Charlie shot a glance behind her, to the closed office door. If anyone came in and saw her spying on the boss’s private phone call, even being a new hire wouldn’t be enough to save the contract . . . or her job, for that matter.
“I wasn’t with her,” Sean hissed. “If I had been, I’d be buried right next to her. What, you think I didn’t look? I spent the better part of a decade before I realized I was throwing good money after bad. Why can’t you figure that out? You’re digging for a treasure that doesn’t exist.”
Charlie held her breath as the conversation—Sean’s end of it, anyway—went silent. She braced herself and got ready to move the second she heard his footsteps on the ceramic bathroom tile.
“Do what you want,” Sean sighed. “I don’t have it. Killing me won’t change that. And stop calling me. You’re wasting your time.”
That sounded like a coda. Charlie tiptoed back across the office and dropped down onto the thin carpet. She snatched up her screwdriver and the chair bracket she’d been working on just as the bathroom door swung wide.
Sean looked like he’d aged five years since his phone had rung. He shoved it into his pocket, hands visibly shaking, and drummed his fingers on his desk. He didn’t look at her. “I, uh . . . thanks for the help. With the chair. I . . . need to prepare for a presentation, if you don’t mind?”
He showed her the door with a flick of his heavy eyes. Charlie saw herself out.
Sean’s administrative assistant, a prim and quiet woman named Allison, sat at a curved desk just outside his office. Charlie had spoken to her only briefly, helping Dom to coordinate details when they’d first arrived. On an impulse, she drifted over to the desk and waited to catch the woman’s eye.
“Hi,” Charlie said. “Just wanted to make sure we stay in the loop. Once word comes back on the inventory audit, can you make sure either myself or Dominica Da Costa gets a copy of the results?”
Allison peered at her like she’d asked for a unicycle. “Inventory . . . audit? I’m sorry, what audit is this?”
Charlie nodded to Sean’s closed office door. “The mining explosives. Seeing if anything’s gone missing from the company stocks.”
“First I’ve heard of it.”
An ugly suspicion swelled in the back of Charlie’s mind. All the same, maybe Sean had gone through back channels to get the job done. Sean didn’t want anyone, including his employees, to know about last night’s attempted murder.
“Is there anyone else Mr. Ellis might have called about it, without getting you involved?” she asked.
Allison shook her head and let out a tired chuckle.
“Mr. Ellis,” she said, “doesn’t even have a company phone directory. Trust me, I’m his eyes, ears, hands, and feet. If I don’t know about an audit, there isn’t one.”
SEVENTEEN
“So he knows,” Dom said. She and Charlie were parked in a back booth at a greasy spoon down the street, with plastic baskets of steak fries and cheeseburgers on greasy, soggy buns. A fresh-cut onion crunched between Charlie’s teeth, slathered with mustard the same garish yellow as the vinyl seats.
“He knows,” Charlie said.
She’d recounted the whole story: what she’d heard on Sean’s side of the phone call, and how he’d lied to her about taking an inventory of the company stocks.
“No reason not to audit the explosives.”
“Unless,” Charlie said, “he knows exactly who’s trying to kill him, and he knows they don’t work for Deep Country.”
“It sounded like they wanted something from him?”
Charlie poked her straw deeper into her cardboard cup, stirring ice in a tiny pond of black cherry Polar soda.
“Treasure, he called it. And he said he didn’t have it.”
“You believe him?” Dom asked.
Charlie thought about it. She sipped her soda and breathed deep, the air thick with the aroma of grilled meat patties and salt.
“I don’t think Sean Ellis is a very good liar,” Charlie said. “When he gets flustered—and he flusters easy—he changes subjects, he deflects, anything to squirm out of a corner. So yeah, going with my gut here, but I believe him. Whatever these people want, he can’t give it to them.”
“Meaning they’re going to keep coming until they figure it out. If they figure it out. And Ellis would rather get himself blown straight to hell, and us right along with him, than help us solve the problem.” Dom slumped back in her booth, rolling her gaze to the ceiling. “We need to get out of this contract.”
“That’s what Beckett said.”
