, tired and likely enjoying the effects of the drugs that just entered his system. “Did you give the police officers that questioned you the same information you gave me?”
“I think so. They didn’t ask as much as you did. They wanted to know where my wallet and phone were. They think the muggers took them.” His speech was becoming thick and slow. “I didn’t even realize we were mugged. I’m just glad they didn’t hurt Kat, and she still has the ring. It was my grandmother’s.” Styler sighed, sinking deeper into the pillows. “
Nana would be pissed if some thug had her ring. Hoodlums, that’s what she called them.” He snickered. “Hoodlums in hoods.” His eyes remained closed, and he drifted into the abyss.
Stepping out of the room, Mercer took a seat in the hallway and dialed Bastian. After giving him a new list of names to run, he disconnected. Katia’s rendition didn’t line up with Styler’s. Sure, there were some similarities, but it didn’t make pinpointing the shooter any easier. Perhaps this was a random act of violence. But what would be the point? The angle and shot were extraordinary. Hell, even Donovan would have had trouble with those angles, and he was the best shooter Mercer knew. The shot was taken before the man was even in front of the mouth of the alley. It was around the corner of the brick wall, and the single bullet ripped through Styler’s chest. An inch and a half higher and it would have gone straight through his heart. Styler’s back had been against the brick wall, and frankly, it was a decent cover position to block an assault from the street. If it weren’t for the surveillance footage, Mercer would have thought the shooter was in the alley and fired straight across. Why not enter the alley, pop off a round or two, and go on?
Only one thought came to mind. The shooter had to remain undetected and unidentifiable or else Katia would pose a problem, and clearly, that was unacceptable. Mercer considered the possibilities. Who wanted Ben Styler dead and Katia Rhoade alive and well?
When Hans escorted Katia down the hospital corridor toward Ben’s room, Mercer stood. Her eyes flicked to his face, and she offered a slight smile. But before she could say a word, he spoke.
“Hans, keep a close watch on Styler and a record of who comes and goes.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Do you think someone will come back to hurt Ben?” she asked, her eyes darting to the room, frantic to see her fiancé. She burst through the door before Mercer could say another word.
Hans looked up. “What the bloody hell is going on now?”
“After speaking to Styler, it seems less likely this is solely a vendetta against him. I believe someone wants to remove him from Ms. Rhoade’s life,” Mercer said, watching as Katia kissed the unconscious Ben and ran her fingers through his hair. “Until we know for certain, we need to provide him with round-the-clock protection. We’ll cease shadowing Mr. Rhoade in order for you and Donovan to maintain eyes on Ben.”
“Do you think that’s wise?” Hans asked.
“We were never hired to provide protection to anyone except Katia. Let Carlton’s security worry about his protection. He hired us to protect his daughter, so if something were to happen to him, that’s not our problem,” Mercer replied with a slight shrug.
“The same could be said for Benjamin Styler.”
“Perhaps, but I do believe Ms. Rhoade would put a bounty on our heads if any harm were to befall Mr. Styler.”
Eleven
“What are you thinking?” Bastian asked. He and Mercer were at the hotel bar. Bastian hacked into the security system, but the server didn’t store files for more than forty-eight hours. Any record of Jack Pierce and his associates had been erased and written over two days ago. Bas signaled to the bartender, and two more whiskeys were poured. “Thanks,” he mumbled.
Mercer took a swig. They already questioned the bartender and passed around a few photos of Pierce and his co-workers. While the faces looked familiar, no one remembered exactly what night it was or what time the gentlemen might have left. The police could get access to the credit card receipts, but Mercer didn’t want to ask for help. He didn’t trust any cops after his run-ins with the London bobbies.
“Ex-lovers or a possible obsessed stalker,” Mercer sighed, swallowing the rest of the contents in one gulp, “that’d be my next guess. Why else worry about Katia’s well-being? If you’re hired to kill, collateral damage is occasionally unavoidable. There’d be no other reason for such extreme care to be taken in order to remain undetected.”
“So you don’t think she was a target?” Bastian asked, skimming through some of the data he printed on Pierce’s business and associates.
Jack Pierce seemed clean, particularly after their conversation earlier in the day, but that didn’t stop Bastian from performing his due diligence. From the bio listed on the company’s website, Pierce Industries was family owned and operated. Jack served on the board of his father’s company, as did his brother, Daniel. Initially, Jack had been booted out when Styler’s investments resulted in a substantial loss for Jack. But after improving his financial portfolio and pitching a new product line to bolster sales for his father’s company, Jack returned to a position of power, just in time for his brother to step down and pursue his own ventures. The information on the two co-workers Jack mentioned was still being compiled, but as of yet, Bastian couldn’t find any connection between either of them and Benjamin Styler or Katia Rhoade. And the six names that Styler provided turned out to be dead ends.
