Fatal Exchange (Fatal Series Book 1)

by Russell Blake

  “I don’t think so. A minor inconvenience. It should be rectified by tomorrow.” The singsong voice gave nothing away.

  “Care to share? Perhaps I can help.”

  “There is a watch dealer who obtained the test batch. We have been trying to locate the key to his safe deposit box, as well as the box number. It has been harder than anticipated.”

  “But the cash is in there? So what’s the big deal? As long as it stays in the box, we’re golden.” Gordon chomped on the cigar, dipped the chewed end into his scotch and replaced it in his mouth.

  “I’m not concerned. It is a triviality, a minor nuisance. But one we must nevertheless deal with.”

  “Well then, I’ll sleep well. We’re close to implementation time. I’ve bought all the positions, and I’m just waiting for the fireworks to start.” Gordon was watching his net asset value drop every day as the futures worked against him, but he knew it was temporary.

  “I wish you untroubled rest. I have to go now—I’m waiting for a call.” The minister severed the connection.

  Gordon considered the discussion and had an uneasy feeling. The Asian was saying all was well, but his voice sounded strained. Gordon wasn’t an idiot, and had read people over the phone his entire life. The minister was worried about something.

  That meant he should be worried, too.

  ~ ~ ~

  Tess called Ron when she stopped at West 90th to get more fluid into her system and buy another jogging bra and some panties.

  “Stanford.”

  “Ron, it’s Tess.”

  “Tess. How are you holding up?”

  “I’ve had better two-day periods, Ron. I’m all right now, I think. I’m worried about my place, so I’m going to crash somewhere else for a few nights.”

  Ron understood why she felt at risk—aside from the serial threat, she was also the only one who’d seen the watch-shop killers and lived to tell about it, which meant he should probably get her in to sit down with a sketcher ASAP. “That’s a good idea, Tess. But before you drop off the radar, I need you to come in and talk to a sketch artist. Now, if possible.”

  “God, Ron. Now? Can’t it wait?”

  “I’m afraid not. You’re the only one who can ID the perps. We need some help here.” It wasn’t his case, but he felt it was in all their best interests to nail these pricks before they could kill more civilians. He also would get to see her again.

  “I’ll be there in half an hour. How long will it take?”

  “No more than an hour. Ask for me when you get here.” He gave her the address.

  “All right, I’m on my way.”

  Tess called Duff and let him know she’d be a couple of hours late. He was easy with that. She rode steadily and got to midtown around 5:30. Ron came down the stairs two minutes later.

  “Tess. Come on up, let’s get you set up with the artist,” Ron greeted, all business.

  “Okay, Ron. But once we get up there, can I take a minute or two to use the facilities? I’ve been on my bike all day.”

  She looked amazing, even with eyes puffy from crying. Ron had never been a sucker for the damsel in distress thing, but she was pulling at some essential part of him and he seemed to have no choice but to follow.

  “Of course, Tess. It’s been kind of hectic here—I’m so focused on the Red Cap investigation I tend to forget my manners. How are you feeling?” He studied her, looking for signs of serious damage.

  “All things considered? I’m hanging in there.” She rubbed the back of her neck. “Poor Nick. And Stan. It’s hard to understand a world where this can happen, Ron.” She wouldn’t be back to normal for a long time, he saw. Maybe not for the rest of her life. Something about her had changed in the last forty-eight hours; some essential vulnerability had been lost.

  “Welcome to my world, Tess. It’s been a brutal couple of days for you; let’s get the drawing over with so you can go home.” Ooops. “Or wherever you’re headed.”

  “I know why everyone’s being killed, Ron.” She said it so casually, so easily, he almost missed it. I’d like a latte, Ron. It’s kind of chilly in here, Ron.

  He struggled to keep his face unreadable. “Really?”

  “My dad sold several expensive watches to a Korean diplomat who paid him in cash last week. Stan smelled a rat, and took some of the cash to Saul for authentication. Saul said it was fake, counterfeit.” She looked at him. “Someone wants their bogus cash back, and is killing to find it. It’s all about the money—funny money, in this case.”

