A Tsar's Gold (Parker Chase Book 6)

by Andrew Clawson

  “You got it, Carl.” He reached out, then stopped. “Mind if I take a look?”

  Carl gestured to the bar. “Of course.”

  In truth, Parker wasn’t just impressed. He was nervous. No sane person walked around with almost thirty pounds of gold in their briefcase without a good reason. And when this much untraceable money was involved, reasons tended to be less than pure.

  “Hold on a second.” Parker traced a line of script carved into the metal. “This is Cyrillic.” He leaned back. “Why do you have Russian gold?”

  “You are a man of finance. The world grows smaller every day. Money flows from one country to the next with little regard for man-made borders. Is it surprising my business interests include Russian organizations? On certain occasions, payment is made in gold.”

  Parker nodded. “Fair enough. Must have been a big transaction to get this as payment.”

  “I have had many years to accumulate wealth.”

  “Okay, Carl. Consider me intrigued.” He turned the bar over and found what looked like a coat of arms on the back. “Why bring this gold to me?” Parker asked as he returned the metal brick.

  “Not all business transactions need be broadcast on the evening news.” Carl closed the briefcase and set it beside him. “I have heard you are a man well versed in moving gold. If my sources are correct, then I imagine a portion of your capital originated as precious metal. I propose a mutually beneficial agreement.”

  Parker didn’t like veering too close to where his money came from. He’d helped some very powerful men with a problem not long ago, nearly dying more than once in the effort. Part of their thanks had included helping him move the capital to start his investment firm without the normal scrutiny. Considering one of those men had lived at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue at the time, the process had gone smoothly.

  “I’m not interested in going to jail.”

  “Neither am I,” Carl said. “I merely wish for help liquidating these assets. A private transaction, if you will.”

  Parker was well versed in the law surrounding gold dealing. A single private transaction using certain cash instruments, such as a cashier’s check, had to be reported only if the amount involved was ten grand or less. Over that and the law assumed banks did their due diligence when issuing the instrument. As soon as actual cash or multiple cash instruments were involved, however, then the reporting requirement kicked in.

  “You want to turn that bar into cash.”

  “I assume you can pay with a check?” Carl asked.

  The man knew his rules. “How urgent is this request?”

  “Not so urgent it must happen today,” Carl said. “However, I prefer to move expediently. Would you consider within a week’s time?”

  “Tell you what,” Parker said. “I’m interested. Give me a day and then I’ll be in touch. Does that work?”

  Carl said it did. Now Parker had enough time to verify the old man’s story. If Carl really had known his dad, then Parker was on board. Gold was a safe investment, and Parker had plenty of cash. An extra bar in his safe deposit box couldn’t hurt.

  “Here is my card.” Carl handed his contact details to Parker. “After you consider my proposal, I suggest meeting at my home office.”

  Parker normally didn’t make house calls, but he wasn’t going to say no when gold bars were involved. “I can do that.”

  After showing him to the door, Parker watched Carl disappear onto the elevator. The doors closed, and Parker stood still, thinking. Talking about his father was not something he did often, and the subject coming at him out of left field had left him unsettled. Not in a bad way. More out of sorts. He turned and walked back to his desk, where his eyes were drawn to the two framed photos on it. One location, two different shots. The first was Parker flanked by his parents, he in his college football uniform, eye black smeared on his face. Taken on the field after a game, it never failed to make him smile. Such different times, back when the world hadn’t yet punched him in the mouth.

  Beside it, another snapshot taken the same night. Parker in uniform, sweaty and happy, his arm around the slender blonde girl he’d chased for so long. This picture brought different memories. First, ones he loved. Then a different kind.

  He shook his head. What the hell are you waiting for? There’s no way Carl Ellis would show up and weave such a grandiose lie about working with Parker’s father, not when Parker could verify it so easily. Whatever Carl’s motives, and they were none of Parker’s business, he’d come asking for help. The kind of help Parker was uniquely situated to give. If his father had seen something worth believing in Carl, there was no reason Parker shouldn’t do the same.

