Stephenson Nick

Eight the Hard Way

EIGHT THE HARD WAY

8 Thrilling Stories from 8 Masters of Suspense

By

Nick Stephenson

David Vandyke

Robert Swartwood

Ryan King

R.S. Guthrie

Kay Hadashi

Alan McDermott

Micheal Maxwell

Copyright © 2013 Nick Stephenson, David Vandyke, Robert Swartwood, Ryan King, R.S. Guthrie, Kay Hadashi, Alan McDermott, Micheal Maxwell.

Smashwords Edition

The right of Nick Stephenson, David Vandyke, Robert Swartwood, Ryan King, R.S. Guthrie, Kay Hadashi, Alan McDermott, Micheal Maxwell to be identified as the authors of the Work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

First published in Great Britain in 2013 by WJ Books Ltd.

All rights reserved. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or otherwise, without written permission from the author.

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WJ Books Ltd: www.wj-books.com

Foreword by Nick Stephenson—About this Book

The short story is back with a vengeance!

For me, as a reader as well as an author, there’s nothing quite like getting my hands on a collection of shorter works. The ability to dip in and out when the mood hits me (or whenever I find myself with a rare few minutes of spare time) while still getting to read a complete story is priceless. I can get through one or two while I’m waiting for a train, checking in at the airport, or just killing time. These collections are perfect for anyone with a busy schedule, as well as for readers looking for something new to get their teeth into.

Inside this anthology you’ll find a mix of classic mystery and suspense, full-blown action, and blood-curdling suspense. There are tales of vengeance and redemption, good versus evil, and more than a few laugh-out-loud moments. On the next page you’ll find a fully-hyperlinked Table of Contents, which gives you a brief synopsis and page count for each story—making it easy to choose what you want to read next. You’ll also find a short bio for each author, along with a web link where you can find out more. Easy!

I had an absolute blast putting this anthology together, and I’m honored to be featured alongside some of the best, most exciting new talents writing crime fiction today. So, without further ado, I’ll leave you to get stuck in.

You’ll be glad you did.

Nick Stephenson

Table Of Contents

Click each title to navigate straight to the story of your choice—page counts and descriptions are provided.

Paydown—by Nick Stephenson

When a high-flying Wall Street investment banker is found brutally killed, what started out as a simple fraud case turns into expert criminologist Leopold Blake’s first ever murder investigation.

As the glamor of Wall Street is stripped away by a series of catastrophic discoveries, Leopold will have to decide how much he is prepared to risk in order to uncover the truth - and whether it’s a price he’s willing to pay.

Story Length: 25,000 words, approx. 95 print pages.

Loose Ends—by David Vandyke

There’s not much left that can surprise private investigator California “Cal” Corwin any more, especially since the accident. But after a young girl is kidnapped and feared murdered, Cal is drawn into a deadly game of cat and mouse that will stretch her skills to the ultimate limit.

With danger at every turn and with more questions than answers, Corwin must scour the streets of San Francisco to track down the culprits before it’s too late—and the clock is ticking...

Story Length: 15,000 words, approx. 55 print pages.

Mr. Mockingbird Drive—by Robert Swartwood

Julio and Tyshawn are far from professional thieves, but they get by. After weeks spent researching the perfect mark, the boys are ready to strike—and the payout is going to be unbelievable...

Mr. Mockingbird Drive is a cleverly deceptive piece of flash fiction. The story first featured in Needle: A Magazine of Noir, Winter 2012.

Story Length: 2,000 words, approx. 8 print pages.

Ladies’ Weekend—by Ryan King

A trip to the Gulf Shores with her three sisters-in-law was not exactly Cathy’s idea of a good time. With a dark secret to protect, a weekend stuck with the meddling Biddle sisters might have been too much to bear—but, thankfully for Cathy, there’s nothing a little “medicine” can’t fix...

This delightfully twisted story was first published in 2012.

Story Length: 6,000 words, approx. 23 print pages.

Veritas: Concubine—by R.S. Guthrie

How far would you go to find the truth? Shale Veritas is not his real name, but that’s not important. What’s important is why he’s taken an interest in you—and what you’ve done to deserve it...

This dark, atmospheric tale of revenge, justice, and redemption is not for the faint-hearted. You have been warned.

Story Length: 8,300 words, approx. 32 print pages.

Divide and Conquer—by Kay Hadashi

Nobody ever told June Kato that babysitting could be such hard work... As a world-class neurosurgeon, June is used to dealing with high-pressure situations. But when a trio of violent thugs invade her home while her four-year-old nieces are staying over, nap time suddenly takes on a whole new meaning.

