by Ty Patterson
‘Nope.’ The Toyota hung back for a moment, raced forward as soon as an opening presented itself, and settled on their tail.
‘Plate?’
‘Got it.’ Beth drew out her phone, which was hooked to Werner, and punched in the number. Werner responded in an instant.
‘Owned by Fairchild and Smith. A midtown law firm.’
‘Never heard of them.’
‘It isn’t large. Twenty partners. New York–based … hmmm.’
‘What?’
‘They represent criminals. Drug dealers. Cartels.’
‘They put that up on their website?’ Meghan exclaimed.
‘No, but Werner identified some of their cases.’
‘I don’t want to lead them back to our office.’
‘So?’
Meghan turned on her left flasher, stopping in front of a bank. She and Beth hopped out and headed to the entrance, both of them adjusting their shades.
Their Ray-Bans were counter-surveillance devices not available in any retail outlet. Each pair had tiny cameras in the stems that projected the rear view onto the lenses.
‘They’ve stopped,’ Beth said in her earpiece. ‘Right behind our ride.’
They entered the bank, made a show of going to the counter and talking to the teller, exited and, midway to their ride, broke away and sprinted to the Corolla.
Meghan grabbed the rear door, slid in, and jammed her Glock in the driver’s neck. A move so smooth and so fast that the driver, a white male with close-cropped hair, had no time to react.
‘Talk, or die,’ she growled as Beth dived in next to her and gouged her weapon into the passenger’s side.
‘Hey!’ the driver shouted, ‘You can’t do this!’
‘We just did. Who are you, and why are you following us?’
‘Let’s cap them,’ Beth suggested. ‘They’re amateurs. They won’t know anything. They won’t be missed. We can save our questions for the partners at Fairchild and Smith.’
‘Good idea,’ Meghan agreed, noticing the way the driver stiffened at the mention of the law firm. ‘You got a spare set of clothes? It’ll get messy here.’
‘Yeah. In our ride. I’ve got towels in my pocket to wipe our prints.’
The passenger choked off a moan when Beth jammed her barrel in his side. ‘Stop that,’ she said, annoyed. ‘You had your chance to tell us who you are. You lost it.’
‘You aren’t going to kill us,’ the driver said confidently, trying to look back at them. His head rocked forward when Meghan slashed at his temple.
‘We aren’t?’ Beth asked her sister.
Meghan mulled it over, aware that the passenger had held his breath. ‘He’s right,’ she said regretfully, biting a grin when the breath whooshed out of the scared man.
‘However,’ her voice picked up, ‘we’ll do something worse.’
‘What’s that?’ Beth played along.
‘You got ties with you?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Secure his hands.’
She reached forward with one hand and fastened the driver’s hands to the wheel, ending any resistance by savagely jabbing him with her Glock.
‘Here’s what we’ll do,’ she announced when both men were secured. ‘We’ll tape their mouths shut. Write a note that these men were overpowered by two women. Take photos and videos and upload the whole lot to the Internet. Oh, and we’ll also send them to their employer.’
‘I’ll bet we’ll get millions of views.’
‘No one will employ them again. They’ll be the laughingstock of the world,’ Meghan agreed.
‘Douglas Fairchild,’ the passenger blurted.
‘Hank —’ the driver whispered harshly.
‘Ignore him, Hank,’ Meghan said warmly. ‘Look what partnering with him got you.’
‘Fairchild,’ the broken man whimpered when Beth prodded at him in warning. ‘He frequently hires us to follow people. He gave us your details —’
‘How long have you been following us? Meghan asked.
‘From the moment you left your office today.’
Her face darkened, her barrel pressing hard in the driver’s neck. I’m getting sloppy. I should have spotted them earlier.
‘You broke into our office?’ menace in her voice.
‘No, no,’ Hank whimpered. ‘He asked us to follow you and report back where you had been. Nothing more.’
‘Just who are you jokers?’ Beth asked.
‘Private investigators. Our firm’s in Brooklyn, but the law firm gives us most of our business. My license is in my wallet.’