  Parker jumped from his chair and ran down the hall. The guy might be in shape, but he had to be approaching eighty. He couldn’t have gotten far with that gold brick weighing him down. Stabbing the elevator button, Parker exhausted every bit of his patience waiting for two seconds and then took the stairs, running around and around, down five flights before he hit ground level. He got to the main lobby in time to catch a glimpse of Carl disappearing through the revolving front door.

  Cool autumn air snaked down Parker’s shirt when he stepped outside. Carl had made it to the street corner, blending almost seamlessly into the other pedestrians, and was about to cross when Parker shouted. “Hey, Mr. Ellis.” He yelled again. Carl turned to peer back down the street, shielding his eyes against the sun as Parker waved, heading toward him.

  Which was why Carl never saw the man who raced down the sidewalk and smashed him to the pavement. A woman screamed, and Parker ran towards the old man. Fast as he could, shouldering through the crowded sidewalk, catching glimpses of the assailant as he moved. Parker couldn’t believe it. The guy was punching Carl, wrestling with him on the sidewalk.

  To Parker’s astonishment, Carl flipped the attacker over his head and onto the street. I’m coming, Carl. By now Parker had shouted his name, yelling at him to run, but Carl didn’t get up quickly. Too many people stood between them, most unaware of the struggle taking place just a few feet ahead.

  Car horns blared as the assailant got to his feet and ran back at Carl. Now he grabbed for the briefcase, his hands clutching at the handle. But Carl had other ideas. He held on, that iron grip of his locked onto the briefcase even as he was dragged away from Parker and down the street. Parker shoved past the last person in his way as the assailant ripped at the briefcase, twisting Carl around and sending him flying.

  Carl went headfirst into a brick wall with a sickening thud and dropped to the ground, his neck twisted past the point of no return. Parker crouched and felt briefly for a pulse at the old man’s neck – nothing – and then looked up as the assailant ran down the street, briefcase in hand.

  Parker took off at full steam, not bothering to dodge anyone this time. The man he chased left a small wake in the crowds which Parker moved through at speed. The guy glanced over his shoulder, spotted Parker on his heels. His eyes grew wide before he turned and kept running.

  He sprinted into an intersection against the light. A gray SUV with music pouring from the windows barreled through just as the man stepped into traffic. The impact sounded like a shotgun blast. Tires screeched, and the man went airborne, shouting as he cartwheeled through the air. For a moment Parker thought the man would land on his feet and keep going. He’s still holding the briefcase.

  The man crashed into the windshield of a car coming the other way. Red bloomed on the broken glass before the car rammed into the stopped SUV, sending the man’s mangled body flying once more. It hit the pavement inches from Parker’s feet, bounced and cut his legs out from under him. Parker ended up lying next to what was clearly a corpse. The world was silent for a heartbeat before a cacophony erupted. A piece of paper had fallen out of the man’s pocket and lay on the street. No, not paper. A photo, with something written under it. Parker recognized that face. In that instant, he made a decision. Grab the case, get out of here. There could be more of them.


  Whoever them were. Then the noise came: horns blowing, people screaming, the SUV driver shouting an impressive string of profanities. Parker scooped up the photo and briefcase, then ran back to Carl’s body, knelt beside it and grabbed a set of keys from Carl’s pocket before melting into the crowd. He didn’t look back, wondering with every step why the text scrawled on the photo wasn’t in English. It was Cyrillic.

  Chapter 2

  Pittsburgh

  The house in Pittsburgh’s Squirrel Hill neighborhood didn’t command attention. It was easy to miss, hidden in among the sprawling mansions on multiacre lots this well-to-do enclave of the city was known for. The sort of house you’d look right past because the ones around it screamed to be seen, the big stone-and-brick mansions offering perfect cover for a man who valued his privacy but still wanted neighbors. A man like Carl.

