“Shit. That’s a lot of bodies in a short amount of time. What’s the address?” Barry asked. Ron read him the details.
“I’ll go check on it right now. This stinks, Ron, really bad. Oh, and I almost forgot. I got a call from the Treasury Department about the watch dealer investigation,” Barry said.
“Treasury? What for?”
“Dunno; I haven’t been able to call them back yet. Low on the list today. I’ll touch base with them after I get back from checking out 76th Street.”
“Let me know what you find out. Although I’m almost afraid to hear,” Ron said.
“So the daughter called you? Look at you, Mr. Fancy Pants, the famous serial killer hunter. If I recall, she made Mila Kunis look plain. She just happened to call you for some recipe advice?”
“She was worried about her father’s friend. He was like an uncle to her.”
“Riiiight. And she called you. Man, I knew I should have switched to serial killers a few years ago. You old dog.”
“It’s not like that, Barry.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. It’s never too late—hope springs eternal. Remember, it’s easier to trick the young ones.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
“Take your heart medicine,” Barry cackled, and disconnected.
Great, so now he’d have to listen to Barry rib him for robbing the cradle or being a lecher every time they talked. He supposed there were worse things.
He hoped he was wrong about the uncle.
Chapter 24
Tess entered the bank and checked with the manager, telling the woman she needed to get into a safe deposit box. The manager was cordial, and walked her over to the hand scanner. Tess placed her palm flat on the piece of glass, and a light ray moved up and down her hand three times. A small light turned green and the vault door unlocked, enabling the manager to pull it open. Tess thanked her and the door closed behind her. There was another hand scanner on the inside—her way out.
Using the key on the chain around her neck, Tess unlocked the numbered safe deposit compartment and pulled out the lidded tray. She opened the box and lifted out the paper bag with the money, searching for the manila envelope of documentation resting atop the watch boxes.
Browsing through the paperwork, she spotted a few official-looking documents. The first, a life insurance policy, had a face value of $1.5 million. Wow. So Tess and her sister would be seeing $750 thousand apiece from the insurance, never mind the sale of the watch store and the contents of the will. That was a decent chunk of change.
Next, she found the corporate papers for the watch shop. That was of limited interest to her. There was a fire insurance policy on the store, a copy of the lease and various other insurance coverage forms, and at the bottom, an envelope with a few pages of typewritten text. The last will and testament of Robert Gideon, copy for file purposes only. An attorney’s name and contact information featured prominently on the envelope; she opened it and quickly scanned the contents.
Her dad had a retirement account with about eight hundred grand in it which he was leaving to both Tess and Chrissy, split equally. Ditto for the life insurance. A deed for the apartment, also to be split. Everything split fifty-fifty between the two sisters except for the watch shop. That, and the inventory, he’d left to Tess.
Chrissy was going to be furious. But not that furious, she supposed, seeing as she was getting over a million dollars cash for her share, not counting the apartment. Screw her, anyway—she hadn’t even wanted to help cover the funeral expenses.
Tess entered the phone number of the attorney into her cell phone and jotted down his name and address. Finished, she perused the remaining items in the box; there were five watches—looked like four Patek Philippes and a Breguet. She opened the boxes, and after inspecting each one wrote down the model numbers from the tags. The first had a sticker price of $160K on it, the second $110K, the third $190K, and the fourth $350K. She looked at that one for a long time. Three hundred fifty grand for an old wristwatch. She didn’t understand it. The last watch, the Breguet, was priced at $500K and was marked as a model from the fifties. The world was crazy. Half a million bucks for that?
Carefully returning everything into the box, she slid it back into place and locked it. She approached the hand scanner and opened the door, and moved back out into the main area of the branch, preoccupied with how she was going to deal with the bogus bills. Tess hoped the attorney who’d drafted the will could help her; she was in over her head and knew it.