“No.” Mercer shook his head. “It’s more likely she’s the reason someone wants to eliminate Styler.”
“But whoever the shooter is had to know exactly where she’d be and the position she’d be in.” Bastian raised an eyebrow pointedly. “Jules, how would they have known what she was planning to do with her beau after dinner? Plus, from what Styler told you, things were just getting underway. And from the angles in that alley, the timing would have to be perfect or else Katia might have still been upright and shot in front of him. Are you sure you aren’t reading more into this than what exists? Maybe she was the intended target.”
“Bloody hell,” Mercer cursed. “Styler said they’ve been having these romantic meetings ever since Katia moved back in with her father. Whoever fired that shot must have discovered this and waited for the chance to end Styler.” He saw the skeptical look in his friend’s eyes. “This is rubbish. I don’t believe for one goddamn second that Styler was an accidental casualty. He has to be the intended target. He just does.” Mercer gulped, pain seeping into his voice.
Julian caught the look on Bastian’s face, that worried glance that Mercer was allowing his personal tragedy to blend in with these current events. Julian growled and slammed the glass down. He wasn’t accustomed to being this on edge while working a job, but the circumstances were far too similar. And his mind kept drawing needless parallels.
Bastian spoke softly, hoping to provide some solace. “We still aren’t sure that Michelle wasn’t his intended victim. Jules, you couldn’t have known what was going to happen. There’s no way of determining whether the man showed up at your house to kill you and found Michelle instead or if he waited for you to leave so he could get her alone.”
Mercer’s face contorted, and he blinked back his feelings. “Why did you ever agree to investigate for Carlton? We don’t investigate. We perform recon, devise a plan, and resolve the situation. We aren’t equipped to determine who’s responsible or why.” He picked up the glass and slammed it back down, barely managing not to throw it across the room. “Since you clearly want to pretend to be part of New Scotland Yard, you figure it out.” He stood, signed the receipt with his room number, and went upstairs. Just a few minutes of peace and quiet was what he needed to force the nightmarish thoughts back into the recesses of his mind.
Opening the door to his room, Julian drew his gun and pointed it at the intruder. If this had happened two minutes earlier, he would have pulled the trigger without a moment’s hesitation. Maybe he was slightly unhinged. It was no wonder the Special Air Service didn’t trust his judgment anymore. The man acknowledged the gun with a level of calm that most people never exhibited.
“Any chance you misplaced your carry permit?” Detective Rowlins asked, nodding at the weapon.
“Shall I report this intrusion to your superiors?” Mercer replied, reluctantly putting the Sig on the dresser and shutting the door. “I’d like to see your warrant.”
“And I’d like to see the paperwork explaining why you think you can act like you’re the only authority in my city.” The two continued the s
taring contest until finally Rowlins broke eye contact, reaching into his jacket and pulling out his notepad. The police department insignia on the cover added an official air to this otherwise informal and illegal meeting. “What’d you do with Benjamin Styler’s belongings?” Mercer remained silent, refusing to answer the question. “Okay, let me ask this another way. Did you discover anything useful?”
“Are you really that pathetic at your job that you expect someone with no experience in the matter to guide your investigation?” Mercer narrowed his eyes. “Get out.”
“I’ve dug through Styler’s background. The kid’s not exactly a Wall Street tycoon. His stock tips only work out about sixty percent of the time. Most of his investors have lost a significant amount of money. But he’s sticking with the business. He works from home, moves money around, and his personal portfolio isn’t bad. It’s better than a cop’s salary but doesn’t come close to comparing to what Katia’s inheritance will be worth.” He continued speaking, ignoring the disgusted look on Mercer’s face. “Despite what Ms. Rhoade’s statement might reveal about the night in question, I’ve done my own digging into the kid’s enemies and hers. Ballistics has run trajectories, and I’ve seen security footage from nearby DOT cams. That was a hell of a shot.”
“Aren’t you bloody brilliant?” Mercer muttered, hoping the detective would take the hint and leave.
“Indeed, I am.” Rowlins cracked a smile. “I’m smart enough to know Carlton hired you to eliminate the threat, regardless of what anyone says to the contrary. The only problem you’re facing is determining exactly where the threat is coming from. Jack Pierce dropped by the precinct earlier today to file a report. It seems like you’re needlessly turning over a lot of stones.”
“And you possess the correct morsel of information?”
“Not yet.” Rowlins stood. The two men were approximately the same height, but Rowlins was softer, not nearly as regimented and sculpted as Mercer. Then again, Rowlins was an investigator, not a highly trained former military specialist. “But I believe we can help each other. Two heads are better than one.”