by Simon Wood
Seeing the cops’ response was less than enthusiastic, Bob decided to keep Mark Keegan’s death and
the funeral wreath incident to himself. Information based on Josh’s gut feeling could be best described as weak even if it was bizarre. If they weren’t going with the best he had to give them, they weren’t about to be bowled over with the rest. He was reminded of something his fifth grade teacher used to say to him when she caught him daydreaming. “There’s no
point chasing after rainbows, Robert. You’ll never catch up to one.”
Bob knew Josh’s problems weren’t illusions. They
were problems worth chasing, but this wasn’t the place to start.
Williams asked, “Can you give us a description of the man?”
Bob detailed a description of the ordinary-looking man. He was amazed how hard it was to describe
Mitchell. He recalled the comment the cotton candy headed receptionist had made at the River City Inn.
“We have a lot of men here who fit that description.”
“Thank you, Bob.” The young, black officer wrote
down the description, but his enthusiastic smile couldn’t hide the fact he thought the information was useless.
“What happens now?” Bob asked.
“We will follow up on your claims and we’ll let you know in due course,” Williams said.
The answer straight out of the police training manual, Bob thought.
“But with what we have gotten from you and Mr.
Michaels, I’m not sure what we will turn up,”
Williams added.
Bob frowned. “Thanks for your time.”
“No problem at all, sir.” Officer Williams offered a hand.
Bob shook it and then Brady’s, who said nothing,
but glared intensely at him. Bob dismissed Brady’s attitude as sour grapes and let himself be shown out of the station.
Unlocking his car door, he noticed the fifteen minutes left on the thirty-minute parking meter. Someone
else’s lucky day, he thought as he got into his car and drove back to his office.
Back in his office, Bob stared out the window. Screw the cops, he thought. They won’t take this seriously until they had Josh’s corpse lying on the ground and
Mitchell standing over him with a smoking gun. If the police weren’t going to do anything, then he would.
Someone had to get to the bottom of the matter. Besides, he didn’t fancy telling Josh the police intended to do nothing. He wanted to give his friend something positive, but what? Then it came to him—what about Margaret Macey?
Bob called up Margaret Macey’s file on the computer.
He picked up the phone and dialed her number
off of the screen.
A trembling voice said, “Hello.”
“Is this Margaret Macey?” Bob asked.
“Yes.”
She was on the verge of tears. Her distress unnerved him. She sounded petrified. He spoke in a level tone, without emotion. “Hi, I’m Bob Deuce. Do you remember me at all?”
“No,” came the short response.
“I’m from Family Stop Insurance Services.”
“Oh, no. Not you again. You just want me dead. You want to kill me.”
The old woman transmitted her fear through the telephone line and into Bob. The hair on the back of his
neck prickled and sweat broke out across his forehead.
Stammering, he tried to explain himself, but he
couldn’t get her to understand him. She fired off outrageous accusation after outrageous accusation at him.
“I know it’s you and don’t tell me you’re the pizza boy this time. I’m not that stupid,” she raved.
Bob struggled to get a word in between her rants.
“No … no … Mrs. Macey, you don’t understand.
You’re not listening.”
“I knew it was you calling. I can always tell, and I know you’ve been inside my house.”
“But Mrs. Macey—”
“You won’t hurt me, you bastard!”
Before he could say anything further the phone line went dead. Margaret Macey had hung up.
The encounter left him breathless. He sat there for several minutes trying to let his heart rate settle. The sound of his blood pumping around his body sloshed in his ears. He felt very old for his age. He wiped the sweat from his brow. What the hell had happened to this woman?
“Well, that wasn’t the positive news I was hoping to give you, Josh,” Bob muttered to himself.
Josh and Kate didn’t speak. They sat at either end of the couch with a distance between them measurable in more than just feet. Abby was in bed asleep. Prime time television had come to an end, making way for the nightly news. The station went to commercial. A preview for the Channel 3 News flashed up and the anchor
ran through the main stories for the upcoming
program. The lead story was something Josh had been expecting.
“More on that exclusive to Channel Three— corruption in the construction of the Mountain Vista Apartments in Dixon. Our source has named names involved,”
the anchor said.
Flatly, Kate spoke over the television. “Is that you?”
“I imagine so,” Josh said in the same tone.
Sitting in renewed silence, Josh braced himself for the news program to start.
The news began with a summary of the headlines before the concerned-looking anchor went into the lead
story.
“Last week, we brought you an exclusive story about the alleged scandal over the building of the Mountain Vista apartments in Dixon. Our source, who still
wishes to remain nameless at this point, has provided further details of the corrupt activities conducted during the building of the apartments.
“Allegedly, Johnston Construction, Inc. intentionally built the apartments below standard to ensure
they made a substantial profit. Knowing full well the construction wouldn’t pass the inspection, Johnston Construction’s owner, Mike Johnston, bribed the
building inspector, Joshua Michaels. Our source alleges Mr. Michaels accepted ten thousand dollars
from Mr. Johnston.
