by Trace Conger
Normally, I wasn’t much for routines. If you do what I do for a living and you fall into a routine, bad things happen. It’s why I take different routes to and from my apartment every day and run errands at irregular hours. You never know who might be keeping eyeballs on you, but it’s better to be paranoid and safe than be predictable and dead. I suspended that philosophy every Friday for Becca. She relied on routine. Almost every hour of her school day was structured, and I’d learned over the years that she thrived in an environment that favored consistency. I did what I could to foster that need for routine, even if it meant looking over my shoulder every ten minutes while I shoved pizza down my throat. It was a small price to pay to watch my daughter smile while sword fighting my father with a garlic breadstick.
“So how’s Aunt Allison?” I said.
“She’s good. She’s really nice. And likes to bake cupcakes.”
“I remember she always loved the kitchen,” I said. I rarely used my daughter as an informant, but I couldn’t resist digging up some intel. “Has Daryl been by?” I bit into a slice of pizza and then recoiled as it singed the top of my mouth. “To see you and your mom?”
“No. She’s not talking to Daryl. She said they had a fight. That’s why we’re staying with Aunt Allison.”
“Right,” I said eyeing my father.
Becca blew on her pizza slice and took a small bite out of the end. “Aunt Allison doesn’t like Daryl either. She uses a lot of sandpaper words when she talks about him.”
“Does your aunt use a lot of those words when she talks about me?”
“No,” said Becca. “She uses some. But more when she talks about Daryl.” She took another bite. “Mom says I shouldn’t use sandpaper words.”
“That’s right,” I said. “You shouldn’t.”
“Why not?” said Albert. He winked at Becca. “They’re the best kind of words.” He raised a finger to signal the waitress for the check. “Tell me about cheerleading, kiddo. How’s that going?”
“It’s fun. We’re still having practice. We haven’t had our first game yet. Mom wrote it on the calendar.” She turned to me. “Are you coming to the basketball game?”
“I wouldn’t miss it,” I said. “Do you know all your cheers?”
“Still learning ‘em. I’ll know ‘em by the game.”
“I didn’t know they fielded a basketball team for second graders,” said Albert. “Probably not many dunks.”
“It’s non-competitive,” I said. “They go at a slower pace, and they don’t keep score.”
“Don’t keep score? How do they know who wins?”
“That’s why it’s called non-competitive.”
“Sounds like a waste of time to me. Not to keep score.” Albert pointed his slice at me. “You seen the cheerleading outfits? They’re not inappropriate are they?”
“Haven’t seen ‘em, but it’s a Catholic school. How bad could they be? They’re probably wearing turtlenecks and parkas.”
“Good,” said my father. “Because if they’re wearing anything short, I’ll have some sandpaper words for the administration.”
The waitress brought the check in a black leather case. Albert paid in cash as I polished off the last slice of pizza. We left Dewey’s and hit the ice cream parlor across the street. Two hours later, I tucked Becca into bed in our guest room. I turned in a few hours after.
ON SATURDAY, BECCA AND I went to the zoo and then spent a few hours at an outdoor playground downtown. Albert made some chicken dish for dinner and we made it halfway through a Harry Potter movie before Becca fell asleep in my arms on the couch. I dropped her off at Aunt Allison’s house early on Sunday morning so she and Brooke could make the 9:00 am church service.
Then I got back to work.
Nineteen
FROM HIS ESCALADE, THE MAN in the green cap opened a bottle of apple juice and tore open the pre-made turkey sandwich he’d grabbed from the gas station down the street. His eyes moved from the sandwich to the cell phone on his dashboard to the Shillito Lofts apartment complex a hundred yards in front of him.
He watched as a Lincoln Navigator pulled into the lot. The driver stepped out of the vehicle, looked over his shoulder to survey the lot, and climbed the steps to the fourth-floor unit.
AFTER DROPPING OFF BECCA AT her aunt’s house, I returned to my apartment to the smell of sizzling bacon and the sight of Albert manning the stove in his bathrobe. He squinted and looked at me over his thin bony nose. “So spill it,” he said.
“Spill what?”
“Daryl’s situation.” He slipped two eggs from a skillet onto a plate. “I’ve been biting my tongue all weekend. What’s going on?”
“Daryl’s handlers agreed to cut him lose if I find someone for them.”
“Who do you have to find?”
“They’ve been using a private banker. Seems he up and left town with their cash. They want me to find him and bring back their money.”
Albert used a fork to lift six strips of bacon out of the skillet, blotted them with a paper towel, and placed them next to the eggs. “How hard will he be to find?”
“It’s not going to be easy. They didn’t give me much to go on. No name, no description, and no address. Just a disconnected phone number.”
“Not much to work with.”
“Thanks, Dad. I know.” I looked at the plate. “Are you going to eat all of that?”
“It’s not for you,” he said placing the plate on the table. “I’ve been thinking. Maybe you could use some help on this. Make sure it gets done right and quick. I don’t like the idea of my granddaughter hanging in the balance.”
“No thanks, I don’t want to get you wrapped up in this, too. I can handle it.”
“Christ, I wasn’t going to help you, but I know someone who can.”
