~ ~ ~
The skyline was hazy, the air muggy again as the relentless summer heat seared the streets. Gordon was in his climate-controlled office sipping a cup of coffee his assistant made for him by the pot every morning, a blend from Hawaii used in Roy’s famous chain of restaurants, which he had delivered via air courier. Life was too short to drink swill, he mused. Especially given that he was about to become the city’s newest billionaire.
He’d given serious thought to buying a new Gulfstream, maybe a G650—something that could hop over to Europe and back without refueling, or hit Australia from Los Angeles non-stop. Who needed those pissy little Citations or Hawkers; why not go for the gusto? Figure close to sixty-five million for the plane, another four million or so for the interior, a couple of million a year to keep it maintained. Peanuts in the long run. What was the point of being a billionaire if you couldn’t live the high life?
His private line chimed, and he set the china cup down and picked up the handset.
“Samuels.”
“Good morning. Thank you for helping us out yesterday; everything was attended to satisfactorily.” The singsong voice sounded much more relaxed than eighteen hours before.
“Always glad to assist in any way I can,” Gordon said.
“I’m glad to hear that. I was wondering if I could request that you do us one more small favor. Really not much of an imposition at all, I would think.”
Gordon tensed. He’d learned to be wary when he was told that something would be easy.
“What can I do for you?”
“There is a bank, on Avenue of the Americas, at West 50th, I believe?” the voice said, obviously reading the unfamiliar information.
“I think I know the one you’re talking about.”
“It might make things convenient for all of us if you were to secure a safe deposit box there. Apparently the package we have been looking for is there, and we will require access to the vault to retrieve it.”
“I see.” Gordon thought about it. Was there any risk to him in opening a safe deposit box account? None he could see. “I could do it later today. Shouldn’t be a problem,” Gordon said.
“Call us whenever you’ve had the opportunity to do so.”
Gordon was relieved that he hadn’t asked for much.
“I will. Can I trust our problem has gone away, been resolved now?” Gordon wanted to be reassured they were back in control of the play. He needed a Gulfstream, dammit.
“You may indeed. We were successful, and just need to tie up a few loose ends. The plan is moving forward.”
“I’m glad to hear it. I’ll call later today.”
“Very good.”
Gordon went back to looking out over the city, switching his attention to contemplating yachts. He wondered how much of a difference there was in interior space between 150 and 175 feet. And buy an existing boat, or have one custom built? He supposed either way, a vessel in that size range would be able to accommodate a helicopter—he’d need the ’copter to get from the plane to the boat, after all. Time was money.
~ ~ ~
The killer read the paper with interest. “The Red Cap Killer.” Very nice. He supposed with all the attention he’d have to look elsewhere for his next pretty; the courier company would be too hot. He knew a lot of bars where messengers hung out, including crews from the other groups. Spreading his wings wouldn’t be a problem.
That would throw everyone for a loop—he would take out another one right under their noses, but from another crew. He needed a redhead, maybe a curly-haired redhead. That would be perfect. He was sure he could find something suitable. Red Cap didn’t have any, so he would have been stuck going outside the company for his next one anyway.
He thought about it. Maybe Tab after that? A little chocolate loving for Daddy? She had an attitude—sassy, just asking for it. Tab would definitely be on the menu. But for the time being, he’d have to scout for a redhead. He’d hit some bars tonight and line something up for tomorrow’s little show.
He had a special treat in mind for his dark brunette slot. Loca had mahogany hair, highlighted in the front. He could still smell it when he closed his eyes, and kept her scalp in a ziplock bag just to preserve the sweet, sweet smell of Loca’s essence. But for the black hair, there could only be one choice.
Tess.
She had an attitude too, thought she was better than everybody else. He knew she’d be the best. He’d been watching her for a long while, but it wasn’t the right time. He needed to be closer. He wasn’t there yet. Getting there, but not there.
He whistled as he prepared for the day, and nodded at one of the other Red Cap employees. It was going to be a hot one, yessiree.
~ ~ ~
The NYPD was having a busy morning. They’d cited a van on the Upper West Side for illegally parking in a loading zone all night, and when an inquisitive officer had checked it on his third or fourth pass around the neighborhood, he’d found the back doors open.
The smell inside the van had told him all he needed to know, and when he’d pulled back the tarp lying across the rear cargo area he’d been unsurprised to find someone dead. What had surprised him was the presence of two bodies, both of which had started to swell from the heat, with no immediately-evident cause of death. And both with looks of surprise on their faces, eyes frozen open.
He’d radioed it in, and the coroner had come and picked up the bodies once forensics was done. On the slab in midtown it quickly became obvious that the two had met the same fate as the security guard in the watch-shop murders. A synthesized variant of tetrodoxin.
~ ~ ~
Tess rode hard, enjoying the way her muscles felt as they warmed up and got into the rhythm of the ride. She dodged in and out of traffic, on her turf, in her element. She made it to the little breakfast place with about five minutes to spare, selected a lamppost, and locked her bike and front wheel before going inside. Stan hadn’t gotten there yet.
