Fatal Exchange

by Russell Blake

  It made them both happy for now.

  She thought he was cute and they got along well, plus they had an important characteristic in common: they both favored rough, raunchy sex in dangerous places. That’s all she wanted out of the relationship, and all he delivered. Fine by her.

  Keep it simple.

  She’d had enough drama in her life, was still in a state of flux. She had no interest in trying to hold anything more serious together when she felt like she couldn’t hold herself together most of the time. At least the relationship was low stress - a feature she prized.

  Tess gave Nick a big smack on the lips, grabbing his crotch through his boxers and giving the goods a gentle tug.

  “Come home early tonight, huh? A girl gets lonely in the big city,” Tess intoned.

  Nick looked interested and made some affirmative grunts, but he was still out of it and she was running late.

  “Shit, we have that thing at the club tonight. Don’t forget.” She scooped up her helmet. “Call me,” she said, waving her cell phone as she moved out the door.

  She shouldered her bike down the stairs and out onto the street. It was humid, and the garbage men were on strike. She wondered absently if they deliberately waited for summer, or if it just worked out that way.

  She pedaled the half-mile to the depot and ran inside, signed in. The whole crew was there, drinking coffee, powering down donuts, getting ready for the day’s work.

  Duff, a six-foot-five dreadlocked black man, gave her a high five as she walked by, and continued his discussion with Angel, a Puerto Rican girl who’d been there for six months. Duff was gang-related but gone straight, trying to do the right thing by his girlfriend and daughter. A row of bullet scars across his back paid testament to his earlier life and affiliations, yet he spoke very softly, gently. He seemed menacing if you didn’t know him, but Tess did—he was a good guy, and they were close friends.

  Paco, Tiny (an obese Jamaican), Turbo and Luis were hanging out smoking, Turbo showing off his latest tattoo in his full-sleeve project. Skid and Dirter, who played in a punk band together, were trying to get Pug, a blond street chick, and Sin City, her almost constant female partner, to go to their show the next night. Probably wouldn’t happen unless a guest-list could get them in free.

  There were maybe two dozen other bike messengers lounging around, waiting for the sheets to get issued. Candy, a voluptuous blonde, came over and sat down on the long bench next to Tess.

  “Have you heard from Loca?”

  “No. I called her last night a couple of times, and the night before, and no answer. Strange, huh? Maybe she had to leave town on an emergency or something,” said Tess, again concerned.

  “I don’t think so. She likes the job; I think she woulda called one of the dispatchers.” Candy was an actress in training, a starving artist from Atlanta.

  “Speak of the devil,” Tess muttered.

  Two men walked out of the dispatch area with the morning’s assignment sheets and started calling names. The taller, older, huskier one, Frank Meyer, was in his mid-sixties and had been there since the beginning of time. He chain-smoked Pall Mall non-filters like they contained the elixir of life, and always smelled like nicotine. So did Stu Giblett, the smaller wiry one, who’d started about eight months ago and had a pencil-neck nerdy thing going. He had skin so white it was translucent, and the demeanor and voice of a librarian.

  Tess considered them. Neither was going to win any personality or looks contests, but then again, the two night shift guys, Henry Rocklen and Vance Reynolds, were also oddballs. Nobody wound up in this business if they had something better, so almost all the employees were damaged goods—usually substance abuse or criminal records or a train wreck of a life.

  Except Tess. She was just there temporarily, only passing through.

  “Hey, you all going to hit the Avalon crazy crazy tonight?” Pug called out to no one in particular. A chorus of “yeah baby”s and “uh huh”s sounded as the crew prepared to scramble and hit the streets. It was Friday, and Friday was payday, and that meant full wallets. You bet your ass everyone would be out tonight. Friday night meant get the party started for the weekend, the earlier the better.