I ran through the mental Rolodex of Albert’s known associates. The only one dumb enough to get roped into something like this was Mitch Skinner, but he was pushing seventy and lived 1,200 miles away in the backwoods of Maine.
“No offense, Dad, but I think this is a bit higher than Mitch Skinner’s pay grade.”
“Hell no. I wouldn’t drag Mitch into this. He’d get us all killed. I’ve got someone else in mind.” He poured a cup of coffee and set it down next to the plate.
“I said no thanks. I’ve got it under control.”
“Don’t sound like it.”
“I’ve got it covered,” I said.
Albert pointed to his breakfast. “Don’t touch that. I’ll be right back.” He slipped the wireless phone from its cradle on the end table, walked into his bedroom, and closed the door. I walked into the kitchen and grabbed a coffee mug from the cabinet.
THE MAN IN THE GREEN CAP polished off his turkey sandwich, crushed the plastic wrapper in his hand, and plunged it into the empty apple juice bottle. He sat back in the driver’s seat and watched as someone on the fourth floor raised a window shade. He pulled his hat down over his eyes and watched the apartment breezeway until the buzzing cell phone on the console shattered his concentration.
MY FATHER HAD ONLY BEEN in his bedroom for a few minutes when he returned to the kitchen and poured a second cup of coffee.
“I said I could handle it, dad. I don’t need you bringing in some ringer to mess things up.”
He blew across the top of the mug and took a sip. “This guy can help you. He’s really good.”
“Who did you call?”
There was a knock at the door.
I looked at Albert, who took another sip of his coffee. “You better get that,” he said.
I walked toward the front door, slipped the .45 from my messenger bag on the kitchen table, and held it tight behind my back. I stood on the left side of the doorframe and torqued my body so I could look through the peephole while staying away from the center of the door. I squinted and peered through the tiny lens.
On the other side, partially distorted from the concave lens and obscured by a green baseball cap, my brother Conn
or stared back at me.
Twenty
CONNOR WAS FIVE YEARS OLDER than me. When I was in the seventh grade, he graduated high school and then left for the Army the next day. He did his basic and AIT in in Missouri. Then he went onto Airborne School and completed Ranger School at Fort Benning, Georgia. I lost the thread from there.
Aside from returning home for my mother’s funeral five years ago, I hadn’t seen him since. Albert provided sporadic updates on Connor over the years, and the last I remembered, he was living somewhere near Boston.
“You’ve got to be shitting me,” I said to my father as I dropped the weapon back inside my messenger bag and then opened the door.
“Hello Finn,” said Connor. He winked and then slipped off his green baseball cap and handed it to me as he stepped over the threshold. He looked at Albert who still stood in the kitchen sipping his coffee. “Dad.”
My father smiled and nodded as if he’d just seen Connor yesterday.
“What the shit?” I said tossing the cap onto the dining room table.
He slapped me on the shoulder. “It’s been awhile.”
“Five years,” I said. “What are you doing here?”
“Had a problem in town and needed to take care of it. Thought I’d swing by and see you two.”
“Just in time,” said Albert. “Finn’s got himself in a bit of a pickle.” He pointed to the kitchen table. “Connor, I made breakfast.”
I looked at my father and contemplated for a moment crushing his skull with the still steaming skillet on the stovetop.
“That so?” said Connor “Spill it.”
“I’m not in a pickle,” I said.
“Then what is it? Maybe I can help you out.”
“Look, Connor, no offense, but this is something I need to handle myself.” I turned back to Albert. “I’m not swapping out brake pads here.”
“You don’t think I’m qualified to help?” said Connor.
“I don’t know a goddamn thing about you.”
“What do you want to know?” he said.
“You can start by telling me why you’re really here.”
“I had business in Cincinnati,” he paused. “Defense and security consulting.”
“Elaborate,” I said.
He paused, as if thinking about how much he really wanted to tell me. “Okay, if you really want to know, I had to mop up a little fallout thanks to someone putting a few slugs into Charles Bishop.”
Charles Bishop was a black-market information broker who hired me on my last case. He paid me to find someone who was blackmailing him, and after I did, he set me up and handed me to his competition who tied me to a chair and tried to suffocate me with a nasty mix of ammonia and plant fungicide. A business associate of mine plugged Bishop in his RV before skipping town. When Bishop first hired me he mentioned getting my contact information from an associate in Boston. At the time, I had no reason to think it was my brother who set our relationship in motion. Now it was clear.
“That was you?” I said. “You sent Bishop to me?”
He nodded. “I’ve been keeping tabs on you and Dad for awhile. I followed your career as a PI. Heard you lost your license, got divorced, and then went off the grid. Also heard you started working underground after losing the PI gig. I run in some of the same circles. Heard about the Bishop job, figured you could use the cash, and thought I’d throw you a bone.”
“That bone tried to kill me,” I said.
“And I’m sincerely sorry about that. I’d worked with Bishop on and off for a few years, and I thought he was solid. I didn’t know things would turn out the way they did. Figured I could hook you two up and it would be a long-term thing. Stability doesn’t come around too often in our business.”
