by Chris Mooney
A single car emerged from the plant—a black Mercedes SUV with tinted windows, Ellie wondering what it was about gangster types always needing to drive top-of-the-line cars. The Mercedes parked at an angle in front of her, along the left side. The driver didn’t cut the engine or step out of the car, but the passenger-side door opened. Ellie felt her mouth dry up.
Gingerbread Man looked different from the last time Ellie had seen him. The first thing she noticed was his hair: It was longer, the crew cut having grown out, and covering the tops of his ears, and it was parted razor sharply on the side. It was also dyed black—the same color as his beard. He wore a pair of stylish eyeglasses with thick black frames and a black suit that had been expertly tailored, or possibly made from scratch, in order to accommodate his muscular build.
But the other physical characteristics she remembered were still there, untouched by a surgeon’s knife: the broad nose that looked like an inverted triangle, with flared nostrils; the thin, wormy lips commonly seen on certain elderly women.
Gingerbread Man—Paul, she reminded herself, his name is Paul Young—carried himself with confidence as he walked around the car. He slowed a bit when he eyed Anton, and took his measure. Paul didn’t come forward and shake Anton’s hand. He stood there with his hands in his pockets, jingling his change and looking a little consolatory, she thought, like a boy who had been caught red-handed and couldn’t lie his way out. His tone confirmed it when he spoke.
“Appreciate you coming out, Anton.”
Anton said nothing. His face, Ellie saw, was slack—which was a bad sign. It meant some internal pilot light had been turned on, his blood warming up, getting ready for a fight. It was the look he got when the shit was going to hit the fan.
Eyes on Anton, Ellie reached for the nine resting on her lap. She released the safety and held the Glock as her gaze cut to Paul. She watched from behind her sunglasses and from behind the tinted windows, the man who had killed her partner and had tried to kill her at the start of this past summer now standing on the opposite side of the door, less than ten feet way.
Paul looked Anton up and down.
Anton snickered. “You think I’m packing?”
“Wouldn’t put it past you. And I certainly wouldn’t blame you.”
Anton said nothing.
“Thought you might not show up,” Paul said. “Then I said to myself, No, he will. He has to. Anton has no place to go. He can’t work for the Armenians or the Mexicans. They don’t want him.”
To Ellie’s ears, it sounded like a threat. Anton, though, let it wash right over him. Which surprised her. Usually a threat caused him to start using his fists. But he didn’t move, and that made Ellie wonder if Anton was afraid of Paul. Paul had a good amount of size compared to Anton, but if it came down to a fight, she’d put all her money on Anton. In her experience, guys who were heavily into bodybuilding relied solely on their size to make their opponents back down, because they didn’t know how to fight.
Anton nodded with his chin to the Mercedes and said, “Looks like you brought along some company.”
“Just my driver.”
“He shy or something?”
“He’s just my driver.”
“Maybe he should say hello.”
Paul looked over his shoulder, to the driver, and nodded. The window came down. The driver was a white guy who was nowhere near as tall as Paul, and nowhere near as big, although he did seem to have a good amount of muscle on him. He wore sunglasses and a black collared shirt with the sleeves rolled up, and he had both forearms draped on top of the steering wheel to show he wasn’t carrying. He was somewhere in his late twenties to early thirties, Ellie guessed, and had a military-style crew cut and teeth that were too big for his face. He chewed gum methodically, trying to give off the vibe that he wasn’t nervous.
Only he was. Ellie caught the tight way he swallowed. Guy was probably not even conscious he was doing it. He was a pretender. Didn’t mean he wasn’t dangerous, though. Could be quick with a gun. Like her, he probably had one within reach.
“Anyone there in the back?” Anton asked.
The driver looked to Paul. Paul nodded and the driver rolled down the back window. The backseat was empty.
“You want to check the trunk, too?” Paul asked. “Pat my boy down?”
“Not a bad idea,” Anton replied.
“Then please, be my guest. While you do that, I’ll introduce myself to the person you brought along. Or maybe he’d like to roll down his window and introduce himself?”
“You don’t get to make the rules. Not with me. Not after that shit you pulled.”
Paul opened his mouth to speak, then paused, as if second-guessing himself. He sighed—a bit theatrically, Ellie thought—and then he hung his head for a moment, his lips pursed.
“You know what? You’re right,” Paul said. “You’ve got every right to be pissed about what happened in Brentwood. I know they’ve put you under the microscope.”
“Under it? They kicked it up my ass.” Color was creeping up Anton’s neck—a sure sign he was getting ready to explode. “They’ve followed me for months since Brentwood ’cause they thought you and I were working together, had some sort of plan in place. They still think that.”
They, Ellie thought, had to be Frank and the real estate guy, Sebastian Kane.
Paul said, “I take it they’re back to watching you.”
“Day and night. And I’m guessing you have something to do with that.”
“Let’s talk about insurance for a moment.”
“I look like Blue Cross to you?”
“Not the medical kind,” Paul said. “I’m talking the other kind—you know, like a liability policy. A smart man always protects his investments. He hopes he never has to use it, but he knows it’s there if he needs it. It gives him peace of mind in case disaster strikes.”