“I must express we as yet have not sought comment from either Mike Johnston or Joshua Michaels.”
The anchor introduced the field reporter and the
camera switched to the reporter outside the Dixon apartments. The reporter relayed information similar to what the anchor had expressed.
Josh had his answer. Bell had made her decision. He supposed she’d decided to decline the money offer and go with revenge. The bonds of the blackmail that held him so tightly were broken. Josh was free. But he was now in the hands of others over whom he had no control.
He’d gone from the mercy of Bell, his blackmailer, to the mercy of the media, police and anybody
else investigating the claim. He was now fair game to anyone who wanted a piece of him. He’d seen enough and reached for the remote control on the coffee
table.
“I’m still watching that,” Kate said icily.
Josh turned to her. She stared intently at the screen, her face devoid of any facial expression. He left the remote and leaned back into the couch.
The Channel 3 Nightly News team moved onto another story.
“Do you think Belinda is their source?”
“Yes. I gave her the opportunity to make her final demands because I refused to be blackmailed anymore,”
he said.
“What was her final amount?”
“Nothing. She hadn’t given me an answer, until
now.” Josh nodded at the television. “I think she would prefer to see me pay in other ways.” His mind drifted away to his affair with Bell. She had cut some of the puppet strings, but the ones that made Josh dance were still attached.
He continued. “I want you to understand things are probably going to get worse before they get better.”
“Life with you over the past two weeks has prepared me for every eventuality. Shock after shock—the im pact is reduced with every new occurrence. Josh, I don’t think anything would totally surprise me,” she said.
It was difficult for Josh to respond to her coldness.
He composed himself before speaking.
“If someone inspects those apartments, they will find faults and they have a record of my report giving the construction the green light. They’ll have enough evidence to convict,” Josh said.
“What will they do to you?” Kate asked.
“I don’t know what they do in these cases.” Josh was silent for a moment. “What will you do?”
“What will I do?”
Josh moved across the couch to be close to her and took her hand in his.
For a moment, Kate stiffened at his contact, but then she relaxed.
“Will you stay with me regardless of the outcome?”
he said.
Kate looked away.
Josh placed a gentle hand on her jaw and turned her head toward him. “Look at me, please. Will you?”
“I don’t know, Josh.” Tears welled in Kate’s eyes. “I really don’t know.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
For Dexter Tyrell, this was a rare excursion from his two usual haunts—his home and Pinnacle Investments.
He’d booked the hotel room for the day although he only intended using it for a few hours. It may have seemed extravagant at five hundred dollars, but in the long run it was a drop in the ocean. The room was for work-related business, but not the sort of business his colleagues would understand. It was better for everyone if his colleagues didn’t observe him.
His subversive program, killing the firm’s viatical clients, was faltering. Two case files worth over six hundred thousand dollars in company revenues were being held up because of the incompetence of the hit man, and that impacted dearly on the disposal of other clients. Tyrell’s decision might be risky, but it would certainly get his project moving.
Slumped in the comfortable padded armchair of the well-appointed hotel room, Tyrell sat cross-legged, his left over his right. The left leg rocked back and forth while he listened to the ringing of the cell phone in his hand. Last chance, my friend. His hit man had one more opportunity to put things right. Tyrell straightened in his chair and uncrossed his legs when the phone was answered.
“Yes?” the professional said.
“I haven’t heard from you in the past couple of days.
I assume from that you haven’t succeeded in your
tasks,” Tyrell said.
“Like I’ve told you before, these things take time.
You just have to be patient. Rest assured, I have laid the foundations.”
Tyrell’s snide remarks failed to raise the hit man’s ire. That pissed Tyrell off. He wanted something out of this son of a bitch.
“My patience in running thin. You’ve had more than enough time to take care of these people and you
haven’t.”
“How would you know how much time it takes?”
Prima donnas, they all think they’re God’s gift, he thought. “Based on your previous assignments. And don’t get pissy with me. I know I haven’t got any experience in your profession, but I do have realistic expectations and you’re not living up to them. How long do
you think it will take until you have completed your assignment?”
“Another week.”
“No,” Tyrell said matter-of-factly. “I have another three targets lined up for you worth over one point five million dollars. I want them all cleared up in the next two weeks.”
“I don’t think I can do that. The plans are laid and they’ll have to run their course. I may be able to advance them a little, but I can’t make any guarantees.”
“I don’t care about your plans. Do something different.”
Tyrell was losing his temper with the professional.
“The time has come for an alternative
approach. I don’t care how you do it, but I want them killed. No more fancy plans for accidents—just straightforward assassinations.”
“Are you suggesting I just shoot them from the nearest clock tower?”
Tyrell ignored the crack. “How many times have we seen tragic house fires? We live in a world of muggings, hit and runs, rapes, murders, et cetera. Pick one. Impress me. You have two days.” He hung up without letting the professional comment further.
The conversation had gone the way Tyrell had expected.
