by Ty Patterson
‘They had one. Apartment 402, the one above Angie’s. They cloned it, easy enough to do. Those swipe machines aren’t very sophisticated.’
‘Why didn’t they get to her at the apartment before? Why now?’
That made Beth pause and scrunch her face as she considered the question. ‘The building has more security. A concierge in the lobby, cameras everywhere. Her apartment requires a thumbprint in addition to key entry. It’s higher risk to grab her where she lives … maybe they’re getting desperate,’ she said slowly. ‘This one’s just two days after the last attempt.’
They turned it over in their heads, the comfortable silence in the office broken only by the faint sounds of traffic from outside. A cruiser wailed as it raced past their building, its sound receding as it sped away.
‘Those dudes from Times Square.’ Meghan went to the ceiling-to-floor windows and watched, the street below a narrow ribbon winding from her right to her left. ‘Did the cops check their prints with Interpol or other agencies?’
‘Nope.’
‘Let’s do that. You updated Chang on Quincy?’
‘Yeah,’ Beth sniggered. ‘He promised he would give Konstantin a hard time. Quincy, too.’
‘Let’s go talk to Carlos.’
Carlos lived in Brooklyn, in Park Slope, in a three-bedroom apartment, but he wasn’t home. He was in an auto repair shop on Sackett Street, where he rented space for his car collection.
‘I’ve got two now,’ he said proudly when he met them at the entrance. He led them past cars in various stages of repair, nodding at mechanics, and took them through a door into a large room, empty but for a flaming-red ’67 Shelby GT500 and a ’69 Camaro.
‘I know two isn’t much,’ he said with a laugh, ‘but I started just last year. Visited several auctions across the country before I came across these beauties.’
The sisters wandered around the vehicles, admiring the lines, noting their immaculate condition. Clearly, Carlos wasn’t just a buyer; he was an enthusiast.
‘You know why we’re here?’ Meghan asked him finally.
‘Yeah. Kerry gave me a heads-up. Why don’t we move to the office?’
They followed him back the way they had arrived, to a glass-fronted cabin that overlooked the repair area. Carlos seated himself behind the manager’s desk and, when Beth raised an eyebrow, shrugged deprecatingly. ‘I’m part owner here. The protection business, that won’t last forever.’
He reached into a drawer, drew out a thick file and turned it around for them. ‘Everything about me is in there. My life, my service history, financial records, everything. The cops have a similar copy. They’ve already cleared me.’
‘You don’t mind if we check you out for ourselves?’ Beth hefted the folder and riffled through the pages idly.
‘Be my guest. I heard about yesterday’s attempt. You took down six of them and weren’t even scratched. That’s some doing. I asked around … your firm has a great reputation, but you aren’t in the protection business, are you?’
‘Nope,’ Meghan grinned inwardly as he tried to fish for information. ‘Relax, we aren’t moving in on your turf. This gig, it’s only because we know the commissioner and he asked us.’
‘Not a problem.’ Carlos backed off. ‘Mr. Konstantin paid us well, we’ve no complaints.’
They questioned him about the previous attempts, but he didn’t have anything new to add. His story matched Kerry’s and Quincy’s.
While they were leaving, Beth kicked a loose pebble in disgust.
‘Surely you didn’t think it would be this easy? That these three would be involved?’ Meghan drawled as she drew her shades.
‘Nope, but it looks like we’re banging heads on walls,’ her sister replied morosely as she climbed into their vehicle.
Meghan adjusted the mirrors, nosed out of the narrow drive and joined Sackett Street. Across Brooklyn Bridge, and on FDR Drive, driving parallel to the river, cutting east to merge on 96th Street. Then she sat up, suddenly alert.
Beth noticed, straightened herself. ‘What’s up?’
‘We’ve got a tail.’
Chapter Fifteen
‘Silver Corolla,’ Meghan said. ‘One car behind. Has been following us since we left the repair shop.’
Beth didn’t make the rookie mistake of twisting her head to look back. Neither of them was a beginner at this, and in any case, such a move wasn’t required. The sisters had outfitted all their vehicles with sophisticated gear: armor plating on the body, weapons beneath the floorboards, secure wireless comms, cameras all over.
