by Rob Ashman
He released Lucas from his bear hug and gripped his shoulders with both hands.
‘Can you do that for me?’
Lucas nodded his head.
‘It will be my pleasure, Mr Bassano.’
The fight was on.
9
Lucas was finishing breakfast in the kitchen when he heard the familiar sound of alloy wheels striking concrete. It was 9am. and Lucas always knew when Harper had come to visit. Harper had swung his car around in the road and clattered into the kerb. It happened every time.
Lucas had got back late from the funeral and was waiting for his third cup of coffee of the morning to blow away his muzzy head. Harper had left him an excited message on his answer machine, something about the information Moran had turned up and what they had to do today. At least that’s what Lucas thought he said, it was difficult to tell as Harper was both excited and drunk. At least arriving home late last night had brought with it one advantage. Lucas didn’t have a hangover.
Harper waited in the car and Lucas dumped his weary frame into the passenger seat. ‘How was it?’ he asked.
‘It was shit.’
‘How were his folks?’
‘They were shit.’
‘You okay?’
‘I feel like shit.’
‘Shit all round then, eh?’ Harper said, impressed by his friend’s descriptive powers.
They set off, heading for town. Neither one felt like talking until Lucas broke the silence.
‘His father offered me money to kill Mechanic.’
‘Did you tell him we’re gonna do it for free?’
‘No, but I told him it would be my pleasure.’
That broke the verbal dam. Harper babbled on about the information provided by Moran. He talked about Jessica Hudson and how that had proved a dead end. He talked about Nassra Shamon and how Moran believed this was Mechanic using a fake ID. He talked about the money transfers from Shamon’s bank account and banged on about Helix Holdings.
‘Where are we going?’ Lucas interrupted Harper’s flow.
‘To the public records office.’
American companies are registered at state level and must provide four principal officers. Typically, these are a president, a vice president, a secretary and a treasurer, although one person can fill multiple roles. Helix Holdings just happened to be registered in Florida, so Harper had told Moran he would take the information and see what he could dig up. Moran was relieved he was leaving her out of it but she feared that would not last long.
They arrived at the imposing stone-fronted public building and went inside. It was like a vast library with company records held on five floors, each with its own silent study area and a set of IBM computers. Harper strolled up to reception and spoke to the woman behind the desk.
‘We’d like to trace a company which is registered here in Florida.’
‘Certainly, sir, all records are stored alphabetically starting with A at the top left of the building.’
‘The company is Helix Holdings.’
‘That’s on the fourth floor. Come out of the elevator and turn right.’
‘Thank you.’
The coffee had finally kicked in and Lucas felt quietly positive. Harper was on a high, behaving like a crazed bloodhound.
Turning right out of the elevator they were confronted by an enormous room stacked to the ceiling with row upon row of files and bound documents. A young man with glasses approached them as they stared at the lines of shelving disappearing into the distance.
‘Anything out of reach, guys, you only have to holler and I’ll get it down for you.’ He breezed past into the opposite hall.
‘Cheeky little shit,’ Harper said.
‘He’s just being helpful.’
‘He’s just being a cheeky little shit, that’s what he’s being.’
‘Come on, old man.’ Lucas went inside.
It was truly needle-in-an-alphabetical-haystack time. They split up, each one looking for ‘H’– if only it was that easy. After forty minutes Lucas strode over to Harper, who was halfway up a ladder busy proving a point to the cheeky shit in the glasses.
‘I have good news and bad news.’
He was holding a fat buff-coloured file in one hand and a thick book in the other.
‘Fantastic.’ Harper climbed down and they both headed for the soft-seated area. ‘So what’s the good news?’
‘I found it,’ Lucas said handing Harper the overflowing file. ‘Helix Holdings, the president is a man named John Stringer.’
‘That’s great. We can feed that to Moran and find out where he lives.’ Harper hesitated, ‘You said there was bad news.’
‘Look at the paperwork.’
Harper flicked through the sheaf of official-looking documents and read out some names.
‘Cut Above?’
‘That’s a hairdressing business,’ Lucas said.
‘Crazy Catering?’
‘As the name suggests, it’s a catering business.’
‘Fender Benders?’
‘A panel beating and car repair business.’
‘What the hell are these?’
‘They are all companies.’
‘But we want Helix Holdings not a sandwich maker and a garage.’
‘That’s right, we do. The bad news is they are all Helix Holdings.’
‘I don’t get it.’
‘Neither did I, so I asked the cheeky little shit and he gave me this.’ Lucas held up the book. ‘Helix Holdings is a damn shell company, or holding company, or parent company, or whatever the hell it’s called. There are so many definitions in this book I don’t know which one fits.’ He tossed it to Harper who struggled to catch it. ‘What I do know is, it’s not a single entity, whatever they choose to call it.’
‘You mean all these businesses are part of Helix Holdings?’
‘Yup.’
‘What does that mean to us?’
‘It means, my friend,’ Lucas leaned forward, ‘when Mechanic pays money to Helix Holdings it’s anyone’s guess where it ends up.’