  “You’ve got nice digs, Carl.” Parker waited in his car, parked down the street from Carl’s house, soft pressure on his waist where a pistol was holstered. The property taxes alone in this neighborhood were more than the cost of most people’s homes. If Carl could afford to live here, the gold brick in his briefcase wasn’t the only one he had. Though right now it looked as though there were dark shadows surrounding anything in his life. Parker only had to look at the blood-stained photograph in his hand to know that.

  The snapshot was a recent image of Carl, getting out of a new-model BMW. Nothing in the background hinted at where it had been taken, though the key fob had the luxury automaker’s label on it. When Parker flipped the photo over, he saw that Carl’s name and home address had been scrawled in tight script across the back. The address was in English, but his name was in what Parker assumed was Cyrillic.

  Questions buzzed through his mind, not the least of which was whether he had made a terrible mistake. Why grab the briefcase? Now it seemed foolish at best. The cops would love to hear his explanation for what was inside. Yes, officer, I knew the gold was in there. Why did I leave? Because my gut said this was wrong. That, and because every time I’ve seen people murdered, there was more than one person coming for them.

  Which made his decision even worse. It was true about the dead people; for a number of hard-to-believe reasons he’d seen several people killed, and each time there wasn’t just one killer involved. If the man who killed Carl had backup around, Parker had just put himself squarely in his sights. There was more going on here than robbery.

  Parker’s eyes fell to what had been written beneath the address. Not that he could read it. This text was also Cyrillic, the written form of Russian. Which set Parker’s internal alarms banging. Carl shows up at his office toting a gold bar with Cyrillic writing on it, then minutes later is killed by a man carrying the dead guy’s photo, which also has Cyrillic writing on the back of it.

  Why did the Russian go after Carl? Where did Carl get the gold? Why come to Parker with it? Parker had no idea, but Carl’s house seemed the best place to look for answers. Only now, Parker had another question to answer. Did he really want to do this?

  Of course he did. Parker drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. Why, when two men had already died? Two reasons. The first was that he needed to know more. He assumed the killer had friends on the street who even now were searching for the guy who had run off with a golden briefcase. Parker was fairly certain he hadn’t been followed, but that mattered little if the killer’s associates knew where Carl lived. Parker frowned. Better get moving.

  Parker hopped out of the car before he could convince himself otherwise. The keys in his pocket jingled. Not his keys. Carl’s. Why take them? He hadn’t thought about it at the time – just acted. Carl had requested the next meeting be at his house. If Parker wanted to figure out why Carl had died, he needed to get inside. Simple as that.

  A lady in trendy exercise gear walked toward him, led by two golden retrievers. Parker offered her a big smile. Act like you belong. She flashed perfect teeth and kept moving, leaving Parker to dart across the street, slowing beneath the shade of elm trees running along the side of Carl’s driveway. Birds chirped, a distant lawnmower engine barely ruffled the still air, and Parker walked up to Carl’s front door as though it were his own.

  He checked every direction; no one in sight. No alarm company signs in the yard or on the door. Nothing visible through either narrow window framing the thick wooden door. Go for it. Carl had three keys on his keychain. The first key Parker chose twisted in the lock and the deadbolt slid free. Whispering a silent prayer to anyone who happened to be listening, he inched the door open, teeth gritted. A thick silence greeted him. No alarms, no keypads flashing on the wall. Carl seemed to trust an old-fashioned lock and key. Parker slipped inside and locked the door behind him.

  A wide-open floor plan stretched in front of him. Polished floors and sharp lines suggested a European efficiency, with a wide staircase to his right leading downstairs. A matching one led upstairs, though something told Parker to go south first. One room was partitioned off from the main area, which Parker found to be Carl’s bedroom. The bed was neatly made, sharp creases in the sheets. A pair of pajamas sat folded on one pillow. After checking the closet for a safe and coming up empty, he headed for the staircase as a thought struck him. Carl didn’t have a single picture in his bedroom. No wife, children, not even an old dog.

  Downstairs was much the same: an open plan with one room sectioned off. However, this room was much bigger, taking up nearly half the floor. A partially closed door blocked his view, and Parker hesitated, one hand on the knob. He hadn’t made an effort to be silent. Anyone waiting inside knew he was here. He put one hand over the pistol concealed inside his waistband. The door slid open to reveal an empty office.

