Fatal Deception

by Russell Blake

  Tess’s face popped into Ron’s mind, and he nodded. “Too bad indeed. Let’s hope the techs strike gold.”

  Chapter 41

  The light from the overhead fluorescent bulb flickered sporadically as Stibling considered his escape options. The chair was wood, which meant that if he was able to exert enough pressure on its joints, he might be able to break it apart. He could then free his legs, and using one of the bent nails that held the chair together, open the cuffs. From there, he would be able to open the door, which as far as he could tell wasn’t locked, and slip to safety.

  It was a good plan and an appealing narrative, other than for the fact he’d never done anything of the kind in his life. But he’d built a fortune from nothing, using only his wits, and if he could do that, something this simple had to be within his power.

  His rumination was interrupted by the opening of the door. His face froze when Paulo entered, accompanied by an older man with the dour countenance of a mortician.

  “You…” Stibling hissed.

  “You seem surprised to see me. There’s an old expression: don’t send a boy to do a man’s job. Next time, hire someone competent if you want to kill me.”

  Stibling remained silent. Paulo took several steps toward him and spit on the cement floor before speaking again. “That’s right. The Russians gave you up. They told me about the contract. You really thought you could flip my switch? And worse, that there wouldn’t be repercussions? You have no idea who you’re dealing with, do you?”

  “You’re blackmailing me. I had you followed. You brought all this on yourself.”

  “Very clever of you. But here’s the problem: you come after me, you come after my entire organization. Which means you now need to make amends to my people.” Paulo looked to the older man by his side. “What do you think?”

  “I think he’s put us through a lot of grief,” the man growled.

  “I haven’t done anything but defend myself,” Stibling insisted. “He’s extorting me. What was I supposed to do?”

  The man nodded slowly. “How much were you paying him?”

  “Hundred grand a month.”

  The man looked to Paulo. “Nice piece of change.”

  Paulo shrugged. “You get your slice.”

  “Well, today’s your lucky day,” the man said, returning to Stibling. “I’m feeling generous, and it’s obvious that this is all a misunderstanding.”

  “That’s right,” Stibling agreed. “He started it. I would have no fight with your group if not for his actions.”

  “Fine. The payment’s now double. Two hundred grand a month.” The man eyed Paulo. “One for us, one for you. That work?”

  “I can make it on that,” Paulo agreed.

  “What! Are you mad? That’s two and a half million a year!” Stibling exclaimed. “For what?”

  “For us to remain silent about your depraved lifestyle, you old pervert,” Paulo snarled. “And to make up for the trouble you’ve caused.”

  “Never,” Stibling declared.

  The older man took a slow step forward and fixed Stibling with a glacial stare. “You’re a rich man. It’s not the money, is it?”

  “I don’t bend over for anyone,” Stibling said.

  “I respect a man with principles,” the older man agreed. “It’s good to have standards. But those come at a cost. You don’t agree to pay, this is out of my hands – and then Paulo here has to even the score in a more…permanent way. I should warn you, I’ve seen him break a man’s legs, hobble him so he never walked right again, over a lot less. You’re a little long in the tooth to be pushed around in a chair for the rest of your life, aren’t you?”

  “Or pissing blood in a bag,” Paulo added with a grin.

  The older man nodded. “Tell you what, tough guy. You think about it a little. What I’ve proposed is just some numbers on a spreadsheet. What he’ll do to you is real-world, pipe-hitting ugly. If it was me, I’d be asking who to make the check out to. But you want to walk around on sticks the rest of your life – and still have to pay him – that’s your call.” He paused, looking Stibling up and down. “What’s the point of being rich if you can’t buy yourself a little safety and comfort? Think it over. You’re not going to get a second chance. Me, I could use a little beer money, so I hope you choose wisely, but even if you don’t, I’ve decided you’re still gonna pay the two hundred jings. So get that through. Only question is whether you do it in one piece or broken into splinters.”

