Vengeance Is Personal (A Colton James Novel, Book 2)

by Thomas DePrima

  Fodor nodded. "Done. You drop everything else and immediately take on our case unless the FBI has assigned you to an active case where your involvement can't be delayed."

  Fodor extended his hand across the table and I shook it, sealing the deal informally. I was sure paperwork would follow— a lot of paperwork.

  "Are you ready to go back to work while the co-op purchase moves towards closing?" Fodor asked.

  "I have a few more things to wrap up, then I'll be ready to go to work. I need to arrange for an office in midtown and such. That will probably take about a week."

  "I'll help spread the word for you. I'm sure a lot of companies will be anxious to hire someone of your remarkable recovery accomplishments, even though I don't know of anyone at the moment."

  "I appreciate it, Saul. And I appreciate your holding the mortgage on my new home."

  "We'll naturally have to inspect the property before final approval can be given, but considering the address I'm confident that's just a formality." Raising his glass, he said, "I'm delighted to have you on retainer."

  As I raised my glass and nodded before taking a sip, our dinners were brought to the table. The crab cakes smelled heavenly.

  ~ ~

  After leaving Fodor's club, I called Peggy MacDonald and informed her that I had secured tentative funding approval for the co-op, subject to an inspection of the property. She told me the list realtor had spoken to the owner and my offer had been accepted, including the extra parking space for the nineteen million, but it still had to be approved by the co-op association. With the attack on my apartment having been front page news, I hoped there wouldn't be a problem.

  My next task was to organize my recovery business, and I expected that to take from several days to several weeks.

  I had originally thought to rent a small office in midtown and hire a couple of part-time people to screen calls, but on reflection I decided against that. It wasn't that I had any reservations about using real people for screening calls. Although my background was as an IT specialist, I personally hated automated call-handling systems because by their very nature they were cold and impersonal. It was so much more satisfying for a caller to hear a real person on the other end of the line.

  Most of the companies using automated systems for screening or routing were those that either had a virtual monopoly in their field, such as government or public utilities, or those that were so concerned with the bottom line on the spreadsheet that they unwisely chose to ignore maintaining good customer relations. However, it was different in my case. After the attack at my apartment, I felt that having real people screening calls might place them in potential danger from people who wanted to get at me. So, as much as I hated having my calls screened by a computer, I decided it was the best way to go.

  I managed to find inexpensive office space in mid-town, a minor miracle in itself. Actually, it wasn't much more than a large closet and didn't even have a suite number on the door, but I never intended to spend any time there, and it did give me a mailing address in mid-town. Then I arranged for two telephone lines and an internet connection. I next made arrangements with a friend from my IT days to install a computer with a sophisticated call-answering system.

  Once installed, the computer system could be reprogrammed remotely, further reducing my need to ever visit my 'office.' When calls came in, a message would inform the caller that I only accepted cases where the misplaced or stolen item had a value of one million dollars or greater. Hopefully, that would discourage recovery requests from people looking for lost pets or a date. After my first recovery, I had been so inundated with trivial calls that I'd had to change my phone number. If the caller hadn't terminated the call by the time the message completed, the system would invite the caller to leave a message for a callback. If the caller was a previous customer, such as Fodor, the call could be immediately routed to whatever number I established, such as to my cell phone or home phone if a special five-digit code was punched in after the answering machine message started.

  It took eight workdays for the telephone company to install the lines and assign the numbers, but once that was done I visited a print shop and arranged for business cards. I went for quality all the way with the business cards because I wanted to impress anyone to whom I gave the card. I selected the finest card stock and told the printer that the cards had to be perfect in every way. On the front of the card it simply said 'Restorations and Recoveries' in fancy script. On the back it had my name and the phone number at my midtown office.

  Although my background was IT, and I was certainly capable of creating a website, I went with a professional web designer I knew. She did an incredible job, and after seeing the site, I knew I would certainly hire me.

  Now all I needed was a caseload and the ability to solve the cases.

  * * *

  Chapter Four

  Despite having a conditional pre-approval from Fodor, it still took a month to get the official approval from the insurance company. There was the usual requisite property search to ensure the deed was free of any liens or encumbrances and a complete inspection of the premises so no structural problems or code violations would endanger the mortgage loan value.

  To my surprise and genuine delight, the co-op association immediately and unanimously approved my purchase. I feared that one or more property owners might object to having a neighbor with a reputation for killing people, even if my 'kills' had been strictly limited to murderous criminals trying to take my life at the time. Peggy MacDonald, who had attended the meeting, said they understood why someone in my position needed a high-security home and would actually feel safer having an armed FBI Special Agent living on the premises.

  The security guards were all required to wear loaded sidearms while on duty, but it was doubtful that anyone else in the building owned a handgun. People who could afford to spend nineteen million on a home often had armed bodyguards for their own protection. They live on a different plane of reality than the 'little people,' unless someone had been lucky enough to win the lottery— or find a gizmo.