  Ron was buffaloed. It fit. All of it. Currency dealer, coin dealer, watch dealer.

  “So where’s the cash?” he asked softly.

  She looked at him. “That’s the question, isn’t it? I have a feeling I’m the next one in the line of torture leading to the answer.” She smiled that smile and his heart melted, just a little. “So where’s the ladies room?”

  “Over here. I’ll give the artist a buzz. It’s after hours now, but she agreed to stick around.” Ron gestured to a door and watched her go in.

  Ah, well, back to work.

  Tess returned, was introduced to the artist, and the drawing began. Forty-five minutes later they had two sketches of Asians that looked like half of Chinatown. He supposed it was better than nothing.

  Tess prepared to take off, and Ron again told her to call him if she needed anything. She was appreciative, but distant—obviously brittle, at the end of her rope.

  “Have you eaten?” Ron asked.

  “No, but I grabbed something earlier, around two.”

  “Don’t take this the wrong way, but—would you like to get something to eat?” Ron couldn’t believe the words were coming out of his mouth.

  She looked at him. For a long time. “Thanks, Ron, but not tonight. It’s been a bad day all around. I think I’ll just hit it.”

  “No worries. Take care of yourself. You have my number,” Ron said, and watched as she walked down the stairs to the front door, almost colliding with Amy.

  “Oh, my God. Sorry,” said Tess and Amy simultaneously. Amy held the door for her, and after Tess exited, looked up at Ron.

  “Friend?” Amy asked.

  “Witness from the messenger company. Her dad was murdered on Monday and her uncle and boyfriend were killed today.”

  “That’s horrible. Poor thing.” She smiled sweetly at him. “Does that mean she’s single now?”

  He knew a minefield when he saw one. No thanks.

  “What can I do for you, Amy?”

  “I was just punching out, wanted to see if you had any plans for dinner.”

  He considered his day, and tomorrow’s likely trajectory.

  “No plans. Let’s do something quick; I need to come back and work late,” he said.

  ~ ~ ~

  Tess stopped to eat before she rode into Harlem. She felt disoriented from trying to absorb all the killings, but was feeling stronger every minute she was on the bike. The food gave her energy, a necessary boost for the ride to Duff’s.

  As she passed 120th Street the roads deteriorated. Twenty years ago, you didn’t go past 110th Street unless you had a serious death wish, but since then the entire town had undergone a renaissance, and much of the island that had been dangerous beyond description had been cleaned up and rendered livable, if not desirable.

  Still, there were areas that were bad, and Duff's neighborhood was one of them. She called Duff when she crossed 140th Street to let him know she was approaching, and he gave her directions to his complex.

  The pavement became increasingly decrepit, and groups of locals were hanging out on the street, it being far too hot to remain indoors. Tess gazed up at the plum-colored dusk sky and was glad she’d made it before dark. Cars sat double-parked with massive bass reflex speakers blaring rap, and cliques of thugs loitered about, selling drugs and watching for police.

  She wheeled around a corner and raced to Duff’s monolithic apartment block, noting the increasingly menacing air of the young toughs
hanging out on the stoops.

  Duff was waiting for her in the doorway and waved at her. She rode up on one pedal, having flipped her other leg over the frame so both were on the same side, and pulled to a stop.

  “Let’s get off the street. How you doin’?” he asked.

  “Not so good, Duff. Not so good. This hasn’t been my favorite week.”

  “I hear that. Let me introduce you to my daughter, and you can tell me about it.”

  The elevator was out of order so they walked up four flights of stairs, Duff carrying the bike. The stairwell was sweltering and smelled of urine, filth and evil doings. She spotted a few tiny vials used for hits of crack. This was a verifiable hell hole, and Duff’s everyday life, she realized—and yet she’d never heard him complain.

  Down a hall punctuated with lights ensconced in metal cages to prevent them from being broken or stolen, she could hear fighting from behind some of the doors, woo-hooing from behind others, bass beats thumping from behind others. They reached his apartment and he unlocked the two deadbolts and invited her in.