  * * *

  Detective Ron Stanford walked up the concrete stairs from the subway and down the block to the precinct house. Amid about forty thousand police officers and detectives in the NYPD, he had remarkable freedom as a homicide specialist—a floater, specializing in the most violent murders the city offered up. If it was a domestic incident or a robbery or a gang death or a routine homicide, somebody else got the call. When it looked like a serial killer he was first draft. It kept life interesting.

  He threw his lunch bag on his desk and rifled through a stack of message slips. There was one from the forensics lab. He figured he should start his day with some good news; maybe they’d figured out what had killed their Jane Doe. He dialed.

  “Forensics, Amy Silva.”

  “Hi Amy, it’s Ron. I saw you called. What have you got?”

  “Well, it’s strange. The cause of death is indeterminate. We can’t figure out what killed her. It looks like natural causes but we both know that’s impossible. We’ve run a complete panel, concluded the autopsy, and so far, it looks like she shouldn’t be dead.” Amy stopped.

  “Great. Of course the sawed-off breasts and scalp kind of make me doubt the natural causes thing—not to mention the eyes…” Ron was feeling playful today.

  “That’s the other odd thing. She was already dead, her heart had stopped for some time before she was butchered. And I was right about the implement, it was razor sharp, very efficient. She had a lot of alcohol in her system and some trace elements of Klonapin, but not nearly enough to kill her—and it could be she had a prescription for that.” Amy said.

  “When did she die?” Ron asked.

  “Tuesday night. Late.”

  “Okay, so where does that leave us?” asked Ron.

  “A healthy Hispanic female in her mid-twenties, who shouldn’t be dead according to all our tests. Sorry. Wish I had better news.” Amy did sound sorry. “But my hunch is we’ll see more like her—this isn’t a boyfriend faking it. However she was killed, it was done carefully, it was obviously premeditated. She died in that alley; she wasn’t moved. He did the cutting right there, brought the tools and something to carry the trophies away in, and he was strong enough to throw her into the dumpster. Although she only weighed ninety-six pounds.” Amy was finished.

  “So the perp knew what he was going to do and came prepared. Nice. And killed her mysteriously. Thanks. You just officially made my day terrible, and it just got started.”

  “Sorry, Ron. I’ll call you if the toxicology report gets any hits.” She disconnected.

  That’s fucking great. A nut job with a scalping mania roaming the streets, able to kill without leaving a trace. Ron flipped over the case file, saw a note stuck to the inside with some writing. Name: Angelina Cortez, age twenty-four, last known employer Red Cap Courier.

  At least he had somewhere to start.

  Chapter 5

  Robert Gideon wheeled out of the apartment building to the waiting automobile. One of the few luxuries he indulged in was a car to and from his office, to spare him the indignity of dealing with public transportation with his wheelchair. He didn’t spend money frivolously, and he could more than afford it. He wasn’t rich, but he was certainly comfortable enough to splurge when he felt like it. The car, the odd fine dining experience, and the occasional rare wine—all within his means.

  “Good morning, Mr. Gideon,” the driver said as he assisted him into the back seat of the Town Car.

  “Good morning, Inder,” Robert responded. Inder was a very fit Indian gentleman who’d been driving him for the last six years. His vehicle had a lift on the back for Robert’s power chair.

  “Let’s stop at the bank on the way to the shop, okay?” Robert requested.

  “Very good.”

  They parked ou
tside the Exxon building on Avenue of the Americas , and Robert got into his chair, clutching his paper bag. He told Inder he’d be only a moment, then rolled into the branch, informing the manager on duty that he needed to get into his safety deposit box. The manager escorted him to the back, where he held his hand up to the scanner that approved him for entry; once inside the vault he eased down the ramp to the rows of hinged compartments. He slid his key into the slot and turned it, then removed and opened the box, and dropped the bag next to his important papers and several ultra-expensive watches. All told, a three-minute, million-dollar moment.

  Back at the car, Inder got him secured and they proceeded to his shop on West 47th Street. Gideon Watch Gallery was his livelihood and his passion, one of the few things that brought him pleasure. He’d had the business for twenty-five years, and he still looked forward to going to work every day.