~ ~ ~
The Treasury lab was devoting all its time to studying the Asian bill. Mark was discussing their examination with his top technologist; so far the bill had frustrated any attempts to prove it a fake.
“The microprinting’s correct, the fine-line printing pattern checks out, it’s the right weight, it’s got the correct color-shifting ink, the check letters and faceplate numbers are right…I don’t see how Saul called this a fake. It looks good to me,” Mark said.
“You can see the inscribed security thread matches, and the check letter and quadrant number’s correct as well. I don’t get it either.” The technician shook his head. He’d been staring at the damn thing for hours and hadn’t spotted anything suspicious.
“What about the watermark? Ken said Saul spotted something off about the watermark.”
“Maybe he garbled that. The watermark looks fine to me. There’s variance from series to series, but when you put this up against a bill with all the same numbers you see nothing strange,” the technician advised.
“What about under a microscope?” Mark asked.
“Do you realize how unlikely it is that this is bogus if all the other items have vetted? What, one in fifty million?”
“Just do it under 5X and then 10X. Saul was killed because of that note. He wasn’t an idiot.” Mark was giving Saul the benefit of the doubt. He’d called it as a fake. That was good enough for Mark even if his eyes hadn’t spotted the problem yet.
~ ~ ~
Tess dialed the number she’d programmed into her phone for her father’s attorney. A receptionist answered on the second ring.
“Rosenthal, Hewett and Kellog.”
“I’d like to speak to Simon Hewett, please.”
“Let me see if he’s available. May I ask who’s calling?”
“This is Tess Gideon, Robert Gideon’s daughter, calling about his will,” Tess said.
“One moment, please.”
On-hold music came on the line. Classical piano. And then a deep male voice.
“This is Simon Hewett.”
“Hello, Mr. Hewett. This is Tess Gideon, Robert’s daughter. I don’t know if you heard, but… he was murdered on Monday,” she said.
“Good Lord. No, I had no idea. I’m so sorry. How…how did it happen?”
She gave him the details, choking up on the last words. She cleared her throat and forced herself to continue. “There was a copy of his will with your name on it. That’s how I got your number,” Tess explained.
“Ahhh. So you have an idea of the contents, then. We should still go through with a reading for your sister’s sake—if memory serves me correctly, you have a sibling, right? I know he wanted you to have the shop and everything associated with it; the policy and the savings are an even split. He also had made allowances for a funeral fund. Your father was extremely thoughtful. He loved you very much, Tess.”
She struggled to maintain her composure. “I know he did. Thank you.”
“If you like, I can contact your sister and arrange the reading, either telephonic or in person. It’s an important formality, and we should be thinking of doing it sooner rather than later,” Simon said.
“Please. She and I don’t get along particularly well. If you could handle that, I’d really appreciate it. Oh, and—I’ll need an attorney to handle the sale of the watch shop, and the evaluation of a fair price. Is that something you could do?” If he was good enough for her dad, he was good enough for he
r.
“Absolutely. Although I should tell you, I’ll probably be an interested buyer myself. I was always after your father to sell me the shop whenever he retired. I have a collection of eighteen Pateks; it’s a lifelong passion of mine.” Simon sounded older, and had probably had enough of the attorney game; he wanted to handle and buy and sell his toys all day. Maybe that wouldn’t be such a bad thing. If only she could find something she really wanted to do, like her dad had, or like Simon. Must be nice.
“I don’t have a problem with that. There must be business appraisers out there who can give us an estimate of the value of the shop, and we can tally up the inventory and fixtures and all and come up with a number. If you don’t mind having to compete with other buyers, why not?” Tess knew enough about business to know you wanted multiple offers when you were selling, and an appraisal when you weren’t sure what something was worth.
“Sounds good. I’d advise you to select your own appraiser to keep me honest; there are many in the book. I’d call a few and find one you’re comfortable with.”
“Okay. And…I know this might be a stupid question, but how do we collect on the life insurance policy?” Tess had no idea how that worked.
