Fifth Victim tcfs-9

by Zoe Sharp

  ‘You know Epps?’ I said. It hardly needed to be a question.

  ‘I guess just about everybody knows Conrad Epps,’ she said, pulling a face. ‘Unfortunately.’

  Oh yeah, you know Epps all right …

  ‘Word is that he’s been attempting to track a certain fugitive for the past couple of months – without success. Until now, that is,’ she continued. ‘It would seem that the guy they’re after has just popped up on the radar in Omaha, Nebraska, of all places.’

  I was aware of a burning sensation in my chest, which I recognised as both relief and resentment. So, they’d got him back again – maybe. But for how long? Looked at coldly, how could Epps actually charge him without having to admit his own mistakes? And if his guys slipped in and grabbed him again, quick and quiet, who’s to say he’d ever be called to any kind of account anyway?

  I sighed. ‘Look, this is all very interesting, Gleason,’ I said. ‘And I appreciate Mr Eisenberg feeling the need to keep me informed, but I don’t see—’

  ‘I have it on very good authority – the best, as a matter of fact – that nobody will be going to check out this lead until Monday,’ she cut in. ‘We’ve confirmed that one of Epps’s guys is booked on a flight out of LaGuardia early Monday morning.’

  Today was Friday. That gave the whole of the weekend for something to spook the guy. For him to disappear, escape, evade. Again …

  ‘So?’

  Gleason studied her fingernails. ‘Mr Eisenberg believes you would like the personal satisfaction of being the one to bring this fugitive in yourself,’ she said. ‘Or … taking whatever alternative action you deem appropriate.’

  ‘Why?’ I seemed to be reduced to speaking in monosyllables, but it was the best I could manage.

  Gleason found a rough edge on her thumbnail and frowned over it, as she said casually, ‘Because you caught the man who killed his son.’

  ‘That was something of a team effort.’

  She shrugged. ‘He still reckons he owes you, for some reason,’ she said. ‘Take some advice – if a billionaire reckons he owes you, don’t argue. I think Mrs Willner may have put a word in for you, too.’

  She reached into the seat pocket in front of her and pulled out a plain manila packet, handed it across. It weighed heavy in my hand.

  ‘The intel reports are all in there – I’d burn the whole lot when you’re done, if I were you,’ Gleason said, conspiratorial. ‘Mr Eisenberg’s private jet is waiting on you. The pilot has a take-off slot booked in about an hour, and a flight plan to the West Coast has already been filed.’ She paused, her tone blandly conversational now. ‘By coincidence, that would take you right over Nebraska. I’m sure no one would object to an unscheduled stop.’

  I was silent, staring at the unopened packet in my hand. A real Pandora’s box. What would be let loose if I opened it?

  For what seemed like a long time, I sat there and thought about actions and consequences, about scars and grief, about justice and death.

  Gleason was looking out of the car window, her head turned away as if to give me privacy. Her body was relaxed, belying the importance of this decision. The thick-necked driver continued to circle aimlessly through the busy streets. The rain continued to fall.

  Eventually, I glanced across. Gleason must have caught the movement reflected in the glass, because she turned back to me, nothing but polite enquiry in her face.

  ‘I’ve always wanted a ride in a new Lear 85,’ I said gravely.

  Only then did she allow herself a smile, as if she’d won some small internal bet, but she didn’t make the mistake of allowing satisfaction to creep into her voice. ‘Sure,’ she said. ‘It’s a very nice airplane.’

  CHAPTER SIXTY

  Omaha was deceptively warm. I sat under the awning outside a small delicatessen in the historic Old Market district, drinking espresso and watching a lazy afternoon fade towards evening amid the old brick warehouse buildings and chic boutiques.

  I’d been in Nebraska for two days and been pleasantly surprised by the place. It was an area of the States I’d never visited before, and seemed to be somewhere even Americans flew right over on their way from one coast to the other.

  It was a good place to disappear.