‘But doesn’t it go to this John Stringer character?’
‘Not necessarily. Each company has its own governance and its own board, it could be any of them.’
‘What, any one of these?’ Harper fanned through the pages and raised his eyebrows.
‘I think so.’
‘Shit, man, there’s a ton of businesses named in here.’
‘Yes, it’s a lot, but significantly less than when we started.’
Searching through the complex structure of Helix Holdings was like playing a game of Russian dolls. Every time they located a company, that too owned a company, which owned another, and another, and so it went on. They worked through the morning and into the afternoon, forgetting about lunch. By 4pm they had identified twenty-three separate companies along with the names of sixty-six people who were involved in one role or another.
Lucas tried to structure their findings by mapping out a company tree showing how the businesses linked together. But even that got confusing. By the end he had six pieces of paper taped together, with what looked like a child’s badly done homework scribbled on it.
‘Are we done, I’m starving,’ he said.
‘I guess so, I’ve come to the end of the line and you stopped a while ago to draw a map of the subway, so I figure we are. Copy those names into your sheet, I need to make a call.’ Harper handed Lucas more paper.
Lucas set to work listing the owners and their associated companies.
Harper stood in one of the soundproof phone booths in the lobby.
‘Detective Moran, please.’
‘Moran speaking.’
‘We have the names of people associated with Helix Holdings. It’s not an exhaustive list, but a start.’
‘Okay.’ Moran was in an office full of people.
‘Give me a fax number and I’ll send it over. I want you to run each name and see what comes up.’
�
��Give me your phone number and I’ll call you back,’ she said in a light and airy manner.
Harper read off the number and hung up. Two minutes later it rang.
‘I did what you asked, now fuck off.’
Moran was obviously in a place where she could speak more freely.
‘You did, and now you need to do more.’
‘Go to hell.’
‘Don’t be a hero, I have you over a barrel and we both know it. Now stop pissing around and give me the fax number.’
The line went quiet for a minute and then Moran returned. She gave him the number and hung up without waiting for a response.
By the time Harper got back, Lucas had completed the list. Harper had the number written on his hand.
‘Just gonna send this off to Moran,’ he said scooping the papers from the desk.
‘Isn’t it great that she’s on board?’
‘Yup, sure is.’
Harper walked off in search of a fax machine.
10
Mechanic watched the first rays of the sun wash a burnt orange glow across the walls of her apartment. She was sitting hunched in the corner with her knees tucked under her chin, her arms hugged around her ankles pulling them in tight. She’d been like this all night.
The attack had taken her by surprise. There had been no warnings, no feelings of uneasiness, nothing. As the night hours ticked by, her head raced, searching for the trigger which had brought it on. The only thing which made sense was moving back to San Diego. Maybe it was a step too far. Instead of exorcising the demons that blighted her, it had brought them back to life.
Mechanic had managed to doze a little but spent the rest of the night wide awake, listening for noises inside her head. Thankfully none came. The skewer was still in the sink, a physical reminder, if she needed it, that it was not a dream.
She was shattered and scared.
Scared that she would once again descend into a world where she had little control of her actions, driven instead by the insane desire to sacrifice lives to satisfy Daddy: the vicious merry-go-round of planning and killing, only to have to plan and kill again. The prospect had frozen her to the spot.
She watched the shadows shift across the floor as the sun rose higher in the sky. The daylight felt better. She got to her feet and stretched out the cramps in her legs, not sure what to do next. Carrying on as normal was her only option, she could hardly keep herself huddled in a corner forever.
The phone rang.
‘Hello.’
‘We got another one.’
It was Jameson.
‘Okay, usual pick-up?’
‘Yup, I sent it yesterday. Get back to me as soon as you can, these guys want to move fast.’
‘I’ll collect first thing this morning.’
After a pause Jameson said, ‘Have you given any thought to when we might meet?’
‘Have you lined up a few days’ emergency leave?’
‘It’s all in place, I can push the button whenever you say.’
‘Then push it.’ She hung up.
Mechanic poured herself a glass of cranberry juice and went to the bedroom to get changed. She had to clear her head of last night’s troubles. And the thought of beating the crap out of Jameson while getting herself fucked to a standstill was just the type of normality she needed.
Ten minutes later Mechanic left her apartment and ran across the road towards Horton Plaza. She decided the longer route along Market Street and First Avenue would be good, a distance of a little over a mile.
She arrived at the post office, clicked her watch and leaned against the wall to catch her breath. Her legs and face were red, she was radiating heat and her hands shook. She had pushed the pace hard and did it in well under six minutes. Mechanic sucked in air and linked her fingers together at the back of her head. The exertion had certainly blown away the cobwebs of an awful night.
She allowed herself time to cool down, joined the queue inside and waited her turn.
‘Box 508, please,’ she said to the woman behind the counter and handed over a key. An anonymous PO box made an ideal drop location. Paid for on a monthly basis in cash, it was perfect. A couple of minutes later Mechanic pushed the fat envelope under her vest and ran home.