A thrill-ride from start to finish.

Story Length: 12,000 words, approx. 46 print pages.

Recidivist—by Alan McDermott

Something needs to be done about Steven Howe. Even though he’s yet to see his twelfth birthday, after 97 arrests the police and social services have had enough. Forced to attend a state-sponsored retreat for troubled youths, Steven is about to find out just how far the government is prepared to go to meet their targets—starting with him.

Story Length: 5,000 words, approx. 19 print pages.

Return of the Bride—by Micheal Maxwell

Tradition has it that Al-Qurnah is the site of the Garden of Eden. But for Phillip Sear, a man who has lived with sin his entire life, it has an entirely different significance. On a journey to redeem himself for a lifetime of selfish choices, Sear will finally learn how to keep his promises—but at what cost?

Story Length: 2,000 words, approx. 8 print pages.

PAYDOWN

A Leopold Blake Thriller

By Nick Stephenson

Summer 2007

Leopold Blake sat in the hotel bar, two martinis already in him, and waited. A man in a tux played the piano in a far corner and the room was full, though Leopold had managed to find a stool near the taps. He helped himself to a handful of peanuts from the jar on the counter and caught the barman’s eye.

“Same again?” The man cleared the empty glass away.

“Dry this time,” said Leopold. “No peel. If I want lemon, I’ll order lemonade.”

The barman nodded and picked up a shaker. Leopold watched him fill the steel container with ice before pouring in a healthy measure of Bombay Sapphire. Next, he dripped dry vermouth into a cold glass, swirled the liquid around the rim, and poured the contents away. He stirred the gin and strained it into the glass.

“Sir.” The barman slid the drink over.

Leopold nodded and sipped. It was good enough, not perfect. The room felt warmer, probably thanks to the alcohol, and Leopold felt hungry. The peanuts didn’t help, making him want to drink his martini all the faster, but his aim wasn’t to get drunk, not tonight. Not while he was working.

Outside the barroom, near Reception, a woman marched across the floor. The clip clap of her heels on the polished tiles sounded a familiar gait, the right foot falling harder than the left, either a limp or ill-fitting shoes. Leopold figured the latter. A cop’s salary didn’t usually stretch to luxury footwear.

She reached the carpet, the sound of her approach vanishing just as the light hit her face. Her features were alluring, Leopold always thought, with her high cheekbones and sharp jaw. And the eyes.

Leopold stood up as she drew close, her perfume drifting into his nostrils. She wore a black dress, a clutch bag slung over one shoulder. The outfit looked brand new.

“Blake, you better have a damn good reason for dragging me out at this time of night,” she said.

He glanced at his watch. “It’s ten thirty p.m.”

“Damn right. You know what time I get up?”

“We’re here to surveil. We can’t surveil someone while we’re asleep, can we?”

“Are you drinking?” She eyed his half-empty glass.

“I’m blending in.” He smiled and took another sip. “One for you?”

“I’m on duty.”

“You strike me as a Bellini kind of girl.” He turned and snapped his fingers. The barman had apparently overheard, fetching down a bottle of Moët from the fridge.

“I said no.”

“Relax, Mary. We might be down here a while.”

“That’s Detective Jordan to you, Blake. After what happened last time, make sure you behave yourself, or you might find yourself in more trouble than your high-priced lawyers can handle.”

He raised one eyebrow. He liked it when Mary got mad. Her Brooklyn accent always broke through when she got riled up.

“I’ll try to behave.” Leopold slid her drink over. “At least hold on to it.”

Mary obliged. “Any sign of the mark?”

“I saw him come through around eight. According to his calendar, he’s due for drinks at eleven, meaning he’ll resurface soon.”

“I suppose I’d better not ask how you got access to his calendar.”

Leopold smiled. “This guy does most of his best work outside the office. The VIP room at Suave is a regular haunt—bottle service usually gets the clients loosened up pretty fast. After that, it’s back to the hotel for room service and paperwork until around three. Then he’s back in the office for nine a.m.”

“You’ve been tailing him a while, I see.”

“It pays to be thorough.” Leopold drained the last of his martini.

“Take it easy. We’ve got a long night. I need your...” she paused. “I need your particular skills as sharp as possible. You’re no good to me half-asleep.”

“I prefer to think of it as half-awake,” he said, ordering a fourth cocktail. “And don’t worry. Even with half my brain, I’m still smarter than anyone else in the room.”

“And so modest, too.”

