Third Strike

by Zoe Sharp

  “Thank you,” I said, heartfelt. “I owe you a big one for this, Gleet.”

  “Nah, I’aven’t forgotten Dublin,” he said, and his voice had entirely lost its joky edge to turn stone sober. “I think this just about makes us even.”

  We let Collingwood stew for half an hour while we sat in Parker’s office, drinking his excellent coffee as he chatted with my parents. Parker was erudite enough to bring my father out of his simmering silence and coax conversation out of my mother. All things to all men—or all women, come to that. By the end of it, I could see my parents drawing unfavorable comparisons with Sean, but by then I didn’t care.

  Sean preferred not to take part in this conversation, sidelining himself. Perhaps he’d tried to talk with my parents too many times in the past, under too many sets of circumstances, and had tired of having the effort thrown back in his face. He wasn’t used to failure. It wasn’t a state of affairs he had to deal with very often.

  After I’d finished my phone call with Gleet and joined them, I’d tried to catch Sean’s eye with a question mark in my expression.

  What the hell’s Parker up to?

  Sean had just given me a faint knowing smile.

  Patience, Charlie. He knows what he’s doing.

  I shrugged, feeling outside the joke. And that feeling only increased when, some thirty-five minutes later, Bill Rendelson brought Collingwood back through. All Parker did was thank the government man courteously for his time and tell him we’d be in touch.

  I expected Collingwood to show some signs of annoyance at what must have seemed a pointless delay at the very least, but instead he just ducked his head in that strange nervous little gesture of good-bye, and limply shook hands again all round.

  “I’m sure we’ll meet again soon, sir,” he said to my father, in a hurry to leave now. “As soon as we’ve recovered our rogue agent, I’ll talk to the cops in Bushwick and see if we can get some of this mess straightened out.”

  “Thank you,” my father said with understated dignity, as though Collingwood was offering to grant him some minor favor rather than possibly salvaging his entire career. Maybe he just took exception to the veiled threat—no Vondie, no clean slate.

  After Collingwood had gone it was my mother, again, who cut to the heart of the matter.

  “It all rather sounds like our salvation,” she said, her voice tragic, “but how do we know we can trust him?”

  “At this stage, we don’t,” I said. She looked confused, but for a moment the only analogy that came to mind involved urinating in tents.

  It was Sean who glanced across and said, “Remember the old quote about keeping your friends close but your enemies closer.”

  My mother frowned, enlightened but not reassured. “That sounds like something out of Machiavelli—The Prince?”

  “Possibly,” Sean said with a twitch of his lips. “But I was thinking more of Michael Corleone—The Godfather Part II.”

  “Oh,” she said blankly. “And how do we know who is a friend and who is an enemy?”

  Parker merely smiled at her and a moment later, as if on cue, Bill knocked and entered, brandishing a computer memory stick in his remaining hand, like it was an Olympic torch.

  “I’ve edited out the twenty-five minutes of tuneless humming and him clearing his throat,” Bill said, “and homed right in on the heart of it.”

  Parker took the storage device from him with a nod of thanks. “Mr. Collingwood did make life a little too easy for my suspicious mind,” he said, “so I asked Charlie to make sure Blaylock and Kaminski had a way to make a phone call as soon as they were released, and I arranged for Collingwood to be somewhere we could monitor his incoming calls.”

  Suddenly, all that sophisticated audio equipment in the conference room where Collingwood had been waiting took on a whole new meaning.

  “You bugged him,” I said with admiration. “Clever.”

  “I will neither confirm nor deny that allegation.” Parker curved me a smile, more in the eyes than the mouth, but when he spoke his tone was serious and somber. “And I certainly have no intention of doing so outside this room.”

  While he was speaking, he’d plugged the stick into a USB port on the slimline laptop computer that sat open on his desk, and hit the relevant keys.

  Parker’s laptop had a tiny high-tech-looking pair of external speakers connected to it but, even so, when the audio file started to play we crowded more closely around the desk to listen.

