In the Company of Wolves_Thinning The Herd

by James Michael Larranaga

  “And if you don’t receive a postcard back from a client?” Big Ben asked, quizzing him.

  “I call the client or a relative to verify,” Quin said. “If the client has died, I let you know immediately.” The job really was quite easy; he could see why they hired cheap labor to do it.

  “If you have trouble tracking somebody down, you let me know right away,” Big Ben said, clicking along on the keyboard, moving effortlessly through the database. “Sometimes we don’t learn about a client’s death for six or eight weeks. And in a business where time is money, a few weeks can make a big difference. We don’t collect a dime until we have a copy of the death certificate.”

  Quin looked around the room at the books on the curved wall, the men on the phones, at the commanding view outside. Big Ben had built quite a business in just two years. Amazing what an Ivy League education can do for a guy. Next to Quin’s desk were newspapers stacked in neat piles. “What about these?”

  “Go through the obituaries and compare our client list with those who died,” Big Ben said. “Usually family members call in the obituary before they call us. Remember, time is money.”

  Quin counted the newspapers that had piled up since Cassy’s disappearance. She had left a mountain of work behind.

  She must’ve been so busy snooping around, she didn’t keep up with her tasks.

  “Isn’t there an easier way to look up the obits? Newspapers have them online.”

  “Yes, we subscribe to Obituaries.com and Legacy.com,”he said. “But we have clients in all fifty states, and some are living in small towns that don’t list the obits on the Internet. Once you get through this stack of papers, it won’t seem so bad. You have to keep up with it every day.”

  It dawned on Quin that having clients around the country made sense. Murders are more difficult to trace across state lines.

  High above, on the catwalk built into the curved walls and bookshelves, Harold peered out of the domed skylight toward the lake.

  “What’s Harold doing way up there?” Quin asked.

  His boss looked up then back down again, shaking his big head. “Don’t worry about him. Pay attention to your work.”

  Good idea, Quin thought. He didn’t want to look suspicious. Suspicion was what had gotten Lunde’s agents into trouble. “The database is easy enough to figure out,” Quin said. “The sales reps work in the prospecting database, and I work in the client database.”

  “You got it,” Big Ben said with a smile.

  “So, let’s take that big policy you’re pursuing as an example,” Quin said. “If you type in her name, does she appear as a prospect?”

  He wanted to know how hard it would be to help Lunde get into the database to find the information they were looking for. Big Ben typed in a name, and a record instantly appeared on the screen. The name, address, and phone number were listed along with a brief medical history.

  “Here’s an example,” Big Ben said. “It’s not the big policy, but one of our smaller accounts.”

  There were pages of notes attached to the record. Quin could see Big Ben watching Stray Dog, who was on a call, joking with somebody about a sports score.

  “He calls the prospect often,” Big Ben said. “Most of his calls are to doctors or physicians’ assistants. He’s supposed to find new leads, but sometimes I let him chase the smaller policies.”

  The records of his calls went on, page after page. “Does he have to call the client so often?”

  Big Ben pushed the keyboard away, leaning back in his chair. “There’s loads of paperwork and medical records to collect. Besides, good follow-up is the key to making the sale. He knows his former employer, Benson & White, is also pitching the business, so he’s pursuing this one hard.”

  Quin hadn’t thought about competition, but it made sense. Big Ben Moretti had a niche business, but he didn’t work in a vacuum. He had probably recruited Stray Dog away from a competitor just to steal business or to figure out some competitive intelligence on how the other company priced its offers. “Do you compete against Benson & White often?”

  “We compete against them all the time,” Big Ben said, his eyes narrowing, his jaw tightening. “Lately they’ve been outbidding us, offering just slightly more money to clients. To beat them, I had to cough up some big offers lately. But then you operate on a low margin, and if the client lives beyond the life expectancy, you got your money tied up with no cash flow, and without cash you can’t do more deals.”