Back at the apartment, she dumped it on the table and headed for the shower, feeling considerably better. She had to carry on as normal. What the hell else was she going to do?
Mechanic sat with her breakfast of hot, sweet coffee and mixed fruit. She tore open the envelope and retrieved the papers inside, spreading them on the table.
The briefing packs were always concise, containing details of the target, an itinerary of recent movements, and the most important thing, when and where the hit was to go down. This always took the form of a photocopy of a diary entry, which made it look like a meeting. The time and place was merely a suggestion from Jameson. Mechanic trusted his operational judgement and when Jameson provided an initial view it made for good planning. But if she didn’t like it, or could see a better alternative, then it was always up for discussion.
The one thing not in the pack was the fee, a sensible omission should it ever fall into the wrong hands. This was agreed over the phone along with the finer details, such as method of entry, extraction, specialist kit and logistics support.
This hit was a walk-by kill, a riskier scenario than a sniper shot. Mechanic got a buzz out of getting up close when murder had a personal motive, but in contract killings she preferred to be at a distance. This job was all about making the right approach, executing cleanly and exiting fast. Controlling the environment would be fraught with uncertainty – however meticulous the planning, it had to be supplemented with a slice of good luck.
Elaine Cooper was a regular night shopper who bought her groceries from a 24-hour store in a suburb of San Francisco when everyone else was tucked up in bed. Maybe she was a shift worker, or an insomniac, or preferred to shop with no lines at the checkout. Mechanic liked to play a game and try to fathom what people did from the briefing information. Perhaps she had an embarrassing deformity or was having an affair with the guy at the store. The possibilities bounced around in Mechanic’s head. Either way it didn’t matter, Elaine Cooper had managed to upset someone enough to want her dead.
11
Moran’s day was going to hell in a handcart. She was freaked out by Harper’s call and was still trying to maintain her resolute position of not getting involved. But the situation was hopeless and Harper was not a man to be taken lightly. He was right, she was well and truly screwed. If he carried out his threat to send the CCTV pictures to her boss she was finished.
She had the list of names from Harper and was considering the best time to run them through the system without arousing suspicion when Mills stuck his head around the door and shouted, ‘Full meeting, drop what you’re doing.’
Shit, what now, Moran thought. She picked up a pad of paper and followed the procession into the conference room.
Her case investigating the fatal shooting of the police officer was running out of steam and her time was being prioritised into other areas, which suited her fine. The less focus there was on it, the less chance she’d be forced to declare something she didn’t want to. There was a strong whiff of the case becoming old news.
Mills stood at the head of the table with a large image projected onto the wall behind him. It showed a freeze-frame of the man opening the back door of a car as Ramirez toppled out.
‘Jerome Wilson.’ He tapped the wall with a long stick. ‘We brought him in for questioning on the suspicion of killing Ramirez Sanchez.’ He moved the point of the stick to indicate the guy falling to the sidewalk. ‘Not surprisingly he kept his mouth shut, as did the driver of the vehicle, a local hood by the name of Samuel Torte.’ He tapped the stick against the grainy outline of the man in the driver’s seat. ‘Both men said they had borrowed the car from a friend, which checks out, though for friend substitute the words “a member of the same drug g
ang”, and …’ Mills paused and turned to the people crowded around the table, ‘they both insisted Ramirez already had his throat ripped open when they got back to the car.’
‘Surprise, surprise,’ said one of the older guys.
Moran looked at her pad avoiding eye contact with Mills. She knew what was coming next.
Mills continued, ‘Annoyingly, the forensics report on the car supports this. It says the amount of blood found on the seats and floor was consistent with the victim bleeding out for at least a minute and a half. The time between the suspects getting into the car and Ramirez ending up on the sidewalk was twenty seconds. It also says the blade entered the left side of Ramirez’s neck and was slashed forward, severing his jugular and trachea. He died almost immediately. It would be difficult for Wilson or Torte to make that move from the front seat. The most likely scenario is the cut was made from outside the car through the window.’ Mills pushed the button on a remote control and the image changed.
The hairs on the back of Moran’s neck stood on end and her chest tightened. Projected on the wall was the image of Nassra Shamon.
‘This woman can be seen approaching the car.’ Mills clicked the button and a montage of screen grabs appeared. He tapped the stick on each one in turn. ‘Here is Ramirez peering out of the back passenger window, here the woman leaning into the vehicle, and here she’s walking away. The next we see Ramirez, he’s spilling claret all over the sidewalk.’
Mills indexed the slide show forward. ‘So, ladies and gentlemen, does anyone know this woman?’ Moran stared at the three-foot-high picture of Nassra Shamon. There was nowhere to hide.
‘Sir, she looks like the woman who rented the place where the police officer was shot dead. It’s not a great match but she looks similar.’ She had no choice but to call it out.
‘Do you have a current mug shot?’
‘Not current, it’s the one lifted from her driving licence.’