by Jasmin Quinn
He glanced around. The sun painted the room a light shade of yellow through a southern-facing tinted wall of glass. It lit up the large oak desk that commanded the room, the comfortable leather couch and three matching chairs, the masculine bookshelves and bar. It was all expensive and tasteful but antiquated, contrasting with the modern lines of the building, the airiness, the glass wall. Michael shrugged. He wasn’t here to critique the décor.
He started with the most obvious, sliding into a comfortable office chair behind Scott’s desk. He rifled through the desk drawers. They were all locked but that was a small inconvenience. He doubted the green notebook would be in the desk, but one never knew. Scott conducted much of his business electronically. But he was careful. Hard to find an electronic trail on him even though Michael’s technician had tried. Still, Scott would have several passwords. And with passwords came the need to remember the passwords. Which meant unless he was using an app to help him, they would be written down somewhere. And Michael was banking on the fact that Scott would not trust a third party electronic program to keep his passwords safe.
He rifled through each of the drawers, locking them behind him as he went. He almost missed the false bottom in the top right-hand drawer of the desk. It was imperceptible except for a thin half-inch groove on the left side of the bottom. He emptied the desk and used a pearl handled letter opener to pry up the bottom. Below was a single sheet of paper. Michael grinned as he reached for it. Passwords. Very neat and orderly. It was not like him to get overexcited while he was working, but his heart hammered in his chest. He’d hit the motherload. Scott was careful though. Each of the passwords was different and complicated. Not names. And no indication of what accounts each password unlocked. But there were also several short passwords. From 4 – 6 digits. Letters mixed with numbers.
Michael placed the sheet on Scott’s desk and took a couple of photos of it with his cell phone. Then he slid it back into the drawer, replaced the false bottom and the contents of the drawer exactly as he’d found them. The rest of the drawers yielded nothing of interest and he was through them all in less than five minutes. He sat back in the office chair, rocking slightly, enjoying the cool leather, the plushness on his back as he regarded the office. The safe would be in here, he thought. And access to the safe would be one of the short passwords. He stood up and walked the perimeter of the room, scanning from floor to ceiling, for odd patterns or flaws, looking behind dreadful landscape paintings as he walked. The room itself yielded nothing. He shifted the pieces of furniture to check under them and he rifled through the bookshelves and cabinets, wistfully wishing he could pour himself a shot of Scott’s single malt Balvenie Portwood Scotch. But he couldn’t risk Scott accusing Emmaline of raiding his liquor cabinet.
The room yielded nothing else. Fuck! There was one other door besides the entrance door, opposite the desk and he approached it. Locked of course, a pointless barrier that Michael quickly punched through. He stepped into a bathroom. Somewhat utilitarian. But it had everything a man would need – a toilet, a sink, a large shower. A scan of the medicine cabinet and vanity produced the usual toiletries. A shaving kit, soaps, shampoos, toilet paper, a few cleaners. He wondered who cleaned this bathroom, these offices. Was it Emmaline? He doubted that. Maybe the housekeeper Scott used for his home. He’d had Alana a long time. Paid her well, trusted her without reserve. She practically raised Scott’s kids after Gina… he veered away from the thought. No need to get maudlin.
The bathroom held no secrets. He opened a second door, unlocked, opposite the entrance door, and stepped into an apartment. Not large, but impressive enough. It looked like an expensive hotel suite. The only way in and out was through the bathroom. A single room with a queen bed, a chest of drawers for clothing, a small kitchen with all the necessary appliances, a living room with a loveseat and a couple of chairs. A small desk with another computer and a scattering of the same bad artwork on the walls. The drapes were drawn, but behind them was another south facing glass wall. And there was a small closet with bifold doors to the left of the bed. Michael opened this closet first. It held several expensive suits and pairs of shoes. A set of golf clubs. And as pushed the suits to the side, a safe on the back wall. Michael exhaled.
The safe was digital, a numbered lock that needed a password. He pulled out his phone and used his fingers to enlarge the photo he took earlier, scrolling until he found the 4- to 6-digit passwords. He tried the 4-digit ones first. There were two of them. Nothing. The three 6-digit ones also didn’t gain him access. He scowled at the safe, opened his contact list and scrolled until he found his tech’s name.