“I’ll notify the company as to the circumstances of your father’s passing and get a death certificate from the state. They’ll send the check to me, and I’ll hold the funds in escrow.”
That about covered it in terms of questions. They talked for a few more minutes about the logistics of the will and probate, and then she gave him her number and signed off.
~ ~ ~
Nick had been getting hotter since Tess left for the bank. He had to get the stupid air conditioner going—how hard could it be? He pulled a chair from out of the rear office and placed it under the unit, stood on it, and started fiddling with the ancient controls. He heard the doorbell chime and spotted a diminutive Asian man entering the shop. Damn. He should’ve locked the door.
“Sorry, we’re closed,” he called out, intent on the unit’s control panel.
“Oh, so solly,” the little man said, smiling and bowing to Nick.
“No problem. We should be opening back up in about a wee—” Nick was interrupted by a blinding pain in his leg. He lost his balance and fell to the floor. God, his leg hurt, like nothing he’d ever felt before. He was stunned and had the wind knocked out of him, but he was able to register the small man walking casually over to the door and locking it, as Nick should have.
The man then approached Nick and unceremoniously stomped on one of his hands, causing him to scream. He kicked Nick in the head, and Nick blacked out.
Pulling Nick under one arm and grabbing a handful of hair, he dragged him into the back room. Nick’s leg trailed blood from where his Achilles tendon had been slashed with a straight razor.
The Asian carefully closed the door behind him and felt around until he found the light switch. Once illumination had been taken care of, he considered the raw materials he had to work with. Ahh, some wire—very good, that would take care of the wrists and the feet. He went about his binding carefully, ensuring Nick would be unable to get free once he regained consciousness. He had a sense of urgency, and didn’t want to be in the shop for very long, but also wanted maximum fear instilled in Nick so he’d get the truth sooner rather than later.
His partner would be there in a few minutes, but they couldn’t hang around in the store; there was no way to escape if the police appeared for some reason, and capture was unacceptable.
When Nick came to, he was aware of searing pain in his lower leg, his lower back where he’d hit the floor, his mangled hand, and his whole face. He’d never felt as much pain simultaneously in his life and was in danger of passing out again.
The little Asian man had moved to the repair area and was stirring a small pot used for melting wax, heating something over the little burner on the workbench, engrossed in the process. Nick’s vision blurred in and out, and he couldn’t make out what the man was doing. He tried to move his arms but they were bound behind him; thankfully, the crushed hand was going numb.
The Asian moved toward Nick, holding the small pot carefully by its handle, avoiding spilling the contents. He’d gone through the key ring Nick had left on one of the display cases and hadn’t seen anything that looked like a safe deposit box key. There were only four keys on it: what looked like an apartment key, a deadbolt key presumably for the same door, a small key for a padlock, and the key to the shop. There was also a small flashlight on the ring, as well as a penknife. Nothing else.
“Where key? For safe box? What number is box?”
Box? What the hell was he jabbering about? What box?
“I…don’t understand.” His mouth was ruined, making it sound like, “ah don unnathan.”
“Safe box. What is number, where key?”
Safe box? His head was whirring; he felt vertigo, and his vision dimmed again. The little man slapped his face, sending pain shooting across his nervous system. Box? Safe deposit box.
“I…don’t know…the number. I—don’t…have the key.”
“You lie.”
The little man stuffed a filthy rag into Nick’s mouth and poured some of the contents of the pot onto Nick’s neck. His eyes bugged out of his head as his face turned red and he screamed and screamed and screamed, the cloth muffling it. He was choking, couldn’t get air, but it didn’t matter; he wanted to die.
“Boiling oil. Next, face. Safe box. What number? Where key?”
Nick was turning purple from lack of oxygen. The little man sighed, set the pan down on the workbench and pulled the rag out of his mouth. Nick gasped and screamed weakly on the exhales, a high-pitched, defeated shrieking. The man stuffed the rag back into his mouth, disgusted. This wasn’t going anywhere. He leaned over, asked the question again.
