by Rob Ashman
‘I’ll collect first thing this morning.’
After a pause Jameson said, ‘Have you given any thought to when we might meet?’
‘Have you lined up a few days’ emergency leave?’
‘It’s all in place, I can push the button whenever you say.’
‘Then push it.’ She hung up.
Mechanic poured herself a glass of cranberry juice and went to the bedroom to get changed. She had to clear her head of last night’s troubles. And the thought of beating the crap out of Jameson while getting herself fucked to a standstill was just the type of normality she needed.
Ten minutes later Mechanic left her apartment and ran across the road towards Horton Plaza. She decided the longer route along Market Street and First Avenue would be good, a distance of a little over a mile.
She arrived at the post office, clicked her watch and leaned against the wall to catch her breath. Her legs and face were red, she was radiating heat and her hands shook. She had pushed the pace hard and did it in well under six minutes. Mechanic sucked in air and linked her fingers together at the back of her head. The exertion had certainly blown away the cobwebs of an awful night.
She allowed herself time to cool down, joined the queue inside and waited her turn.
‘Box 508, please,’ she said to the woman behind the counter and handed over a key. An anonymous PO box made an ideal drop location. Paid for on a monthly basis in cash, it was perfect. A couple of minutes later Mechanic pushed the fat envelope under her vest and ran home.
Back at the apartment, she dumped it on the table and headed for the shower, feeling considerably better. She had to carry on as normal. What the hell else was she going to do?
Mechanic sat with her breakfast of hot, sweet coffee and mixed fruit. She tore open the envelope and retrieved the papers inside, spreading them on the table.
The briefing packs were always concise, containing details of the target, an itinerary of recent movements, and the most important thing, when and where the hit was to go down. This always took the form of a photocopy of a diary entry, which made it look like a meeting. The time and place was merely a suggestion from Jameson. Mechanic trusted his operational judgement and when Jameson provided an initial view it made for good planning. But if she didn’t like it, or could see a better alternative, then it was always up for discussion.
The one thing not in the pack was the fee, a sensible omission should it ever fall into the wrong hands. This was agreed over the phone along with the finer details, such as method of entry, extraction, specialist kit and logistics support.
This hit was a walk-by kill, a riskier scenario than a sniper shot. Mechanic got a buzz out of getting up close when murder had a personal motive, but in contract killings she preferred to be at a distance. This job was all about making the right approach, executing cleanly and exiting fast. Controlling the environment would be fraught with uncertainty – however meticulous the planning, it had to be supplemented with a slice of good luck.
Elaine Cooper was a regular night shopper who bought her groceries from a 24-hour store in a suburb of San Francisco when everyone else was tucked up in bed. Maybe she was a shift worker, or an insomniac, or preferred to shop with no lines at the checkout. Mechanic liked to play a game and try to fathom what people did from the briefing information. Perhaps she had an embarrassing deformity or was having an affair with the guy at the store. The possibilities bounced around in Mechanic’s head. Either way it didn’t matter, Elaine Cooper had managed to upset someone enough to want her dead.
11
Moran’s day was going to hell in a handcart. She was freaked out by Harper’s call and was still trying to maintain her resolute position of not getting involved. But the situation was hopeless and Harper was not a man to be taken lightly. He was right, she was well and truly screwed. If he carried out his threat to send the CCTV pictures to her boss she was finished.
She had the list of names from Harper and was considering the best time to run them through the system without arousing suspicion when Mills stuck his head around the door and shouted, ‘Full meeting, drop what you’re doing.’
Shit, what now, Moran thought. She picked up a pad of paper and followed the procession into the conference room.
Her case investigating the fatal shooting of the police officer was running out of steam and her time was being prioritised into other areas, which suited her fine. The less focus there was on it, the less chance she’d be forced to declare something she didn’t want to. There was a strong whiff of the case becoming old news.
Mills stood at the head of the table with a large image projected onto the wall behind him. It showed a freeze-frame of the man opening the back door of a car as Ramirez toppled out.
‘Jerome Wilson.’ He tapped the wall with a long stick. ‘We brought him in for questioning on the suspicion of killing Ramirez Sanchez.’ He moved the point of the stick to indicate the guy falling to the sidewalk. ‘Not surprisingly he kept his mouth shut, as did the driver of the vehicle, a local hood by the name of Samuel Torte.’ He tapped the stick against the grainy outline of the man in the driver’s seat. ‘Both men said they had borrowed the car from a friend, which checks out, though for friend substitute the words “a member of the same drug gang”, and …’ Mills paused and turned to the people crowded around the table, ‘they both insisted Ramirez already had his throat ripped open when they got back to the car.’
‘Surprise, surprise,’ said one of the older guys.
Moran looked at her pad avoiding eye contact with Mills. She knew what was coming next.
