by Matt Doyle
“Oh, you’re that investigator woman.” He coughs. “Private, I assume? You didn’t flash a badge.”
“That’s right,” I say, making a point of keeping my gun trained on him. “You’ll be meeting the badge wielders soon enough, though.”
“I don’t think I will be.” He smiles arrogantly.
I barely notice his hand swipe out in time to sidestep his attack. Turns out the thick buckle on his belt wasn’t a poorly designed decorative lump of metal but a detachable switchblade. It also turns out that Malcolm Castleford doesn’t have a clue how to use a knife. One swift kick sends the weapon flying, and within seconds I have him back up on his feet, pressed up against the wall with my arm across his throat. “You want to try that again?”
“Tam, wasn’t it?” he mutters. “I meant what I said. There are changes coming, and there’s no reason you can’t be on board for them.”
“Allen Fuerza has hired me to make sure you make it to the police station in one piece. That’s one reason.”
“Ah.” Castleford swallows hard and I feel his Adam’s apple bob against my forearm. “Tell me. Do you know who your client is? Or what he’s trying to hide?”
“I’m not paid to worry about what he’s trying to hide. Now, get moving.”
I step back and bring my gun back up, but Castleford doesn’t move.
“And why should I do that? There’s no guarantee that Mr. Fuerza won’t kill me the moment I step outside.”
“With that new Paloma of his, if he’d wanted you dead, you would be already.”
“New Paloma … A tall man, correct? Dark skin, shaven head, a scar under his left eye?”
“That’s him.”
“I thought so. In that case, I’m surprised I’m not dead already. Still, it does prove that I was right.” He smiles and steps quickly to a small table, ignoring the gun I’m still training on him. He starts rummaging through the papers resting on top and mumbles, “Now, where should I start?”
“You start by backing away from the table, Mr. Castleford. I would rather finish this job as per my client’s instructions, but if you don’t get moving, that may become an impossibility.”
“Really?” He asks and lifts a copy of a hardback book up to look at. I note that it’s another copy of Four Steps to Power by Casille di Franco. “And why’s that?”
“The Dealers know about the dogfight. They know you used their tunnels to get people there, and they know you’re getting ready to make some big reveal. They’ve already contacted the Sweepers.”
Castleford freezes in his paper-rummaging and glances over his shoulder. “How did they find out? That isn’t the sort of move Fuerza would make.”
“I told them.”
Castleford nervously scrunches the piece of paper in his hand. After a moment, he takes a deep breath and starts talking quietly to himself. “The Sweepers won’t listen to reason, they’re just paid grunts. Very talented grunts, but very single-minded… The Dealers, though, they’re business people, I could… No, I’d rather not deal with that step just yet. One thing at a time…”
The stern voice isn’t working. Time to revert to the physical approach. That at least got a reaction out of him.
I storm across the room and shove the papers off the table, then grab Castleford’s shirt and spin him harshly around. Before he can even stop stumbling, I bring the barrel of the Glock back up to the back of his head and push, just hard enough to make him move towards the exit. “Keep your hands where I can see them and lead the way out,” I tell him, keeping my voice in a low growl.
“Police or Dealers,” Castleford sighs, raising his arms. “I suppose that the end result is the same either way. I still hold the cards after all.”
“Move.”
Castleford nods and starts walking. “You said that Mr. Fuerza wants me delivered to the police station. Do you happen to know why he wants me alive?”
We turn another corner and start heading away from the way I came in. I wouldn’t normally answer too many questions from a target, but the answer for this has the added sting of pointing out that this idiot’s lower than the least successful gangster in New Hopeland. “He wants you to remember your place.”
“Ah.” Castleford laughs. “So, he still thinks I could be useful to him. You know, it’s a fair way to the exit. Perhaps you would permit me to put my hands down?”
“Do anything stupid and I shoot you in the arm.”
