“A list of employees especially any attached this this renovation program.”
A piece of paper miraculously appeared in his hand. I reached over and took it before it was offered or withdrawn.
Conway photographed the list with her phone and sent the photo to Sandra.
“We’ll have an answer in a few minutes,” she said.
“An answer?” John questioned.
I ignored his question and waited. The vibration of Conway’s phone cut through the air. I looked up as she read the text. She nodded at me, then replied to the text.
“Where can we find Steven Krill?” she said to John.
“On set, at this time of day. They’re renovating a bedroom. He’s one of our builders.”
“I know,” Conway replied. “His brother is a builder too, working for the company in Virginia.”
I stood up and joined Conway by the door. Facing Conway I said, “Lee and Sam moving on the brother?”
“Yes with their SWAT backup.”
I smiled. “Good job Conway.”
She shrugged. “It’s what we do. Let’s go get the bad guy.”
“Come with us please,” I said to John. “You can show us where the set is.”
Conway was on her phone talking to police. She handed her phone to John with instructions, “Tell this officer the address please.”
He did then handed the phone back.
“Five minutes,” Conway said before disconnecting the call.
* * *
Police cars waited for us down the block from the current renovation house. Lights rolling. I left John Glass with one of the police officers for safe keeping. He’d be making a full statement once the offender was in custody, whether he wanted to or not.
We moved in on foot with Louise, Jed, and four other officers. Conway and I had a current photo of Steven Krill on our phones. Sandra updated and supplemented our information on the Krill brothers as we walked down the block. Neither had any dealings with police. They weren’t in the system. Not even a speeding ticket. No fingerprints in the databases.
I touched Conway’s arm to get her attention.
“How’s the wound?”
“Okay,” she replied.
“And now for something completely different … the truth …”
“I’m fine. Let’s just do this thing,” Conway said as she checked her weapon.
“I want you behind me when we go through the door,” I said.
She started to argue then stopped. Wise.
There were people in the driveway. Delivery vans. I checked ID’s and faces against the photo of Krill on my phone. None of them matched. I asked them to move the vans out to the street.
Jed sent a team to the right and the left, within moments the renovation house was surrounded by police. I walked up to the open front door and knocked.
Someone called out but I couldn’t hear the words over hammering.
I knocked then yelled into the house. “Hello!”
Hammering stopped. Footsteps moved toward the door. I waited as a dusty looking male came into view sawdust fell from his clothing as he moved.
“Can I help?” he asked as he neared the open door.
I held my badge up. “SSA Kurt Henderson, FBI. I’m looking for Steven Krill.”
“Steve is down the hall, I’ll get him.” The man turned and hollered into the house. “Steve it’s for you!”
“Come out here a minute,” I said. “You are?”
“Cyrus,” he replied, stepping over the threshold.
Conway took his arm and moved him away from the door, passing him off to Jed.
“Just wait there for a minute,” she said.
Footsteps sounded on the wooden floor of the house. A man swung into view.
“You wanted me?” he called as he approached.
“Yes. It’s about your brother,” I said as Steven Krill stopped in front of me.
He frowned. Worry lines etched into his face.
“Is he all right?”
“Better if we talk outside, come walk with me,” I said, with a small smile. Steve stepped out the door and saw Conway, Jed and Louise.
He faltered, and then spun around. I grabbed his arm and twisted it up his back.
“Outside, Steven. Away from tools,” I said, snapping a handcuff on the wrist of the arm I held, then pulling his other arm back and securing the cuffs. I gave him a shove into the wall by the door and searched him, removing his tool belt, and several screwdrivers from his pockets.
“What’s this about? You said my brother …” Steven tried pushing himself off the wall with one shoulder.
“This is what we call a simultaneous arrest.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Steven Krill you are under arrest.”
“What for?” He squirmed as I pressed him back into the wall.
“Murder.” I turned to Jed. “You want to take it from here?”
Jed stepped up and took Steven Krill by the arm, he began reading the Miranda warning from a card he held in his hand.
My phone rang. Lee’s name flashed on the screen. I answered it.
“Got him?”
“Yes and his phone, and laptop, and yes, we found video of the murders,” Lee replied. Someone yelled in the background. I heard Sam’s voice, then more yelling.
“Everything all right?”
“Funnily enough the perp didn’t want to come with us.”
I laughed.
“We got enough to hold them both and charge them?”
“Yes,” Lee replied. “We’re golden.”
“We’re taking a rest day,” I said watching Conway as I spoke to Lee. “See you tomorrow.”
“She all right?”
“Tired, in a bit of pain, she’ll be fine.”
I hung up and motioned for Conway to join me.
“Let’s go find a hotel. New day tomorrow. I need you on deck for a Delta B training session.”
She smiled and for once didn’t argue.
THE END
MEET CAT CONNOR
Thriller writer. Mum of 7. Traveler. Coffee addict. Loves greyhounds. Tequila aficionado. Irresistible, infectious, addictive. Believes music is essential.