  “So the $10 million policy must be a big opportunity,” Quin said, testing his theory that they were calling in their other policies to purchase this one. “It could take a lot of effort to bring that one in?”

  Big Ben watched Harold bounding down the catwalk to the main floor. “You don’t know the half of it.”

  Harold trotted across the room over to the desk. He looked nervous about something outside. “Can I speak with you for a moment?” he asked the boss.

  Quin watched the two men exchange troubled glances. “What’s up?” Big Ben asked.

  “I need to speak with you in private,” Harold said, walking to the window across the room.

  Big Ben sighed, watching him shuffle away, and then patted Quin on the shoulder. “Excuse me. Go ahead and get acquainted with the database. I’ll be back in a moment.”

  He walked quickly across the room to join Harold at the window. The other men watched Big Ben as they made their calls. Something disturbing was out on the lake. Harold was now pointing it out to the alpha wolf.

  Bob and Richard wheeled their chairs back to back, whispering to each other. James angled his chair in the direction of the window while he continued talking to some doctor on the phone. But Stray Dog noticed nothing. He adjusted his headset and made another joke to the caller at the other end.

  There must be evidence outside, or maybe there was something that would lead him to Cassy and Martin. Quin needed to get to that window to see what they were looking at.

  He hit a series of keys that he knew would freeze up the computer. Now he had an excuse to approach Big Ben. When he stood up and walked over to the window, Bob spun out of his chair.

  “Hey, we’re going for drinks after work tonight,” he said, with his soft body blocking the view. Suddenly old Bob was his best friend. “You interested?”

  Quin looked over Bob’s shoulder, through the bars on the windows and into the blizzard outside. Harold was talking to Big Ben, pointing toward a village of icehouses out on the bay.

  “You drink, don’t you?” Bob asked.

  Because of Quin’s medication, his doctor recommended that he avoid alcohol. Besides, she told him, booze might only add gasoline to the flickering flame of anger he carried inside.

  “I drink occasionally,” he said, squinting into the blinding snow. What were they looking at?

  “Good, you’ll be our guest,” Bob said, not allowing Quin to pass. “Is there a problem?”

  He knew there was no getting around this golden boy. Bob Mullen was either a very social animal, or he was making sure Quin couldn’t see what was outside; and if the former, the impulse had come on him suddenly. He looked around the room at James and Richard watching him. Stray Dog was in a zone all his own, still chattering into his headset, picking at his teeth.

  “My computer locked up on me,” Quin said.

  “Oh that’s easy enough to fix,” Bob said, snapping his fingers at Stray Dog. “Christopher, would you help Quin restart his computer? It locked up on him.”

  Quin noticed Stray Dog roll his dark eyes. He abruptly finished his call before walking over to Quin’s desk.

  “Thanks,” Quin said.

  Bob played with his gold cufflinks. “Any time you need help, just ask Christopher.”

  Ben looked out into the flurry of falling snow, conscious of the men working behind him. “Which icehouse is it?” he asked Harold.

  “The one off to the far right, the brown one,” he said, pointing cautiously.

  What an
idiot, Ben thought. How could he have done this? “Why didn’t you tell me yesterday?”

  “There wasn’t time. I was setting up the traps. I didn’t realize you were going to blow Munroe Pilson away like that,” Harold said defensively. “You’re supposed to keep me informed of these things.”

  Ben wasn’t in the mood to be chastised by one of his own employees. “You report to me, Harold. Don’t forget that.”

  “I know. All I’m saying is that we have to coordinate these things carefully,” Harold said. “Everything has to be orchestrated.”

  Ben was tired of waiting for this man to coordinate all the messy details. Sure, he was good, he was a perfectionist, but he was slow. “I had to move Pilson along. I couldn’t wait any longer for you to do the job.”

  “Fine! I’m not arguing the point,” Harold said, nervously playing with the keys in his pocket. “But we need to relocate our stuff in the icehouse to a different location.”

  Ben wasn’t exactly sure what “stuff” Harold was referring to. Ben always delegated the details, but he knew his partner had been storing items in a locked icehouse across the bay.