  Paulo chuckled. “And another thing. You get any more bright ideas like taking out a contract on me, you’re going down. I can get to you anywhere, at any time. Want to try me? It’ll be the last thing you ever do. After this, I’ll know about it before you even make the call. You read me?”

  Stibling scowled at the pair as they returned to the door. The older man turned to him as he pulled it wide, enabling Stibling to confirm that it had no bolt or lock he could see. “Don’t be a dumbass. You’ve been handed a miracle. Shouldn’t take that lightly.”

  The door slammed, leaving Stibling seething with fury. How dare those goombahs try to play their dockworker games with him! He could have them wiped from the face of the earth and leave nothing more than a skid mark where they’d stood, while he spent a year in the Mediterranean with a pair of lovelies to soothe his spirits. Of course it wasn’t about the money. Nothing in life ever was. It was about power, and Stibling bowed to nobody.

  He strained his legs against the bindings and felt the chair creak beneath him. That was promising. The dolts had underestimated him, which they would come to regret. He shifted and pushed against the chair back with his upper body and felt it shift slightly, which encouraged him further. He repeated the process until he could rock the chair back and forth, and after doing so twice in a row, kicked his right leg as hard as he could, ignoring the cord cutting into his ankle.

  The chair leg gave with a snap, and Stibling went over, falling sideways. His head struck the cinder-block wall and his neck snapped with a crack. He landed on his side, unable to breathe as a stain spread on his hand-tailored Italian suit trousers. The light faded until it was a tiny glow at the end of a long, dark tunnel, and a sound like rushing wind was the last thing he heard.

  Paulo and his boss threw open the door at the sound of the crash, and froze on the threshold at the sight of Stibling on the ground, his head twisted at an impossible angle, his face cyanotic from lack of oxygen. The old man glared at Paulo and shook his head.

  “Get this mess cleaned up and get rid of the body. So much for that. Stupid bastard could have walked away.”

  “What about the driver? He won’t have reported anything, but that can only last so long.”

  The old man nodded thoughtfully. “Take him out. We can’t afford that kind of heat. Guy like this is way too connected. They’ll move mountains to find him.”

  Paulo grunted assent and called out behind him, “Gino. Tony. Got another one for the meat grinder.”

  Chapter 42

  Gunter peered through his blinds at the pair of men sitting in a brown sedan a dozen yards from his building, taking care to stand back so they couldn’t make out his silhouette in the window. They’d been there the better part of the afternoon, which Gunter had spent indoors, fortifying himself with Vicodin and meth, his three-day bender still exacting a terrible vengeance in aches and pains.

  He hadn’t heard from Paulo for a couple of days, for which he was grateful, but now he was worried. Paulo had warned him of the consequences of late payment, and Gunter had been unable to make this week’s. Gunter had called and left a message, explaining that business had been lousy but that he had several huge prospects for this week, and had hoped that would be the end of it. But now, with a pair keeping him under surveillance, he wondered whether he’d underestimated the threat.

  The drugs had him on edge, and he felt paranoid from the speed, which the pain meds usually tempered. He padded to his medicine cabinet and swallowed a Xanax and, after assess
ing his mood, took another. A coil of anxiety threatened to strangle him, and he knew from experience that the only way out of the trap was with tranquilizers.

  Gunter debated making another call to Paulo, but dismissed it when his hands began shaking uncontrollably at the thought. He was in no shape to do anything, which was why he was staying indoors, trying to stair-step himself down from his binge with vodka and drugs – always a delicate balance, and one he might have misjudged this time. He stumbled to his bedroom, and it was all he could do to crawl into bed and pull the covers over his head, his temples pounding, throat burning with sour bile.