Beth leaned towards the touchscreen on the dash and fiddled with the controls. She brought up their rear view and zoomed in. Spotted the tail immediately.
‘Two men. Rear’s empty.’
‘Recognize them?’ Meghan asked, distracted, as she cut in front of a slow-moving coach.
‘Nope.’ The Toyota hung back for a moment, raced forward as soon as an opening presented itself, and settled on their tail.
‘Plate?’
‘Got it.’ Beth drew out her phone, which was hooked to Werner, and punched in the number. Werner responded in an instant.
‘Owned by Fairchild and Smith. A midtown law firm.’
‘Never heard of them.’
‘It isn’t large. Twenty partners. New York–based … hmmm.’
‘What?’
‘They represent criminals. Drug dealers. Cartels.’
‘They put that up on their website?’ Meghan exclaimed.
‘No, but Werner identified some of their cases.’
‘I don’t want to lead them back to our office.’
‘So?’
Meghan turned on her left flasher, stopping in front of a bank. She and Beth hopped out and headed to the entrance, both of them adjusting their shades.
Their Ray-Bans were counter-surveillance devices not available in any retail outlet. Each pair had tiny cameras in the stems that projected the rear view onto the lenses.
‘They’ve stopped,’ Beth said in her earpiece. ‘Right behind our ride.’
They entered the bank, made a show of going to the counter and talking to the teller, exited and, midway to their ride, broke away and sprinted to the Corolla.
Meghan grabbed the rear door, slid in, and jammed her Glock in the driver’s neck. A move so smooth and so fast that the driver, a white male with close-cropped hair, had no time to react.
‘Talk, or die,’ she growled as Beth dived in next to her and gouged her weapon into the passenger’s side.
‘Hey!’ the driver shouted, ‘You can’t do this!’
‘We just did. Who are you, and why are you following us?’
‘Let’s cap them,’ Beth suggested. ‘They’re amateurs. They won’t know anything. They won’t be missed. We can save our questions for the partners at Fairchild and Smith.’
‘Good idea,’ Meghan agreed, noticing the way the driver stiffened at the mention of the law firm. ‘You got a spare set of clothes? It’ll get messy here.’
‘Yeah. In our ride. I’ve got towels in my pocket to wipe our prints.’
The passenger choked off a moan when Beth jammed her barrel in his side. ‘Stop that,’ she said, annoyed. ‘You had your chance to tell us who you are. You lost it.’
‘You aren’t going to kill us,’ the driver said confidently, trying to look back at them. His head rocked forward when Meghan slashed at his temple.
‘We aren’t?’ Beth asked her sister.
Meghan mulled it over, aware that the passenger had held his breath. ‘He’s right,’ she said regretfully, biting a grin when the breath whooshed out of the scared man.
‘However,’ her voice picked up, ‘we’ll do something worse.’
‘What’s that?’ Beth played along.
‘You got ties with you?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Secure his hands.’
She reached forward with one hand and fastened the driver’s hands to the wheel, ending any resistance by savagely jabbin
g him with her Glock.
‘Here’s what we’ll do,’ she announced when both men were secured. ‘We’ll tape their mouths shut. Write a note that these men were overpowered by two women. Take photos and videos and upload the whole lot to the Internet. Oh, and we’ll also send them to their employer.’
‘I’ll bet we’ll get millions of views.’
‘No one will employ them again. They’ll be the laughingstock of the world,’ Meghan agreed.
‘Douglas Fairchild,’ the passenger blurted.
‘Hank —’ the driver whispered harshly.
‘Ignore him, Hank,’ Meghan said warmly. ‘Look what partnering with him got you.’
‘Fairchild,’ the broken man whimpered when Beth prodded at him in warning. ‘He frequently hires us to follow people. He gave us your details —’
‘How long have you been following us? Meghan asked.
‘From the moment you left your office today.’
Her face darkened, her barrel pressing hard in the driver’s neck. I’m getting sloppy. I should have spotted them earlier.