  The first thing we heard was the warbling note of a cell phone ringing, some heavy sighing as it was fumbled for in some hard-to-reach pocket, then Collingwood’s voice.

  “Yeah?” he said by way of universal greeting, sounding almost bored. Then his voice sharpened and there was a slight clatter in the background, as though he’d been leaning back on a chair and had let it jolt forwards flat onto its feet with the shock of the unexpected caller.

  “Vonda! My Lord, where are you? Are you all right?”

  The microphone was good but not that good. We could hear some squawking in the background, but not enough to begin to decipher actual words at the other end of Collingwood’s line. It was just audio scribble.

  “Hey, hey, just wait a goddamn minute!” He cut right across the top of whatever she was saying. “I don’t know what the hell you got yourself mixed up in, kiddo, and I don’t want to know … . No, you just listen to me. You come on in and we’ll work this whole thing out. You stay out there, off the grid, and I can’t help you.”

  He sounded sad rather than angry. Tired, as though this was a ritual he’d been through many times before, a procedure he had to go through, but he knew it never ended well.

  Vondie launched back in at this point—strident, if the cast of what she was saying was anything to go by. Collingwood barely let her get into her stride.

  “Believe me when I tell you, you’re in a world of trouble right now, kiddo, but it’ll be worse if you run.” His voice turned almost pleading. “Look, I know you’re hurting. That busted nose needs to be fixed if you’re gonna stay looking beautiful, huh?”

  Parker reached out and paused the playback, looking round the assembled faces. “Immediate thoughts?” he asked crisply.

  “Well, he doesn’t sound like he knew what she was up to,” Sean ventured. “Unless he was aware you were recording him, of course, and he was playing to his audience? If it’d been me, I’d have assumed you were monitoring.”

  Parker shrugged. “It cost a lot of money to have surveillance gear installed in that room,” he said, offering me a wry smile. “We know he didn’t sweep it, so unless he’s had cleaners in that we don’t know about, I doubt he would have spotted anything.”

  “He sounds almost … fond of that woman,” my mother said, a dent forming between her eyebrows, as if she couldn’t understand why anyone could possibly want to show affection for one of her erstwhile tormentors.

  “Protégée,” I said shortly. “He trained her, that would be my guess. If she’s cocked-up and he can’t fix it, or if he can’t bring her to heel—and quickly—it’s going to reflect as badly on him as it does on her,” I added, echoing Sean’s remarks the day of my abortive fitness test. “If he’s on the level.”

  “I think you’re right,” Parker said. He glanced at my father but only received a brief shake of the head in response. My father had never been one to speak just to hear the sound of his own voice unless he had something of value to say. Parker nudged the mouse and Collingwood’s voice re-emerged.

  “Come on in, kiddo,” he repeated. “Whatever you got yourself into, you can still make it right … . Hey, hey, I know. I just want to help you, kiddo. I stand by my people.” Coaxing now. “Just come on in. Come home—please?”

  There was a long pause but this time we couldn’t hear anything of Vondie’s voice. Either Collingwood had shifted his position, or she was no longer screeching at him. Or she was giving his words long, silent consideration.

  Eventually, Collingwood said, �
��Okay, but call me and let me know which flight. Promise? I’ll meet you … . Yeah, I’ll bring you in myself … . It’ll all work out, you’ll see … . Yeah, take care of yourself, kiddo. Bye.”

  We heard a muted bleep as he ended the call, then a long slow exhalation and a single quietly muttered but entirely heartfelt word, just before the recording ended: “Shit.”

  “Yeah,” Parker murmured, clicking it off with a thoughtful air. “I’d say that just about sums it up, wouldn’t you?”

  “Pretty much,” Sean replied. “The question is, Do you trust him more, or less, after hearing it?”

  It had been a general question, but he cocked an eyebrow at my father as he spoke, making it direct and personal.

  My father gave an elegant shrug. “I’m not entirely sure that I have much of a choice in the matter,” he said, indifferent. “But I’ve always found that actions speak far louder than words. If he’s to be trusted, I would rather suggest that we’ll know soon enough by what he does.”