  He specialized in only the rarest and most sought-after timepieces, and had several customers who’d been coming to him since he first opened. He was now at the point where he was buying back watches he’d sold two decades earlier, from the estates of clients who’d passed away. One thing that never changed was the demand for Patek Philippe and other extremely rare watches.

  * * *

  Mr. Kiu touched down in Seoul, having concluded his transaction in San Francisco and boarded a return flight the same day. There’d been no delegation; he’d made the trip of his own accord, using vacation time.

  He was exhausted from all the hours in the air—but given that his slice of the profits would be three hundred grand, he was willing to put up with a little discomfort. Exiting the arrival terminal, he hailed one of the ubiquitous taxis standing sentry-like in a queue. He gave the driver his address and dropped into the back seat gratefully, happy to be on land.

  Now that he had the watches he could sell them in Seoul or Japan . He already had two interested parties in Tokyo, well-to-do acquaintances from the diplomatic corps. A quarter million bucks per watch, wired to his offshore account, would do nicely.

  He’d hold the funds for his brother’s friend, still in Myanmar , and once he was able to arrange for his family to be smuggled out the friend would have a nice nest egg waiting: five hundred thousand dollars. His brother would take a hundred, the Seung fellow would take his hundred, Kiu would keep three hundred, and life for all of them would be good.

  He’d been advised to swap the cash for commodities that could be re-converted into different currencies, and the watches were the perfect vehicles. There was no hurry to sell them—they appreciated every day, so he could just keep them in his safe and they were as good as gold.

  Summer in Korea was a hot and wet affair, the air heavy with the smells of exhaust and fish and industry. The taxi pulled up to Kiu’s Hanok house, a renovated old-style Korean home on the outskirts of Seoul, and he paid the driver from a wad of won. He was glad to finally be home, and was looking forward to seeing his wife. They’d had an interesting life together; their children were grown and his career as a mid-level member of the diplomatic corps had provided a comfortable lifestyle. They’d had opportunities to travel in conjunction with his work, and had seen many parts of the world that his fellow countrymen had no idea even existed.

  He considered what he would do once he retired in a few more years, maybe six or seven. Seoul had its good points, but he couldn’t help looking forward to moving away from the city. An hour or two away, in the countryside, where peace and tranquility prevailed—maybe in one of the little fishing villages, open a bed and breakfast to keep occupied. The watch money would make their retirement significantly more secure.

  It was still hot out in the early evening, in the low eighties with very high humidity, and he was sweating after being in air conditioning for the last twenty-four hours. The flight to the U.S. had taken just over ten hours, and the return trip about twelve, and he’d been on the ground all of three hours.

  He was out of it from all the Xanax and jet lag and sleeplessness—he could never get a minute’s rest on an airplane, and was looking forward to a long night's sleep.

  What a whirlwind.

  He climbed the steps and opened his door, stopping at an unfamiliar odor. Cigarette smoke. That was odd. He wondered who had visited his wife Hea and smoked in their house.

  “Honey? I’m home. Do we have company?” he called into the house from the small entryway.

  Nothing.

  Very odd.

  “Honey?” He walked into the empty living room; she must have been in the bedroom. He noted the ashtrays on the table—they had definitely had company in his absence.

  “Honey?” He froze when he entered the bedroom. Two men were sitting on the small couch, and his wife was tied spread-eagle to the bed, naked, bound and gagged. She looked terrified. One of the men was smoking; the other held a small pistol. The man with the cigarette stood up slowly and stretched. It had been a long day for everyone.

  “Where is it?”

  Kiu’s heart sank. So they knew, and had sent a team. It was over. He’d read enough intelligence briefings to know he and his wife were dead.

  “I love you, honey. Please forgive me. I’ve always loved you, I swear.” It was true. He’d married her as soon as she turned eighteen, and had never been with nor desired another woman. And now he’d killed them both, just as surely as if he held the gun himself. He turned to the men.