  When all the approvals were set, I got a call from Fodor's office that the paperwork was ready and they would host the closing as soon as a mutually acceptable time could be arranged among all parties.

  ~ ~ ~

  Two days later we gathered at the insurance company offices downtown to oversee the property transfer. My personal attorney and I sat on one side of a long conference table, while Peggy MacDonald, representing both myself and the realtor who had listed the property, and an attorney representing the seller, sat across from us. Several attorneys from the insurance company sat towards the head of the table, while two insurance company clerks sat at the opposite end.

  The first document to be signed was the agreement with Fodor that required me, throughout the life of the mortgage, to respond immediately when called to investigate any theft of property on which the company held the policy. I would receive the agreed upon annual retainer fee plus ten percent of the policy amount if I was instrumental in the successful recovery of the stolen property, and I could cancel the agreement at any time with ninety days' notice and payment in full of the outstanding mortgage balance.

  The caveat I had insisted upon regarding a pressing FBI case was detailed in the document. I had previously informed my attorney as to the terms I expected and, while I read a copy, he examined the document to ensure it didn't exceed my understanding of what was required of me. He was satisfied, so I didn't let my confusion over some of the legal terminology stop me from signing.

  Then there was a flurry of papers as I signed away my life. The clerks, who I learned were there in the capacity of notary publics, stamped and signed as witnesses wherever required. The exchanged checks were filled with enough zeros to make anyone's head spin.

  When I left the insurance company offices, I was carrying a new set of keys— and the burden of sixteen million dollars in debt. I couldn't stop thinking that, in real terms, I had to earn at
least thirty-two million dollars before taxes in order to pay off the loan.

  ~ ~

  The keys to the co-op and the elevator had been changed by building security as soon as the previous owner accepted my offer so that any keys in the possession of realtors or the previous owners or tenants were now useless.

  As nice as my stay at the hotel had been with its room service and housekeeping services, I was anxious to once again sleep in my own place, so my first stop after heading uptown was the new co-op. As I entered the lobby, the guard at the desk looked at me curiously. I held up the new keys and said, "Colton James. Eleven-oh-two."

  The guard punched the numbers into the computer and said, "Yes, sir. I need to see ID and take your photo."

  When I showed him my FBI ID, his eyes widened a bit. I was sure there weren't very many FBI Special Agents buying nineteen million dollar co-ops in the building. He told me where I should stand so the mounted camera could capture my image, then snapped the photo.

  "Okay, Special Agent James, you're all set. Once the guards on duty recognize you, you won't be bothered as you come and go. Until then, just tell them your co-op number and they'll be able to instantly confirm your residency by pulling up your photo from the computer. To initiate the voice recognition system, just insert the key into your door and turn it to the left, not the right. The system will ask you to identify yourself. Once it has an acceptable voice print, it will tell you to remove the key. When you do, the door will then open on your vocal command. Welcome to Cyprus Towers."

  "Thank you."

  I walked to the elevator Peggy and I had used and was soon at my new front door. After inserting the key and turning it to the left, it took three attempts before the system had an acceptable voice print. I didn't know if there was problem or if it simply required several attempts for verification. Anyway, when I removed the key and said my name, the door unlocked and popped opened about an inch.

  After stepping inside and closing the door, I removed a small notebook from my pocket and began to detail the renovations I wanted to make. The first thing I intended to do was beef up the security at the front entrance. I was glad Fodor had added the extra million to the mortgage amount because I wanted to expand and improve security within the co-op. My most important renovation would be to create a security vestibule just inside the front door. I intended that the second door could not be opened until the corridor door was closed. That would prevent more than two people from entering at a time, unless the control was temporarily overridden from inside the apartment. And once in the vestibule with the front door closed, no one was getting out unless they were authorized to be there. Next, I intended to have a contractor check the walls common to the hallway and other apartments. If they were just gypsum board, I would be adding materials that prevented anyone from breaking through with anything short of explosives.

  I would also need to protect my two parking spots by installing fencing and a gate. It was okay if people could see my cars, but I intended to prevent any tampering with bugs or explosives. Lastly, I would have a security expert sweep the apartment for bugs, then install whatever security measures were necessary to help keep it secure. I also had to make sure that the safe-room didn't completely block electronic signals when the vault door was closed. A simple wired relay to outside could accomplish that.

  I knew some people might think I was paranoid, but I had already experienced enough to know that adequate security measures, while seeming a bit too extreme to people whose lives were seldom in danger, were a real necessity. I might be in danger when I left the building, but I wanted to feel completely secure when I was at home.

  ~ ~ ~

  Just when it began to seem like the work would never be completed, it was. Everything seemed to come together all at once, and the workmen were finally gone. I had never let them start making noise before nine a.m., and they had to stop by six p.m., but I wondered how long it would be before my new neighbors forgave me. I don't know how much of the noise had carried to the other co-ops, but it had been excessively noisy in my place.

