by G. K. Parks
“No one. The police have finally established a permanent presence, and they don’t seem to care for the protection we’ve been providing.”
“If you encounter any issues that you can’t handle, tell them to contact Detective Rowlins. It appears we are working in tandem with him.”
“When did that happen?”
“Ask Bastian, he’d know.”
Mercer disconnected and glanced around the street. He’d been on the move throughout the conversation, and now he was contemplating his next destination. Before he could hail a cab, he spotted a light reflecting from one of the parked cars outside Rhoade’s apartment building. He smiled; the feeling of progress and impending violence coursed through his veins. It was the calm before the storm, and tonight, all hell would break loose. Unable to wipe the grin off his face, he went to the vehicle, smashed his elbow through the passenger’s side window, and opened the car door while simultaneously pointing his Sig at the startled man. The man dropped the camera with the telephoto lens and backed against the door, hands in the air.
“I’d suggest you cooperate,” Mercer said, removing the keys from the ignition. “Because if you make a run for it, you’ll be dead before you hit the pavement.” The man in the car looked ready to soil himself but didn’t move a single inch. “Is there a boot release?”
“Huh?” The man raised his hands a little higher in surrender.
“Bloody hell,” Mercer muttered. “A trunk release?”
“Ye-yeah.”
“Good. Open it and get out slowly.”
The man did as he was told, and Julian stepped out of the vehicle with his gun still pointed at whoever this man was. He went around the front of the car, shoved his hostage against the rear door to pat him down, and then ordered him inside the trunk. Once the lid was shut, Mercer holstered his gun, took the pair of black leather gloves out of his pocket, slipped them on, and then climbed into the driver’s seat. He put the key in the ignition and headed for the abandoned storefronts his team scoped out near the docks. On the way, he phoned Bastian and asked him to monitor the police frequencies for any word on this possible abduction.
“I really shouldn’t let you go anywhere alone,” Bastian remarked. “Were you spotted?”
“It’s four a.m. The possibility doesn’t seem likely but remain on standby,” Mercer instructed. “Once he’s secured, I’ll give you the relevant vehicle information, so you can start building a new profile. We have much to discuss.”
“Shall I meet you?”
“No. Stay by the computers in case I need your technological genius, but send Hans.”
Mercer drove to the building they were temporarily renting and killed the engine. Getting out of the car, he performed a quick visual sweep of the area and the inside of the dilapidated warehouse. Inside was mostly open space with the exception of a few offices. The windowless one in the corner would serve nicely as a makeshift prison, and after dragging a single chair into the room and collecting the roll of duct tape, Mercer went back to the car to collect his prize.
When the trunk lid opened, Mercer feared he would have to subdue his unwilling guest, but the man looked dazed and frightened. Making quick work of securing his arms behind his back and placing an extra piece of tape over his mouth and eyes to make the man mute and blind, Julian hauled his prisoner out of the car and dragged him into the building. After he was secured to the chair in the center of the room, Mercer removed the tape.
“Shit.” The man winced, his skin red from the removed adhesive. “What do you want? Please, don’t hurt me.”
“Who are you?” Julian asked.
“John Welks. Let me go.”
“Who were you photographing?”
“No one. I wasn’t.”
“Bullshit.” Mercer snorted, a smirk emerging on his face, and he slammed the ball of his foot down on the man’s ankle in just the right place to snap the bone. The scream ripped through the room, echoing in the small enclosed space. “Want to give that another go?”
“I was hired to keep tabs on Katia Rhoade,” Welks choked out. The obvious threat of further violence had loosened his tongue and his resolve.
“By whom?” Mercer asked, but Welks shook his head. Stepping forward, Mercer eyed the other ankle. “How long have you been stalking Ms. Rhoade?”
“I haven’t,” Welks replied, practically pleading. Julian made a move, but before he could inflict more damage, Welks sputtered, “I’m a private investigator.”