‘You broke into our office?’ menace in her voice.
‘No, no,’ Hank whimpered. ‘He asked us to follow you and report back where you had been. Nothing more.’
‘Just who are you jokers?’ Beth asked.
‘Private investigators. Our firm’s in Brooklyn, but the law firm gives us most of our business. My license is in my wallet.’
‘Lift up,’ the younger sister ordered, extracting his wallet when Hank raised his butt.
She opened it with her left hand and removed his driver’s license. Hank Ketchum. The state license was made out to the same name.
‘Who are you?’ Meghan questioned the driver.
‘Chad Kowalski,’ he ground out.
She reached into Chad’s rear pocket and checked his details. He wasn’t lying. She nodded at her sister as she stuffed Kowalski’s wallet into her pocket.
‘You know who we are. You can tell the cops what happened.’
She got out, slamming the door on Kowalski’s curses.
‘We go to the law firm?’ Beth joined her on the sidewalk.
‘Yeah. Mr. Douglas Fairchild has questions to answer.’
Chapter Sixteen
Fairchild and Smith were on the tenth floor of a highrise on Park Avenue in Murray Hill. It had a private elevator that the sisters managed to get into by following a delivery man. Its reception area conveyed understated luxe. Framed watercolors and oil paintings graced the walls, each illuminated by its own light. Originals, I’ll bet, Meghan noted. The carpet on that wall … looks Tibetan.
‘Can I help you?’ a perfectly coiffured woman greeted them from behind a desk. A discreetly mounted earpiece flashed intermittently. Bluetooth. No old-fashioned telephone for this outfit.
‘We’re here to meet Douglas Fairchild,’ Meghan said.
‘The Third.’
‘Huh?’
‘Our managing partner’s Douglas Fairchild the Third,’ the receptionist explained. ‘I presume he’s the one you want to meet. He’s the only one with that name in our firm.’
‘Yeah.’ Imaginative name, she mouthed at Beth.
‘Do you have an appointment?’
‘No. Please tell him Meghan and Beth Petersen are here. I am sure he’ll see us.’
‘He doesn’t see anyone without an appointment.’
Meghan lost her patience. ‘Honey, tell your boss his goons didn’t succeed. That we are here. I’ll bet he’ll come out of his office galloping.’
Douglas Fairchild the Third didn’t gallop. He was statesmanly as he approached them. A man in his fifties, a thick head of black hair, slicked back, a pinstripe suit, blinding white shirt and a knotted silk tie. Everything about him said, trust me.
‘Meghan, Beth?’ he glanced at them.
‘I’m sure you know which one of us is who,’ Meghan told him bluntly.
He pursed his lips and gestured at them to follow him.
Fairchild had a corner office, a van Gogh hanging on one wall and a mahogany desk that looked like it weighed more than a battle tank.
‘I’m afraid there seems to be some misunderstanding,’ he began.
‘Save it,’ Meghan interrupted him. ‘We recorded the discussion we had with your heavies. We can play it for you if you wish.’
Fairchild didn’t move a muscle. He seated himself and pointed at two chairs. He deals with criminals. He must be used to aggressive clients.
‘Who hired you?’
‘I am not at liberty to tell you,’ the lawyer said, steepling his fingers. ‘My instructions were to have you followed. Nothing more. No contact was meant to take place.’
‘We made contact,’ Beth chortled. ‘Your men came out second-best. Are they the best you’ve got?’
Fairchild straightened a folder on his desk, one that needed no straightening. ‘If you came here to find out who my client is, you’ll be disappointed. I don’t think you know how law firms work. There’s something called client confidentiality.’
‘Gosh,’ Beth breathed, giving him a look of admiration. ‘That sounds so lawyerly and important. How would we know things like that? Did you, sis?’
‘Nope,’ Meghan replied and brought out her cell, making eye contact with Fairchild.
‘Last chance,’ she told him.
The lawyer didn’t break down and reveal.
She punched numbers and held the phone to her ear. ‘Mr. Konstantin, it’s me. We’re in Fairchild and Smith’s office, a law firm on Park Avenue. You’ve heard of them?’
