by Peter Parkin
"Just stopped to make a phone call. Don't like using my cell when I'm driving."
"Well...okay then, Mike. Be seeing you, eh?"
Mike could tell that Howard was very anxious to leave. "What's with the hat, Howard? You trying to be a dude, or what? You never wear a hat." Mike said, chuckling
"Sometimes I do wear one—depends how I feel." Howard quickly hopped into his front seat, giving Mike a backhanded wave. He pulled out from the curb and headed south at a rapid clip.
Mike got back into his car, and raised the binoculars to his eyes once again. He was wide awake now, and puzzled even more than before. He knew that Gerry's influence and memories were doing cartwheels in his brain, and he was determined to listen to them. They were trying to tell him something. At least now he wasn't in an unconscious state when Gerry returned to take over. He was aware now, always a bit tired, but aware. He could still be himself and be somewhat in control.
But the feeling about that house was overpowering, and seeing Howard Dixon enter and exit after half an hour did not sit right. A man of Howard's stature did not return envelopes to sleazy areas of town. The post office could do that, or he had people who would do that. And it wouldn't have taken thirty minutes to drop off an envelope. Something was going on in that house. Mike knew there was a reason he was here, why Gerry's memory wanted him to be here. And there was most certainly a reason Howard Dixon had been here, and it sure as hell wasn't to return an envelope.
*****
At around 8:00 p.m. Mike noticed the front door of the house opening, and a man walking out. He raised his binoculars and focused—then almost dropped them in shock. David Samson, in the flesh, was standing on the front walkway, looking around, stretching his arms out as if he were trying to work out some kinks. Sampson took out a cigarette and lit it. Mike got the urge and did the same while watching, unable to take his eyes off the monster.
It became apparent that Samson was waiting for someone. He paced back and forth on his walkway, puffing on his cigarette. Right at the moment when a black Suburban turned onto the street, Samson quickly dropped his cigarette and stubbed it out. The Suburban stopped in front of the house. A man got out from the front passenger seat and walked up the pathway to greet him.
Mike had the binoculars trained on the visitor. His mouth went instantly dry as he realized who he was—the tall Clint Eastwood character from the gym, whose face was engrained in his memory for the rest of his life. The man who had shot a partier right next to Cindy. The man who had ordered the decapitation of his friend. The man whose face had been plastered in video footage over the mass media for the last few weeks, who had killed hundreds in the subway carnage and then several more on camera as he made his escape. This was the terrorist that investigators from all over the world wanted to apprehend. And at this very moment, that terrorist was hugging David Samson, and kissing him on both cheeks. The deference to Samson was obvious—Samson was his boss. These were the men who had brazenly killed hundreds of innocents, and they were now framed in Mike's binocular lens kissing each other.
He now knew why Gerry's memory had brought him to this place in time. Mike watched as they jumped into the Suburban, which pulled out and headed down the street. Mike started his car and followed at a safe distance. The SUV hung a right at the corner and continued down to Bloor Street. It turned left and after a block or two it pulled over to the curb and stopped. Mike pulled in two cars back in a 'No Parking" zone and waited. After about five minutes, the passenger door opened and Samson stepped out, ran across the street and into the lobby of a luxury condominium building. The SUV pulled out and headed east down Bloor Street.
Mike waited in his car for about fifteen minutes until he was satisfied that Samson wasn't coming back out again. He deduced that this was where Samson lived, and that the rooming house was where he conducted his sordid business. Mike wrote down the address of the condo, then put his car in gear.
He knew he would have to come back, but he also knew that he needed some help. Troy had no idea to what extent he would be asked to stretch to earn his exorbitant salary. Tomorrow Mike would tell him.
Chapter 40
"You want to do what?" Troy was massaging his temples with his fingers, as if this conversation with his friend was giving him a headache.
"I want to break into that rooming house. It'll be a quick in and out, no big deal. I just need you to be my lookout."
