Damnable

  A black man in a button-down shirt with an open collar and khaki slacks entered the reception area from the elevator bank.

  “Last run of the day,” he said. He waved a file folder as he walked past and headed toward the back. The woman reached beneath her desk and the door behind her buzzed with a click. The man pushed on the bar and disappeared behind it.

  The woman turned her attention back to Hatcher. “Do you have an appointment?”

  Good question, he thought. Depends on how you look at it. “Yes.”

  The woman picked up a telephone handset and pressed a button. “Name?”

  “Hatcher.”

  “Oh, I have something for you.” She replaced the handset and reached into a corner of her desk for a large envelope. After checking the front, she handed it to him over the narrow counter of the hutch.

  The envelope felt flimsy, flat, like it was empty. The name “Hatcher” was written in pen on the face of it.

  Hatcher tore the envelope and removed a single sheet of paper. The paper bore a short message in ink:

  Leave the dagger with Penelope. Someone will contact you later.

  He lifted his eyes from the page. “That’s all?”

  “Yes,” the woman tilted her head. “Was there supposed to be something else?”

  “I want to see Mr. Solomon.”

  The woman’s brow furrowed. “I’m sorry, sir. Mr. Solomon is currently out of the office. He’ll be back tomorrow.”

  “Try again. You were picking up the phone to call him when you asked me my name.”

  She slid an appointment book closer, avoiding his gaze. “Would you like to reschedule?”

  “No. I’d like you to tell him I’m out here, and that my patience is wearing thin. Almost as thin as the ice he’s skating on.”

  “I’ll be happy to give him a message for you,” she said, paying undue attention to the calendar.

  The door opened and the man who’d just entered exited, carrying a thicker looking file. The door started to close slowly behind him

  “Not necessary,” Hatcher said. “I’ll just tell him myself.” He slipped past the station and got a hand on the door before it shut.

  “Sir! You can’t go back there!”

  Ignoring her, Hatcher opened the door and walked into a hallway that ran perpendicular to it. The space taken up by Solomon’s firm was relatively compact. A large conference room was separated from the corridor by a glass wall. To the right beyond it was a supply room and what looked like a tiny kitchen. Hatcher walked to his left. A few empty cubicles lined the interior, opposite a pair of empty offices. The hall terminated at a large corner office with double doors. He checked the nameplate and shoved the door open.

  Solomon was standing behind a large desk, leaning slightly forward over a phone. His charcoal gray suit looked sharp against his white shirt and bright yellow tie. He looked up at Hatcher and pressed a button.

  “It’s okay, Penelope. Don’t bother. He’s here now. Just call it a day.”

  The voice that came over the speaker was loud and tinny. “Are you sure?”

  “Yes. I’ll see you tomorrow. Everything’s under control.”

  Hatcher stepped into the office. It was triangular, with a view of neighboring skyscrapers through floor-to-ceiling windows, a vista of silvery reflections and glistening steel, the shadows cast by the setting sun hinting at a labyrinth of passageways between them. There was a couch and a small table with chairs in one corner

  The lawyer held up a finger and pressed another button on the phone. “He’s here,” he said. He kept the finger up as he reached over to flat CD player mounted on a stand. Jazz flooded the room in hi-fi stereo. Hatcher thought he recognized it. Prominent horns. Chuck Mangione, maybe.

  Solomon straightened and raised his brows, turned up his palms with a what now? shrug.

  “I want answers.” Hatcher gestured toward him with his chin. “You’re going to give them to me.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t have any,” Solomon said. “Even if I did, the information would probably be privileged. I wouldn’t be able to disclose it if I wanted to.”

  “Oh, you’ll want to. Trust me on that.”

  “There’s no need for threats. I was told you were coming and to have you leave a certain dagger. That’s all I can say.”

  “Where’s he got Amy?”

  “Who?”

  “Detective Wright?”

  Solomon hitched a shoulder. “Can’t say I know what you’re talking about. Honest.”

  “In that case, where do I find Valentine?”

  Solomon hesitated, shot a glance over Hatcher’s shoulder toward the door. Before Hatcher could react to it, a pair of massive arms wrapped around his chest, pinning his arms to his side. Arms like enormous steel cables, tightening, squeezing his ribs, lifting him off the ground. Constricting him.