  “I have no idea what you’re doing here. I’m a diplomat of the Republic of Korea, and any robbery or violence will carry with it the swiftest and most severe of consequences.”

  The two men looked at each other and started laughing. The one holding the cigarette picked up an old ball-peen hammer that Kiu kept in the shed with his other tools and casually swung it down on Hea’s shin. She writhed, her scream stifled by the gag. He spoke as he regarded her, studying her agony.

  “I see. You are a very important man. But you don’t seem to understand: we know everything, and we need our property back.” He paused, took a step, and struck her other leg. “She’ll never walk again, thanks to your lies. But she’s at least alive, yes? So let’s try again. Where is it?”

  Kiu threw his bag at the man with the cigarette and lunged at the gunman. He had no other choice. They would torture them both regardless of whether he told them anything, so he might as well do some damage.

  They wrestled, and the gun went off just as the second man swung the hammer at Kiu’s neck. Kiu sank to the floor, shot in the chest, blood staining his shirt in a rapidly spreading pattern.

  The smoker leaned over and probed Kiu’s neck for a pulse. Nothing. He picked up the bags Kiu had been carrying and systematically dismantled them. His partner walked over to Hea, put a pillow over her face, placed the barrel of his pistol against it and pulled the trigger.

  “I think we have something here. No cash, but look at this,” his partner exclaimed.

  He was holding the airline tickets and the bag with the four watches in it, complete with a receipt from Gideon Watch Gallery, New York, NY.

  He pulled out a newly-acquired cell phone and pressed speed dial.

  “We have a serious problem. Our boy’s been busy.”

  * * *

  The streets were muggy and suffocated by the exhaust from the nonstop procession of cars. Tess was zigzagging in and out of traffic, slicing her way from stop to stop with almost mechanized efficiency. Summer was hard, but not as bad as winter, when the pavement was slick with ice and the wind chill could easily drop the temperature below zero.

  In the messenger world time was literally money. It was simple—the more packages you delivered, the more money you earned; the system rewarded efficiency and speed. She liked that aspect of the job, the challenge of always pushing herself, demanding more from her body, constantly trying for an edge on the clock.

  After her breakdown, she had thought a lot about what was really important to her, and being active and physically fit ranked high. She realized she had hated working in a rigid, contro
lled environment—while she enjoyed the intellectual challenge of writing code, the lifestyle had sucked away her will to live.

  Her therapist had prescribed Zoloft, and then Lexipro, in an attempt to manage her mood so she wouldn’t step in front of a bus. She had weaned herself off and stopped seeing the shrink once she got out of programming, and so far, so good—two years and counting.

  She supposed that like half the city, she was fucked up and neurotic. But no one had ever promised her that life would meet her every expectation, and at the end of the day, she couldn’t complain. She knew a lot of others had it harder, and she had come a long way from being the depressed girl who’d wanted to end it all because life had disappointed her. She’d sucked it up and gotten tougher, and the challenges of the job had helped her develop a new, confident self-sufficiency.

  So Tess raced down the battered and sweltering thoroughfares of the lower East side, contented and exhilarated by the ride, driving herself to the limits of her endurance as she raced from her demons.

  * * *

  Gordon Samuels was perched on the edge of his desk, contemplating a currency hedge against a rise in the Australian dollar, when his private line rang. Few had that number. He picked it up.

  “Yes?”

  “We have a situation.” He recognized the Asian singsong lilt.

  “A situation? What happened?”

  “It seems that a million of the test batch found its way into the U.S. We have a good idea who is in possession, and are taking steps to rectify this.”

  “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me. I thought you had it all under control. Now you tell me we’ve got flawed bills here? Where?” Gordon was fuming. The whole scheme was endangered, but he’d be damned if he’d put up with a mistake at this stage. He was way too committed on the oil futures to extricate himself now, and they were losing value even as he spoke.