She ordered a cup of coffee and settled in at the counter, eavesdropping on the conversations at the nearby tables. Stories of drama and betrayal, petty grievances, and relatives in trouble. That got old after ten minutes, so she scooped up a paper from the pile on a table in the corner. The Post. Tess scanned the front headline and almost fainted. She re-approached her seat and ordered some orange juice—she was shaking, the article confirming her worst fears about Candy, and making her feel unsafe, vulnerable.
She wished Stan would get there.
The juice’s fructose steadied her, albeit only slightly. She read the article again and saw the paragraph about the three-day cycle; she’d missed that the first time. So tomorrow night, someone would die again, unless the police—no, unless Ron—could do something and catch him. The hair on her arms stood up.
She thought about her co-workers—or ex-co-workers, she supposed—and tried to imagine which one could be the murderer. It was strange trying to picture any of them killing. It definitely wasn’t Duff. Paco? Not likely; he was a gentle man more interested in discos than anything else.
The rest of them she became less and less sure about.
Luis and Turbo both had drug problems, with Luis liking crack while Turbo favored meth. Tiny was a question mark. He acted like he was gang-related, and had a nutty streak in him—not funny nutty, but the-moon-talks-to-me nutty, no doubt exacerbated by his affinity for psychedelics. He was always talking about the mushrooms he’d scored, or the new types of acid on the street. Skid and Dirter were into anything they could get their hands on: pills, heroin, ice, X, you name it. They were living the punk rock ethic, which was ironically more than forty-five years old. It amused her to think of all the youthful rebellion built around a lifestyle that originated in 1976, before any of the current fans were born.
She glanced at the ancient clock on the wall of the restaurant. Weird; Stan was usually punctual. She wondered if something had happened, if his apartment was still having problems from the pipe or whatever it was.
; Tess fished her cell phone from her fanny-pack and dialed his number. The machine picked up and she left a message. He was probably on his way, stuck on one of the subway trains down in the tunnels.
She returned to the paper and breezed through the news section with only minor interest. On page four an article caught her eye, and she stopped, poring over it carefully. A homicide had been discovered on the Upper West Side, a Saul Balinsky, sixty-six years old. Apparent robbery gone badly wrong; the victim was tortured, no doubt to extract information about his cash and jewelry.
Didn’t Stan say the currency dealer was named Saul? She figured there were probably a quarter million or so Sauls in the city, but Saul Balinsky had a very familiar ring to it. With all the action of the last forty-eight hours, she just couldn’t be sure; a lot of it was a jumble, but with Stan running late she was getting increasingly agitated, and now seeing familiar-sounding names below homicide headlines…
Her dad had been killed, cut up and probably tortured, presumably to force him to open the safe. If, and it was a long shot, but if this Saul was the same one Stan had taken the currency to, then he’d also been murdered and tortured, presumably to get him to disclose the hiding places of his valuables.
That was too coincidental. The only thing her father and Saul had in common were the fake bills.
The restaurant jumped at a sudden noise. Tess had dropped her almost-empty coffee cup on the floor, shattering it.
One of the watches had been at the shop when her dad had been murdered. Someone had come a long way to bring it back, and wanted to exchange it for their property—the counterfeits. It all came together in a blinding flash.
Tess was mortified at the mess she’d created with the coffee, but was only partially in the moment, distracted by her reasoning. She threw some cash onto the counter and walked outside, her brain playing out the scenarios to their inevitable conclusion.
If the Saul in the article was the same Saul, then someone was coming for the bills—and the connection between Saul and her dad was Stan, who was now half an hour late for their breakfast.
She paced the sidewalk in front of the restaurant, glancing compulsively at her watch, getting increasingly worried by the second. Her gut was tightening into a ball of acid. Something was wrong. She knew it. Just knew it.
~ ~ ~
At Ron’s office, pandemonium reigned. The press conference and meetings and task-force creation were now the priority, versus tracking and hunting the killer. Ron hated the system’s penchant for wanting to appear to be taking action over favoring results. He had a job to do, had very little time left to save a life, and the last thing he needed was to spend most of his day in meetings, doing information downloads, talking about divisions of labor and wrestling over jurisdiction.
He moved his mouse and his screensaver popped up, and then the program screen from the note pad scan appeared, displaying a phone number. Ron entered it into the reverse directory, a system the department used to skip trace and quickly identify addresses and numbers. Several seconds later a name and address popped up. James Earl, 191 Avenue B. He went back through his notes and looked at the nicknames. Bingo.
It wasn’t as incriminating as he’d have liked. They did work together, so Candy having his phone number wasn’t in and of itself proof of anything, much less a smoking gun. Still, it needed looking into.
Ron’s line rang. His department head wanted to have a meeting in fifteen minutes to get an update on the case and a summary of any promising leads. He swore silently. It was starting already: his day would be filled up talking to people rather than tracking a killer.
He jotted down the name that corresponded to the phone number, and next to it wrote the nickname. He really needed those background checks. He called the department that ran them, and asked when he could get results on his priority case that was now front-page news. They refused to commit, but allowed it would probably be a little later that day.