The professional wasn’t the man he’d hired two
years ago. He was incapable of the quick turnaround Tyrell needed. It was time to bring in someone else. A new broom always swept better than an old one and maybe that new broom could dispose of the old broom as well.
“The job’s yours if you want it,” Tyrell said to the other man in the room.
The other man stood in front of the window looking out over the pleasant grounds from the fifth floor room.
The trees and well-manicured lawns were illuminated in the early evening darkness by the security lights positioned all around the premises. He turned his back on
the view and faced Tyrell.
He was a big man, tall and muscular, and his suit did little to disguise it. His crew cut hinted that he might be a military man or some outcast from a government
agency. Tyrell didn’t really care or want to know. He never wanted to get that close to his outsourced talent.
His colleagues were bean counters and analysts, not killers. These people made him uncomfortable, but they were a necessary evil to ensure success. They were resources to be used for specific functions—like a computer or a subordinate, a means to an end. Because of
the extreme course of action Tyrell had undertaken, these people were essential if he was to get back in favor with the Pinnacle Investments board.
“Don’t you believe your man will succeed?” he
asked.
“To be honest, I don’t. I think he’ll prefer to stick to his own plans,” Tyrell said.
“Wouldn’t you prefer I take care of your next targets while he finished his current assignments?”
“No, I wouldn’t.”
“Personally, I prefer not to take over another operative’s assignment.”
Jesus Christ, these guys are paid killers. They murder for financial gain, but they have all these fucking ethics. Honor amongst thieves … what a load of bullshit. Tyrell had no time for the politics of the industry.
He just wanted results. “Do you want this job?”
“Yes,” his new killer answered.
“So we understand each other?”
“Yes.”
“Good.” Tyrell picked up his briefcase and placed it on his lap. He removed two files from it and dropped them on the bed.
The newly hired killer picked up the files. He sat in another of the comfortable chairs by the window. He opened the first file and flicked through the documents, then did the same with the second file.
“Like I told your brother in firearms, you have two days to make Joshua Michaels and Margaret Macey
into obituary articles. No fancy stuff, okay?”
The killer looked up from the files and nodded.
“What about my… colleague? What do you want
done with him?”
“He’s a liability. I would like to have him removed from my employ, as it were. If you can find him, you can kill him. I’ll make it worth your while.”
“How do I find him?”
Tyrell removed another file from his briefcase and dropped it on the bed. “I thought you might be interested.
The file contains all the information I have on
him.”
The killer picked up the scant file, much thinner than the previous two. He sat down again, scanned the file and nodded in agreement.
“I don’t know his name or his address. All I have is a post office box that all moni
es and files are directed to.
I’ve included the cell phone number I’ve contacted him on. Be warned, he regularly changes his number. I thought a man of your profession could trace his location by the number,” Tyrell said.
The killer placed the files in his briefcase, stood up and went over to Tyrell with an outstretched hand.
Locking his briefcase, Tyrell got up and shook the hand offered.
“I don’t think there’s anything else I need to know. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll see if I can’t get a flight out tonight.
I’ll contact you as soon as I have news.”
“What do I call you? Our intermediary didn’t say.”
The killer paused for a moment, then smiled. “Mr.
Smith.”
Tyrell smiled back. “I’m sure there are a lot of men in your business with that name.”
“A few.” At that, Smith released Tyrels hand and
departed.
Tyrell checked to make sure he had everything he’d brought with him. He was pleased with himself. Things would be changing for the better, and fast. I can see the checks rolling in, he thought.
“Bang, bang, who’s dead?” he joked to himself.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Mark Keegan’s service was at St. Thomas’s Anglican Church. Josh’s flying partner hadn’t been a religious man, but his sister was and she wanted a religious ceremony.
The church was half filled with relatives, coworkers, flying club members, airport officials, and
friends. Josh sat with his wife and daughter in a row of pews waiting for the ceremony to begin.
Organ music and echoing conversations drowned
out the silence within Josh’s family. He looked at them.
Kate stared into an infinite distance beyond the walls of the church. Abby sat between Kate and him, studying the floor and absently clacking her shoe heels together.
They weren’t a happy family. It was a blessing that Kate had returned to work, Abby had school and he had the house to himself. Everybody had their space.
Josh let his gaze wander and it fell upon the coffin.
The simple pine casket with brass fixings rested at the head of the church, garnished with funeral wreaths.
Josh struggled to believe Mark was dead. It didn’t seem real. He couldn’t imagine Mark’s body was inside the box. It couldn’t be true. Mark was his friend and his living image preoccupied Josh’s mind, but it kept being replaced with the one of him slumped over the Cessna’s control column. It seemed the funeral was a hoax, a big joke played on Josh by his friends as a belated birthday prank. The urge to go up to the coffin and tear off the coffin lid was becoming impossible to resist. But deep down, Josh knew the truth. Mark was dead, killed by the man trying to kill him. An innocent man lay dead because of him. He didn’t want to be there. He shouldn’t be there. His presence seemed sacrilegious.