by Jamie Denton
No, he amended. Marcus Wood, Archibald Willoughby, Travis Reisner and the others were wanted. Glen Specht remained a nonentity, a nobody. Just as he’d planned.
Maybe he should’ve stayed on the east coast. Connecticut and Vermont had held a wealth of possibilities.
His lips almost twitched at the pun.
The microwave dinged, drawing him out of his brief moment of longing for more comfortable accommodations. Taking care not to scald his fingers, he set the plastic container of fried chicken, whipped potatoes and a sorry excuse for corn, which looked more gray than yellow, on the fake wood-grain serving tray.
He slowly peeled back the plastic film covering and watched the steam rise. Chicago boasted many a fine restaurant he could’ve enjoyed, but he chose to take his meals in the solitude of the furnished apartment rather than risk being seen in public too soon. Timing was everything in his line of work. He’d come too far to blow his chances because he’d developed a taste for the finer things that were becoming more and more difficult to ignore.
He tossed the filmy covering into the garbage can he kept under the sink. A trio of fat brown cockroaches scurried away, escaping the harsh glare cast over their hideaway from the single exposed lightbulb hanging by a rusted chain overhead. Other than an impatient press of his lips, he ignored the filthy creatures. He detested bugs, but his iron self-control, a skill he’d developed into an instrument of perfection, would never allow him to show a shred of weakness.
More than bugs, he detested weakness of any kind, yet he made his living exploiting the very thing he despised. The irony almost made him smile.
He poured himself a glass of iced tea, added the plastic convenience store tumbler to the tray along with a paper plate of sliced tomatoes heaped with mayonnaise. Using care, he took his meal into the living room with its ratty used furniture and smoke-stained walls.
The furnished third-floor walk-up barely ranked above tenement standards, but other than the cockroaches he studiously ignored, the living arrangements currently suited his purpose. No one bothered him here. In the carefully selected neighborhoods where he chose to hide while prepping for his next job, what few residents he did come into contact with weren’t the type to look a man in the eye. If questioned, they’d never remember him. He was afforded a sense of freedom without the threat of some pain-in-the ass good Samaritan fingering him.
Not that he worried. Like a chameleon, he’d mastered the ability to fit in with his surroundings. Yet another skill that had served him well.
He sat in the threadbare recliner and positioned the tray in front of him. With the small color television he’d picked up from one of the many pawn shops he’d scoped out that morning, he tuned into the local news station. He turned up the television to drown out the sounds of the neighborhood, and listened as the news anchor set up the clip of a boating accident on Lake Michigan involving three teenagers earlier that day.
“So tragic,” he murmured with feigned sympathy.
By the time the newscast ended, he’d finished his unimpressive meal and set the tray aside in favor of the thick manila envelope containing his evening’s work. Slowly, he unfolded the newspaper clippings and placed them on the peeling surface of the walnut-veneer coffee table. Photographs, maps and a small spiral-bound notebook of handwritten notes followed, each item meticulously organized for the sole purpose of studying and memorizing every last detail of the mark.
Her name was Hope Templeton, the bereaved twenty-six-year-old widow of Darrin Templeton. He studied the pixel-blurred photograph of the lovely Mrs. Templeton on her wedding day. The voluptuous blonde smiled up at her new husband, the hint of a smirk on her full pink-frost-tinted lips.
Glen actually frowned as he stared at the photo. The former secretary turned trophy wife wasn’t quite the classic bereaved widow, nor as emotionally vulnerable as he preferred his marks. The concern gave him a moment’s pause. Had the young widow pulled off one of the oldest sweetheart scams around? Had she used her lush body to lure Templeton away from his wife of twenty years simply for his money? Perhaps Hope Bremer Templeton, formerly of Petal, Mississippi, wasn’t his perfect pigeon, after all.