  Hatcher flung his head back, trying to drive it into his attacker’s face. Nothing there to hit. Whoever it was had his head pulled back, probably turned away. Ready for him. He could tell his assailant was much bigger than he was, bigger and freakishly strong.

  Sherman.

  Breathing was becoming difficult. The man seemed to know what he was capable of. Those arms were literally squeezing the life out of him, tightening relentlessly. Hatcher flailed, clawing at the hand that was clamped over the other in a fist. He swung his legs, mule-kicking, tried to scrape a heel down Sherman’s shin, tried to catch a knee. Nothing. He had no leverage, and Sherman was in a stance that made it difficult to connect a kick. The few he managed to land were glancing strikes that didn’t seem to make a dent.

  Tighter, tighter, tighter. Hatcher focused on expanding his chest cavity, pressing his arms outward with all his might. It seemed to slow down the constriction but was exhausting. He couldn’t believe it was even possible, that someone could be so strong. He was able to breathe a little, which was good, but the realization hit that suffocating him wasn’t what Sherman had in mind. He was trying to crush his rib cage.

  Sherman’s fists wouldn’t budge as Hatcher dug his fingers into them, unable to even pry a finger loose. He could feel things start to pop near his breastbone. The desk, he thought. He swung a foot toward it. Too far. There had to be something else.

  His eyes felt like they were going to pop out. His head seemed to swell, vessels all engorged with blood. Every breath was now a struggle. It was only a matter of time before his chest really did cave in. Chair. He raised a foot toward one of the chairs in front of the desk, managed to catch a toe on the armrest. Did his best to draw Sherman’s attention to it.

  Sure enough, Sherman swung him away from it.

  One more time. Hatcher flung his foot out, pointed his toe at the chair. Sherman yanked him away farther, until he faced the opposite direction.

  The move brought Hatcher closer to the sofa. He kicked his foot out toward the armrest. Sherman twisted him away from it.

  Now they were facing away from the desk.

  Hatcher drove his feet back wildly kicking in bicycle motions with all he could muster. Sherman moved backward a few steps, trying to keep his balance. This was his chance. If he could just—

  —get him—

  —to turn—

  —around.

  Hatcher reached his foot out for the chair again, tiny bursts of light going off in his head, veins throbbing in his temples. He hooked his foot around the backrest and toppled it in front of them. Just as he’d hoped, Sherman swung him away from it. An overreaction. They were facing the desk.

  Before Sherman could move again, Hatcher set both feet against the edge of the desk and thrust his legs out as hard as he could. Sherman stumbled back, tripping over the chair, and landed hard on his back.

  Goddamn, if this son of a bitch isn’t strong. Hatcher couldn’t believe it. Two hundred and change landing right on top of the man as he fell straight back, and his grip didn’t release. Hatcher’s head was swimming from lack of oxygen. He imagined his face a crimson purple
color, since that was how it felt. Sherman was still squeezing. But now he was on the floor, and Hatcher realized he couldn’t move his face back anymore. With a desperate snap of his neck muscles, Hatcher fired his head to the rear, catching Sherman in the cheek, around the eye orbit. Again, then again. The grip seemed to loosen slightly. He managed to get two fingers wedged beneath Sherman’s little finger and pull out with both hands. Another vicious crack to Sherman’s face, and the grip finally slipped.

  Bending Sherman’s finger back as mercilessly as he could, Hatcher ripped himself from the bear hug and gulped air. Sherman held a palm over his nose, favoring his right cheek, and tried to get up. Hatcher threw himself on top of him, riding what remained of his adrenaline surge, heart cannonading painfully in his chest, lungs burning as he drew desperate breaths. With all his weight, he slammed a forearm down across Sherman’s face. Then another, then another. Then a bladed palm strike to the throat, then another forearm, mostly elbow, to the head, sinking into it with his full body weight. He reared back for one more, barely able to lift his arm, but let up. Sherman was out.

  His muscles were trembling, his legs wobbling as he stood. He felt completely drained of energy, gasping, unable to inhale enough air. He dropped onto the sofa and sprawled against the cushions, tried to fill and empty his lungs as rapidly as he could.