“And what kind of business are you in, Connor? I thought you were an Army Ranger.”
“I am, but I’ve got a side business that introduces people like you to people like Bishop. The Army helped me establish a lot of relationships with people who have a variety of skill sets.” Connor’s phone buzzed. He slipped it from his pocket and looked at the screen. “I help people make connections with others who can help them do whatever it is they need to do.”
“You’re some type of criminal recruiter?” I said.
“Are you a criminal, Finn?”
“I don’t classify myself as such.”
“Neither do I. But sometimes things need to get done, and sometimes I help figure out who’s going to do it.” He studied my face. “Finn, I really am sorry about Bishop. I had no idea things would turn that way. I hope you at least made some cash before the shit hit the fan.”
“I broke even,” I said.
“Sorry it didn’t go better.” Connor checked his phone again. “So, I honored my side of the bargain. Told you why I’m here. Now it’s your turn. Tell me what you got cooking? I’d really like to help.”
Even though I hadn’t seen Connor in five years, I could see in his eyes that he was sincere. Holbrook wasn’t someone I was used to dealing with, and the idea of having to find the Banker with nothing to go on and my ex-wife and daughter in the balance made my stomach do summersaults. I wasn’t sure if I could pull this off alone, and if I had to have someone in my corner, Connor seemed as good as anyone. He also said he made some connections in the Army, and sometimes connections are what make or break a case.
“What do you know about finding people who don’t exist?” I said.
“More than you might think.”
Connor’s phone buzzed again. He checked the screen and shook his head. “I’ve got to take care of something that can’t wait. I’ll be back first thing tomorrow and we can get started finding your man. You can fill me in then.”
“You just got here,” I said.
“I know.” He held up his phone. “Blowback. It can’t wait. You’ve got my word. Starting tomorrow, I’m all yours. No distractions until we take care of this.” Connor reached out and shook my hand. “It really is good to see you again, little brother.” He waved to Albert who nodded back.
“You too,” I said watching Connor grab his cap and walk out of the apartment.
“Guess you can have it,” said Albert.
“Have what?”
“The breakfast.”
Twenty One
OVER THE YEARS I’D FOUND a slew of people. They ranged from bail jumpers to insurance scammers to hackers and career criminals. Most, if not all, of these people thought they’d covered their tracks, but none of them did. Finding someone is easy when you know where to look, and thanks to the Internet, most databases are available online, which means you can find almost anyone in a day or two without leaving the comfort of the couch. And they’ve got databases for everything. Motor vehicle registration, criminal records, marriage licenses, fishing licenses, credit bureaus, social security databases. The options are endless, and no matter how much a skip tries to hide one area of their identity, they always forget something simple, and that’s how I nail them.
The secret is in the profile. A profile is a data sheet, complete with all the details of someone’s life. Birthdate, social security number, spouse’s name, previous addresses, current or past employers. All of these components are like breadcrumbs. Everyone leaves breadcrumbs, and once I find one, I’ll find another, and then another until they lead me right to your door. No one can disappear completely, no one I’ve been hired to find anyway. All it takes is time, patience, and knowing which rock to look under.
My last case—finding a no-name hacker who was blackmailing my client, Bishop—was my hardest to date, but thanks to a lucky break, I cracked that case in a few days. It all came down to an Internet forum post from nearly a decade ago. That’s what gave up my mark. A simple post to an IT forum. An afterthought to him, and a nail in his coffin for me.
But in all of my past cases, I had something to work with. A name, an email address, a past, a place to start. This case was different. The Banker’s entire business model rested on his ability to r
emain anonymous. I was fascinated by the story Holbrook told me, but what enthralled me the most was the dichotomy of the relationship, one built on trust and anonymity, two things that usually don’t play nice with one another. But this was a symbiotic relationship. Both the Banker and his clients coexisted in the underbelly of the same criminal ecosystem.
The criminal organizations the Banker worked with needed a secure channel where they could deposit and withdraw cash. Traditional banks were out. But, any of these clients, if they knew the Banker’s identity, could make a play for his cash, removing him and possibly their own competition from the gene pool. Everyone had something big to lose. For the Banker it was his life, and for his clients, it was their bankroll. As long as everyone stayed in line, they all flourished under the model, but if anyone broke the unspoken commitment to live and let live, everyone could wither away. And that’s what was happening. Either one of the Banker’s clients discovered his identity and location, buried him under a few feet of concrete, and took the bankroll, or the Banker finally decided to make a run with the cash. Neither scenario comforted me.
CONNOR RETURNED TO OUR APARTMENT at 8:00 am the next morning. I’d been awake for two hours and was already on my second pot of coffee. Albert still snored from the comfort of his bedroom as Connor and I dove into the case.
“Where do you want to start?” said Connor slipping off his beige jacket and laying it over a chair.
“How about we start with you telling me where you’ve been for the last five years and why I haven’t heard from you since Mom’s funeral?”
“This again? I told you why I was here. About Bishop.”
“You told me why you’re here, but not where you’ve been.”
“Finn, look, by the end of the case you’ll know everything there is to know about me, but I’d rather get started on finding your friend. The past five years can wait.”