A young male voice answered on the first ring. “Hello, Mr. Black.”
“Hello, Tyler. I am going to send you a series of numbers and letters. I want to know if there’s a pattern to them. If they’re coded, break the code.”
“No problem. How many?”
“Five for now – some are 4-digit and some are 6-digit.”
Michael could hear the frown in Tyler’s voice. “That’s not much to pull from. Is there anything personal that might be attached to the digits?”
Michael considered Tyler’s question. He trusted the kid implicitly. Had worked with him for four years and during that time, Tyler’s skills had been above reproach. “Try names, birthdates of Randall Scott, Gina, Kelsie, Owen Scott. You’ll have to look up the birthdates. I don’t know them.”
“Good, that’s good,” Tyler replied. “How long?”
“Tyler, imagine there’s bomb with a timer around your neck. It’s set to go off five minutes from the second this call ends. It will blow your head off your body if you don’t find the code before your time is up.”
Silence stretched from the line, then Tyler said, “I’m on it, Mr. Black. I’ll call you in five.”
Tyler called Michael in three. “I’ve got it, Mr. Black. Not difficult.”
“Excellent. Text the passwords to me.”
Michael started to hang up when Tyler said, “Mr. Black?”
“Yes, Tyler.”
“Was that a death threat? Were you really going to kill me if I couldn’t solve the code in five minutes?
Michael lingered in his response, then, “What would you do about it, Tyler? If it was a death threat?”
Silence for a few seconds. “Nothing, Mr. Black. I just wanted to know where I stood with you.”
Michael stared at the safe, spine stiff, shoulder’s tense. “It wasn’t a death threat, Tyler.” Then he hung up.
Chapter Twenty-Two
The safe was empty. Nothing. Michael’s temper flared momentarily. A fucking waste of time. Okay, not a complete waste. He had Scott’s passwords. He’d send them to Tyler to analyze, figure out what accounts they were for. And the 4- and 6-digit passcodes, he’d text to Isabelle. One of the 6-digit codes opened the safe, maybe one of the 4-digit codes would disarm the alarm.
He did a diligent but vain search of the rest of the suite and the meeting rooms as well as the lobby area. He didn’t expect to find anything. He looked at his watch as he slipped out the door. He’d been there 45 minutes. Not bad, but he could have shaved 15 minutes off. And would have, if not for Isabelle. He wanted to be thorough, he wanted to find that fucking book in Scott’s office. He so badly did not want Isabelle walking into Scott’s house alone.
He stopped at a small diner and ordered a ham sandwich and a coffee. No, he didn’t want cheese or lettuce or tomatoes on it, no he didn’t want fucking salad or fries. No, he didn’t want it toasted. He just wanted the fucking sandwich so he could feed his hunger and think. But he said nothing, just smiled politely, said yes or no as needed, then sighed as the waitress walked away.
He gazed around the café. He saw concrete walls painted bright green, colourful garish wall hangings meant to be hip, bright red chairs and yellow laminate-topped tables. It was like the diner ate a spinach and tomato frittata and then vomited all over itself. The lunch crowd was thinning, a few hangers-on, a raucous group o
f four at a table by the window. But they were worker-bees. They’d leave soon. He hoped so or he might shoot them. There was only the single entrance and he was facing it, but also seated so he could keep an eye on the swinging doors leading to the back. Washrooms down a hall. Two front staff. One cook that he could see. Nothing changed since he walked in. No one else walked in. No one seemed the least bit interested in him.
The server returned with his coffee and he smiled his thanks. The tension ebbed from his shoulders a little bit and he sat back in his seat. He took a swallow of the coffee, grimaced and set it down with a bang. A bit of the swill splashed over the sides of the cup and onto the table. Fuck, it was the worst coffee he’d ever tasted. And that was saying a lot given the shit Anto brewed this morning.
The waiter hurried over with a cloth and wiped the spill. Michael waited without a word. On any other day, he would have insisted on a fresh cup from a fresh pot. But today was not any other day.