  “I hope you don’t think you’re leaving,” Hatcher said, not bothering to open his eyes.

  Solomon stopped in mid-stride. He was halfway to the door. “This has nothing to do with me.”

  “Only a lawyer would have the gall to say that in his own office.” Hatcher pulled himself up, stayed perched on the sofa’s edge. He lowered his eyes to Sherman. “While standing over his unconscious client.”

  “The police are on their way.”

  “No, they’re not.”

  Solomon swallowed, cleared his throat. “I called them while the two of you were fighting.”

  “No, you didn’t,” Hatcher said, rotating his shoulder and stretching his chest. “The last thing you want is to answer questions about why I was here, why Sherman and I fought. Or what you know about a missing cop.”

  Solomon’s eyes widened, brows clenching. “I don’t know anything about a missing cop.”

  “Where’s Valentine?”

  “Right now? I have no idea.”

  Hatcher pushed himself off the couch. He twisted his head until his neck audibly cracked. He fixed his gaze on the lawyer and moved toward him.

  “Whoa!” Solomon held his palms out, a surrender gesture. “I really don’t know where he is. Or anything about a missing cop.” Solomon dropped his gaze to the floor where Sherman groaned, stirring, and pointed. “But I’m pretty sure he does.”

  CHAPTER 24

  IT TOOK THREE ROLLS OF STRAPPING TAPE, A DOZEN large FedEx boxes, a telescoping camera tripod, and the string from Sherman’s shoelaces for Hatcher to be able to use Solomon’s brass letter opener they way he wanted to. The large set of scales, held by a blindfolded Lady Justice, her foot on a serpent, weren’t ideal for what he had in mind, but they’d do.

  Solomon’s crystal basketball, commemorating his role in a conference tournament championship some twenty-two years earlier, would be a casualty, but oh, well.

  “Please be careful,” Solomon said. “That’s rather special to me.”

  Hatcher set the ball down on the desk and glanced at the lawyer. Tied up with telephone cord to a chair in the corner, knowing by now that the guy who tied him up wasn’t messing around, yet still voicing concerns over a piece of glass rather than anything that was about to happen to his client. Hatcher wasn’t sure whether it was admirable or pathetic. He decided maybe it was just lawyerly.

  Using his cell phone, Hatcher checked the time. He’d given himself twenty minutes. The rigging had taken almost fifteen, most of it scavenging for the materials in the supply room.

  Binding Sherman facedown on the coffee table had taken the better part of two rolls of tape. Hatcher double-checked to make sure none was coming loose. Multiple wraps over the back and under the table held down Sherman’s upper body, while a similar number kept his legs secure. Both legs were bent at the knees, feet pulled up toward has back, and the ankles were bound tightly together and held in place with strips that were fastened in a dozen layers around his wrists also, palms facing out. The trickiest part was his head. Hatcher had used almost as much tape securing it, the chin jutting out over the edge of the table, length after length of tape running from the legs over the back of his neck and skull to keep it in place. To keep him from turning it, Hatcher had bent a coat hanger and taped it to Sherman’s back, positioning each end of it so they dug into the depressions behind his earlobe. He looped more tape over the back of his head so that the bend in the wire at each lobe was tightly secured to a table leg.

  That was one beat-up looking head, too. Hatcher wondered how one scalp could have so many lacerations. Some of them had started to bleed again.

  A mirror Hatcher pulled from the wall in the washroom was set beneath Sherman’s face at an angle, so he could see it if he moved his eyes to the side.

  Hatcher looked over to Solomon. “Are your bindings too tight?”

  “No,” Solomon said, clearing his throat. “Thank you.”

  Hatcher inspected Sherman’s wrappings, then moved toward Solomon. The lawyer had been reasonably helpful in letting him know what materials would be available and where to find them.

  He looked Solomon square in the eye. “Trust me, this is for your own good.”

  He punched Soloman hard across the jaw. Flexed his hand, then drew back and punched him again. Solomon’s eyes rolled into the back of his head, the surprised look evaporating off his face. His body slumped down, supported only by his bindings. His mouth was bleeding and his cheek and jaw had already started to puff. Whether it would be enough to convince whomever he needed to that he didn’t cooperate was hard to say, but Hatcher figured it was better than nothing.