‘Lift up,’ the younger sister ordered, extracting his wallet when Hank raised his butt.
She opened it with her left hand and removed his driver’s license. Hank Ketchum. The state license was made out to the same name.
‘Who are you?’ Meghan questioned the driver.
‘Chad Kowalski,’ he ground out.
She reached into Chad’s rear pocket and checked his details. He wasn’t lying. She nodded at her sister as she stuffed Kowalski’s wallet into her pocket.
‘You know who we are. You can tell the cops what happened.’
She got out, slamming the door on Kowalski’s curses.
‘We go to the law firm?’ Beth joined her on the sidewalk.
‘Yeah. Mr. Douglas Fairchild has questions to answer.’
Chapter Sixteen
Fairchild and Smith were on the tenth floor of a highrise on Park Avenue in Murray Hill. It had a private elevator that the sisters managed to get into by following a delivery man. Its reception area conveyed understated luxe. Framed watercolors and oil paintings graced the walls, each illuminated by its own light. Originals, I’ll bet, Meghan noted. The carpet on that wall … looks Tibetan.
‘Can I help you?’ a perfectly coiffured woman greeted them from behind a desk. A discreetly mounted earpiece flashed intermittently. Bluetooth. No old-fashioned telephone for this outfit.
‘We’re here to meet Douglas Fairchild,’ Meghan said.
‘The Third.’
‘Huh?’
‘Our managing partner’s Douglas Fairchild the Third,’ the receptionist explained. ‘I presume he’s the one you want to meet. He’s the only one with that name in our firm.’
‘Yeah.’ Imaginative name, she mouthed at Beth.
‘Do you have an appointment?’
‘No. Please tell him Meghan and Beth Petersen are here. I am sure he’ll see us.’
‘He doesn’t see anyone without an appointment.’
Meghan lost her patience. ‘Honey, tell your boss his goons didn’t succeed. That we are here. I’ll bet he’ll come out of his office galloping.’
Douglas Fairchild the Third didn’t gallop. He was statesmanly as he approached them. A man in his fifties, a thick head of black hair, slicked back, a pinstripe suit, blinding white shirt and a knotted silk tie. Everything about him said, trust me.
‘Meghan, Beth?’ he glanced at them.
‘I’m sure you know which one of us is who,’ Meghan told him bluntly.
He pursed his lips and gestured at them to follow him.
Fairchild had a corner office, a van Gogh hanging on one wall and a mahogany desk that looked like it weighed more than a battle tank.
‘I’m afraid there seems to be some misunderstanding,’ he began.
‘Save it,’ Meghan interrupted him. ‘We recorded the discussion we had with your heavies. We can play it for you if you wish.’
Fairchild didn’t move a muscle. He seated himself and pointed at two chairs. He deals with criminals. He must be used to aggressive clients.
‘Who hired you?’
‘I am not at liberty to tell you,’ the lawyer said, steepling his fingers. ‘My instructions were to have you followed. Nothing more. No contact was meant to take place.’
‘We made contact,’ Beth chortled. ‘Your men came out second-best. Are they the best you’ve got?’
Fairchild straightened a folder on h
is desk, one that needed no straightening. ‘If you came here to find out who my client is, you’ll be disappointed. I don’t think you know how law firms work. There’s something called client confidentiality.’
‘Gosh,’ Beth breathed, giving him a look of admiration. ‘That sounds so lawyerly and important. How would we know things like that? Did you, sis?’
‘Nope,’ Meghan replied and brought out her cell, making eye contact with Fairchild.
‘Last chance,’ she told him.
The lawyer didn’t break down and reveal.
She punched numbers and held the phone to her ear. ‘Mr. Konstantin, it’s me. We’re in Fairchild and Smith’s office, a law firm on Park Avenue. You’ve heard of them?’
The managing partner kept watching.
‘They’re small and represent criminals mostly. Cartels.’
Fairchild shifted uneasily, at that but didn’t say a word.
‘In your world, sir, I think it’s not uncommon for firms to be blacklisted.’