He drew the photograph closer. The Harry Winston diamond wreath clasped around the widow’s neck made his decision all the more difficult. Valued in the millions, even at twenty-five cents on the dollar, the piece could garner a nice sum. Provided he could unload the necklace, of course. Even with his wide network of contacts, one-of-a-kind items were tougher to fence because they tended to draw unwanted attention.
He shifted his focus to the deceased. The Chicago lawyer had amassed a fortune suing corporate America on behalf of his clients. Drug companies, the big three automakers, sports equipment manufacturers and even a major school bus company had paid in the billions for their mistakes.
Templeton wasn’t an unattractive man. Maybe the young widow had married for love. He didn’t question Templeton’s motives, as they were obvious. Hope had been his young, beautiful trophy wife. “Ditch the bitch that helped you rise for the one that keeps it up.”
He let out a sigh and returned the clipping to the table, picking up the notebook next. Settling back in the chair, he opened to the first page and began studying his notes. No detail about the mark was too small. In his opinion, his attention to detail marked the cornerstone of his success. He knew more about Hope’s life than he suspected her dead husband ever had.
Two hours later, he’d committed every last detail to memory for the final time. He was ready.
Carrying the documents into the bathroom, he tossed them in the stained cast-iron bathtub and soaked them in lighter fluid. He struck a match, and the pungent tang of sulfur filled his nostrils. He dropped the lit match on the soaked documents and waited for the evidence to go up in flames.
When only black ashes remained, he washed the traces down the drain, not caring that portions of the institutional green-tiled walls of the tub enclosure were now blackened in places with soot. Tomorrow he would be gone from this hellhole, and Glen Specht would once again cease to exist…until Peter Seville swept Hope Templeton off her little feet and seduced her for all she was worth.
7
DUNCAN KNOCKED on the door to Colin’s apartment. When his brother didn’t immediately answer, he rang the bell. Twice.
Silence.
His concern climbed, along with his annoyance. He pounded on the door, harder this time, then rolled his shoulder to ease the discomfort. Muscle and bone protested the movement. Familiar pain sliced through him.
For a guy who prided himself on attention to detail, he was doing a good job of proving himself a sorry example. Case in point; forgetting to run by the drugstore for more ibuprofen when he knew the bottle he kept in the glove box of his SUV had been empty for a week. He wasn’t one to make excuses, but busy didn’t begin to describe his schedule of late.
He rang the bell again. Colin would have a selection of pain meds around the house. Preferably of the legal variety. Duncan loved his brother and thought he’d done a decent job of being supportive throughout the years, but pulling a disappearing act now, after all this time, pushed the limit on Duncan’s patience. He didn’t have time for Colin’s crap, no matter how much he understood the demons that haunted his brother. What he did need was for Colin to get back on the wagon, stay clean or get the hell over whatever obsession currently ruled him.
Lucy had warned him weeks ago they were taking on too many new clients. Again, he hadn’t paid attention. He blew off her concern and chose to concentrate on the fact that Colin’s interest in the business had kept him out of, and away from, trouble. If he’d stepped back and looked more closely at the whole picture, he might’ve realized sooner that Colin’s overwhelming success generating new business was yet another version of overkill, albeit less self-destructive than in the past.
To Duncan’s knowledge, Colin hadn’t had a drink in months, nor had he snorted, smoked, popped or free-based anything illegal. There’d been
no late-night phone calls from his brother being stitched up in some emergency room because a couple of goons had beaten him to a pulp over unpaid gambling debts. In Duncan’s book, that had spelled progress.
He blamed himself for sending Colin over the edge this time. If he hadn’t been so wrapped up in his own problems and feeling the pressures at the agency, he would’ve seen the signs and just maybe he could’ve prevented Colin from taking off on another bender. Picking up the pieces had always been his role, not acting as trigger. Whatever route Colin’s self-destructive behavior had taken this time, Duncan would help his brother clean up as he’d always done, whether that meant paying for another round of rehab or covering a gambling debt.
He lifted his right arm to pound on the door again, but it swung open before his fist connected. “Where the hell have you been?” he barked at his brother.