  Hatcher left Solomon and returned to Sherman. He leaned forward and pinched the big man’s nose shut. A couple of seconds later, Sherman’s head shuddered and his eyes blinked open. Hatcher ripped the strip of packing tape from his mouth. Sherman let out a loud grunt and sucked in air, panting.

  “Let’s get past the preliminaries.” Hatcher crouched down, looking at Sherman’s eyes in the mirror. “This is where I say you’re going to tell me what I want to know, and you say something like ‘fuck you’ or just about as original and then spit at me and maybe tell me all the things you’re going to do to me when you get free.”

  Before Sherman could respond, Hatcher moved to the side of the table, grabbed a firm hold of Sherman’s little finger, and broke it. It made a loud snapping noise.

  “Ah! For fuck’s sake!” His voice squeaked loudly, like a rat under a boot. “What the fuck? Jesus!”

  “Let me explain to you how torture works. It’s not about pain. It’s not about mutilation. It’s about the anticipation of pain. The anticipation of mutilation. Or worse. The biggest obstacle in the beginning of a session is overcoming the belief that the interrogator is bluffing. You need to know I’m not bluffing.”

  Sherman let out a sound that sounded like a tiny dog growling. He shook his body, rattling the table slightly. “Break all my fingers, you fuck. I’m not telling you shit.”

  Hatcher nodded. “I didn’t exactly expect you to be what we call pain-responsive.”

  The big man struggled beneath the tape, huffed a few times, but said nothing.

  “If you look in the mirror, you’ll notice there’s a track,” Hatcher said.

  He picked up the statue of Lady Justice and placed it in front of Sherman’s head. The letter opener was fastened to one end of the scales, the tip pointed upward at a slight outward angle. The weight of it tipped that side of the scale down. He adjusted the position so that the sharp end of the opener was pointing toward Sherman’s right eye.

  “What the fuck are you doing?”


  “Tell me where Wright is and tell me what Valentine is up to.”

  “I don’t know anything. I’ll give you Valentine’s address and you can ask him, jack-off. Let me go.”

  Hatcher held up the crystal basketball so it was visible in the mirror. “This weighs about fifteen pounds. Dropped from the height of the desk, it will pack a lot more force than that.”

  “I told you, I don’t know anything.”

  Smiling down at the mirror, Hatcher scratched his cheek and sighed.

  “This is called a rat trap,” he said, moving behind the desk. “Kind of like a mouse trap. There’s no specific design. The idea is, you set in motion something on one end that results in something happening at the other.”

  Sherman’s body shook and the table trembled. But he hardly moved. An elephant wouldn’t have been able to move. “Let me out of this!”

  “You use a rat trap to make sure the subject understands that once set in motion, your role is done. When I drop this ball, it starts rolling down the track and toward the edge of the desk, then it drops off the edge and hits the near end of the scale, which drives the other end of the scale up, stabbing that letter opener into your eye. I barbed the tip of the opener so that it will stick and pop your eye out when it’s removed.”

  Hatcher lifted the glass basketball to the top of the hutch behind Solomon’s desk, perching it atop a stack of four books from the shelves below that he’d placed near the corner. Next to it was a stack of three, then two, then one lone book laid spine out, set back a bit, its cover propped open with some paper, with more books stacked on the other side of it to hold it in place. The cover was angled like a ramp that fed to a V-shaped gutter of FedEx boxes taped together and bound to the extended legs of the tripod for support. The boxes ended at the edge of the desk a few feet from Sherman’s head.

  “Let me know if you don’t have a good view. I’ll adjust the mirror.”

  Sherman squealed something unintelligible, followed it up with some curses and threats. Hatcher waited. He only had one shot once he let it go, and he had to make it count.

  The noises Sherman made died down into grunting breaths and Hatcher looked at his eyes in the mirror. He gave the ball a gentle push. It turned slowly off the first stack of books, dropped heavily onto the second and almost came to a stop after it dropped onto the third. It teetered on the edge before dropping onto the tilted cover and rolling off of it onto the makeshift track. The boxes sagged a bit, but didn’t collapse. The ball picked up speed, making a loud crunching, scraping noise on the cardboard as it bowled along.