Surprised by the words, Mercer took a step back, cocking his head to the side and processing this new bit of information. The man didn’t have a wallet on him, or it would have been discovered during the earlier frisking. Slamming the office door and making sure it was locked, Mercer returned to the car and searched the interior. Inside the glove box, he found the vehicle registration, a thirty-two caliber handgun, and a wallet.
“Goddammit,” he cursed, dialing Bastian.
Fourteen
Hans ran both hands over his face and took a deep breath. “What do you want us to do with him now?” he asked, glancing at the locked door. “We can’t just bloody well keep him here indefinitely.”
“I know that,” Mercer snarled. “But he has answers that we need. It doesn’t make a damn bit of difference who he is. Either someone hired him to keep tabs on Katia, or he’s the stalker.” He let out a huff. “Or he could be our shooter.”
“Doesn’t seem to me like he has the balls.”
“It could be an act.” Julian sighed. “I’ll give it another go, and then I need you to keep an eye on him. The last thing we need is for him to escape.”
“Right-o. Shall I ring Bastian and see if he’s come to any conclusions on this new wrinkle?”
Mercer nodded, opening the door and stepping back inside. Welks had managed to tip over the chair and was sideways on the floor. He appeared to be in utter agony. He lifted his head off the ground and looked up at Mercer.
“Let me go,” Welks insisted, attempting to sound intimidating despite this submissive position.
“Do you prefer licking dirt off the ground?” Mercer asked, crouching to the man’s level and leaning back on his haunches. “Or would you like to be upright? There is no escape, and frankly, I don’t care what position you’re in because it won’t affect what I’m going to do to you.” The man remained silent, so Mercer stood and kicked him once in the stomach. The man let out a gasp, but being tied to the chair meant there was no way to protect the softer parts of his body. “Don’t jerk me around,” Mercer continued. “Why are you tailing Katia Rhoade?”
“I was hired to keep tabs on her.”
“By whom?” Mercer circled, but the man remained speechless. “I will find out. And the longer you make me wait, the worse it’ll be for you. Do you really want to die for some bloke that paid you to take pictures?”
“He’ll kill me.”
“And you don’t think I will?”
Welks audibly swallowed. “Who are you?”
“Does it matter?”
“You broke my fucking foot. You kidnapped me. You won’t get away with this.”
Mercer stopped pacing and remained completely still. “Do you hear that?”
“No. What?”
“That’s right. There isn’t a goddamn person coming for you. And trust me, there won’t be enough of you left for the authorities to make a positive identification.” Then he went to the door and slammed it shut, leaving the man inside.
“How’d it go?” Hans asked. The entire exchange had taken less than five minutes.
“Bloody fantastic,” Mercer retorted. “What’d Bastian say?”
“He’s working on phone records and client lists. He thinks he should have a name within the hour. He’s also researching Carlton’s communiqués in order to determine who sent the photos of Katia.”
“Check on the prisoner in twenty minutes and make sure he doesn’t try anything stupid. Keep him blind and deaf in terms of our identities and job, but if h
e decides to talk, you know what to ask.”
“How am I allowed to ask?” Hans mused, watching the darkness pass over Mercer’s face.
“Any way you’d like. But keep him alive,” Mercer went to the exit, “and try not to hobble him any worse than I’ve already done. In the unlikely event he’s nothing more than a pawn, he shouldn’t be permanently crippled.”
“Yes, sir.”
Considering his options, Mercer couldn’t afford for Welks to be located before he spilled his guts, so memorizing the man’s home address, Mercer took Welks’ car and parked it on a nearby neighborhood street. Hopefully, no one would be the wiser. Determined to search through the man’s house and belongings for a lead, Mercer took a single step onto the walkway but halted his procession when a woman emerged from the house. She offered a friendly smile.
“Can I help you?” she asked, obviously on her way to work at such an early morning hour.
Caught by surprise, Julian shook his head, but she continued to stare at him. “My apologies.”
He stepped off her walkway and continued down the street. The encounter rattled him. The last thing he wanted to do was drag an innocent into this mess, so he’d just have to wait to search Welks’ home when no one was around.