Mills continued, ‘Annoyingly, the forensics report on the car supports this. It says the amount of blood found on the seats and floor was consistent with the victim bleeding out for at least a minute and a half. The time between the suspects getting into the car and Ramirez ending up on the sidewalk was twenty seconds. It also says the blade entered the left side of Ramirez’s neck and was slashed forward, severing his jugular and trachea. He died almost immediately. It would be difficult for Wilson or Torte to make that move from the front seat. The most likely scenario is the cut was made from outside the car through the window.’ Mills pushed the button on a remote control and the image changed.
The hairs on the back of Moran’s neck stood on end and her chest tightened. Projected on the wall was the image of Nassra Shamon.
‘This woman can be seen approaching the car.’ Mills clicked the button and a montage of screen grabs appeared. He tapped the stick on each one in turn. ‘Here is Ramirez peering out of the back passenger window, here the woman leaning into the vehicle, and here she’s walking away. The next we see Ramirez, he’s spilling claret all over the sidewalk.’
Mills indexed the slide show forward. ‘So, ladies and gentlemen, does anyone know this woman?’ Moran stared at the three-foot-high picture of Nassra Shamon. There was nowhere to hide.
‘Sir, she looks like the woman who rented the place where the police officer was shot dead. It’s not a great match but she looks similar.’ She had no choice but to call it out.
‘Do you have a current mug shot?’
‘Not current, it’s the one lifted from her driving licence.’
‘Get it down to the lab and let them take a closer look. Remind me, we never found her after the patrolman was found dead in her apartment, did we?’
‘No sir, she disappeared.’ Moran was trying to sound matter of fact and professional on the outside, when inside she was crumbling to dust.
‘Chase this through and let’s see if we can make a connection. Anyone else got a fix on who she might be?’ Mills asked. Everyone looked around and shook their heads, everyone that is except Moran, who was too busy avoiding eye contact.
‘Good work, Moran,’ Mills said walking from the room. She grunted.
Moran took the photocopied image to the lab and spent the rest of the day processing the list of names Harper had given her.
She wasn’t sure what the female equiv
alent was, but running every name through the system was a balls-aching job. Sixty-six data entry files to complete, followed by the system spewing out sixty-six personal profiles, there was a mountain of information to sift through. She had reached number forty-three when she got a call.
‘Come down downstairs, we got something interesting.’ It was the technician.
She entered the lab, which was a very different working environment to the one upstairs. To start with, it was clean and air conditioned and had a medical feel to it. The benches were stacked with complex-looking equipment being used by white-coated people who were busying themselves with test tubes and chemicals. Mills was already there, looking through a large lens.
He tapped the table. ‘See what you think.’
Moran looked through the optic at the grainy print of Nassra Shamon’s face. The lab tech removed the picture and replaced it with a still from the CCTV footage. There was no doubt in her mind, they were identical.
‘Not sure,’ she said trying to cast an element of doubt.
‘Really?’ Mills elbowed her out of the way to take a second look. ‘They look remarkably similar to me.’
She looked again. ‘I suppose it could be the same person.’
Mills picked up the picture. ‘So this woman slits Ramirez’s throat, returns to her apartment, and three hours later a police officer is found dead, shot through the back of the neck. If we can make the connection and prove it, I reckon we’ll blow this case wide open.’
Moran’s day was not yet over but it was certainly on its way to hell, being transported unceremoniously in a handcart.
12
Lucas and Harper sat patiently by the fax machine, or to be more accurate, one half of them did. The other half fizzed with irritation.
‘She said 10.30am.’ Harper looked at his watch.
‘It’s only 10.40.’
The public records office was almost empty as they waited for the paper-spewing machine to bring good news.
‘She said 10.30.’ Harper was not going to let it go.
‘What else did she say?’
‘She didn’t say much. She said she’d collated the results and would fax them through.’
‘Had she found anything?’
‘She didn’t say.’ Harper mentally recalled that Moran actually had a lot to say, most of it blunt and to the point, bordering on abusive.
The machine whirred into action and the sheets rolled off. Lucas looked at the number in the LCD display window.
‘It’s her,’ he said, recognising the Vegas dial code. Page after page churned out, thirty-two pages of densely printed names, addresses, previous convictions, known associates and bank details. Lucas gathered them together and put them in a file, paid the beady-eyed woman behind reception one dollar sixty cents and then headed to the fourth floor.
‘She’s done a thorough job,’ said Lucas scanning through the names and addresses.
As they stepped out of the lift the young guy in glasses breezed past.
‘If there’s anything you can’t reach give me a shout and I’ll get it for you.’
Harper gave him his best scowl.
‘He’s only doing his job,’ Lucas said.
‘I’ll do a job on him, cheeky little—’
‘It’s strange how Moran has done all this work and yet didn’t offer an opinion on what she’d found,’ Lucas interrupted. He fanned the pages through his thumb and forefinger.
‘Not very chatty, I suppose.’
‘When I talked to her she was adamant she was having nothing to do with it. And then she produces all this.’
‘Yes, very odd,’
‘How did you persuade her to help?’
‘I said it would be good if she could lend a hand.’
‘Lend a hand? This is a little more than lending a hand. What exactly did you say to change her mind?’