  As soon as I’d made my decision back in New York, Gleason had taken me to Eisenberg’s private plane, with only a brief stop-off at the apartment so I could throw some clothes into an overnight bag. I’d hurried through packing, as though I knew I’d change my mind if given more time to think things through.

  Before I left, I’d carefully locked my SIG away in the gun safe in the bedroom – a precaution against being tempted to use it. Almost as an afterthought, I’d placed my cellphone alongside it, but first I’d sent Parker a short text message, telling him I was taking a few days’ personal time, that I’d be in touch, and not to worry about me. I shut the phone off and locked it away before he had chance to send a reply.

  Leaving that behind was a harder decision than the gun. I was torn between not wanting to be out of touch in case anything drastic happened regarding Sean, and not wanting to be easily tracked. In the end, head won over heart.

  When I’d landed in Omaha, there was a nondescript Ford Taurus waiting for me, rented by one of Eisenberg’s myriad companies, and an open-ended room booked at the Embassy Suites on 10th and Jackson. The hotel had a convention of some description going on over the weekend and was crowded enough that I could move through the public areas with a comfortable degree of anonymity.

  There were even ponds full of giant koi in the lobby to further distract people’s attention. I restrained myself from snapping at a group of little brats who were taking great delight in dropping coins onto the fish, watched with apparent indulgence by their parents. With some regret, I decided that slapping their legs for them – adults as well as children – would not help me maintain my desired low profile.

  I had performed countless counter-surveillance routines since my arrival, but as far as I could tell, nobody was following me or taking undue interest. I spent most of my time on foot. The Taurus had not moved from the hotel parking garage since I’d checked in.

  This evening, I’d been out for early sushi at a place called Blue. I’d always been wary of eating raw fish so far from an ocean, but it was some of the best I’d tasted outside Tokyo. Afterwards, I’d queued for specialty ice cream at Ted & Wally’s, a short walk away, and now I was finishing off with coffee at a third stop. It was a good way to keep a casual eye on the area while I watched and waited.

  Gleason’s intel packet had given me the approximate location where there had been sightings of my quarry. It was a relatively compact area of boutique stores and restaurants, and it wasn’t hard to keep an eye on the main drag.

  I sat with my back to the building, soaking up the last of the late sun, relaxed. A guy tried to join me, his smile ingratiating and hopeful as he indicated the empty chair opposite. I shook my head.

  ‘Sorry,’ I said cheerfully, putting on an all-purpose American accent, ‘but I’m just waiting for my boyfriend to finish up teaching his karate class.’

  His smile froze a little and he edged away with a muttered apology. I watched him take an inside table in the back, far enough away that he could not be easily pointed out to my mythical boyfriend, when he finally turned up.

  My thoughts turned logically to Sean, who’d never been the jealous type, at least not as far as other men were concerned. He had too much in-built self-assurance for that. But trust of all kinds had been a constant issue between us.

  He’d felt the difference in our social backgrounds more keenly than I had, not helped by the fact that my parents had gone out of their way to make him aware of it. They had never approved of our relationship and at one point they’d tried actively to drive us apart. They had very nearly succeeded.

  And now there was Parker to worry about. An added complication I could do without. When I’d checked my email on the computer in the business centre at the hot
el before I’d come out, I found half a dozen messages from him, the subject line of each growing in anxiety. The last one was headed ‘CONTACT ME – URGENT!’

  But knowing that Parker – or Bill Rendelson – would probably be able to trace my location if I opened it, I hadn’t done so. I hadn’t opened any of them. I would not lie to Parker about where I was or what I was doing, but that meant not contacting him or he would know, instinctively. It seemed, on some level or another, he knew already.

  Unless, of course, he was trying to get in touch to tell me something had happened to Sean. Because, if I didn’t know, maybe I could put off the awful truth for a little while longer.

  A horse-drawn carriage rolled past, strangely silent on the brick street. When I looked, I found the horse was wearing clip-on rubber boots to muffle its tread. With the music and chatter going on around me, I wondered who had objected to the gentle clop of hooves.