  The place was spotlessly clean, small, but had been brightened by a woman’s touch. The kitchen was tiny and the living room little more than a closet, with a dilapidated couch and two easy chairs oriented around a flat screen TV, and a child’s futon in the corner. The windows were open and fans were perched on every ledge, pulling in air and circulating it as best they could.

  “Brandy, come out. I have a friend I want you to meet. Her name’s Tess. She won’t bite.” He looked in the direction of the bedroom. A small head peeked around the corner of the doorway, shy, eyes the size of half dollars.

  “Hi, Brandy. My name’s Tess. I work with your Daddy.” Tess held out her hand, very seriously, by way of greeting. Brandy, equally seriously, approached and shook it ceremoniously.

  “Hello…I have a bunny. Wanna see?” Brandy asked, with considerable gravitas.

  “That’s one of the things I came here to do,” Tess responded. The little girl disappeared momentarily and then returned with a small, dirty stuffed rabbit, obviously her constant companion.

  “What’s her name?” Tess asked.

  “Bunny,” Brandy answered shyly.

  Duff set her bike in the hallway next to his and offered her some soda or water. She opted for water. Brandy was sent into the other room to watch cartoons, and Duff sat down and asked to have the whole story laid out for him. It took a while.

  “Then these gooks are still going to be in your face. They want a piece of you. Wanna off you, by the sound of it,” Duff summarized.

  “I don’t know what to do, but I’m all ears, Duff. They won’t stop till they get me, I know that. I think I hurt the tall one, but I wouldn’t bet on them quitting.”

  “I gotta talk to my old homies. I think there’s a way to make them go away. How much money could you scratch up in the next forty-eight hours if you needed to, cash?” he asked.

  “How much would I need? What are you thinking?”

  Duff laid out the basics of the plan forming in his head, and Tess helped him fine-tune it, objecting to this, tweaking that. After an hour or so of discussion, she felt like they had a workable strategy to solve the Asian problem.

  Tess felt better about Duff’s solution than about hoping the police would do something. So far the only thing they’d been able to do was roll bodies away. She would bet on Duff over the cops any time; in fact, she was going to do exactly that.

  Duff called Red Cap and told them he wouldn’t be in tomorrow, had a personal crisis. He’d spoken to Shaneese before her night shift at the emergency room about Tess spending a few days with them, and she’d reluctantly agreed. Not too many women would be thrilled about having another woman staying with them and their man, especially not a beautiful woman they’d never met, but Duff had explained about the murders and she’d acquiesced.

  They settled down for the night at around ten, Brandy occupying the futon and Tess on the couch, and as she dozed off she heard Duff on the phone in the bedroom in a muted conversation. It had cooled down to where it was only slightly uncomfortable with the fans blowing, and she was out within five minutes.

  ~ ~ ~

  Ron apologized for being lousy company at dinner, and Amy let it go at that; she could understand the pressure he was under and felt it was reasonable to cut him some slack. It wasn’t like she had some sort of proprietary claim on him.

  Still, she was annoyed at some level by the looks he’d exchanged with the girl, who was everything she was not, at least physically. Tall compared to Amy, slim, tanned, beautiful in a very obvious way, tattoos that made her look a little trashy but also sexy, Amy had to admit.

  Amy considered her own assets, and found herself wanting. She was small, not fat, but not model slim, pale from her indoor occupation, not plain—in fact attractive, but certainly not Cosmo quality—and had a conservative demeanor.

  Amy had always looked at girls like Tess and wondered what planet they originated from; that’s how alien they seemed. She knew it was silly, but it was a visceral world and beautiful people seemed to lead beautiful lives. Amy knew that was bullshit—especially once Ron told her about all the murders surrounding Tess—but that’s how she felt emotionally. And seeing Ron interact with her in an easy and familiar way bugged her, pure and simple.

  ~ ~ ~

  Ron had other things to concentrate on besides Amy’s mood at dinner.

  Once back at the office, he called Barry and explained about the money and the Asians, and the link between Saul, Stan, Nick, and Robert.