Cat writes The Byte Series, published by Rebel ePublishers. Her short stories have appeared in many anthologies and collections such as The Girl at the End of the World, Tales of the Nun and Dragon, Tales of the Fox and Fae published by Fox Spirit Books. She’s also published a few short story collections herself.
Cat’s 6th Byte novel, DATABYTE, was long listed for the 2015 Ngaio Marsh Best Crime Novel award.
She’s a co-Director of Writers Plot Readers Read (independent bookshop): Dedicated to giving Kiwi authors somewhere to showcase their work while also raising their profile within NZ.
Follow Cat on Twitter @catconnor
or use @cat.connor to search for her on Facebook.
Cat’s website: www.catconnor.com
Publisher: http://rebelepublishers.com/
Writers Plot Readers Read Book Store: bookshop: www.writersplotreadersread.nz
All in a Day’s Work
by
HELEN HANSON
Arriving for a morning meeting with his Moroccan contact, Amir Yasin parked his motorcycle three blocks away from the Casablanca medina and walked toward the Marrakech gate. The clock tower indicated that he was twenty minutes early, which gave him time to surveil the area for enemies. Points of human contact were the most dangerous part of his work. Amir preferred to learn the name of a target anonymously and be left to his own devices, such as a sniper rifle, garrote, or a stiletto. Even his bare hands, if that was what it took to get the job done.
Casablanca’s Old Medina wore the architecture of all who’d walked its narrow streets—the French, the Moors, the Portuguese—with little of it remaining in good repair. Amir kept to the side streets, not wanting to venture near the main souk. But even here, street vendors sold their wares from carts. One man
sold lamb’s feet from a stringer. A haggard old woman offered bolts of silk. Two young men peddled olives in a rainbow of colors. While everywhere, the stench of fish clung to the air like a vapor.
As he walked the streets, he wore mirrored sunglasses, which avoided the chance of direct eye contact. Even the voluptuous woman ladling grains into paper bags would not slow his stride. Another day, absolutely. But he kept those two sides of his life in different compartments out of necessity. Engagements with women were unpredictable under the best of circumstances. In his line of work, there were few he fully trusted.
Karima.
A soft, fleshy woman scented with jasmine and juniper awaited him that night in Rabat. He certainly trusted her with his body. Once he finished the day’s work, he planned to spend his remaining time in her bed. Educated in Europe, her charms were not entirely Middle Eastern, which suited them both. But her sentiments were entirely Moroccan, and he didn’t dare arrive empty-handed. Depending on the needs of his contact, Amir hoped to reach the souk in Rabat before the day faded to find a gift for Karima. It was a miniscule price to pay. An hour with Karima revived his most weakened spirit. Anything longer than twenty-four hours might kill him.
She was a married woman, but he preferred married women. They needed him less, and it made leaving them so much easier. Whatever her arrangement with her husband, she was able to meet Amir routinely, and they never discussed the matter when they were together. Maybe the husband knew. Maybe he didn’t. Either way, Amir’s time with her was intoxicating.
Without wearing a woolen djellaba that typified Moroccan dress, in this part of the world, Amir still mingled amid the locals like a lamb in a field of cotton. Few would see him as an outsider even if he had need to converse. But Amir did not plan to speak with anyone if he could avoid it. Merchants were more concerned about extracting dirhams from the passersby than with conversation. While not as popular as Marrakesh or Rabat for tourists, Casablanca still attracted sojourners to the coastal town, and vendors concentrated their efforts on those willing to part with their cash.
Amir checked the time on his phone. His meeting was to be held several streets away from his present location. He walked in a spiral toward the site, watching for faces that might cause him concern. When he was confident his contact brought no one else to the meeting, Amir located the address he’d memorized for the occasion.
The three-story building was typical for this area, a dirty white plaster affair with wrought iron bars on the windows, thick arched doors, and mosaic tiles inlaid during better days. Overhead, small balconies jutted toward the apartments on either side of the street. Amir found the stairwell and climbed to the second floor.
On the landing, two boys played with marbles. Amir stepped around them and walked to the third door on the right. He rapped twice.
The door opened far enough for Amir to see one large eye. It was brown and protruded from the socket. The eye was several inches below his own. “Who knocks at my door?”
It was the greeting Amir expected to hear. He answered with the planned response, “Your cousin from Taza.”
He’d met Nizar Sekkat on other occasions. While the address always changed, the routine never did.
The door opened to reveal a short, pudgy men with stringy black hair that he swept to one side. Some fat men were comical, but Sekkat had a serious demeanor and dangerous friends that Amir decided to respect. Plus the man would pay him 20,000 dirham for a day’s work. That alone earned Amir’s respect. He stepped inside, and Sekkat closed the door behind them.
“I have a bill for you to collect.” The round men wasted no time before conducting business.
He walked through the small kitchen and into the living room. There was a large envelope on a low table, and he handed it to Amir. “The man is named Mourad Boulami.”
Amir removed two photos from the envelope. Mourad Boulami was shown in a close-up shot and in his booth at the souk, a tall, lanky man who apparently sold leather and woven goods to tourists. Amir studied the man’s face and doubted he would appear so relaxed when they met in person. Amir memorized the address written on one of the photos.