The anxiety Ellie felt made her want to shift in her seat, take a look behind her. Anton didn’t move. He showed nothing, said nothing.
Paul said, “You’re super pissed off, and I get that. I do. And I wouldn’t blame you if you or your person there in the car wanted to come after me. But I’d advise you not to do that, because I took out a liability policy in the form of a friend who’s handy with a sniper rifle. He’s watching us right now, so let’s everyone keep calm, cool, and collected, okay?”
Ellie felt the skin of her face flex against the bone. She wanted to grab the gearshift, throw it in reverse, and hit the gas, then peel right out of here. It would be the reaction of a normal, sane, and sensible person. But a normal, sensible person wouldn’t have agreed to come here to meet alone with a killer—wouldn’t have agreed to go undercover to glean secrets from a gang of psychopaths.
“Brentwood,” Anton said.
“I asked your boy Tyree if he could hook me up with some of those new stickers you’re using. Said I would pay him, too.”
Paul, Ellie knew, was referring to James Tyree, the surfer-looking kid with the man bun who had packed an Uzi in his canvas bag. Her mind’s eye coughed up the picture of the kid, his limp body splayed on the concrete near the pool, blood everywhere, as Paul said, “Tyree called me that morning. I told him where I was, and he came by to—”
“You go behind my back, use that kid to deliver my sticks to you—and that Uzi. My stickmen don’t go around armed.”
“I had nothing to do with that, Anton, I swear. I’ve got my own hardware—I didn’t need to buy any from him.”
“But you admit to going behind my back.”
“Yes. Absolutely. One hundred percent.”
Anton hadn’t been expecting an admission of guilt. It threw him off guard just a bit, Ellie could tell.
Paul said, “I had something in the works—something major. I’m talking life changing. That’s the reason why I asked you to meet, so we could—”
“You mowed him down.”
“I didn’t ask him to hang out, go for a swim. He was supposed to leave.”
“You killed him. My guy.”
“He got caught in the cross fire when the cops arrived—which, as I mentioned in that note I gave you, I had nothing to do with.” Paul studied Anton for a moment. “It couldn’t be helped, what happened to Tyree. An unforeseen consequence. As someone who has survived in this business a long time, you should under—”
“The next words outta your mouth better be about helping my bottom line.”
“How much to settle it?”
“I’m thinking a million,” Anton said.
“That’s a lot of scratch for an orphan kid who was living on the street and giving out hand jobs.”
“That’s what Sebastian’s offering for you.”
“I thought it was half a mill.”
“He bumped the reward up. It’s half a million now for your head, a million if you’re brought in alive.”
“Wow. I’m surprised the cheap bastard bumped up the bounty.”
“Tyree,” Anton said.
“I’m not going to give you a million,” Paul said. “But I’ll give you two.”
Anton stood in profile; Ellie could see his eyes narrow in thought behind his sunglasses, Anton searching for traps hidden in the bullshit.
Paul said, “But why settle for two million when I can give you more money than you can possibly imagine?”
“Yeah? I can imagine quite a lot.”
“Then go ahead and pick a number and it’s yours.”
Anton snorted. “Whatever plan you’ve got cooking, Frank and Sebastian are not going to hand over their business to you.”
Their business, Ellie thought. Were Frank and Sebastian equal partners?
Paul smiled. He had the look of someone who knew every single answer on a final exam.
“They will,” Paul said. “I guarantee it.”
“How? What are you going to do, rat him out to the Armenians? You do that, he’ll turn around and rat you out. They won’t stop looking for you.”
“Sebastian is going to hand over everything to me. He’s—”
“He’ll never hand over his donors.”
“I don’t need them. He can go live with them, for all I care. I just need his infrastructure. The product I have is—”
“Better than Pandora. Right, you mentioned that in your little note.”
“And that, my friend, is God’s honest truth. Come on—let’s take a walk.”
“What’s wrong with right here?”
“Nothing,” Paul said. “But, all due respect, I asked you to come alone, so we could discuss those business matters I mentioned in my note, and you brought along someone—someone I don’t know.”
“That’s my business.”
“And now you’re making it mine, which, I’m sure you can respect, puts me in an awkward position, as I don’t want to bring an outsider into this.”
“She’s not an outsider,” Anton said.
Paul’s eyebrows rose at the word she.
“She’s my insurance policy,” Anton said, and then turned his head to her. “Roll down your window and say hello.”
Ellie wore sunglasses, and her hair was different. Her clothes were different, too—she was different. There’s no way he’ll recognize me, she reassured herself as the window rolled down. There’s no way.
Paul smiled at her the same way he did when he came out of the house in Brentwood, acting all natural and asking if there was a problem before taking out the AR-15 and turning the backyard into downtown Beirut. He pushed himself off the car and came closer—too close, Ellie thought. He leaned forward, hands on his knees, and from behind her sunglasses Ellie watched as Paul studied her face.
“Hello, there,” he said brightly.