Returning to the hotel, Mercer hoped Bastian had a business address for Welks and some idea of who sent the photos to Carlton. They were getting closer. This would end soon enough; he could feel it.
Stopping by Bastian’s hotel room, the information was still being tracked and compiled. John Welks was a private investigator at Piper Investigations, a large security firm. It would be difficult to gain access to his office without tipping off building security and the staff, but that didn’t mean the files and client information couldn’t be accessed from off-site. Bastian was devising a plan. He also phoned Rowlins and informed him of the implied threat to Katia that Carlton had received. The detective hoped to obtain a warrant to review her apartment’s security footage for the last few months, so at least that was one less thing Bastian needed to worry about.
“Jules, get some sleep. You’ve been up all night. And if Katia’s life is actually in danger, you have to be sharp.”
Grudgingly, Mercer nodded, leaving this mess in the hands of his teammates. Returning to his room, he stripped down and got into bed. Sleep, he willed his mind. Turning off the outside noise was easy. It was a trick he learned from spending too many nights in warzones, but shutting off the internal noise was a bit more difficult. Forcing his mind to go blank, he finally fell into an uneasy sleep, but the nightmare came back.
When he came home that afternoon from the market, he never expected to find his wife on the kitchen floor like that. The grocery bag he was holding crashed to the floor. Glass jars shattered. Cans rolled to the corners of the kitchen, but he paid them no heed as he knelt on the floor, pulling her into his lap and begging for her to live. He would have gladly died in her place. Cradling Michelle in his arms, he held her impossibly close. She couldn’t breathe, and she was losing blood too quickly for anything to be done. He called for help, but by the time anyone arrived, she was gone. The paramedics had to pry her out of his arms, and after the police took one look at the apartment and his blood-soaked clothing, they arrested him on the spot.
Awakening with a start, he buried his face in his hands. Tremors coursed through him, and he labored to get his breathing under control. Despite his calloused exterior, his insides were shattered beyond recognition. The encounter with Welks was supposed to alleviate some of the inner turmoil through a justifiable channel for violence, but when he encountered the man’s wife leaving her house this morning, Julian knew that he couldn’t put an innocent person through this type of anguish. Welks might not be innocent, but his wife certainly was.
After spending another twenty minutes collecting himself, he showered and dressed. When he opened the bathroom door, he raised the Sig but quickly lowered it. Bastian was making himself comfortable in Julian’s room.
“I told you we’re not in the business of getting our hands dirty,” Bastian said, noticing Mercer’s clearly rattled visage. “It makes it worse. I know it does.”
“We needed answers.”
“Did you get them?”
“Not yet.” Mercer focused on the open laptop. “What did you find?”
“Fair warning, you’re not going to like it. It appears Mr. Welks is on retainer at Rhoade’s newspaper. What’s even more disturbing is the fact that there is no record of anyone hiring him to surveil Katia. I took a trip to the security firm, spoke to a few people, borrowed a computer or two, but whatever Welks is doing isn’t sanctioned.” Catching the ire burning through Mercer’s eyes, Bastian continued, hoping to put the fire out before something exploded. “That doesn’t mean John Welks is the stalker or responsible for this. From what Gladys said, most of the investigators freelance on the side.”
“Who the hell is Gladys?”
“The receptionist.”
Bastian continued to speak, but Mercer tuned him out. Welks said someone hired him, and whoever that someone was would kill him if he talked. That didn’t necessarily mean it was true, but normal people were more afraid of the devil standing in front of them instead of the one waiting in the wings.
“What about private phone records?” Mercer interrupted.
“I’m having trouble accessing them. Our mate at Interpol is working on it, but we don’t have them yet. And our copper friend doesn’t have enough evidence to get a court order for the records.”
“All right.” Julian turned and left, wondering if Katia would have any insights to share on these recent developments.