“Modesty serves little purpose. Other than to feed one’s insecurities by inviting more praise, that is. I have no need.”

“No. You have an entirely different need.” She eyed his fresh glass. “Just stay sharp, that’s all. What else can you tell me about the mark?”

“Teddy Gordon’s a Wall Street guy through and through. Private school followed by Princeton got him into all the right parties, landed him a job at Needham Brothers. Made senior analyst within a few years, then partner. He was bringing home five hundred grand a year plus the same again in bonuses before he hit thirty.”

“Looks like I’m in the wrong profession,” Mary said. She sighed in defeat and took a sip of the Bellini.

“Five years later and he’s a senior VP, managing eight hundred million in client money. That’s quite the ladder to climb in such a short time.”

“You think he’s working an angle?”

Leopold dropped a handful of peanuts into his mouth and chewed thoughtfully. “We’re in the middle of a housing boom. It’s been six years since the dot-com bubble burst and people are throwing their money around again. Downtown property values have risen eight percent a year for the last three years in a row. That kind of growth doesn’t happen without a few people bending the rules. And Teddy Gordon keeps some interesting company.” Another handful of nuts.

“You think Needham is turning a blind eye?”

“Undoubtedly.”

“How do you know all this?”

Leopold shifted on his stool. “I had to get used to dealing with money at an early age. Just as well, really. How many fifteen-year-olds inherit enough money to pay a small country’s tax bill?”

“Poor you.” Mary took another sip of her drink.

“Look, there are tricks you can play to manipulate the market. It’s all based on perception. The money isn’t real; the value of something is based solely on how much someone will pay for it, and that’s controlled by how the buyer thinks everyone else is going to react. A smart banker understands how the buyer thinks, how the market thinks. He reacts accordingly.”

“Yeah, you lost me.”

“I’ll give you an example. A bank gives some poor schmuck a mortgage at 100% the value of his property. No deposit. The bank sells the debt off to a larger bank in return for instant cash. The larger bank bundles up a hundred crappy mortgages like this and sells insurance policies for ten cents on the dollar—because their analysts tell them it’s a sure thing. They do this with thousands of loans. The mortgage securities market grows. Nothing can go wrong, right?”

“Until the homeowner can’t make his repayments.”

“Right. Enough defaults, and it starts a chain reaction. The value of the house goes down, so the original bank can only reclaim 75% of the money. Or less. The larger bank who bought the debt is now on the hook for the insurance payout, and has to cover the full value of the mortgages they bundled together. They lose their cash reserves, meaning they stop lending. Or they go bust.”

“And if nobody’s lending, nobody’s buying. Everybody loses.”

“Yeah. Well, except for the guy buying up the insurance policies.” He winked.

“It’s an interesting theory. But what’s this got to do with Teddy?”

“That’s what we’re here to find out. “ He checked his watch again. “He’s running late.”

Mary put down her drink. “Maybe it’s time we arranged a visit.”

“What did you have in mind?”

The hotel elevator opened up into the hallway of the twentieth floor, offering a fine view of midtown Manhattan. The streets below were a blur of taillights, mostly taxis, and the nighttime sky was a muddy orange blur. The thick windows kept out most of the noise.

Mary pulled out a credit card. “He’s in room 2037. We’ll rattle the door, pretend we’ve got the wrong room. This should pass as a key card.”

“And if he doesn’t answer?”

She shrugged. “I’ll have housekeeping drop by.”

“It’s not exactly covert,” said Leopold.

“You give people far too much credit. Worse case scenario, he stiffs on the tip.” Mary led the way down the long corridor until they reached Gordon’s room. “Ready?”

Leopold nodded. “After you.”

Mary rattled the handle and leaned her weight against the door. She jostled the handle again, louder this time. Leopold glanced down at the floor, noticing the strip of light under the door. If Gordon came to the peephole, he’d cast a shadow. Mary tried the handle a third time and swore, a little louder than was necessary. There was no movement from within.

“Is there another way out of the hotel?” she asked.

“Only for staff.”

“Maybe he figured out we were tailing him and bolted.”

Leopold shook his head. “He had no clue.”

“We could have missed him. We’d better check downstairs.”

“No. The lights are on inside. With these systems, they go out whenever you leave the room and take your key card with you.”

“Maybe he forgot.”

“Or maybe he’s ignoring us.”

Mary nodded and slipped her credit card back into her clutch. She pulled out her NYPD shield. “Okay. Looks like we might have to go find the manager.”