“He’s rarely wrong. Okay, we’re just about done here for today anyway. I’m going to take all of this, bundle it up in a nice report, and drop it on Jake’s desk. I’ll compare notes with Beckett, and we’ll tag team him if we have to.”
“Hold off,” Charlie said.
Dom paused in midbite, dangling a steak fry between her teeth. “Mm?”
Charlie wasn’t even sure why she’d said it. It was an impulse. A compulsive need to unravel this mystery and find the truth. If they walked away now, she’d never know the real story.
No. That wasn’t true. She knew exactly how this would go down. Sean Ellis would be murdered. If they were very lucky, it’d only be him. If not, any number of innocent bystanders would go right along with him. The cops would investigate. They’d find the killers. The killers would talk. Charlie would learn the whole story on the nightly news, just like everybody else in America. All she had to do, if she wanted to get the facts, was walk away and wait for the inevitable.
Maybe it was the collateral damage. The idea of innocents dying because she walked away was hard to stomach. That was a nice, safe motivation. Made her the good guy. Nothing wrong with that, right?
At the core of it all, though, one word reeled Charlie in like a fish chasing a golden lure.
Treasure.
Whether he had it or not, the people stalking Sean Ellis believed that there was a treasure out there, waiting to be claimed. A treasure with enough trouble attached that Sean wouldn’t—couldn’t—get the police involved.
Maybe she was chasing phantoms, but all Charlie could see was her father’s hourglass running down. Chasing phantoms was better than sitting on her hands and doing nothing.
“I might have a lead,” she told Dom. “I’ll check it out tonight.”
“Wasting your time. We’ll have a new assignment come tomorrow anyway.”
Charlie rubbed a paper napkin across her greasy fingertips. “Just . . . give me one night, okay?”
Dom sipped her soda. She stared at Charlie over the rim of her cardboard cup.
“What are you doing, Charlie?”
“Told you. I’ve got one last lead. Just seems right to look into it.”
“No,” Dom said. “What are you really doing?”
She wasn’t sure how to answer that. Dom didn’t offer to elaborate. The question hung between them, suspended like a dangling sword, as they finished their cheeseburgers.
Pushing through the swinging door of the Crab Walk, the carnival smell of cheap beer and salted peanuts felt like a warm welcome home. Van Halen was rocking out on the jukebox, and Dutch was behind the bar, serving up the brew. He gave Charlie a nod as she took a stool on the far end. Eventually he got out from under the rush of customers and made his way over, sliding her a freshly opened bottle before she could ask for one. The bottle was clammy and warm against her palm, but the ale, some local blend flavored with a hint of roasted chestnuts, went down smoother than imported champagne.
“Needed that,” she said. “Cheers.”
“Long day at the office?”
“What do you hear?”
Dutch set a fresh lime on the rubber mat behind the bar and chopped into it, restocking the garnishes of his trade.
“Heard you impressed Beckett,” he said. “Nobody impresses Beckett.”
“What do you know about him?”
“Same as everybody. Nothing. Jake trusts hi
m with his life, though, and I trust Jake.” Dutch held up his thin-bladed knife and squinted as he ran his thumb across the blade. “Not one damn sharp knife in this entire bar.”
“Pretty sure you have to sharpen them yourself, now and then.”
“Reckon so. Problem with being your own boss: you’ve got nobody else to blame when things go pear shaped.”
“Blaming other people’s never been your style,” she said.
“Mm-hmm. Isn’t Jake’s style either. Or his sister’s.”
“You heard about the bomb?”
“Heard somebody played the hero.” Dutch pulled a pint from the tap for a barfly two stools down, tilting the water-spotted mug to cut down on the foamy head.
“I did my job,” Charlie told him.
He gave her a noncommittal grunt and swept a couple of crumpled bills from the bar.
“So how much trouble are Jake and Sofia in, anyway?” she asked.
Dutch’s left eyebrow rose almost imperceptibly. “Who said anything about trouble?”
“You did. There’s some blame on the table, not about the bomb, and neither one of them is the kind of boss who passes the buck.”