  “Why can’t we leave it out there a little longer?” Ben asked.

  “Because the crime scene investigation in the front yard puts us at risk,” Harold said. “It’s best if we move our gear as far away from here as possible,” he said, lowering his voice.

  Ben didn’t want to go out there on that frozen body of water, especially not in a vehicle. How could the ice support a car or truck? What if one of those fishing holes had weakened it? He looked back across the room at the men on the phones. They could get Bob, Richard, or James to help out, but he wanted them on the phones, finding prospects.

  Damn, he really didn’t want to do this. “After it gets dark, you and I will go out to the icehouse. Then if we need assistance, I’ll call the rest of the team.”

  Wolves practice a method called caching—storing pieces of prey in the snow to devour later.

  It was already dark, and the snowfall had trailed off to random flakes blowing in the wind. Quin watched from his pickup truck as Big Ben and Harold drove onto the ice of Lake Minnetonka.

  He had to keep an eye on his time closely. He’d promised Bob he’d join the men for a drink, but first he had to see what Big Ben and Harold were up to. What would make these executives drive their Chevy Suburban through drifts of snow out onto the lake at dusk?

  Time to find out.

  He parked his truck alongside a boat in dry dock, put on a pair of boots he kept behind his seat, and stepped out into the cutting wind. The winter evening on the lake after the sun had set was cold and barren, like the dark side of the moon.

  Quin zipped his coat and ran headlong into the wind, watching the Suburban two hundred yards ahead of him approach the village of icehouses. To save energy, he jogged in the truck’s tire tracks across the ice, the way wolves run in the tracks made by caribou.

  The Suburban slowed and circled around an icehouse at the far end of the makeshift village. The headlights illuminated the structure, and Quin could see the men standing at the door. They both went inside. He took the opportunity to run across the ice and snow to close the gap. The wind filled his lungs with each cold, burning gasp.

  He stopped to catch his breath next to a fishing tent flapping in the wind. Inside, a fisherman watched a television wired to a portable generator.

  He must be warm in there out of the wind, Quin thought as he walked between two wooden shacks to get a better view of Harold and Big Ben.

  The door to that icehouse was flung open. The two men jumped out, slamming the door behind them. Big Ben leaned over and vomited on the ice. Harold, with his hands stuffed deep in his coat pocket, glanced in Quin’s direction, but Quin didn’t think Harold noticed him in the darkness. The two men climbed into the Suburban and drove off, slowly bouncing along the drifts.

  Quin stepped forward, his boots crunching through the hard-packed snow, watching the Suburban drive away. He saw a narrow corridor of icehouses, each with piles of garbage and debris beside it, like the back alley of a city street. There were empty cases of beer, bags of charcoal, dead car batteries stuck in the ice. Who cleans this stuff up when the season is over?

  At the end of the row, he reached the icehouse that had made Big Ben sick and walked completely around the wooden structure. His two raven friends were perched there, one on the flat roof, the other gripping a metal smokestack with his talons.

  Both flapped their wings wildly in a ritualistic greeting he was growing accustomed to.

  Were they trying to warn me?

  He stood at the door, his gloved hand on the aluminum handle, waiting to go inside. The raven on the roof hopped to the edge for a better view of him.

  “Caw! Caw!”

  Both birds caught the wind and fluttered their wings in Quin’s face, as if panic stricken. He pulled hard on the plywood door and realized it had a padlock. He searched around the debris and garbage and found a metal rod. That could serve as a crowbar, and he hustled back and wedged the door open, busting the metal bracket while keeping the lock intact. Quin jumped inside the icehouse, out of the wind, away from the ravens. The small structure was completely black inside, the only window covered with paper and cardboard. He could hear the ravens outside pecking on the wooden roof and metal smokestack.