Ron was out of time. He needed to get ready for the meeting, organize his notes into a comprehensible format, and prepare his position. It was just a matter of hours before the Feds would want to butt in and take control of the investigation—which wasn’t a bad thing per se, but usually added a few more days of transition inefficiency as their team came up to speed. He’d worked on task forces with them more than once, and whenever there’d been a breakthrough it was inevitably because an individual, usually him, had figured something out or had an epiphany.
His line rang. It was Amy.
“Hey, thanks again for the dinner last night,” she said.
“My pleasure. Thanks for the company. It was nice. Though my head’s a little fuzzy from the wine,” Ron complained.
“I was dragging a little too this morning. Unfortunately, this isn’t a social call.”
“Really? It’s not my magnetic personality compelling you to reach out?” Ron teased.
“Well, that, and some interesting information about your buddy Barry’s case—the guard, the one killed with the nerve toxin? Well, two more stiffs showed up today with the same toxin.”
“So, what, you think we’ve got a team working the city? That has to be professional. Who are the new victims? Any link to the watch dealer?” Ron’s brain was processing furiously, trying to make sense of it.
“These were construction workers, doing water damage repair.”
“Where were they found?”
“In the back of their van, double-parked outside an apartment complex on the Upper West Side.”
“Off the top of my head? Either they saw something, or somebody needed something from them. Beats me.” Ron paused. “Were they wearing uniforms?”
“I don’t know. You think they may have been killed just for their outfits?” Amy asked.
“Let me call Barry. If it was my case, I’d be checking to find out what, if anything, the water damage repair guys were working on nearby. Hey, I have to jump into a meeting in about seven minutes, so I need to let you go. I did really enjoy dinner last night, Amy.”
“Me too. Maybe we should do it more often,” she said.
“Let’s plan on it. Gotta go.”
“See ya.”
Ron dialed Barry’s number but got voicemail. He left his cell number and suggested Barry call him when he had a few minutes to chat about the two new bodies Amy had told him about, and the ramifications of a pro hit team working the city.
He saw his boss waving at him. Meeting time. He despised these group grope sessions, but there wasn’t a lot to be done about it, so he picked up his files and moved toward the conference room. On his desk sat the notepad he’d scribbled his findings on. James Earl, 191 Avenue B.
Turbo.
Speed freak, sketchy, wired during interview.
Chapter 23
The taller Asian had been waiting at the café across from Nick’s apartment complex since six that morning. It was just a matter of time until the young man made an appearance. Nick was the last piece in the puzzle, the last one that needed to be dealt with; then they could recover the cash out of the safe deposit box and hop on a plane home.
He’d have to check and find out if they could count and shred the bills in the U.S., or if the minister wanted the cash brought back. Bringing the bills out could present a problem, because transporting wads of hundreds would raise eyebrows at the x-ray security points, and they weren’t traveling on diplomatic passports. They could always put the money into the diplomatic pouch—but then there would be some risk it might not all make it back, and their problems would start all over again.
He sipped his tea and munched on his second croissant of the day. He was going to miss croissants; they didn’t have them in Myanmar. Maybe when he retired he would open a bakery and introduce them into the country. He could call them victory rolls. Hopefully by then prosperity would have taken hold, and such things could be afforded by the populace.
He called his partner, who was staking out the watch store.
“Anyone ther
e?” he inquired.
“Nothing. All quiet.”
“Same here. I wonder if he’s even up in the apartment,” said the taller man.
“Probably still asleep. These Americans are lazy—most don’t have jobs. They sleep till noon and eat cakes. Look at how fat everyone is,” the little man observed.
The taller man took another bite of his croissant and agreed. “Call me if anyone shows up there, and I’ll do the same.”
“You got it.”
He wondered how hard it would be to bake croissants. If this took much longer, he’d have to try one of the chocolate-filled variety. Strictly in the interest of scientific discovery.
~ ~ ~
Treasury was bustling. A courier had picked up the bill in New York early that morning and was on his way to D.C.; he would be arriving within the hour. Ken was reading the report that David and Larry had generated the evening before, a coil of anxiety tightening in his gut as he finished it. Someone butchered Saul to keep them from getting their hands on the bill. Saul had indicated it had originally came from a watch dealer, who’d also been murdered. Ken had taken notes while talking to Saul, and he dug them out. There it was: Robert Gideon, killed on Monday, got bills from a Korean, no name. One million dollars’ worth. Watermark flaw. State-sponsored? That’s all he’d written.
Ken might have been a bureaucrat, and a lazy one at that, but he was organized and had developed powerful instincts for self-preservation. He ran the name Robert Gideon through the government computers and saw an NYPD investigation was underway. He did a global search, and confirmed that on Thursday Robert had flown roundtrip to San Francisco, returning the same day. So far the story was consistent. He did a little more checking and saw the NYPD investigation was being headed by Detective Barry Childen. He looked up Childen’s number on the NYPD directory, and placed a call. Voicemail.
Fatal Exchange (Fatal Series Book 1) Page 17