Castleford nods and drops his arms casually to his side, letting them fall into a gentle sway with his steps. “You said you aren’t interested in what Mr. Fuerza is hiding, but believe me, Detective, it really is quite fascinating. How about I tell you a little about what I dug up? You know, to pass the time?”
“Do you want to draw the Sweepers to us?”
“You know how they work, I’m sure. If they’re in the area, they’ll find us whether I’m talking or not.”
He has a point. Thinking about it, I’m surprised they haven’t appeared yet. Thankful, but surprised. Maybe Sunglasses came through. And in fairness, I do want to know what I’m being used to protect . This could be my only chance to go yeti hunting. But it’s one of those situations that comes with a “don’t push your luck” tag.
“Like that ever stopped me,” I grumble to myself, then add, louder, “Fine. Talk.”
“I think you’ll appreciate this on a professional level. Finding out what I did took some sleuthing, and some damn good sleuthing, if I do say so myself. In fact, yes, let’s make a game of this. You’ll enjoy that. Among those papers you scattered were some account summaries, that’s where it all starts. You see, I do the accounting for a number of Fuerza’s business interests, both legal and otherwise. Can you guess what the one constant that all his businesses have as an ongoing expenditure is?”
“Not a clue.”
“Monthly fees to some larger, unrelated companies. The first working day of each month, five percent of his earnings go to Bockenheim Electrical Services, Grant and Thatcher Legal Group, Sand and Salt, and Kendle and Sons Warehouses. What do you notice about those names? I’ll give you a clue. There are four of them, and you could say they control part of Mr. Fuerza’s money. His livelihood if you will. Understanding this is the initial step to understanding the bigger picture.”
I frown, running the names through my head again. Bockenheim Electrical Services, Grant and Thatcher Legal Group, Sand and Salt, and Kendle and Sons Warehouse. He put an emphasis on the word initial. Initials? BES, GTLG, SS, KSW. Four of them, in control… Ah, it’s only the first and last initial that matters. “Brett Stantz, Gory Gutierrez, Saul Solomon, and Kerry White. The Four Kings of Utah.”
“Exactly.”
“That’s not a big deal. The Kings taking a cut from everyone below them is common knowledge.”
“Yes, but when you’re following the money to ensure that everything adds up, you start to spot other things. For example, the Kings have one accountant who has access to all their accounts, and his name comes up quite a bit as being related to some of the other businesses Mr. Fuerza is involved with. Now, the way it all works is that the money Fuerza makes is funnelled through multiple steps before he sees it in any tangible form. Aliases, false businesses, legitimate endeavours, they all intertwine in this web of asset movement. Without access to all of it, or all the important parts anyway, it’s incredibly hard to trace. It minimises taxes and so on if you can keep some of it off the radar.”
“Tax dodging is not worth setting up a dogfight for,” I say through gritted teeth.
“Oh, I quite agree. Here’s where things get interesting. You see, I keep my working papers immaculately neat. Separate columns for different things, standard widths to keep it all in line, and so on. You could say I’m somewhat of a column connoisseur. A columnnoisser if you will.” When I don’t laugh at his joke, Castleford lets out an embarrassed cough and continues, “It pays not to leave too many things to chance in my line of work, but sometimes, chance can lead you down s
uch wonderful paths.
“There I was, laying out the latest combined figures in strict date order, and I noticed something amusing about the first initials of the various recipients of a number of deals that had crossed over in the timeline. When you looked at them in order, they spelled out a name: di Franco. Now, at first, I couldn’t figure out where I knew the name from. It wasn’t until I was visiting Mr. Fuerza’s warehouse to check some figures that I realised where I’d seen it. He has a book he likes to read quite often, you see.”
“Four Steps to Power by Casille di Franco. He had a copy of it with him when I spoke to him about the Tapping.”
“Aha, so it was you who let him in on that. But how did…? Of course, the owner of one of the dogs must have hired you. I see, I see, that makes sense. But I digress. I mentioned the coincidence to Mr. Fuerza and, as you would expect, he had no sense of humour about it. In fact, he became quite cagey. I figured he was just having a bad day, of course, it often happens, but something about his reaction stuck with me. To this day, I don’t know what it was, but my interest was piqued.”