“Is there anything I should know about him?” He handed the photo back to Sekkat.
“He owes my client 100,000 dirham. If he can pay you what he owes me, then only break his legs. If he cannot, well, use your imagination.”
Nizar Sekkat worked for shadowy figures in the Moroccan underworld who hired him to enforce their version of the law. Amir hated this kind of work. Killing a man was one thing, but maiming him was foolish, unnecessary, wasteful. It was time for Amir to find more agreeable jobs, and his fee today would carry him until he secured such work.
Sekkat pulled a smaller envelope from his back pocket and handed it to Amir. Payment. Always upfront. Always in full. Amir understood the consequences if he failed Sekkat.
Amir didn’t count the money in the envelope but simply tucked it into his own back pocket. “If he pays, I will contact you the usual way.” The email account they used for this purpose contained only email drafts until they were read by the other party, and then they were deleted.
“I don’t expect him to pay. After he is dead, my client will collect what he owes from the relatives.”
Amir nodded. “My regrets, but I will not be around to help you after today.”
“A pity.” Sekkat didn’t ask where he was going, and Amir wouldn’t have told him if he had.
Last week, the Americans approached Amir, but with a client tied to a government, it was wise to choose alliances carefully. Crossing certain lines was dangerous even if Amir’s loyalties were negotiable. But when he finished this job for the Moroccan, Amir would be able to take on the new business.
The promise of US dollars wasn’t in itself a draw, nor was working to further their political goals. His own politics were non-existent. Preserving his skin was all that mattered, and no one in any government had ever shared his view. As for religion, it was part of his educational history and bore no relevance to his daily life. His only continuing interests were to keep his bank account from running low and his sheets from growing cold. For now, Uncle Sam was by far the highest bidder, and for tonight, he had Karima. After that, Amir was free to wrap himself in the star-spangled flag of his choice.
Sekkat clutched Amir’s hands and said, “Then may your journey be peaceful.”
With their business concluded, Amir walked to the door and left Sekkat alone in his rooms.
Back in the street, he headed for Mourad Boulami’s stall.
There might be better times of the day to execute this kind of contract, but Amir was anxious to get on the road to Rabat, where a luscious Karima awaited him. He brought her chocolates from Europe the last night they were together, but all of his foreign supplies were depleted. As he walked through the marketplace, he considered what he might choose for her at the souk in Rabat. Figs, but around here they were plentiful. She didn’t like it when he brought her things she could get herself. This was to be his last gift, and for a rare woman like Karima, he needed something equally unique. He hoped to be inspired before he found her door.
The leather goods dealer was easy to find, hovering over a pair of tourists who looked as if they might be Dutch or German. Too thin to be American. The female of the pair was interested in an embossed leather bag that quite possibly originated in China. Not all souvenirs were created equal.
Positioning himself in Mourad Boulami’s blind spot, Amir watched the leather stall and steered clear of aggressive vendors or anyone who might pay him notice. Even if he were studied by someone, there were few details that could be offered to the police. Before the morning light, Amir and his motorcycle would be in Tangier to take the ferry across the Strait of Gibraltar to Spain. He could certainly get a better gift for Karima in Tarifa, but his trip was one-way.
After ten minutes of careful observation, he knew that Boulami worked by himself. It was a small booth. If he had to leave for any reason, he
probably relied on a nearby merchant or closed the shop.
Amir wondered why Boulami had borrowed the money. The inventory seemed insufficient to justify such a price. Did he lose it at the greyhound track on a sorry dog that broke his heart? While Amir often speculated, he didn’t really want to know the truth.
When Boulami’s last shopper straggled out, Amir decided to approach.
Boulami smiled eagerly as he saw a potential customer. “Good, sir. Can I interest you in shoes made from the softest lambskin?”
Amir ignored his words and walked towards the back of the booth. The man followed without realizing he was on the way to be slaughtered. Amir had come to expect it.
“I am here to collect on your debt. 100,000 dirham. Do you have it?”
Boulami’s expression didn’t change immediately. It took him a moment to realize that Amir didn’t want to buy shoes. This was a day of reckoning. Color seeped from Boulami’s face. Only then did he begin to shake, sweat bursting from his forehead as if under an equatorial sun.
“I—I will have it. Next week I will have it. I promise.”
Amir knew the drill. People in this position will say anything to delay the inevitable. It was only natural. He patted the man’s arm and smiled. “That is good. Next week is good.”
Boulami’s eyes widened, his shoulders drooping to the point where Amir thought he might faint.
“I will come back next week. Same day. I will see you then?”
“Yes.” Boulami seemed to test the word as if it were too delicate to say aloud. “Yes.” He smiled. “Next week I will be here with the money.”
“Good.” Now that Amir knew the requirements of the job, he needed to assess—
“Please, take this.” Boulami shoved a leather belt at Amir. “With my compliments.”
It was a fine leather belt with a square buckle and geometric designs. Amir took it. “Many thanks.” He bowed slightly.
While not the custom, the leather dealer wanted to please and bowed even deeper as Amir expected.
The Thrill List Page 18