After a heated argument with one of the hotel supervisors, Mary threatened to make a scene. The man acquiesced and sent them back upstairs with one of the housekeeping staff, an aging gentleman who smelled of pipe tobacco. He swiped open the lock and waved them through.

Mary pushed open the door slowly. Leopold saw her right hand drift down to her thigh, resting just above the hem of her dress. Now he was looking closer, he could make out a subtle bulge under the material. He had wondered where she was keeping her gun. Mary stepped through, as quietly as possible, and Leopold followed.

The hotel room was spacious, though modestly appointed. There was a small desk and seating area near the window. The view looked out toward Central Park a few blocks away, the treetops just visible. The room itself would have been unremarkable if it weren’t for the smell; there was a sweet, sickly scent filling the air—like raw steak left out on the countertop to get warm. Leopold felt his stomach clench.

The mutilated body of Teddy Gordon was splayed out on the bed like a torn rag doll. Blood adorned the walls, what looked like arterial spray, a thicker pool forming on the sheets. Gordon’s skin showed pale white where it wasn’t soaked in red, a deep gash across his throat. There were several darker spots across the abdomen and the eyes were wide open, staring up at the ceiling. The housekeeper stepped through behind them and gagged.

“Dial 9-1-1,” Mary said. “And tell your security team to seal off the exits. Whoever did this might still be in the hotel.”

The doorman nodded and scampered away without a word.

“Blake, don’t touch anything,” she said, as Leopold noticed an ornate fountain pen lying on the desk.

“Relax.” He walked over and leaned in, taking a closer look. “I know the protocol.”

“You do when it suits you. Now just behave; I need to call this in. I can have a forensic team here in less than twenty minutes.”

“What about our friend with the key? You told him to get the police on the phone.”

Mary smiled. “I just needed him out of here. Whoever did this is long gone.” She glanced down at the body. “I have to say, as far as surveillance operations go, this doesn’t exactly rank in my top ten.”

“Since when did you get mixed up with the fraud unit?” the tall detective eyed Mary, looking her outfit up and down. “They’ve been tailing this guy for weeks. Never found nothing. Then you show up and we got a corpse? Maybe I should haul you in.” He laughed.

“You never heard of sharing resources?” she replied, arms folded. “Captain Oakes volunteered me.”

“And him?” the detective jerked his head in Leopold’s direction.

“Like I said. Sharing resources.” She broke off the conversation and joined Leopold at the desk, leaving the detective alone next to the body on the bed. The forensic team was late.

“Friend of yours?” Leopold asked.

“That’s Bullock. Works homicide with me. Thinks he’s God’s gift or something.” She shrugged. “Though you’ve got to admit, it doesn’t look good. We take over the case and the guy winds up dead.”

“You called me, remember?” said Leopold. “Not that I don’t appreciate the opportunity to lend a hand. You could certainly do with the help.”

“Oh really? You’re telling me this case has nothing to do with all the money you’ve got tied up at Gordon’s firm?”

“Believe me, I could buy Needham Brothers twice over if I wanted. The money isn’t a concern. What does worry me is what Gordon’s doing with it.”

“What he was doing with it.” She glanced over at the body.

“Right.”

“You got anything solid?”

“Not yet. Just strange things happening with the balance sheets; assets written down, or removed entirely. Inflated income reports, money filtering out of client accounts for a few days then suddenly reappearing. That sort of thing.”

“You think he’s using client money as his own?”

“That’s the most likely explanation. If we can figure out who his other clients are, we can get access to their accounts too. See if the same thing happened to them.”

“I’m guessing I shouldn’t ask you too many questions about that.”

“You learn fast.” Leopold smiled. “Listen, I know people who can get information. It might not stand up in court...”

“It could get you arrested, more like.”

“Only if someone tells on me.” Leopold tapped his nose. “Whatever helps us get to the bottom of this has got to be a good thing, right? Gordon was murdered because he knew something. Or he was pissing off the wrong investors. Whatever the reason, it has to have something to do with his, shall we say, creative accounting.”

Mary folded her arms. “I can buy that. Assuming you’ve got a shred of evidence he was mismanaging investors’ money.”

“I don’t have anything you can use. Not unless you want to lose your job, that is.” He fished a handkerchief out of his jacket pocket and used it to pick up the fountain pen he had seen earlier.

“Blake, what the hell are you doing? Put that down right now.”

“Calm down. I won’t get my prints on it. Besides, the forensic team isn’t here. Who else is going to do their job for them?”

“Just put it back where you found it.”

Leopold held up the pen. It was a Mont Blanc, black resin with an accented platinum clip. “A little chunky for my tastes, but bankers love them.”