  Glass doors stretched across the rear wall, offering a peaceful view of the tree line running along Carl’s property. Parker did a double-take when a doe walked out of the woods, stopping to nibble at the luscious grass Carl had clearly cared for. Then he took in Carl’s office. And damned if he wasn’t a tad jealous. The man had made this his own.

  A billiard table took up one side of the room, with a massive leather couch nearby, facing a television hung on the wall. Two framed paintings were on another wall, one of an old man with an angel, the other a Van Gogh. A table nearby displayed some sort of typewriter, along with several placards hanging above it. The sheer oddity of the device drew him to it. A wooden case held it, with the lid propped open to reveal a keyboard with two sets of keys. Only one set looked like an actual typewriter. The other was a series of flat glass bulbs that looked as though they could light up from beneath. Sockets for plugs ran along the bottom, and three rotors were above the glass keys. Lights and wires ran inside the lid, which also had a small placard affixed to the underside. If Parker could read German, he might have an idea of what it said. He snapped a photo with his phone, then ran it through a translation website.

  Parker gave the website a minute to do its thing and headed to Carl’s desk. Two old steamer trunks sat on either side, the kind people used before air travel became common. Both had heavy latches on the front of them, and both proved empty, though one had been reinforced with metal bars. It thumped with authority when Parker lifted it and dropped it back to the ground.

  He sat in the padded chair and looked at the desk. A stack of vellum stationery sat to one side of it, heavy-duty paper with Carl’s name written across the top. Very old-school stuff, which Parker could appreciate. A fountain pen stood upright in a holder beside a lamp, with a calendar off to one side. What grabbed his attention, however, was the framed photo on the desk. The first picture he’d seen in the entire house.

  A middle-aged woman stood alongside a young boy. If Parker squinted, the woman had more than a passing resemblance to Carl. Possibly Carl’s sister, posed with her son. The boy was no older than four or five. The photo had been taken in front of a small house; in the background was a car with what looked like European registration plates.

  Parker glanced at his watch. He’d already been
here nearly five minutes. He found the top desk drawer unlocked and rifled through the contents. Pens, a calculator, Carl’s checkbook. He flipped through it and discovered Carl had over a hundred grand in his checking account. Not surprising considering the guy had walked around with a gold bar. None of the other drawers provided any useful information, and all were unlocked. Only when he grabbed the final drawer and pulled did he encounter resistance. It wouldn’t budge.

  He pulled out the key ring. The lock clicked on his first try. The drawer slid open to reveal a metal safe with a thick book resting atop it. Parker picked up the book and felt a bulge on the back cover. The bulge turned out to be another key. One of the old skeleton variety.

  “Why hide this in here?” He laid the key on top of Carl’s desk then turned his attention to the book. The front cover was bare, and when he opened it, he saw that handwritten words filled the pages, line after line stretching to the back cover.

  “It’s a journal.” Carl had kept notes on a regular basis, dating each entry, going back a long time. This book could be a detailed account of Carl’s life, or explain in detail why he had the gold bar. Parker couldn’t tell, because the entire book was written in German.

  He flipped back to the first page, where a series of three dots grabbed his attention. They were set at the very beginning of the writing – the ellipsis a writer used to indicate a thought continued from earlier. Hold on. If that was true, there might be another journal. Maybe several of them. A search of Carl’s desk revealed nothing, and re-checking the rest of his office proved fruitless as well.

  A distant car horn blared outside and Parker jumped. He’d been in here too long. Everyone knew their neighbors in places like this. All it would take was someone calling the cops and Parker would have a lot of explaining to do.

  Think, think… Where would Carl hide his other journals? He glanced around the room again, then looked at the journal again. Did it really matter whether there were others? Perhaps the answer was in his hand and all he had to do was find someone to translate it. He could punch each page into a translation website, which should give him the gist of what Carl had recorded, but it would take forever. Or he could find a friend who spoke German and hope they could keep a secret. Neither option appealed to him.