Fifteen
Mercer was tired of the norm. It was exhausting. This existence that he never wanted but was condemned to was wearing him down. Katia Rhoade was an heiress that had difficulty with the truth. Her father was equally untrustworthy, and Benjamin Styler’s activities and business practices were questionable. Why couldn’t anything be black and white? The important things were, or so it seemed. This should be simple, truthful, and the culprit should already have been dealt with. There was no reason for the added complications, but everyone’s questionable background and activities made straight answers practically impossible to obtain.
After picking Katia up from work, Mercer took her to the hospital and asked questions about her apartment renovation, the reason for it, her routine with Ben, and how frequently they dined at that particular restaurant before enjoying dessert in that alleyway. She blushed, angry and humiliated, but for once, she actually provided some answers. Her responses mimicked what Carlton and the hobo had told him the previous evening. It was apparent anyone who wanted to make a move against Katia or Ben would have had ample opportunity.
Benjamin Styler wasn’t any more adept at varying his routine. He typically worked from home but had a standing lunch meeting with a few of his business buddies to talk stocks and trading tips. The group of four or five men would exchange tips, share investment advice, and strategize on ways to land new clients. Nothing seemed particularly sinister about these meetings of the minds, but it forced Mercer to draw into question the reason why Styler would be indebted to some unsavory chaps.
“Do either of you know John Welks?” Mercer asked, shifting his gaze between Katia and Ben.
“Nope, doesn’t ring any bells,” Ben offered quickly.
“He works for my father,” Katia declared, giving Ben’s hand a squeeze. “You met him at the Christmas party. He’s that P.I. that they occasionally use for fact-checking.”
“Oh, right,” Ben said.
“What else does he do?” Mercer asked, hoping someone would say something useful.
“How the hell should we know?” Ben asked, but Mercer just shrugged. “You know something. You must, or you wouldn’t be asking these questions. Did he shoot me?”
“Benjamin,” Katia scolded, using his full name like a parent would a wayward child, “why would someone my dad employs want to shoo
t you?”
“Why, indeed.” Mercer arched an eyebrow. He wasn’t sure how, but he knew he had hit upon something. Now he just had to figure out how to get the information out of Styler.
Julian slipped into the background, letting the two lovebirds bicker over the implied accusation. When he couldn’t take the arguing any longer, he stepped into the hallway. Donovan was outside the room, filling in for Hans who was currently guarding Welks. Donovan shifted his gaze down the hallway, and Mercer spotted the two police officers stationed like sentries. Apparently sharing with Detective Rowlins came with a couple of perks.
“Are they fighting again?” Donovan asked when Katia’s voice carried through the door.
“They do this often?”
“A few times that I’ve noticed. She wants him to tell her about his debts and if that’s the reason someone wanted to kill him. He insists his debts have been paid, and that it’s old news. Then she cries and begs. He apologizes, and then they snog for a bit.” He shook his head, grinning. “Whenever he’s released, they’re going to have some wicked make-up sex.”
“But he won’t tell her who he owed. And he won’t tell us.” Mercer contemplated those facts for a moment, pondering what reason Styler would have for hiding such inconsequential facts. “We’ve checked his financials but didn’t find anything conclusive.”
A thought emerged, and after giving Donovan instructions to take Katia home when she was ready to leave, Mercer went down the hallway, nodded curtly to the LEOs, and took the car to the warehouse. He had a few new questions to ask Mr. Welks. Since Welks was Carlton Rhoade’s private investigator, he might know plenty about Ben Styler and his business transactions. Luckily, earlier that morning, Mercer had done his research on Welks, but the man had few exploitable weaknesses and no known vices.
Bastian had run a preliminary background on John Welks. He was a private investigator for Piper Investigations, and his main client at the firm was Carlton Rhoade’s newspaper. Welks owned a small townhouse and had been married for eleven years to Teresa Landon Welks, a college professor. Their joint bank account was decent but not particularly extravagant. They had no children and a limited number of extended family members. On paper, Welks was just a working class stiff.