  “But, Richard, surely if this man isn’t to be trusted, that means they’ll make another attempt on you, doesn’t it?” my mother demanded, her voice taking on distinct overtones of Vondie’s shrill note.

  My father gave a grim smile. “In that case, my dear,” he said with utter calm, “we’ll find out just how good Charlotte is at her job.”

  CHAPTER 16

  We heard nothing from Collingwood for several days, during which time my father’s frustration grew. Parker used the lull to mount a major low-key public-relations campaign within the industry and managed to stem the flow of clients who had suddenly decided to seek the services of other firms.

  One or two even came back, slightly sheepish. But there were more who stayed away for no better reason than to save face. Parker seemed to be practically living at the office. Despite his denials that he didn’t hold me—or my family—in any way personally responsible for his current woes, I knew there were others who didn’t feel the same way. Bill Rendelson, for one, could hardly bring himself to speak to me.

  Sean and I stuck with my parents, on a rotating shift pattern with a couple of Parker’s other guys, 24/7. By Sunday morning, when we’d heard nothing and seen nothing, all of us were going a little stir-crazy stuck in the hotel, however luxurious.

  In particular, my mother’s nerves were strung so tight we could probably have got a recognizable tune out of her. I suppose it was inevitable that it was she, eventually, who demanded we get out and take in some of the sights.

  “I haven’t been to New York with your father since before you were born, Charlotte,” she protested when I expressed my doubts about the wisdom of going walkabout. “We went to Greenwich Village, I remember. It was just like something out of a Woody Allen film. And I would very much like to do it again.” It was a royal command rather than a request.

  My father, who’d spent much of this voluntary incarceration reading obscure medical textbooks of one type or another, glanced up from his page and frowned over the top of his glasses.

  “Are you sure that’s wise, Elizabeth?” He used such a mild dry tone that I knew he didn’t really need to ask.

  My mother’s chin came out, mulish—was that where I got it from? “Frankly,” she said with some asperity, “I need some air.”

  He paused a moment as if considering the validity of this argument, then inclined his head. “In that case,” he said gravely, “of course we’ll go.” He turned his gaze to Sean, who was sitting at the room’s desk, typing onto one of the office laptops. He had taken off his jacket and his tie, but not the paddle-rig holster for the Glock 21, which he’d carried since we’d returned to the States. Somehow, he didn’t look quite dressed without it.

  “I trust you have no objections?” my father said in a steely voice, daring Sean to raise any.

  Sean didn’t reply instantly. When he did, it was without looking up from the screen.

  “If you’re sensible—no.”

  “Of course.” My father rose almost gracefully, tucking his glasses into an inside pocket as he smiled at my mother. “Shall we go?”

  McGregor was back on call that day and he obligingly drove us south on Fifth until we hit the huge ornamental white stone archway that makes a grand entrance to Washington Square Park.

  As we stopped at the light, my mother leaned across to stare out of the window. “Oh Richard,” she said, her voice husky, “do you remember?”

  I twisted in my seat in time to see him give her a strangely indulgent smile.

  “Yes,” he said softly, “I do.” And, louder: “We’d like to walk from here, if you don’t mind.”

  McGregor checked with Sean, who was sitting alongside him. Sean did a fast sweep and nodded reluctantly. “Okay, Joe,” he said. “Set us down outside the park and keep close by.”

  McGregor pulled over to let us out. We crossed the road and passed under the ornate archway to enter the park proper, heading towards the circular central fountain. It was warm enough to make being out in the open air pleasant, and plenty of people were taking advantage.

  As if by some unspoken agreement, Sean and I reached into our respective pockets for sunglasses and slipped them on at the same time, making it easier to move our eyes but not our heads, keeping track. I kept my coat unbuttoned and my left hand wrapped round my phone, with McGregor’s number on speed dial just in case we needed a rapid extraction, and my Bluetooth headset in place.

  The crowds gave us cover but also provided it against us. Sean and I closed in, casually, on either side of my parents. He was slightly behind my father, to his left. I was a pace in front of my mother, on her right.