  The temperature inside the shack was chilly, like that of a walk-in freezer. Taking a deep breath, he caught a sour smell that filled his nose and lungs. It was the scent of death that had made Big Ben sick, and Quin wasn’t feeling much better. He groped his way in the dark, searching for a light switch or a lantern.

  His foot hit a bench, and he leaned over to grab the structure for balance, but his hand touched something soft. He seemed directly above the source of the stench. He removed a glove, stuck his hand out into the dark, and felt something. He felt it a couple of times before realizing he was touching a human ear!

  He jumped back and fell into a wall of small fishing poles and nets, and a tackle box of tools. Inside, he found a flashlight and turned the dim yellow beam in the direction of the body. There, on a narrow bench, were the bodies of a woman and a man slumped over in each other’s arms. Now that he could see them, the stench seemed stronger and more putrid.

  Quin approached, careful not to disturb the crime scene any more than he already had. In the glow of the dim light, he recognized Cassy’s face from photos Lunde had given him. She was ashen, her lips gray, and seemed much younger than in the photograph. She couldn’t have been older than twenty-five. Her frozen arm dangled along the side of the bunk. Martin was on top of her. Either they were in love, or Harold had staged the scene to look that way.

  Quin used the flashlight to scan the wooden shack for signs of a struggle, for blood, but he saw nothing. He looked closer for gunshot wounds on the heads and backs. There were none.

  The flashlight’s dim glow flickered and went dark. Quin reached into his coat for his phone and illuminated the shack with the ambient glow of his LED display. The bodies were together on a wood cot fully clothed in coats and boots. It looked as if they had fallen asleep, except their skin was pale and ashen. There was no noticeable trauma or blood except a rotting odor from the bodies. Quin knew that the icehouse must heat up in the direct sunlight during the day but then cool at night. He took two photos of the bodies, but the stench finally became unbearable and he backed out the door, gasping for air. The cold evening wind had never tasted so refreshing.

  He replaced the broken latch and padlock and pounded them into place with the crowbar. He had to get back to his truck and meet the others for drinks, or they might get suspicious. Before he left the icehouse, he set his GPS watch to the exact coordinates so it would be easier to find when he returned.

  Quin jogged with his back to the wind through the maze of icehouses, across the drifts of snow. He’d have a few drinks and then return with Lunde to show him he’d found the missing agents. Then he’d demand payment
for his services and get the hell out of here. This assignment was too dangerous to risk going any further. He’d done what he had been hired to do—find the agents. Now it was time to collect his fee and head home.

  Rebecca set the coffee table in the living room with plates and glasses as Mike joined her with a bag of Chinese food. She noticed he had a large smile on his face. At least he’d called this time and given her advance notice that he was coming.

  “Kung pao chicken, your favorite,” he said, setting the bag on the table. The steamy aroma of soy sauce called to mind the early years of her marriage. Back then, she’d come home late from work, and instead of cooking, they’d order out and sit on the floor of their one-bedroom apartment eating and dreaming about their future.

  “You didn’t have to do this,” Rebecca said, feeling guilty. “Hospice Hospitality Meals delivers twice a week. I’m even cooking on my own again.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” he said, sitting on a chair across from her couch. He liked playing the martyr, the one you could never repay enough.

  She spooned the kung pao onto her plate and sat back on the couch, watching Mike eat. Now might be a good time to tell him of her plans. She’d been thinking about her financial situation most of the day, and time was running out. There would be no perfect time to explain this, so she decided she would bounce the idea off him.

  “What do you think of viatical settlements?”

  He stopped chewing and swallowed hard. “You’re considering that?”

  “I’m walking around the idea.”

  “Aren’t those settlements to pay for medical expenses?” he asked. “You’re refusing treatments. You’re going to—“

  “Die, and soon,” she said.

  His face flushed to a dark red. “I didn’t mean it like that, Rebecca.”

  “I can use the money from the policy any way I want,” she said. She had to get all the numerical facts out on the table before he jumped to an early opinion. “The policy has a face value of $10 million. The broker said he can probably get me eighty percent of that up front.”