  The co-op looked remarkably similar to the way it had looked before the work started except for the new vestibule, but it was far more secure than before. The vestibule required handprint verification to open the inner door, and the surrounding walls beneath the sheetrock were covered with two layers of three-eighths-inch-thick plates of steel welded together to provide a nearly impenetrable barrier, as were all interior walls common to the corridor and neighboring co-ops. My two parking areas were now protected from tampering by stainless-steel fencing and a similar roll-down gate. Between the steel bars were panes of bullet proof glass. People would be able to see my cars but find it difficult to slip even a sheet of paper into the area where they were parked. I'd had my security expert check my apartment for tracking and eavesdropping bugs after the workmen had finished the remodeling work, but he found nothing.

  For the first time since returning from Europe, I felt completely confident that no one could attack me while I was home and that no one was spying on me. The newly installed eavesdropping safeguards in the co-op should alert me if anyone tried.

  Entering the safe-room, I closed the two wooden doors that provided visual privacy when the vault door was open. So far, the only furniture in the room was a small table and an office chair.

  Removing my lighter from my pocket, I flipped up the cover. With my thumb and forefinger, I gripped the perforated guard on top where the flame was normally produced, then pulled upward while slightly pressing on the raised icon of a Bald Eagle with outstretched wings on the front side.

  As I pulled gently but firmly, the insides of the lighter came free. Attached beneath a small felt pad saturated with lighter fluid was a metal box with a protective cover. Setting the outside of the lighter down on the table, I used a fingernail to gently pry open the cover of the box so I could remove a tightly folded piece of paper that had a slight silver sheen. As I took it in my left hand and set the rest of the lighter down with my right, the paper started to open. And as I placed it against the wall, it assumed its full 8.5" by 11" shape, perfectly flat and without a hint of wrinkles.

  Billy's selfless act of bravery to ensure the gizmo didn't fall into the wrong hands had saved my life. As he lay dying, I couldn't tell him that the piece of paper he'd flushed down the toilet was only a decoy. After arranging with the owner of the second hand shop to alter the lighter, I had visited a stationer's shop in Amsterdam and found some paper that appeared similar in appearance to the gizmo. The paper had originally been intended for use in a special copier released just before Xerox relinquished its hold on the dry, electrostatic toner process. The newly announced copier, a wet toner device invented by a small European firm, had suffered a speedy death, and the special ream of paper had been taking up space in the stationer's shop since the mid 1970s. He was delighted to at last find a customer for it.

  He sold it cheap, but I would have paid a premium to get it. Naturally, creases didn't immediately disappear, but the distinctive silvery sheen was amazingly close to that of the gizmo. The package of paper was now in my suitcase. I had to remember to pick up some pocket stick matches so I would have another decoy if Delcona's men managed to jump me again.

  Now that events in my life were settling down, it was time to get back to work. Following the violence at my old apartment I had decided not use the gizmo until I was absolutely sure no one could be watching. Although it was unlikely that my room at the hotel had been bugged in any way, I wanted to be virtually one hundred percent sure before I removed the gizmo from its special hiding place. While in Amsterdam, I had wondered what the owner of the secondhand shop thought I might be smuggling in the lighter. Since the drug problem was so acute there, he might have thought I intended to use the space for a private stash of narcotics.

  I had considered taking a leave of absence from the FBI to deal with the Delcona issue but then decided against it. My association with the Bureau could prove invaluabl
e as I turned my attention towards the mob boss. But if I didn't produce some results in the cold case investigations, my employment at the Bureau might be terminated. I had been given two new assignments before I accepted the art recovery job in Europe, and after doing some basic research into both, I had decided to concentrate on the serial killer investigation first. I hadn't begun efforts in earnest on the second case— a bank robbery with a kidnapping— before deciding to accept the extremely lucrative case in Amsterdam, so I refreshed my memory now while printing out the entire case file.

  As the printer poured out a steady stream of paper, I activated the gizmo for the first time since leaving Amsterdam. Before I even started on the bank robbery case, I watched the ceremony at the graveside and tagged the two men who looked out of place. Then I moved to the cemetery parking lot and noted their car's license plate. I would run it later. I jumped ahead by six hours and found them lounging at a house as they enjoyed what appeared to be alcoholic beverages. Moving the gizmo image out of the house after recording the GPS address, I raised the image up one hundred feet. There was no mistaking the New York City skyline in the distance as seen from Staten Island. It confirmed my belief that Delcona was having me watched, but that things were still too hot for him to make another try for the gizmo at this time.

  Billy's unexpected arrival at the apartment had probably confused the two thugs he'd sent for the first try and completely upset their plans as well as their belief they could jump me and hustle me out of the apartment with little trouble. If Delcona made another move now while the New Jersey State Police VOCC North, NYPD, the New York State Police BCI, and the FBI were watching him, he'd probably spend the next several years sitting in courtrooms, even if he wasn't eventually convicted. The question now had to be— how soon would he feel secure enough to come at me again?