  He’d promised himself that he wouldn’t overdo his chemical fortification after the last few weeks of excess, but his resolve had been insufficient to overcome the compulsive drive to alter his state. He’d gone through periods like this in the past, but never as intense as the latest one, and if he had been capable of regret, he would have been genuinely remorseful. Part of the problem was that he suffered from disassociation, where it seemed like he was viewing himself from outside his body – and the only way he could feel real, immediate, was when he was stoned or engaging in high-risk behavior or, usually, both. Only the intensity of the rush could ground him, and he wondered what it must be like to be normal – to feel things on an everyday basis, to be capable of emotions other than anger or fear.

  Ron and Ben approached the front entrance of Gunter’s building with six other plainclothes detectives for backup. They’d discussed bringing in a SWAT team to take Gunter down, but Ron had pushed for a low-profile approach. The forensics techs had dusted his storage facility, and one of them had come up with a grisly piece of memorabilia when checking the toilet for an apparent blockage: part of the first victim’s dental plate, stuck in the pipe.

  That had cinched the deal, and Ron had organized Gunter’s apprehension. After verifying that he hadn’t left the flat, Ben had summoned his most dependable colleagues, and they’d gathered for the arrest, grateful that the area was sparsely trafficked in the late afternoon, most of the residents still at work.

  An ingress specialist made short work of the front door lock, and they crept up the stairs, weapons drawn, Ron in the lead. At Gunter’s door he stepped aside, and two of the detectives, who were carrying a handheld battering ram, took the door off its hinges with a single blow of the heavy device. Ben and Ron rushed inside, followed by the others, to find Gunter staring at them from the bed as he reached toward his bedside table.

  “Police. Freeze,” Ron called out. Gunter’s eyes widened at the sight of the Glock pointed at his head, and he did as instructed.

  Ben moved toward the bedroom doorway, pistol trained on him. “Nice and easy. Hold still,” he said.

  “What’s the meaning of this?” Gunter demanded. His words were slurred, his gaze blurry and unfocused, and Ben continued his approach while the others covered him.

  “Hands up. Slowly,” Ron ordered when they were all inside the room, and Gunter held them high. Ben had him turn over, face down, and then cuffed him, flipped him onto his back, and read him his Miranda rights. When he was done, Gunter stared at Ron with a blank expression. “Get him out of here,” Ron said.

  “You’re making a terrible mistake,” Gunter said, but Ron waved him away.

  “Sure I am.”

  A detective called to Ron from the front room. “Stanford, check this out. Man’s a regular pharmacy,” he said, pointing to a small glass pipe beside several baggies of methamphetamine.

  Ron nodded. “Don’t touch anything. Secure the area, and let’s get the techs in here and do a room by room search after the warrant comes through.”

  Ben nodded. “You got it.”

  Ron accompanied Gunter to the precinct and supervised his processing. When he was printed and photographed and searched, Ron had him brought to an interview room. Ben had returned from the flat, a senior detective now in charge of the minutiae of the search, and the two of them sat across from Gunter, who looked out of it, still stoned from the powerful cocktail he’d taken.

  “We found a dental plate down the toilet at your place in Chinatown,” Ron said, by way of opening.

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Gunter managed.

  “I’m sure your plentiful prints inside will convince a jury otherwise. That’s enough to guarantee you get burned.”

  “I have nothing to say.”

  “No sweat. Notice I’m not asking you any questions? Because we have you dead to rights.”

  “Then what are you doing here?” Gunter asked.

  “Giving you a chance to make a statement.”

  “Why would I do anything but ask for an attorney?”

  Ron glanced at Ben. “Come on. He’s out of it.”

  They stood and Ben reached for the knob.

  “Detective,” Gunter said as he was opening the door.

  “What?” Ron asked.

  “I have an alibi.”

  “Yeah, we heard it.”

  “No. For the last one.”

  “Sure you do.”

  Gunter shrugged. “Think what you like. But you’ve got the wrong man. I couldn’t have done it.”

  “Do you not understand that we found half a jaw stuck in your toilet? How dumb are you, anyway?” Ben snarled.

  Gunter eyed Ron. “For the sake of conversation, what would I gain by making a statement?”