The managing partner kept watching.
‘They’re small and represent criminals mostly. Cartels.’
Fairchild shifted uneasily, at that but didn’t say a word.
‘In your world, sir, I think it’s not uncommon for firms to be blacklisted.’
‘Yes, sir. If you could spread the word right away, that would be awesome. We wanted to know a particular client of his but he’s gone … yes, sir. Lawyers are like that. I want to ensure he gets no more clients. Thank you, sir.’
She hung up, and she and Beth rose without a word. They headed out and were nearing the door when Fairchild spoke up.
‘Was that Hiram Konstantin?’
‘Client confidentiality,’ Beth chuckled.
‘Wait!’ Fairchild looked flustered when he came around his desk. ‘It can’t come out that I said this.’
‘That won’t wash. Tell him we threatened you. Used physical force.’
‘Felix Hidalgo.’
‘Who’s he?’
‘A fence. One of the larger ones in the city.’
‘Drug dealer?’
‘No. I don’t deal with them,’ said the lawyer, straightening his tie righteously.
‘You represented a cartel.’
‘That was just the one time. Never again.’
‘Why did Hidalgo come to you?’
‘I didn’t ask and he didn’t tell. He pays a hefty retainer. There was nothing illegal in his request.’
‘He gave you our details?’
‘Yes. Photographs, address, who you were.’
‘Where can we find him?’
Fairchild hesitated for a moment, then caved in when Meghan started reaching for her phone.
‘In the evenings he’s usually at the Blue River, a bar in the Bronx. He owns it, plays cards with his men in a private room.’
‘We’ll play with him.’
Chapter Seventeen
‘I can’t stay here,’ Angie Konstantin sniffed, cupping a hand over her nose as she inspected the apartment.
Zeb had brought her to Woodhaven, Queens, to a terraced house they used occasionally. It had a fenced entrance, street parking, a small garden at the rear and an exit that opened into a park.
The furnishing was spartan. A couple of couches in the living room, a few books on a table, utilitarian kitchen and bedrooms.
‘It smells,’ she complained. ‘Why can’t we stay in a hote
l?’
He opened the bedroom windows a crack, letting outside air waft in. Checked the intrusion detection systems and security cameras. They worked.
‘Zeb!’ she stamped her feet. ‘I’m talking to you.’
‘Hotels aren’t safe,’ he replied, lowering the blinds at the front and peering through them. He made a note of the vehicles parked. Later, he would check who they belonged to. No one seemed to be paying any special attention to the house. No men loitering, no one sitting in a car. He would go out when it became dark and check it out for himself.
‘What do you mean, hotels aren’t safe?’ Angie yelled. ‘I stay in them all the time. They’ve got good security.’
‘Those men came for you in your parking lot. You think hotel security will detect them?’
‘We’ll be safer here?’ she snorted.
‘Yes. No one followed us. No one knows we are here.’
He had confiscated her phone — an event in itself — before leaving, removed its battery and tossed it in his backpack. He had taken a long, circuitous route to get to the house, breaking off into side streets without signaling, doubling back frequently. He was confident they’d had no tails.
Hiram Konstantin was under explicit instructions not to make contact, not that he knew Zeb’s cell anyway. Zeb would update their status on a website each day, which was the only notification the billionaire would get. He had protested, but Zeb had been unmoved.
‘How long will she be away?’
‘As long as it takes,’ he had replied. ‘Of course, you can call it off any day. Take her back, arrange your own security, release us.’
He was hoping Konstantin would do just that. Angie will be trouble. The billionaire had been resigned; he had hugged his daughter and watched them depart.
‘There’s no TV!’ Angie wailed from behind.
Zeb sighed. He had close-protected many in his career. He had a feeling the heiress would turn out to be the most difficult. I hope Beth and Meg crack this quickly.
The Blue River was an in-demand establishment, judging by the line outside its doors. It was evening, Westchester Avenue was thick with slow-moving traffic. The bar was at a corner where the avenue merged with a smaller street.