“Hey, Duncan,” his brother greeted him cheerfully, ignoring Duncan’s dark mood. “What brings you by? Come on in.”
Duncan walked into the apartment and stared hard at his brother. His hazel eyes showed no signs of intoxication, but were clear and bright if a bit weary. His hair damp, as if he’d just showered, was combed away from his face. Duncan could find nothing in his brother’s appearance to hint at a weeklong bout of anything destructively hedonistic.
Not yet willing to concede his suspicions were unfounded, he walked into the living room. In the past, Colin’s self-indulgence generally resulted in Duncan dragging him back from whatever edge he’d crawled. More times than he cared to recall, he’d had sift through the muck left over from days of partying to even find his brother.
“I came by to check up on you,” he said, surprised by the pristine condition of the apartment. No overflowing ashtrays littered the coffee table, nor were there remnants of a bust waiting to happen. No suspicious, stale odors. Not even an array of empty pizza boxes, fast-food wrappers or shriveled French fries in sight.
He spied a glass on the end table and snagged it. Not bothering to hide his distrust, he sniffed the contents. Water? Vodka, yes, but water? Not what he’d been expecting.
He set the glass back on the table. “Got any aspirin?” he asked roughly. “This humidity is playing hell with my shoulder.”
Colin’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Sure,” he said. “Have a seat.”
He waited for Colin to leave the room, then performed a cursory search, with every intention of seizing whatever he might find. He checked behind pillows and under cushions but couldn’t produce so much as a potato chip crumb. A quick drag of his foot under the sofa and loveseat didn’t unearth a single dust bunny, let alone a hastily tossed stash or accompanying paraphernalia.
“Why haven’t you returned my calls?” he called out to his brother. He walked to the oak entertainment center and checked both media cabinets. All he found were Colin’s extensive CD and DVD collections. No surprises in the tray of the DVD player or hidden around the stereo system. The cabinet doors beneath the wide-screen television stand housed only a pair of stereo headphones. Crossing the room into the alcove off the kitchen, he stopped suddenly by the dining table and looked down in surprise.
“A jigsaw puzzle?” he muttered, scratching the back of his head.
“Here you go.” Colin set four unopened plastic bottles of various brands of pain relievers on the table. “Take your pick.”
Duncan indicated the puzzle with a nod of his head. “What’s this about?”
Colin’s smile was sheepish. “They help me unwind,” he said, sounding mildly embarrassed.
They. An indicator there were more somewhere. Dozens, more likely. Not sure what he was supposed to say, Duncan opened a bottle of ibuprofen and tossed back three caplets without water. “Why haven’t you returned my calls?” he asked again.
Colin tucked the tips of his fingers into the front pockets of his jeans. “I didn’t know you’d called.” He indicated the wall phone behind Duncan. “I only got in a couple of hours ago and was busy. I haven’t had a chance to check messages.”
“In?” Duncan set the bottle on the table with a sharp snap. He glanced over his shoulder to the phone. Sure enough, the red message indicator light blinked rapidly. “Mind telling me from where?” he asked, looking back at his brother.
Irritation passed though Colin’s eyes. “I was out of town for a couple of days.”
“Out of town where?”
Colin let out a short, impatient breath. “Wait here.”
Oh yeah, that made him feel better.
No way was he giving Colin a chance to flush his stash until Duncan knew exactly what he’d been taking. He took off after him, down the hallway to the spare bedroom. Duncan’s heart sank when Colin flipped on the overhead light. He’d suspected his brother had been answering the siren song of another obsession, but for once he wouldn’t have minded being wrong.
Large cardboard boxes filled the usually stark room, neatly arranged six deep and as many high along the back wall. He understood the cause of his brother’s overkill tendencies. The brutally hard times they’d faced a few years after their father’s death twenty years ago hadn’t been easy, but they’d been especially hard on Colin. His brother’s need to overcompensate made him feel safe, but in reality, all Colin had was chaos wrapped in illusion, created by a false sense of security.