“Cash flow problems,” Dutch told her. “The most basic kind there is. More money going out than coming in.”
Charlie nodded and sipped her beer. Exactly what she’d suspected, but it was good to know for sure. Just like overseas, intel was the coin of the realm. Sometimes it was the only coin that bought anything worth having.
“That’s why Jake isn’t telling Sean Ellis and his mining buddies to go jump in a hole,” she said. “He needs this contract, to keep the company solvent, doesn’t he?”
“Until he lines up something better. Drums up a client or two who aren’t on a mad bomber’s hit list.”
“I can’t help with that,” Charlie said.
“So what can you help with?”
She made a sound like a chuckle. Then she leaned back and took a long pull from the bottle. The ale swirled in her tummy and left a faint tingle in her brain, not enough to dull her wits, just enough to make her a little cocky.
“I don’t know, Dutch. Do I have any experience hunting for mad bombers?”
He snorted. “Don’t go buying trouble. Already starting to regret putting you onto this gig.”
“Nothing to regret, unless this guy takes another shot at Ellis and I get caught in the blast. Best way to prevent that is to get proactive. Go on the attack.”
“You didn’t come here to shoot the shit tonight,” Dutch told her. “You’re playing bloodhound.”
“Remember the night I came home, when we talked about your connections? You’ve still got a few. You said as much.”
“No bombers on my Rolodex,” he said. “I know a couple of people who trade money for blood, but they’re more into silenced twenty-twos and such. Nobody pays for collateral damage.”
Charlie finished her bottle. She set it down on the bar, the glass rattling under the music as the first chords of Rush’s “Tom Sawyer” blared on the jukebox behind her. Dutch reached under the bar and gave her bottle a twin brother.
“Every hitter,” she said, “no matter how they do the hitting, gets their tools from somewhere. I’ve got an M112 demo block in my bedroom closet. I find out where it came from, maybe I find my man before he can hurt anybody. We got lucky last night. I don’t think we’ll get lucky twice.”
“Mining company. Sounds like an inside job to me.”
Charlie shook her head. “Ruled it out. Ellis knows exactly who’s trying to kill him; the reasons, whatever they are, have nothing to do with those thirty dead miners in Kentucky, and the explosives audit he supposedly ordered is a sham. The block didn’t come from Deep Country’s arsenal. So if I was a bomber hunting for a bomb with no paper trail and no questions asked, where would I go?”
“Hold on a sec,” Dutch said.
He worked the bar, slinging bottles and refilling mugs, pausing midway down to mix an inky-dark drink in a highball glass. Charlie watched him work. Nobody had been clamoring for his attention while they talked; he was just buying time. She sipped from her second bottle of ale, slowing down now. She couldn’t get sloppy tonight.
“Could find a legal demolition company with loose morals,” he finally said as he made his way back. “Bribe a foreman to sell you a block under the table.”
“Except every demo block is tracked and tagged,” Charlie said. “Hell of a risk. Sell to the wrong person, next thing you know the ATF is hammering your door down, and you’re up on charges as an accessory to terrorism. And everybody with access knows that. Stealing it outright is a better bet, lots easier than finding somebody willing to take that risk. That’s what I’d do.”
“Maybe so,” he said. He followed her road map as if he didn’t already have a destination in mind.
“Any civilian firm trusted with handling C-4, generally speaking, keeps that stuff locked down tighter than Fort Knox. Between the legal liability, insurance premiums, and the threat of getting your license pulled for a minor screwup, they don’t play around. So that’s no heist for amateurs.”
“Sounds to me,” Dutch said, “like you’re stepping beyond the lines of the hypothetical at this point.”
“I did some homework. McCullen Construction was a Boston firm specializing in demolitions. They got hit last winter. Cleaned out, and while the papers were light on specifics, reading between the lines tells me a certain quantity of C-4 went AWOL. Now, we haven’t had any big booms since, so I’m betting the thieves didn’t steal it for personal use; they wanted to sell it.”
“You said every block is tagged. ATF could tell you if your block came from the McCullen heist.”