“So you started digging,” I state.
“Of course! And the first place I looked was the book. It wasn’t a title I was overly familiar with, you see, so I did some research. Do you happen to know what it’s about, Detective?”
“Vaguely.”
“Tell me what you remember. It’s important. Be brief, but cover the main points.”
“Fine,” I sigh. “Four guys meet online to complain about the current batch of politicians. They decide to band together to rig the next presidential election and, by focusing on one quarter of the country each, they manage to get a good idea of what the voters are likely to band together over. Realising they can’t all run for President, they hire a proxy to run in their place and act on their instructions. Their thinking was that, if no one knew they were in control, then people would be more willing to talk freely with them, and they could use that to ensure continued support if the plan worked. Despite the differing societal views of their respective quarters, their campaign is cohesive enough to gain their proxy a comfortable win. Time goes on and both the proxy and the invisible joint Presidents manage to enact some positive changes, all bound together by some ironclad paperwork.
“Things start to go wrong when the IRS spots that some of the President’s charitable donations appear to be going to four certain individuals at opposite corners of the USA, and said foursome go into panic mode. They decide to have the President carry out a series of diversionary tactics to draw the public’s attention but, when they order an air strike on a third world country, accompanied by a swathe of false evidence of wrongdoings for the President to use as a justification, the proxy decides he’s had enough. He comes clean and reveals all his secrets, gets removed from power, and all five are placed on trial. The book ends with each of the five lamenting what could have been and questioning whether the espionage was even necessary in the first place. Sound about right?”
“Spot on. Four people controlling one to hide their power. Take away the hiding part, and it’s a sentiment that rings true for every member of the Utah Underworld, I’m sure. That probably explains why the book is so popular among the higher earners of the Underground.”
Now, that I didn’t know. It would make sense, though. It doesn’t really strike me as Charlie’s sort of book either, so she was probably wanting to see if I’d see the parallel.
“I did some research into the author,” Castleford continues, “just to see if he had any other such works, but he was the once-and-done type. The book was slated by the general public and the young author took it all to heart, disappearing from public view shortly after.”
“I’m getting bored, Castleford. Right now, it still sounds like tax dodging is the only thing you’ve got on Fuerza.”
“And there was me thinking you’d appreciate the journey. Fine, fine. It took me a few days to notice, but not all of the aliases whose initials were involved in the di Franco anagram belonged to Mr. Fuerza. Two of them were regular, known aliases for Saul Solomon and Brett Stantz respectively. So, I ran through the figures again and found that if you took the initials from role-appropriate comparative aliases for Gory Gutierrez and Kerry White, then threw in a few more of Mr. Fuerza’s less utilised identities, and two other aliases linked to all four Kings, you got…” Castleford glances back at me.
“Casille.”
“Exactly. Had all the aliases belonged to Mr. Fuerza, I would have just assumed it was an intentional tribute. Or even an obsession. Given the links to the Kings, though…”
I frown. The cover of the book in Fuerza’s place was printed backwards. That has to be significant. My breath catches, and I suddenly realise both where Castleford’s logic is heading, and what his likely end game is. “If you’re saying what I think you are, then…you’re trying to take over the Underground…”
Castleford smiles but doesn’t answer. He nods his head towards a large metal pipe and adds, “There’s the exit.”
We have to squat to get through. I can’t say I’m a fan of the thick slimy stuff that’s spread over the bottom part of the tube, but at least I’m nearly done with this.
Or not .
Chapter Nine
THE MOMENT WE make it out into the sun, it becomes very apparent that the Dealers decided to just post Sweepers at the tunnel exits. In this case, we’re faced with three armed men who look like they’ve just stepped out of a tour with the military. One of them lifts his arm to his face and says, “Found them, tunnel two-B.”