"Mike, we'd be breaking the law—again. We'll be in enough trouble as it is if it ever comes out that we covered up embezzlement. This sort of thing will just make us common street criminals."
Mike got up and perched himself on the edge of the desk, staring down at Troy. "Hey, how much worse can it get? The RCMP already suspects me of being a financier for terrorism, and that I was engaged in a life insurance scam with Colin Spence. What's a measly 'break and enter' charge compared to all that?"
Troy was still rubbing his forehead. "With this latest information connecting Samson with the subway terrorist, why not just go to the police now?"
"Do you really think they'd believe me, Troy? What proof do I have? It's only my word that I saw those sickos kissing each other. And how would I explain how I knew what house Samson was working out of? Do you think the police would buy my story that I have a dead friend's brain fused with mine, and that he guided me to the house?"
Troy lowered his eyes to the floor, and shook his head. "No, I guess not." "Of course they wouldn't. They would think I'm an even bigger danger to society than they already think I am." Mike held up his thumb and forefinger, and gestured. "I'm this far away from being locked up for the rest of my life."
Troy nodded his head slowly. "You're right. Okay, I've got your back. When do you want to do this?"
"How does tonight sound?"
"I can do that. Do you have a plan?"
"Sort of. I've got tools in my trunk. And we'll do it after dark. Samson left the house for his own apartment just after 8:00 last night. So, we'll leave here around 9:00?"
"And the objective?"
"Evidence. I want to find some evidence, anything, to tie him to these terrorist attacks at the school and subway, and hopefully to his extortion schemes against executives like Gerry, Colin, and Howard. Also, I'm pretty certain he had Gerry's family members killed to make him comply—how many more people were killed or hurt to make these other guys comply? And, geez, how many executives from how many other companies were being extorted? There could be a hell of a lot more than just these three guys. You know, we may not find anything at all that the police can use, but I feel so powerless right now, I have to do something, anything, to regain some control over my life. It's quickly spinning out of control and I can't seem to stop it."
Troy stood up and put his massive arm around Mike's shoulders. "We're gonna do this, Mikey. We'll find what we need. And when we do, the police will have no choice but to listen to you."
The two friends bumped fists in solidarity.
*****
It was 10:00 p.m. by the time they arrived in front of the house on Lowther Avenue. It was already dark, with no moon. The houses on the street showed no signs of life, with the exception of several homeless cats roaming from tree to tree looking for prey. Mike figured since most of these homes were rooming houses, its occupants were probably out on Yonge Street, panhandling, dealing drugs, or drinking cheap wine from paper bags. This was the perfect street and the perfect time for a break and enter.
He raised his binoculars and zoomed in on the side window on the east side of the house. The rear of the house did not seem easily accessible due to a high fence. Mike wanted a quick getaway and the side window seemed to offer the best chance of that. He could see that it was equipped with a set of old iron bars, but they were fastened to the outside of the window frame. It would be an easy matter to remove them with a couple of tools.
He put down his binoculars and glanced over at Troy. "Well, are we ready?" "Ready if you are. Hey, last chance to back out, Mikey.
I'm with you but geez, it's kind of eerie that we're gonna do this."
Mike nodded and laughed. "Hey, we didn't get dressed up in our commando outfits for nothing, you know." They were each dressed in black sweaters and pants, with black toques to round out the commando image. "The only thing missing is charcoal on our faces." They both chuckled nervously.
"Okay, you're the boss, Mike. As your underling I wouldn't agree to this, but as your friend I'm with you. What do you want me to do?"
"Come up with me to the window and help me remove those bars. Then I'll pry the window up—should be easy, looks like an old slider. Then, come here back to the car, pull it a little farther back down the street and keep watch. I should only be in there a few minutes...hopefully." Mike tested the flashlight, then reached back and grabbed his leather tool pouch from the back seat. "If anyone approaches the house, or if anything else looks threatening, phone my cell. I've got it on vibrate. I won't answer of course, I'll just get the hell out through the same window."
"Okay, gotcha buddy. Let's do this."