“Sure,” Charlie said. “And not only would they confiscate it, I’d have to tell them where I got it. I betray Sean Ellis’s request not to talk to the cops, he yanks the protection contract in retaliation, and Jake and Sofia get screwed. Not looking to play it that way, so that’s off the table.”
“I’m hearing a question.”
“Sure you are,” Charlie said.
“I’m an old guy; my hearing ain’t what it used to be.” Dutch dug a finger in one ear and twisted it around, scratching an itch. “Maybe ask it straight, so I’m sure it’s what you really want.”
Charlie set her bottle down. Her fingertips rested on the sticky laminate wood of the bar as she looked him in the eye.
“The explosives from the McCullen heist hit the black market. Somebody is selling it off, piecemeal, and there’s a very good chance my demo block is from that stolen batch. The black market isn’t that big, and these guys all know each other, or they know somebody who knows. All I need is an intro to one established, reliable contact who sells firepower under the table. I can take it from there.”
He stared at her for a long, hard moment. Taking her measure without a word. She held his gaze, not blinking once.
“Market’s small, but it’s not a kiddie pool,” he told her. “Ain’t the kind of crowd you run with, Charlie. You don’t know the lay of that land.”
“I didn’t know the lay of the land in Afghanistan either. I’m a quick study. Walked into some hairy places over there and walked out again just fine. Besides, I even speak the language here.”
Dutch curled his lip. He shook his head, turning his back on her, and ambled to the back of the bar. He came back with a scrap of paper in his fist and scribbled down an address with no name attached.
“Don’t be too sure,” he said. “Every culture has its own language. Its own way of doing things. But I imagine those same skills you picked up . . . they might just help you out here too.”
He slid the paper across to her. Charlie took a furtive glance, folded it in half, and made it disappear.
“You want to talk to a man calls himself Saint,” Dutch said. “He ain’t one, so don’t go getting your hopes up. Don’t drop my name if you don’t have to. Not sure how much credit it still carries. And Charlie?”
She w
as already off the stool, running shoes touching down on the sticky wooden floorboards. “Yeah?” she asked.
“You’re walking into a war zone,” he told her. “Act like it.”
EIGHTEEN
War zones were no place for a lone wolf. Even snipers worked in two-soldier teams. Charlie took Dutch’s warning to heart; she went home, lingering in the driveway, watching the television’s light flicker behind tugged-down dusty blinds, and made a phone call.
Half an hour later, a dull-gunmetal car glided down the hill, headlights the color of yellowed bone. It rolled to a rumbling stop in the gravel driveway. The headlights died. Up close, Charlie got a better look: it was a nineties-era Buick Skylark, a family sedan with amber-tinted windows, spotted with freckles of rust but still clinging to life. A big car for a big man. The door swung open, and Beckett, still wearing his black suit and tie, stepped out to meet her.
“Dark waters, Little Duck.”
“I can swim,” she told him. “That’s what ducks do, right?”
“That, and get shot by hunters.”
“You came anyway.”
“Sure,” he said. He didn’t care to elaborate.
Charlie nodded at his car. “Didn’t see you in a ride like this.”
An eyebrow lifted. “Oh? What did you think I’d drive?”
Charlie studied him, taking him in, his smooth scalp and sculpted goatee, his broad shoulders under his tailored suit. Not one out-of-place hair or a wrinkle.
“Something stylish. Maybe something fast. Classic Detroit steel, or a modern SUV. A big one, with a big engine.”
Beckett’s chuckle was a rumbling tiger purr. He walked around to the driver’s side, leaned in, and popped the hood. He lifted it up and waved her close. She stepped up to stand beside him. Her eyes went wide. “Beckett . . . what am I looking at?”
He beamed with contented pride.
“That, Little Duck, is an eight-point-four liter, five hundred and thirteen cubic inch V10 engine.” He gestured to the black foam lining the hood and engine compartment, keeping the massive engine and coil of parts snug as a rifle in a gun case. “Damping mats and marine-grade insulation to hide the rumble. Had to widen and deepen the entire engine compartment to make it work . . . but we made it work.”
The Loot (Charlie McCabe Thriller) Page 11