“Watch communicator, eh? Fancy.”
The Sweeper nods to me and says, “Our orders are to take Mr. Castleford to speak with the Elites. You are free to go unless you try to interfere.”
Well, that’s just great. I should probably thank Charlie for this, and genuinely. If they’d been out for my blood too, it would have been easier, because I’d have no choice but to stand against them.
“It’s fine,” Castleford says. “If they’re taking me to talk to the Elites, I can cut a deal. They’ll want in on this, I’m certain. You should come too, Detective. So you can see how the story ends.”
I glare at Castleford, doing my best to cut through his stupidity. “Think about what they know already. You’re planning to publicly reveal a big secret about your employer , Allen Fuerza.”
“He’s only one of my employers, but yes.”
“That’s your problem.”
Castleford screws his face up in confusion, clearly trying to think through what I could mean.
“I dated an Elite,” I state flatly. “What you’re planning to reveal doesn’t matter, because the Dealers are your employers too. If you can sell out one employer, you can sell out another. The best you can hope for now is that they’ll take what information you have and use it themselves after you’re buried.”
Castleford pales at that and starts glancing around, clearly considering making a run for it. One of the Sweepers raises his rifle and grunts, “I wouldn’t.”
The guy with the communicator sighs and says, “I hate to hurry you, but the offer of leaving unharmed is time limited.”
I doubt that Sunglasses is gonna be happy if I just hand Castleford over. But these guys aren’t gonna be happy if I try to stop them either. Think, Cassie.
While I’m busy trying to figure what exactly my options are, the Sweeper closest to the sewer tunnel entrance turns to peer around the side of the pipe and a loud crack breaks the silence. Devin Carmichael darts out from beside the pipe before the first Sweeper has finished falling and throws a knife into the communicator guy’s hand, causing him to drop his rifle. The Sweeper closest to Castleford is too slow to readjust his aim and soon finds himself flipped over Devin’s shoulder. Devin follows up by smacking the guy in the face with his own rifle, all without letting go of his arm. He turns just as the communicator guy steps in, ducks under a punch, then fires off two of his own, rocking the guy’s head to the side, and sendi
ng him spinning to the ground.
With all three Sweepers unconscious, Devin adjusts his cowboy hat and smiles at me. “Ya know, darlin’, this wasn’t exactly what I had in mind when I said to avoid any avalanches.”
I roll my eyes but return his smile. “What are you doing here, Devin?”
“Getting you two outta here. C’mon,” he replies and starts jogging back around the side of the tunnel. I nod after him and Castleford follows silently, his face still pale. I guess that’s what happens when you realise you’ve underestimated the consequences of your actions.
Devin leads us to his car. It’s a Dodge Challenger SRT Hellcat in a metallic red, refurbished with all the expected mod cons. How he’s managed to keep it so pristine out here, I’ll never know. He sniffs quietly and pushes the rim of his hat back, then turns his head towards the exit. I follow his line of sight and see that we’re in one of the older industrial sites.
“We’re gonna have company on the way to the station,” he says. “It’s a shame you don’t drive, Caz. How’s your shooting on the move?”
“I can drive,” Castleford offers, but shuts up when Devin gives him a pitying look.
“Key word is don’t ,” I sigh. “I can drive, I just don’t have a steady enough income to keep up with insurance payments and general upkeep.”
“How long’s it been since you were behind a wheel?”
I shrug. “A little over a year. My driving will still be better than my shooting, though.”
“That’ll have ta do,” he says and tosses me the keys. He grabs Castleford and chucks him on the back seat, then hops in beside him and starts checking over a small artillery stash of high powered guns he’s got stored in the back of the front passenger seat. I jump into the driver’s seat and, after a small-but-embarrassing amount of stalling, we pull out onto the main road. “Keep slow for now,” Devin advises. “No need to draw attention to ourselves just yet.”
“I’ve gotta say, I’m glad Sunglasses sent you rather than one of Fuerza’s normal goons.”