  A fragment of an old WH Auden poem slipped into my mind, something about silencing pianos and keeping the dog from barking with a juicy bone. About believing love would last for ever.

  About being wrong.

  I took a breath, lifted my chin and stared at the couple taking a ride in the carriage. They were leaning together, heads touching, hands entwined. I looked away sharply, watched the steady nodding motion of the horse instead.

  I would miss Geronimo and my morning rides on the beach with Dina, I realised. Maybe she wouldn’t mind if I joined her every once in a while – just until she went to Europe at the end of the summer.

  She had finally decided to make her peace with her father, she’d told me. I wondered how Caroline Willner really felt about that. After all, the main reason she had been so keen to get her daughter away from Long Island was to prevent her becoming the fifth victim. Her fears had been both realised and neutralised. But Dina seemed determined to recover from her ordeal, and at least the sight of me did not provoke hysterics. There was a chance we might remain friends.

  On the far side of the wide street, a guy ambled into view, weaving between the people and the colourful planters.

  ‘There you are, Roy,’ I murmured under my breath. ‘Right on time.’

  According to Gleason’s security services contacts, he was currently using the name Roy Neese, and he’d made it fit. His hair was short and ginger, which it had not been the last time I’d seen him. It was a clever choice, I considered. Men do not often choose to be redheads.

  He had also affected a neatly trimmed beard and moustache, which gave him a surprisingly distinguished appearance. He was wearing chinos and loafers, and a lightweight dark-blue jacket over a polo shirt. A pair of designer sunglasses perched on top of his head, which meant either contact lenses or he’d had laser treatment for his eyes. He looked reasonably affluent and totally relaxed. Not at all like a wanted fugitive.

  If he had any inkling that Epps’s people were closing in, he hid it well.

  And if he had any inkling that I was half a step behind him, he hid that better.

  I’d tracked him down the first evening, had been trailing him ever since. Epps’s guys were due to arrive early the following afternoon, and when they did I planned on having all the answers. So, I’d been following him on and off since I’d first identified him, more by his gait than his appearance. It seemed he had turned into a creature of habit.

  I stood up, trapping a dollar bill under my empty cup. I’d paid for my coffee when it arrived, so I could make a quick getaway when I needed to. I left the receipt the waitress had provided, though. I didn’t think I’d be putting in an expenses claim for this trip.

  Casually, I crossed the uneven street, stepping down carefully from a kerb that seemed to be the best part of a foot high. The cars were all parked nose-in on a slant, and a number of the regulars had one corner of the bumper bashed in as testament to the unexpected steepness of the camber.

  I waited for a custom Cadillac to rumble past, floating along on a blue neon glow that reminded me of Eisenberg’s yacht. The windows were down and the stereo was thumping. It was Sunday evening in old Omaha – the perfect time to show up and show off.

  It was also my last chance.

  My quarry, meanwhile, had turned the corner at the end of the street and disappeared from view, but I didn’t hurry. If yesterday and the day before were anything to go by, I knew exactly where he was heading.

  The packet of intel Gleason had provided was brief but solid at the same time. There hadn’t been much in it, but what there was turned out to be accurate, and that was worth pages of ifs and maybes.

  By the time I reached the corner, I could see Neese a hundred metres ahead, walking briskly but showing no alarm in his stride. I crossed over at the lights with a group of conventioneers who were heading back to the Embassy Suites, lurking amid their chatter just in case he glanced back.

  He did, just once, in what had clearly been a habit of survival at one point, now grown somewhat lax. I veered unnoticed away from the group when we reached the hotel entrance, dipped quickly through a park and jogged down a sloping side road, glad of my dark jeans and trainers. I was heading towards the Missouri River that wound along Omaha’s eastern edge and partly separated it from neighbouring Iowa.

  Getting into town from the prosaically named Eppley Airfield, I’d discovered to my amusement, had involved crossing briefly into the next state. The river’s meandering course had changed and nobody had bothered to redraw the borders.