  Between us, my parents strolled along, arm in arm, apparently oblivious to such measures. They wandered through the park, murmuring to each other, pointing out landmarks they recalled, or admiring the skills of the jugglers and the busking musicians, the studied concentration of the chess players, and the skateboarders’ laid-back cool.

  While my mother and father stayed on the move it wasn’t so bad, but when they became entranced by the slick patter and slicker hands of an elderly magician down near the southwest corner and stopped to watch, I was pricklingly aware of our vulnerability. The park was bordered by trees, but Washington Square itself had plenty of buildings high enough to have a perfect view—and unobstructed trajectory—into the place.

  I turned my back on my parents and quartered north and east without needing to look to know that Sean was covering west and south on the other side of them. Watching the buildings for the light and dark of closed or open windows. Watching people’s hands and eyes for movement that didn’t fit pattern. Looking for the people who didn’t fit in, the ones who were trying not to be seen.

  I saw her because she wasn’t moving at all. And in the bustle of the park on a Sunday morning, that alone made her stand out—just as she’d intended it to.

  Vondie Blaylock.

  I would have known that cool blond figure anywhere, even without the flesh-colored dressing across her broken nose and the intense hatred that was coming off her in waves.

  She was wearing a long black coat that hung heavy enough to be leather or suede and was big enough to be concealing just about anything underneath it. She was a hundred meters away, on the low flat steps leading into the fountain. There was a light breeze from the northwest, enough to distort the fall of spray and partially obscure my view of her.

  What the hell are you doing here? And what the hell is Collingwood doing, letting you out?

  I stepped across so I was directly between Vondie and my parents. My right hand had shifted automatically, just a fraction, my fingers brushing against the front edge of my open jacket, ready to push back the material and reach for the SIG lying hidden beneath it, but her hands gave no answering twitch. I raked the area surrounding her, looking for the additional threat, the backup, but she seemed to be alone.

  I let my eyes do a fast flick behind me. Enough to check my parents hadn’t moved out from under my surveillan
ce, that they were still watching the magician pick the pockets of an audience volunteer and laughing at the man’s bewildered expression as all his possessions were solemnly returned to him, one after another.

  “Sean,” I murmured.

  “Hm-mm. Got her. And I don’t like it any more than you do.” A pause, weighing up our options. “Let’s get out of here.”

  My thumb had been hovering over one key on my phone and, almost before he’d spoken, I’d already pressed it. McGregor picked up before it had time to ring a second time. Quietly, I gave him concise exit instructions for the west side of the park, and Sean and I began surreptitiously to pincer in on my parents. I had every intention of practically taking my mother off her feet, if necessary, to get her out of there in one piece.

  And then, as if she could read our intent, Vondie gave us a mocking, jaunty little salute, and turned away. We froze, watching her stride under the arch, her back directly towards us like a provocation. She moved with only the slightest limp on her right leg and I experienced a momentary pang of regret that I hadn’t made sure it was more pronounced.

  She reached the curb just as a black Lincoln Town Car pulled up alongside her, and climbed in without a pause. She didn’t look back. We watched the Lincoln until it reached the next corner and disappeared from view.

  I felt my shoulders drop and widen as the tension oozed away. I turned and found Sean staring narrow-eyed after the Lincoln.

  “They’re playing games with us,” I said.

  He nodded. “I agree. ‘Look how easy I can get to you, anytime I want.’”

  “Yeah,” I said tightly. “I thought Collingwood was supposed to be putting a muzzle on that bitch.”

  “Maybe he has,” he said flatly. “Just imagine what she might have done if he hadn’t.”

  I glanced at my parents, expecting they would still be caught up in the show, only to find my mother also staring after the black Lincoln. Her body was rigid and I knew it wasn’t just the car, which would have meant nothing to her. She must have seen Vondie and recognized her. So, maybe that taunting wave wasn’t just for me. My father’s eyes were on his wife, concerned but questioning, as though he didn’t know what had caused her sudden reaction.