The sandwich arrived as the group of four laughed their way out the door. Blessed silence settled across the diner. Michael looked down at his sandwich. It had a nice amount of shaved ham embedded between two slices of fresh thick-sliced whole grain bread. It would have been perfect, except for the fucking sprouts. He couldn’t remember if she asked if he wanted sprouts, he didn’t remember saying yes. He scooped them out of the sandwich pushing them into a little pile on the tabletop. He didn’t care about the mess he was making. He just wanted a fucking ham sandwich.
He bit into the sandwich, tasting the godawful sprouts. They somehow leaked onto the ham. He almost threw it across the diner. No one would notice if the ham stuck to one of the wall hangings. They would assume it was part of décor. Despite his pissiness, he ate a full half almost at once. As it hit his stomach, he realized he was famished. He took a couple of bites of the second half, then put it on the plate, wiping his hands on the small paper napkin he’d been allocated. He pushed the plate to the side and pulled out two cell phones. One was his regular phone, the other was the burner cell – the mate to the one he gave Isabelle.
He flipped open the text that Tyler had sent him. He wanted to send the passwords to Isabelle, so she could consider them, decide how useful they would be. He couldn’t go back to the hotel yet to discuss them with her. He had other things to do this afternoon, like arrange for ID and a passport for Isabelle, tickets out of Vancouver, to Paris. It would take time, but he knew a guy who owed him a favour. His friend would get them what they needed. And Michael would have it in hand before the end of the day.
He texted a hello to Isabelle. Irritation pricked him as he waited for her reply. He drummed his fingers on the table, tapped his foot. Where the hell was she? He texted her again. Still nothing. Fuck. Should he be worried? He picked up his sandwich, took another bite. Wiped his fingers and his mouth on the useless napkin, then balled it up and threw it on top of the remains of the sandwich. He’d eat when he got back to the motel.
The waiter came by with the coffee pot in hand, then looked at the sprouts in dismay. Michael followed her gaze. “No sprouts,” he growled. She picked up his plate and huffed off, leaving him and the sprouts to battle it out.
He looked down at the burner cell; still nothing from Isabelle. His forehead creased. He tapped another message, telling her he had some codes for her. And waited. Nothing. Not good. He picked up his other cell and called Anto. It rang and rang. No fucking voicemail and no answer. What the fuck was going on? Did they kill each other? Anto wouldn’t be that stupid, but he may have pushed Isabelle far enough that she gutted him.
He contemplated the phones. He couldn’t go back to the motel. If he did that, he wouldn’t be able to get the passport and tickets. And he wanted Isabelle out of the country as soon as the job was done. He was leaving nothing to fate on this one. The stakes were far too high.
He decided to risk it. He texted the codes to Isabelle. All of them, telling her which code he’d used in Scott’s office. A 6-digit one. Then he told her he’d be back by 7pm. Not to kill Anto. He missed her. His fingers hovered over the keyboard. He wanted to add that he loved her, but the words got stuck. He’d said them to women in past, to get what he needed. But the words were never sincere. With Isabelle, he couldn’t say them falsely and he didn’t quite trust himself to believe in his love for her. It was too foreign. And it was tearing him up.
He waited for a few more minutes, staring at the phone, willing her to text back. Nothing but a blank screen stared back at him. He let out the breath he’d been holding and put the phones away. He dropped a $20 onto the table and stood up. As he strode away from the diner, he imagined it exploding behind him. What a service to the city that would be.
✽ ✽ ✽
Michael walked into the hotel room and looked around. Empty, then he heard a toilet flush. He turned to the bathroom hoping to see Isabelle and was sorely disappointed as Anto lumbered through the door, shirtless, with the button of his pants opened and his fly unzipped. His knuckles had cloth wrapped around them, he had the beginning of a black eye and his hard stomach appeared bruised.
“Where the fuck have you been? I’ve been calling all afternoon!”
Anto furrowed his brow. “I had a boxing match this afternoon.”
“Where’s Isabelle?” Dread invaded Michael’s bones.
“Don’t you want to know if I won?” Anto grinned baring his teeth.