  Away from the stores and restaurants, it was apparent how fast the light was dropping, stars beginning to pop above the slow relentless river. In the distance I could see the hulking flyover for Interstate 480, and beyond that the twin uprights of the swooping pedestrian bridge linking Nebraska to Iowa.

  The footbridge was known locally as ‘Bob’, for a reason I’d yet to discern. I’d walked across it the day I’d arrived, during my first recce, and found it bounced alarmingly under foot. I didn’t know if the flyover had an official name, although the graffiti artists who’d clambered into its steel rafters with their cans of spray paint had made up plenty of their own.

  A planked walkway led under the flyover, over the top of the railway line and past an old pumping station, before coming out alongside the river. During the day it was a popular spot for walkers and joggers and a few tourists. At night, even though it was lit, the whole area tended to be more secluded.

  Secluded was good.

  I reached the point under the flyover where the traffic made eerie howling noises on the concrete high above, eyes searching for my target. Yesterday, he had stuck to the roadways, which were better lit, before cutting across to the paved area beside the river. If I had my timing right, he should have appeared there just ahead of me. But when I reached the turn in the walkway, there was no sign of him.

  Shit!

  Had I moved too fast and got too far in front of him? Or had he taken a different route back to the river – maybe headed to Rick’s Café Boatyard for a drink? I reminded myself that I was not an expert when it came to surveillance. My job was to blend into the scenery and to spot people who were themselves out of place, not track and trace.

  I hesitated, and then some sixth sense made me turn abruptly, twisting to look over my shoulder.

  The man who had become Roy Neese was standing on the walkway about four metres behind me. There was a gun clasped firmly in his right hand, pointing at my stomach. The muzzle didn’t waver.

  ‘Hiya, Charlie,’ he said. ‘Did ya miss me?’

  CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE

  ‘OK, let’s see the weapon,’ the man said, and even his voice seemed different, lower and more gravelly, although that could just have been the tension. ‘Take the piece out, nice and slow, and toss it over the railing.’

  I shook my head sadly. ‘I’m not carrying.’

  He was silent for a moment, then he flicked towards my torso with the barrel of the gun. It was another nine-mil Glock, I saw, like the one he’d used to shoot Sean. He was getting a taste for the
m.

  ‘Show me.’

  Obligingly, I lifted the hem of my sweatshirt, just high enough to expose the waistband of my jeans, turned a slow circle. It went against all my training to present my back to an armed assailant, but he wasn’t going to shoot me just yet.

  Not without discovering what I knew – and who else knew it, also.

  When I was facing him again, he gave a sardonic smile. ‘Don’t know why that should surprise me – you always were so sure of yourself.’

  ‘With reason,’ I said coldly. ‘I caught you, didn’t I?’ Twice.

  The smile lost some of its internal backing, became more forced. Not a memory he wanted to dwell on. His chin lifted on a taunt. ‘Tell me, Charlie – those reflexes of yours quick enough to dodge a bullet?’

  ‘What does it matter?’ I shrugged. ‘Epps has a bullet with your name on it, and you can’t dodge that one for ever.’

  ‘Dodged it pretty good up ’til now,’ he said with satisfaction. His eyes were everywhere, I saw, as if expecting the Homeland Security man to storm in with a full SWAT team behind him at any moment. It took half his concentration away from me and I needed to use that while I had the chance.

  I cursed the fact I’d left the SIG behind in New York, but I had set out to confront and detain, not to kill. The man in front of me may not have started out personally violent, but he’d certainly picked it up along the way. Who knows what else he’d had to do in order to survive on the run?

  My heart rate had stepped up, but I let my arms dangle, kept my knees soft and my shoulders relaxed. Strangely, I felt no fear. I had no doubts that the man behind the gun was prepared to use it if he had to. He might even be looking forward to it, but if it was my destiny to die here, I was ready for it.

  And I would not provide him with an easy kill.

  ‘I hope you’re not too attached to good old Roy Neese, because he’s blown out of the water.’ I watched the information filter through the layers of nerves, tightening and tangling as it went. ‘Roy Neese. Where did you find that one? Doesn’t quite have the ring of your old name, does it?’