Exiting the car, they walked cautiously up the front pathway, and along to the side of the house where the one side window was. Mike handed Troy the flashlight and he flicked it on, aiming it up against the bars for him. Mike could see that they were held to the frame by only four large rusted screws. This should be easy. He pulled his Phillips screwdriver out of the pouch, and proceeded to remove each of the screws, then pulled hard on the bar structure. It groaned and came free after a couple of tugs. He set the frame down on the grass and examined the window frame. He had guessed right—an old slider. He pulled a flathead out of his pouch and jammed it in underneath the frame. Pounding down on the screwdriver's handle made the window rise about an inch. He slid his fingers under it and yanked. It slid up slowly, but surely.
Mike strapped the tool pouch around his waist, then took the flashlight out of Troy's hand. He whispered, "Okay, Troy. Move the car back and wait for me. Can't say how long I'll be, but just keep watch. I'm going to examine everything I can. We'll only get one shot at this."
Troy nodded and headed back to the car, while Mike yanked himself up by the windowsill, sliding himself through headfirst. He switched on the flashlight, and swung it in an arc around the room. He could see it was an office, with one desk and two guest chairs. There was a large closet behind the desk and he could see out the office doorway into a foyer, which the front door entered into. The office was spartan—nothing fancy: no computers, no phones, no papers. But it was all familiar. He remembered sitting in one of those guest chairs and staring around at this bare office. In another time.
He wandered out to the hallway and down to the back of the main floor past a staircase, which he assumed led up to the bedrooms. He passed a bathroom along the way and entered the kitchen. Again, spartan: old appliances, worn laminate counters. A door out to the garden. There was a small table with four chairs.
Mike decided to take a look upstairs before rifling the office. The flashlight lit the way as he maneuvered up the narrow stairwell. At the top there was a bathroom, and two bedrooms. The first one he entered had one king-size bed, a small dresser and a closet. He opened the closet—a few men's shirts and pants. He pulled open the drawers to the dresser: underwear, socks, and a rolled up prayer mat.
He made his way to the second bedroom and he was immediately struck by how luxurious it was in comparison to the other one. This was clearly a woman's room, queen-size bed with a designer quilt and matching throw pillows. The drapes matched the quilt and the pillows; the room seemed freshly painted. He opened the closet and was stunned to see the collection of clothing—mostly western style, but a few outfits that looked like traditional Middle Eastern garb. Very fancy, very stylish. About twelve pairs of shoes were lined up neatly on the floor.
Mike opened the dresser drawers to find a colorful collection of sexy lingerie and not much of anything else. He slid his fingers underneath the clothes to see if any papers or files were hidden. Nothing.
He made his way downstairs again, trying to form a picture in his mind about who lived upstairs. Was she Samson's wife or girlfriend? If so, why didn't she live with him in the Bloor Street apartment? Or was she a renter? Mike doubted that, due to the secrecy of the business that was probably conducted in this house. Was she one of Samson's team? That was more likely. What was her role in all of this?
Mike knew he had to be both careful and quick now. A woman clearly lived here—and he had mistakenly assumed that the house was just a front for extortion deals. She could be home at any minute.
Back in the front office, he pulled on the drawers of the desk. Locked. Mike yanked a screwdriver out of his pouch, and pried the first drawer open, hearing the lock snap with the force. At this point, he didn't care if Samson knew someone had been here—he was past that. He was getting desperate.
The first drawer held pencils, pens, a staple gun, and various pieces of paper with doodles and squiggles. He ignored the papers; looked like nothing more than the workings of an idle brain.