Ultimately, young Nick told him everything he wanted to know; that he didn’t have the key, and that the girl did—the watch dealer’s daughter.
~ ~ ~
Tess pulled up to the shop and tried the door. It was locked. She pounded on the glass and yelled Nick’s name. She didn’t have a key. What the hell was he doing? She peered into the gloomy interior, but didn’t see him, so she unzipped her fanny-pack and dialed his cell. It just went to voicemail.
She started getting the panicky feeling in her stomach, and then saw the workroom door at the rear of the shop open and an unfamiliar Asian face peer out. She didn’t know what was going on, but she knew that Nick would have never let anyone into the shop, so the Asian had to be an intruder. She bolted—had to get out of there and call the police.
Tess spun and two hands grabbed her arms with an iron grip. She found herself face to face with another Asian man, tall, who was fixated on the keychain around her neck. She could smell halitosis and an ammonia-like sweat. Tess kneed him in the balls and head butted his chin with the top of her helmeted head as hard as she could. She felt his jaw snap shut and his grip weaken. She tore away, screaming to attract attention, and grabbed her bike; she was already on it and riding by the time he’d staggered a few steps in her direction. He pulled what looked like a pen out of his pocket, but she was halfway down the block, and he stumbled slowly toward the next street and turned the corner, fumbling for his cell phone as he went.
He tasted blood—had bit through his tongue when she’d clobbered him with her head, an unexpected move. He’d swiveled his thigh to absorb the knee, seeing that coming, but he’d never thought about her head as a danger. The smaller man picked up.
“Leave now. Hurry. Call me when you’re clear and we’ll meet. And call the driver, tell him to get over here, and that we need a doctor and a dentist.” He sounded like he was talking with mush in his mouth. The end of his tongue was bitten almost clean through, blood was gushing from it, and he’d cracked three of his lower teeth.
“Will you make it?”
“Yes. Hurts to talk. Call them, then me.” He was aware he had blood running down his chin onto his shirt bec
ause two pedestrians he passed looked horrified and averted their gazes.
The tongue was trouble, but he knew that with medical attention he’d live. He, more than most, had an appreciation for how much abuse the human body could take before it shut down. He also knew he needed to find an alley where he could sit and conserve his energy until they could get him a doctor.
He couldn’t believe the girl had inflicted major damage. The smaller man had called him once he’d found out from Nick that she had the key and the box number. It had been blind luck he’d been approaching the shop just when she rode up. Or maybe bad luck, depending upon perspective.
At least they knew for sure who had the key. Finding out where she lived and worked would be easy. They knew her name, but she was now on alert and would be harder to get. That’s what kept life interesting, he thought, as he noticed a narrow alley on his right. He looked up at the street signs, made a mental note of the nearest building number, and then ducked into the alley to wait for the car.
Chapter 25
Ron was sitting at his desk filling out paperwork when the data came through on the messenger suspects. Duff, real name Lamar Calvin, had a long sheet dating back to when he was a juvenile: every conceivable petty crime, and then larger gaps and more serious charges. No convictions, but assault, robbery, and drug-dealing charges abounded. Then he’d been shot—had taken six bullets in the back. And he was still walking around. That was four years ago and he was now twenty-seven. No charges since the shooting. Born in Queens, grew up in Harlem. Suspected member of the Bloods, but apparently gone straight.
Six bullets could do that for you.
Dirter, real name Henry Perth, twenty-five, had two arrests for brawling-related assaults, one dropped, one pled down. He had a DUI from Chicago, where he’d been born and raised, and had moved to New York three years ago, from what Ron could tell. Had a possession of marijuana charge that had been dropped, had been cited for drunkenness in public, had one assault complaint, later dropped. His nickname fit.
Fatal Exchange (Fatal Series Book 1) Page 19