‘Nothing, I guess she just decided to help out.’
‘Wait a minute.’ Lucas had first-hand experience of Harper being evasive. ‘What have you done? How does she go from telling me to fuck off to this?’ He waved the papers in front of Harper.
Harper turned and faced Lucas with his hands held up in a sign of surrender.
‘I blackmailed her, okay?’ he said, as though it were the most natural thing in the world, which to him it probably was.
‘You did what?’
‘Blackmailed her.’
‘But how? With what?’
‘I acquired the CCTV tapes from the multi-storey the morning we planned to take out Mechanic. I sent her pictures of you, me and her together, and suggested it would be better if she cooperated.’
‘Or what?’
‘Or I would send them to her boss. She could either deal with us or deal with him. She chose us.’
‘I don’t believe it. Why didn’t you say something?’
Harper slapped his hands to his sides.
‘Because you’d get all self-righteous and stop me. That’s why.’
‘Damn right I would. You can’t go around blackmailing serving police officers.’
‘That proves my point, doesn’t it? We got a head start here. We got these names and addresses because she’s decided to play ball. The ends justify the means and I can sleep at night.’
‘You sleep at night because you’re drunk.’
Lucas was not sure what to make of Harper’s actions. On the one hand he was horrified, on the other he was impressed.
‘How did you get the tapes?’ he asked.
‘That was easy, I just—’
‘I don’t want to know. It’s difficult to work out who’s more ruthless, you or the crooks we used to catch.’
‘There was a time when that was definitely me but now I figure it’s honours even.’
Lucas handed Harper half the papers.
‘Look through these and see if anything unusual jumps out.’
They separated and each found a quiet spot. Harper could hear Lucas tutting from across the room.
The next hour passed quickly, both of them trawling through the papers. Lucas was so engrossed he didn’t notice Harper standing in front of him with two Styrofoam cups.
‘Coffee?’ he said handing one of them over. ‘Have you found anything?’
‘Not much, there’s nothing that jumps out, what about you?’
‘Not sure what I was expecting but it’s all mundane stuff. A handful of speeding fines and parking violations but nothing says ‘arrested for running arms out of Nicaragua’. However, I do have one that’s different.’
‘Different how?’
‘Every company has multiple people holding different roles, agreed?’
‘Yeah, that’s what I have too.’
‘Some are family members and others are business associates, but there’s always multiple people.’
‘That’s what I’ve got.’
‘Well, I have one company where all the roles are held by one person, a man named Gerry Vickers. I don’t know if that’s significant but it does stand out from the pack.’
‘What is the business name?’
‘Sheldon Chemicals.’ Harper handed Lucas his list with the name circled in red.
The young chap with glasses walked by.
‘Excuse me,’ Harper said putting out his hand to stop him. ‘Could you help us locate this company’s records?’ He snatched the page from Lucas and handed it to him.
‘Do you know it’s registered here?’
Lucas and Harper looked at each other blankly.
The young man realised he had reached the end of useful conversation. ‘I’ll take a look, sir, won’t be a moment.’
‘Nice kid,’ Harper said.
Lucas shook his head.
A couple of minutes later he returned with a dog-eared manila file stuffed with papers.
‘Here you go, sir, Sheldon Chemicals.’
Harper nodded a thank you and spread the papers on the desk. After a while Lucas leaned back in the chair and sipped a
t his coffee.
‘That’s odd.’
‘What?’
‘Why would you register a company in Florida and operate it out of San Diego? And Gerry Vickers should be businessman of the year.’
‘Why?’
‘Take a look at the annual report.’ Lucas handed Harper a glossy pamphlet.
‘Okay, wise guy, it might surprise you to hear I’ve forgotten everything I learned at Harvard. What does it say?’
‘The company runs a chemical procurement and distribution business. It has a steady turnover of about a million dollars a year and buys all its chemicals from one company. It has six customers and does its distribution through a third party called Decklan Logistics.’
‘What’s unusual about that?’
‘Look at the other documents. Gerry Vickers must be superhuman because according to this he runs the whole thing single-handed.’
‘Maybe the guy’s a genius.’
‘Let’s find out.’ Lucas picked up the annual report and walked off in the direction of the payphone.
Harper waited, pretending to read the other documents relating to Sheldon Chemicals.
After fifteen minutes Lucas returned.
‘Well?’ asked Harper.
‘I rang the supplier and the haulage company. They both stopped trading with Sheldon Chemicals three years ago when it went into liquidation.’
‘So it’s not a real business?’
‘No, I figure Gerry Vickers is using it to launder money.’
‘How’s he doing that?’
‘I know a little about this from my time in Chicago. If I’m right, it’s a classic case of placing, layering and integration. You place dirty cash into the company and move it around to create confusion. Then you bring it back in as clean money.’
‘Let me get this straight. They buy non-existent chemicals, sell them to non-existent customers and pretend to collect the money from them.’
‘Yup, they pay taxes to the IRS on the income and the money is clean.’
‘Wow, and they bag about a mill a year?’
‘That’s what it says.’