  Ron walked back to the table. “Besides clearing your conscience? For starters, there’s no death penalty in New York, so if you’re charged by the state, you’re looking at life. But if this is changed to federal murder charges, that can get the chair. I decide which way that goes.”

  “Why would this be federal?” Gunter asked.

  “If the victim’s related to a police officer, that upgrades it.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “The first victim. Connie Vance. Her father is a New Jersey cop. You just hit the jackpot, Gunter.”

  Gunter digested the news. “They’ll find me insane, you know.”

  “I don’t care, buddy. I’ve done my job. You want to roll those dice, you really are nuts.”

  Gunter nodded. “How did you find the storage facility? It’s not in my name.”

  “Your attorney will tell you when the evidence is turned over to him.”

  Gunter pursed his lips. “You’re not being very forthcoming. Hardly a way to solicit cooperation.”

  “We have the camera. Remains of at least one of the victims. You’re cooked, Gunter. You have nothing to offer me, and I can decide whether this is state or federal. I don’t have to be forthcoming. You want something from me, not the other way around.”

  “Then I think I want my attorney.”

  Ron frowned. “Why am I not surprised?”

  When Ron exited the room, Larraby was waiting, a smile on his face. “Stanford, you did it! You’re a hero again. The mayor wants to talk to you – he’s on his way down.”

  “Great. Captain, we should discuss this before we make any announcements…”

  “Too late. Somebody leaked to the media. We’ve got a press conference in an hour.”

  Ron took the captain by the arm and led him down the hall. Ben lingered behind, leaving the two men to themselves. When Ron spoke, his voice was soft.

  “He’s not going to confess, and he claims he didn’t kill the last girl. Making any kind of a statement is premature. We need more time.”

  “I appreciate that, but we don’t have any more. Like I said, things are in motion.” Larraby studied his face. “You look like shit. When was the last time you slept?”

  “A while ago.”

  “Borrow a razor from someone, and some Visine. I need you on your game.”

  “He’s calling his lawyer.”

  “Doesn’t matter. He’s guilty, and we can prove it. Thanks to your excellent work, Detective.”

  “We should wait until we have more evidence.”

  “Don’t worry. It’s out of your hands now. Yo
u and the task force did an admirable job. This has to be some kind of a record for a complex case like this getting solved.”

  “It’s a mistake to say anything other than that an arrest has been made.”

  “I appreciate your sentiment. It’s duly noted. But you’ve been outvoted.” Larraby cleared his throat. “Let’s reconvene in my office in twenty minutes. The mayor will be here by then, and we can hash out the details of my statement.”

  “Captain…”

  Larraby frowned. “Don’t worry. I’ll keep it vague. This isn’t my first rodeo.”

  “It’s not you I’m worried about. It’s the mayor.”

  “At least we see eye to eye on that. Twenty minutes, my office.” Larraby eyed him again. “And for God’s sake, borrow a tie.”

  Chapter 43

  The press conference was excruciating for Ron, who was paraded out like a trained chimp on cue as Larraby and the mayor doled out praise. Ron remained silent throughout the proceeding, as he and the captain had agreed he would, and tried not to visibly cringe when the mayor declared victory over crime in his typically overblown manner.

  During the question-and-answer session after the prepared statements, virtually all the interrogatives were directed at Ron, who offered nothing but his stock “no comment.” The journalists, sensing no blood in the air, quickly tired of his noncommittal stonewalling and packed up shop.

  When Ron left the room, Ben was waiting for him. The younger man eyed the mayor and Larraby, who were congratulating each other for a job well done, and spoke softly to Ron.

  “Gunter wants to deal.”

  Ron’s left eyebrow rose. “Really? What about his lawyer?”

  Ben shrugged. “He asked for another meeting.”

  “Then let’s get to it.”

  Fifteen minutes later, Gunter was back at the steel table, staring at Ron and Ben with eyes the color of molten lead. Ron switched on his voice recorder and announced the date and time before looking to Gunter.