  “Your girl’s in big danger if that’s the case, Ron,” Barry said. “A pro team of hitters isn’t going to stop until they get what they want. And this is more than hits. It’s systematic torture. You had to see this Nick guy to believe it… They cut his foot half off, cooked him, bashed his mouth in, boiled the skin off his face… It’s way above and beyond a hit.” Barry was just now finishing up at the watch shop. Ron could tell he was stunned that the killers would be ballsy enough to return to a crime scene and kill again, in broad daylight, the same week.

  “Yeah, you’ve got some bad ones there. I know she’s in trouble; she’s going to avoid her usual haunts until this is over. She’s staying with friends and isn’t going by the shop, so they’ll be out of luck if that’s what they’re hoping for. Just catch them, Barry.”

  “Yeah, I’ll do that. I need to call back that prick from Treasury and find out what they know. I got the impression he was holding out on me, and now I think I know why—this is way bigger than a few murders if it involves international hit teams.”

  “Let me know what they say. I’m curious too,” Ron said.

  “I know the feeling. You’ve got your own fun and games with your serial. Isn’t tomorrow the big night? You any closer to getting him?”

  “Wish I was. Why do you think I’m still at work?”

  “Good luck. I’ll let you know what the Washington boys say.”

  ~ ~ ~

  The bar was crowded and rowdy. Situated in a seedy section of the Lower East Side, on the fringe of the East Village, it was one of several dozen dives the messenger crowd called their own at night. The killer moved easily through the throng of revelers, who were attracted by cheap beer and dollar shots of rotgut booze—an inexpensive way to numb the pain and congregate with other unfortunates from the same community.

  The primary features of this establishment, aptly named “The Drunk Tank,” were an old mahogany bar running the length of the main upstairs room and a downstairs area with a couple of distressed pool tables and a small stage local bands played on for free beer.

  The place reveled in its status as a dive, and celebrated its lowly position in the liquor service hierarchy. That attitude was one of the reasons it was so popular with many of the bike messengers—you could be a loser, yet the place embraced you with a cloak of understanding and non-judgmental acceptance. And you could get wasted on twenty dollars. A definite plus if you were working o
n a budget, which the bike folk inevitably were.

  The killer nursed a beer at the bar and watched a chunky girl with bright red hair drinking with a group at one of the booths. She was awful, had a gap when she smiled where she’d lost a tooth toward the back of her upper dental plate, and featured several large tattoos on her shoulder and one arm: a roadrunner from the Warner Brothers cartoons, and a lowrider car with a vato in a stylized zoot suit tossing some dice.

  It always amazed him when he saw chubby bike messengers. How many calories did you have to onload to pack on the pounds when you were burning almost constantly? No matter. Her hair was the right color.

  She was loud and drunk, yelling at her equally-abrasive companions, throwing back her head and laughing. He wondered how he was going to connect with her, and then grinned. Given all the other characteristics, she had to like cigarettes—and probably drugs, as well. What was life without a little stimulation?

  He finished the beer and made a big show of pulling out a cigarette, then walked by the booth carrying the pack in one hand and the smoke in the other. Sure enough, she drained her drink and pushed her way out of the booth. The killer exited ahead of her and stuck the cigarette in his mouth; she came out and smiled at him in what he was sure she believed was a coy manner.

  “You got an extra one?” Her voice sounded thrashed from years of abuse. Up close, he could tell she’d been cute in her teen years, but a decade of non-stop partying and hard living had burned most of the good out of her, leaving a woman sliding down the hill toward looking matronly and shell-shocked. He guessed she was no stranger to speed and coke, in addition to alcohol and nicotine, which would accelerate the decline.

  “Sure.” He handed her a cigarette and lit it for her. She sucked at it greedily, inhaling deeply.

  “How’s it goin’?” he asked.

  “Oh, you know. Having a few laughs,” she rasped.

  “What’s your name? I’m Michael,” he lied.

  “Sherry. Pleased ta meet you.” She had a slight drawl of some sort, maybe Oklahoma, Arkansas?