“Hello.” Ellie thought her voice sounded normal—astounding given the fact that her heart was jackhammering against her breastbone like it wanted to explode from her chest and get as far away from here as possible. She couldn’t stop wondering if he was looking at her the same way she was looking at him.
Again she told herself no. It was impossible. She looked radically different now, and there was no way he recognized her voice. Well, that wasn’t entirely true—she had screamed at him to lower his weapon before the shooting started.
“You got a name, hon?” Paul asked. “Habla usted inglés?”
Anton answered the question. “Her name is Faye.”
“Faye,” Paul said, as if he were rolling the word around in his mouth like wine, seeing if he liked the way it tasted. “Faye what?”
Anton said, “Faye works for Frank.”
Ellie couldn’t stop the surprise from reaching her face. Her skin tingled and her brain felt like it had actually cramped. Tell me he didn’t just say what I think he said. Paul, too, was experiencing his own WTF moment. His eyes widened, and his face stretched tight across the bone like that of someone experiencing his first prostate exam.
Anton said, “Now ask me why I brought her.”
It was both interesting and terrifying to watch the transformation happening on Paul’s face. Ellie had read her fair share about psychopaths, had even met one or two during her brief time on the streets, but it was always after the fact—after the creature or whatever it was that lived beneath their skin had been let out and done its damage. This was the first time she had seen one in the wild, so to speak, and the raw, brutal ugliness she saw in Paul’s face reminded her of a home surveillance video of a pit bull that had mauled a four-year-old boy to death—which was what Paul wanted to do to Anton right now, lurch forward and maul him with his hands and teeth.
Anton didn’t notice or didn’t care. He cupped a hand around his ear and leaned forward a bit. “Sorry, what was that?”
Paul’s face . . . it didn’t relax, but it looked reasonably human again. At least for the moment. “Why did you bring her?” he asked, his tone cold. Clipped.
“So glad you asked,” Anton replied. “Faye works at the new place where they perform the transfusions. She has access to the client database, where the blood is stored, everything.”
No, I don’t, Ellie wanted to scream. Why was Anton feeding him this complete and utter bullshit?
Paul said, “What about his donors?”
Anton’s smile was like a fist. “You ready to have a serious talk?”
Paul said nothing. They stared at each other in a way that reminded Ellie of those old Clint Eastwood Westerns, two gunslingers measuring each other up. Only Anton’s head was in a sniper scope, Anton acting like he’d been in such a position before, no big deal.
Paul eased himself off the car. Was he leaving?
No. He motioned for Anton to join him. Anton straightened and followed Paul into the plant. As Ellie watched the two of them disappear somewhere in the shadows, she rolled up the window, the BMW motor purring softly through her seat.
It was risky, the idea she had in mind. She could waste time debating it in her head or she could listen to her gut instincts. She went with her gut.
Ellie grabbed a fresh burner. As she dialed Roland’s number, she turned on the radio, adjusting the volume so it was just loud enough to drown out the sound of her voice.
Roland picked up. Ellie didn’t realize how dry and tight her throat felt until she spoke.
“It’s me. Don’t speak—just listen.”
She gave Roland a quick rundown of where she was and what had happened. He gave her instructions, and an address where she was to meet him as soon as she could. The call lasted less than a minute, no way to trace it. She removed the SIM card and battery from the burner to prevent the signal from being traced anyway. Both components went into her pocket, along with the burner. Now the backpack.
From behind the tinted windows, she
made a careful study of its contents while keeping a watchful eye on the front window. Anton could come back at any moment.
The leather planner was something called “The Best Self Journal.” In addition to having an area where you could list your appointments, the planner had areas for goals, daily targets, morning and evening gratitude lists. It would have made an interesting read if Anton had written in English instead of Russian. The manila folder contained sheet after sheet of commercial properties available for sale all over California. Real estate listings, she thought. She saw something called an MLS number, and while she didn’t know what that was, the rest was easy enough to read—costs per square foot, amenities, detailed descriptions and pictures of interiors and exteriors—everything a potential buyer would need to know.
Toward the back of the stack, she found a listing for a sprawling residential property in Ojai, a city in Ventura County, north of Los Angeles. Known for its hills and mountains, it was a popular destination for tourists who were into hiking, spiritual retreats, and buying the best organic produce grown by local farmers, no big boxes or chain stores allowed. The pictures of the house made the place seem more like a fortress than a home, but what made it interesting, beyond its eight-figure price tag, was what Anton had written along the bottom of a sheet, in blue ink: “Chauncey Harrington, 72, 87.6 mil, paper.”
The sheet contained no other writing.
Ellie replaced the backpack exactly where she had found it. She glanced up and saw Paul standing outside again. He had traded his eyeglasses for a pair of sunglasses with dark green rectangular lenses—a style she associated with military and special-ops guys. He stood with his hands in his pants pockets, looking in her direction, smiling.
CHAPTER 23
THIS GUY YOU saw, Paul,” Roland said. “You’re sure he’s the Brentwood shooter?”
Ellie nodded. She had just finished telling him about Anton’s meeting with Sebastian Kane’s stepson-but-not-legally, Paul Young.
“No question in my mind,” she said.