Mike pried the second drawer open—this one was completely empty. But the third and last drawer held something a little more interesting. There was one document with some attachments. A colorful brochure for the Gulfstream G650 Business Jet, and several official looking documents that Mike recognized in the dim light as a bill of sale, along with storage and maintenance agreements. He scanned the bill of sale with his flashlight and whistled under his breath. The sale price was shown at 51,000,000 dollars, and it looked as if the delivery date had been June 30th of this year. He flipped the page back and looked at the maintenance agreement with a firm called Skyspace Services based at Buttonville Airport in Markham, a city just north of Toronto. He saw that the jet was stored there permanently as well, in the Skyspace private hanger. Mike flipped back to the bill of sale; it showed the registered owner as Mayday Holdings. There were two signatures at the bottom of the page—one on the salesman's line that he couldn't make out, and another one on the purchaser's line that was signed in very neat, almost girlish handwriting—'David Samson.' Clearly, Samson was the principal of Mayday Holdings, probably one of many shell companies the man most likely owned just for money laundering. And he was the proud owner of a slick Gulfstream fifteen-passenger jet.
Mike took the documents over to a photocopier in the corner of the office and turned it on. He didn't want to take the documents, thinking it safer to just make copies. He didn't care if Samson knew someone was here, but he preferred that the man think this was just a normal burglary. And a burglar wouldn't bother to steal purchase documents for a jet.
While he was waiting for the machine to warm up, he looked around the office one more time. He opened up the closet door—it was a large walk-in type with virtually nothing inside. Except for a metal box about a foot square in size, sitting on a shelf. He pulled it down and opened the lid. A large pile of American dollars was inside. Mike fingered the bills and guessed at least five thousand dollars. He pocketed the bills and threw the metal box onto the floor of the closet, lid open. He figured that might convince Samson that this was just a simple burglary.
Mike walked back to the now warm photocopier and made copies of each of the documents, including the Gulfstream brochure. He put the originals back in the drawer, and folded the copies to join the thousands of Samson's dollars already in his pocket. Suddenly he felt his cell phone vibrating against his hip. Panic. He flicked off the flashlight, hoping the glare hadn't been seen from outside by whomever was approaching. He took two steps toward the window that he had entered through, but stopped dead in his tracks. A key was being inserted into the front door lock.
Mike instinctively stepped backward into the closet, closing it softly behind him. He took a swift peek through the door slats toward the window, sighing in relief at seeing that he had remembered to slide it closed behind him.
The front door opened and the lights came on, followed by the click-clack of high heels in the front hall. Mike peeke
d again through the slats and saw two shapely legs kicking each foot forward one at a time, sending a pair of stylish shoes flying down toward the kitchen. Then the rest of her appeared and Mike quietly caught his breath. Passing the office on her way to the kitchen was the most beautiful woman he had ever laid eyes on. Just a glimpse was all it took for the charisma of the Middle Eastern beauty to completely dazzle him. She had long, sleek black hair hanging down close to her shapely bottom and a green halter-top displaying a voluptuous bosom and shapely shoulders. Her exotic dark skin contrasted seductively with the green halter-top and a tight silver mini-skirt.
She danced down the hall out of view, humming an unidentifiable tune. Mike knew he had to make his move now while he had the chance.
He carefully opened the closet door—it made a squeak—he grimaced, stopped and listened. He could hear her humming in the kitchen. Mike walked on his tiptoes over to the window and slowly raised it up on its track. He was going to make it! He put one leg through the window and was just raising the other one when he felt a soft arm around his neck.
She squeezed hard causing him to choke, and yanked him backward through the air onto the top of the desk. Mike was stunned by the strength of the beautiful woman. She leaned over him, with her hands around his throat. Mike looked up into her hypnotic green eyes which were flaring with anger. She seethed at him. "I know who you are. You are Mr. Baxter. I recognize you from our photos." Her voice was soft, but threatening. She squeezed harder.
"What are you doing here, Mr. Baxter? Do you want to fuck me? All you pale men do." She pressed her thumbs into his Adam's apple, and Mike knew she was starting the process of strangulation.
He brought his fist up and slammed her in the temple. She released her grip just long enough for him to slide sideways off the desk, crashing to the floor. Mike realized that the old boxer feeling was not with him—it hadn't kicked in. Then it dawned on him that he was terrified. That particular skill of Gerry's only came to him when he was angry. Right now he was too scared to be angry.