‘Yes, sir. If you could spread the word right away, that would be awesome. We wanted to know a particular client of his but he’s gone … yes, sir. Lawyers are like that. I want to ensure he gets no more clients. Thank you, sir.’
She hung up, and she and Beth rose without a word. They headed out and were nearing the door when Fairchild spoke up.
‘Was that Hiram Konstantin?’
‘Client confidentiality,’ Beth chuckled.
‘Wait!’ Fairchild looked flustered when he came around his desk. ‘It can’t come out that I said this.’
‘That won’t wash. Tell him we threatened you. Used physical force.’
‘Felix Hidalgo.’
‘Who’s he?’
‘A fence. One of the larger ones in the city.’
‘Drug dealer?’
‘No. I don’t deal with them,’ said the lawyer, straightening his tie righteously.
‘You represented a cartel.’
‘That was just the one time. Never again.’
‘Why did Hidalgo come to you?’
‘I didn’t ask and he didn’t tell. He pays a hefty retainer. There was nothing illegal in his request.’
‘He gave you our details?’
‘Yes. Photographs, address, who you were.’
‘Where can we find him?’
Fairchild hesitated for a moment, then caved in when Meghan started reaching for her phone.
‘In the evenings he’s usually at the Blue River, a bar in the Bronx. He owns it, plays cards with his men in a private room.’
‘We’ll play with him.’
Chapter Seventeen
‘I can’t stay here,’ Angie Konstantin sniffed, cupping a hand over her nose as she inspected the apartment.
Zeb had brought her to Woodhaven, Queens, to a terraced house they used occasionally. It had a fenced entrance, street parking, a small garden at the rear and an exit that opened into a park.
The furnishing was spartan. A couple of couches in the living room, a few books on a table, utilitarian kitchen and bedrooms.
‘It smells,’ she complained. ‘Why can’t we stay in a hotel?’
He opened the bedroom windows a crack, letting outside air waft in. Checked the intrusion detection systems and security cameras. They worked.
‘Zeb!’ she stamped her feet. ‘I’m talking to you.’
‘Hotels aren’t safe,’ he replied, lowering the blinds at the front and peering through them. He made a note of the vehicles parked. Later, he would check who they belonged to. No one seemed to be paying any special attention to the house. No men loitering, no one sitting in a car. He would go out when it became dark and check it out for himself.
‘What do you mean, hotels aren’t safe?’ Angie yelled. ‘I stay in them all the time. They’ve got good security.’
‘Those men came for you in your parking lot. You think hotel security will detect them?’
‘We’ll be safer here?’ she snorted.
‘Yes. No one followed us. No one knows we are here.’
He had confiscated her phone — an event in itself — before leaving, removed its battery and tossed it in his backpack. He had taken a long, circuitous route to get to the house, breaking off into side streets without signaling, doubling back frequently. He was confident they’d had no tails.
Hiram Konstantin was under explicit instructions not to make contact, not that he knew Zeb’s cell anyway. Zeb would update their status on a website each day, which was the only notification the billionaire would get. He had protested, but Zeb had been unmoved.
‘How long will she be away?’
‘As long as it takes,’ he had replied. ‘Of course, you can call it off any day. Take her back, arrange your own security, release us.’
He was hoping Konstantin would do just that. Angie will be trouble. The billionaire had been resigned; he had hugged his daughter and watched them depart.
‘There’s no TV!’ Angie wailed from behind.
Zeb sighed. He had close-protected many in his career. He had a feeling the heiress would turn out to be the most difficult. I hope Beth and Meg crack this quickly.
The Blue River was an in-demand establishment, judging by the line outside its doors. It was evening, Westchester Avenue was thick with slow-moving traffic. The bar was at a corner where the avenue merged with a smaller street.
There was a long line of commercial establishments next to the joint. A deli, a 99-cent mart, a saloon, several others. Hidalgo had done up the front of the bar to distinguish it from the otherwise drab-looking stores on the street.