“Anto! Where the fuck is Isabelle?” Michael was in Anto’s space now, looking up at the monster, his hands fisted, his nostrils flaring.
Anto shrugged carelessly, but his eyes were dark and dangerous. “I don’t know Michael. She left with you, remember? To mail her divorce papers. Then I left. As I said, I had a match.”
“Why the fuck didn’t you wait until she got back? Why the fuck did you leave?” Michael was so close to Anto, almost nose to nose. He would have throttled him in that moment if he knew he had half a chance of beating Anto.
Anto seemed to read his thoughts. He brought his meaty hands up to Michael’s chest and gave him a hard shove, knocking him backwards a few feet. To Michael’s credit he managed to maintain his footing. And Anto’s aggressiveness helped clear his head. Anto kept his distance as he said, “Why the fuck did you leave, Michael? Why the fuck didn’t you take her with you?”
They were at an impasse. Michael knew Anto was not wrong. He ran a hand through his hair as he walked a few steps to the door and then back. “What if they picked her up?”
“Who?”
“I don’t know! Creed or Savisin.”
“If they wanted her, they wouldn’t have let her leave in the first place. Have you thought maybe she chose to leave?”
Michael spun toward Anto. “What did you say to her, Anto? What did you do to make her leave?”
Anto cocked his head to one side and crossed his massive arms over his chest, darkly regarding Michael. “You need to stop talking, Michael Black. Now! We are brothers. I do not fuck with your life, as futile as it may be. And you do not fuck with mine. I had nothing to do with your woman’s departure.”
Michael ran his hand over his face. He’d poked the bear. Anto was pissed. He couldn’t take him in hand-to-hand combat. His only choice would be to shoot him. And that would probably just make him madder. He dropped his hand. “I’m sorry, Anto. Brother. I’m worried sick about Isabelle.”
Anto sat down heavily, reaching for a bottle of vodka on the table, draining the remains into a glass. He took a sip. “Why don’t you have a drink, Michael. Settle yourself. Then we can think.”
Michael shook his head, then changed his mind, grabbed a second bottle of vodka off the night table and took a seat at the table. He unscrewed the cap, poured two fingers into a glass and then set the bottle solidly back on the table. He took a long swallow. “Where is she, Anto? Where would she go?”
“Maybe she decided to personally deliver the divorce papers to Creed.”
Michael shook his head as he took another swallow. He fucking hated vodka, he th
ought as the alcohol burned its way to his stomach. “She’s not just afraid of Creed. She’s terrified of him.”
Anto shrugged, reaching for the fresh bottle and topping up his glass. “Maybe it was an act after all. Maybe she was conning you.”
“Bullshit!” Michael almost shouted. “That’s just bullshit!”
“Yeah, I think so too. But we have to consider all the possibilities.”
Michael jerked his head. Anto was right. “Maybe she decided to ditch us so she could get the job done without us breathing down her neck.”
Anto shook his head. “Her kit’s still here.”
“Fuck!” Michael couldn’t stay seated. He stood, vodka in hand and walked the length of the room.
“Have you called her?”
“I texted her several times.”
“Jesus, maybe she didn’t see the texts. Call her, you ass.”
Michael mulled Anto’s directive over in his head. Why the fuck hadn’t he called her? Not supposed to – it was their protocol. No calls unless they were in trouble. But Anto was right. He pulled out the burner cell. “Go for a walk, Anto.”
Anto drained his glass, picked up the shirt he’d discarded on the bed and drew it on as he left the room. The fucking thing was covered in blood.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Isabelle was seated on the floor, her back against the couch, going through the kit Jack provided for her. Its contents covered the top of the coffee table. She was alone for the moment. Jack had left an hour ago, for dinner she thought. He offered to bring her back food, but she’d said no. She needed lightness and a clear head to be stealthy and fast. It was her routine and she could feel the adrenaline start to course through her. She loved being a thief. It was a rush. And the rewards were fine jewelry, exquisite works of art, and all the precious baubles she treasured. It filled a void for her. She had nothing for so long, and then as she honed her craft, it was in concert with men who exploited her talent, confiscated the fruits of her labour, and sold it. But for the last three years, she worked alone and everything she took belonged to her.