When their dad had lost a long battle with cancer, Zach Chamberlain hadn’t left his family destitute. There’d been life insurance, mortgage insurance, a home, some rental properties and substantial savings accounts. As a family, they’d mourned their loss, then moved on with their lives. From what Duncan remembered of those early days after his dad’s death, other than missing his dad, not much had really changed in his life.
His mom didn’t have to go out and look for a job when they were kids, there were still birthday and holiday celebrations, still Little League and Pop Warner games and trips to Galveston each summer. Until one day, five years after his father’s death, the world suddenly collapsed around them without warning. The nest egg his dad had built to take care of his family had vanished when a smooth-talking con artist took his mother for every last cent.
Unlike Colin, Duncan didn’t blame his mother. At seventeen, even he hadn’t suspected the man his mother had married for what he was until it was too late. The kicker had come when the authorities did nothing, because no crime had been committed, at least not in the legal sense. Julianne Chamberlain-Morton had unwittingly given her new husband the means and opportunity to steal from her, leaving herself with no legal recourse all because she’d married without the benefit and protection of a prenuptial agreement.
Once the shock had worn off, Duncan had done whatever he could to help his mother and brother. Those first months had been the toughest of Duncan’s life, but even more so on then twelve-year-old Colin. The rebellion that followed took many forms over the years, and Duncan couldn’t help being grateful Colin hadn’t ended up in prison or dead. There hadn’t been much his brother hadn’t tried, from booze to drugs. And of course, there were the obsessions.
Colin didn’t purchase a single tube of toothpaste or only one can of shaving cream, box of cereal, whatever; he bought by the half dozen or more. He didn’t pay the rent on his apartment one month in advance like most people, he paid six months in advance. The fear of being without, however based in reality it might’ve once been, was a mere sampling of Colin’s obsessive behavior patterns.
Staring at the boxes lining the wall, dread filled Duncan. He let out a sigh and opened the flap of a nearby box to peer inside.
Comic books? “What the…”
“Well?” Colin asked, a distinct hint of pride in his voice. “What do you think?”
He thought his brother had really lost it this time. “Well what? Where’d they come from? Why on earth would you need all this?”
Colin frowned. “Hey, they aren’t mine.”
Great. Just what he didn’t want to hear. He’d thought the theft phase of Colin’s rebellion had ended mor
e than a decade ago. “Why, Colin?” he asked wearily before letting out a long, heavy sigh. “What have you done?”
Colin’s lips thinned, and he shook his head in a display of abject disappointment. He reached for a manila folder sitting on top of one of the cartons and shoved it impatiently at Duncan. “Egan Casualty insured the first edition, mint comic book collection of Oliver Vale for twenty-five grand. On the secondary market, they can go as high as four times that amount, if the right buyer comes along. Some of these babies are rare. Serious collectors will to pay premium dollar for a single edition. Vale’s collection wasn’t stolen, he sold it to a dealer in Maine, then filed a false police report to collect on the insurance.”
Duncan vaguely recalled the low-priority claim. Guilt pricked his conscience. He should’ve had more faith in Colin, but history dictated otherwise. Besides, his brother had never worked recovery, nor had he expressed an interest in that side of the business. How was he supposed to know that had been the reason Colin had taken off suddenly.
He handed Colin back the file. “How’d you track them down?”
“I had a little help.”
“Lucy,” Duncan guessed.
Colin shook his head. “Marisa. She gave me the idea of putting a want-to-buy ad in the more widely distributed publications. I had a bite two days after the ad came out.”
“So you drove up to Maine to recover the property?”
The smirk on Colin’s face was one of satisfaction. “Yup.”
A sliver of pride filled him at his brother’s ingenuity, but it didn’t completely erase his annoyance. “Why not let someone know where you were going? Why the big secret?”
“You know what you would’ve said if I’d told you? ‘No, Colin, I’ll handle it,’” he mimicked. “Well, I’m sick to death of you handling me. I thought I was your partner.”