A red carpet extended from its entrance. Suited heavies and doormen to greet patrons. Large, darkened windows, the muted sound of throbbing music.
Meghan drove to the rear street, which was quieter. A restaurant that didn’t look like it saw much traffic. Lines of cars parked on both sides as far as the eye could see, and residences.
The rear of the bar was cut away from the street, a small backyard leading to yet another set of dark windows. The sidewalk and the yard were separated by a waist-level concrete wall. The back side had a delivery entrance, which, too, was busy.
She found parking in front of an empty house, and the sisters headed back to the Blue River.
They showed NYPD IDs that the commissioner had provided, and on entering the establishment realized why it was popular. There was live jazz, and a wall-mounted program promised well-known local acts later.
They went to the bar and ordered drinks while they checked out the crowd. A mix of college kids and office workers, a few families. Well-spaced tables, and the menu boasted several choices.
‘Hidalgo owns it?’ Meghan sipped her drink and gave a cold stare to the man who smiled at her.
‘Nope. An entertainment company does.’ Beth sent a message to Mark and pocketed her phone. ‘You should date, you know. It’s good to have someone in your life.’
‘I date,’ Meghan objected.
‘Yeah,’ her sister sniffed. ‘You give casual a new definition. You should —’
‘We aren’t here to discuss my love life. Zeb?’
Beth showed her cell to Meghan, a green dot centered in the map of the Bronx. ‘He’s in position.’
All of them had GPS tags in their clothing and shoes. Werner tracked those and alerted them of any unusual activity.
‘He’s got a cell?’
‘Disposable. He’ll let us know when he needs to.’
‘How many entrances?’ Meghan pointed her drink in the general direction of the tables. Another man down the bar took that as an invitation and started moving towards them. Her glacial look stopped him and he turned away, flushing.
‘Three. The main one through which we entered.’ Beth sniggered at the byplay. ‘A VIP one at the side, and the one for deliveries at the rear.’
Meghan checked out the bar again. A hallway to the right of the bar led to the restrooms; however, there was another passage to the right.
They finis
hed their drinks and drifted to that hallway. They turned a corner and entered a large games room. A pool table, giant screens showing various sporting events, another bar, men and women lounging on couches.
Beth pointed to a discreet corridor off the end of the room. Several doors opened on to it; outside one stood a heavy.
‘Jackpot,’ Beth whispered. ‘I think.’
The man stiffened when they approached him.
‘NYPD,’ Meghan said authoritatively, flashing her credentials.
‘You’ll have to wait,’ the heavy growled.
‘The NYPD waits for no one.’ She shouldered past him and barged through the door.
She and Beth spread out on entering the room, taking in the scene swiftly.
Six men at a table, half-full glasses next to them. Cigar smoke in the air. A thick-set man, Hidalgo, his laugh dying at their entrance.
Meghan smiled, grabbed a chair and squeezed between two men, opposite the fence, and sat down.
‘We’d like to play, too.’
Chapter Eighteen
There was a split-second of silence, and then the room exploded. Several men rose, their chairs falling behind them. The heavy rushed inside the room.
Hidalgo didn’t react. He had a thin smile, a light in his eyes. He waited till his men were done shouting.
‘I don’t think they’re here to kill us.’ He dismissed the bodyguard and nodded at his men. They looked uncertainly at him and filed out of the room when he raised his eyebrows.
‘I wasn’t expecting you,’ he said, puffing on his cigar, a man confident in his environment.
‘Obviously,’ Meghan drawled. ‘Why were you having us followed?’
‘I wasn’t —’
‘Hidalgo,’ she said wearily, ‘you don’t look like a stupid man. You are the largest fence in the Bronx, the fourth or fifth largest in the city, depending on who’s counting. The cops have tried to arrest you several times, but they have never been able to gather evidence. So, you are smart. Apply those smarts. If we’re here, we know you were behind it.’
Hidalgo puffed. Sipped deep from his glass and sighed. ‘Maker’s Mark, best American bourbon. Tried it?’
‘We don’t drink whiskey.’