“What’s your point?”

“You see any paper in here?”

Mary looked around.

“Gone. Along with his laptop and cell phone, no doubt. Which tells me whoever killed him was connected to at least one of the client accounts he was working on. Fortunately,” he started unscrewing the pen, “I think he kept a backup.”

“What the—don’t even think about...”

Leopold separated the two halves of the writing instrument, laying the nib section back on the desk. He held the other half up triumphantly. “Voila!” In his hand, a USB micro drive where the ink refill would normally be housed.

“You’ve got to be kidding,” said Mary, peering closer. “How the hell did you know that was there.”

“These pens are unusually thick and heavy. You know, phallic imagery and all that. The bigger the, um, pen, the bigger the... well, you get the idea.”

Mary rolled her eyes. “Right, I forgot. It all comes down to dick measuring in the end.”

“Exactly. So I wondered why this particular fountain pen is as light as a feather quill.” He held it between thumb and forefinger, letting it dangle.

“Okay, I get the picture; it’s a decoy pen. He was smart enough to keep a backup of all his data and hide it. So let’s see what’s on that thing.”

“Oh, so now you want my help?” said Leopold, grinning.

“Just shut up and go find a computer.”

The USB drive was stuffed full of text documents, slide shows, and spreadsheets. Having requisitioned one of the hotel’s many business suites, Leopold locked the door and punched a handful of search terms into the computer while Mary stood behind his chair, peering in. The hard drives whirred and spat out a few dozen relevant hits. He opened up a few files, scrolling through them with mounting disinterest, before finding something that caught his eye.

“Here, take a look at this.” Leopold tilted the screen toward Mary.

“It’s a bunch of numbers. Is this supposed to mean something to me?”

“These are tracking lists for a number of client accounts. Automated software can keep track of any number of stock prices, and these ones appear to be particularly important. See here,” he traced his finger over the monitor, “Gordon kept these separate.”“So?”

“So, this is how it looks if I put all the data in a graph.” He clicked a few buttons and a line chart appeared.

“Wow, someone took a beating,” Mary said.

“Quite. It’s the same for all the others.”

“They all bottomed out at roughly the same time. What would cause such a dramatic dive in value?”

“It could be any number of factors,” said Leopold. “What’s more important is why Gordon was keeping track of these accounts specifically. He’s got historical data going back months.”

“Maybe he knew what was going to happen. He could have made a fortune selling the stock short.”

Leopold raised an eyebrow.

“What? Just because I’m a cop, I can’t know about stuff like that?”

“I didn’t say anything.” He smiled. “You’re right, though; if someone knew the value of a company’s shares was going to take a nosedive, he could make a killing.”

“Probably not the most appropriate choice of words, considering the circumstances.”

“We need to figure out who else had access to these accounts,” he said, ignoring her. “Someone at the bank must have noticed what was going on. It can’t be a coincidence that all these clients lost money in the same month.”

“You’re saying this is a cover-up?”

“It’s the most logical assumption.”

“Maybe we should go have a word with Teddy’s boss,” said Mary, making her way to the door. “You coming?”

“It’s after midnight,” said Leopold. “The managers go home in the evenings. The only people in the office at this time are low-level analysts. I doubt they’ll be much help.”

“Then go home,” she said. “We’ll drop by unannounced in the morning. Might surprise him enough to give something away.” She left the room, closing the door behind her.

Leopold sighed and shut down the computer, pulling out the micro drive before getting up and heading for the door. Outside, the hallway was silent, any traces of the earlier commotion long gone, and the only sound accompanying Leopold as he walked to the elevators was the hum of the air conditioning. His mind whirred, poring over the facts of the case, trying to find a connection. The alcohol dulled his senses, reminding him he needed sleep. The answers would come soon enough, he assured himself. They always did.

Thirty floors below, the city marched on, oblivious.

Leopold got home a little after two thirty. One of the local bars, an upscale joint a few blocks from his apartment, was open late and Leopold had taken advantage. The staff knew him by name and had made his usual table ready. A few hits of bourbon had finished the night on a high note, and, with no further insights forthcoming, Leopold had resigned himself to a decent night’s sleep and a fifty-fifty chance of a hangover.

His penthouse apartment was dark. The elevator opened up into the hallway, prompting the motion sensors to turn on the lights. It took a few seconds until a soft glow illuminated the ante room, then the living room and kitchen. Leopold tossed his jacket onto the coat rack and wandered through, heading for the armchair in front of the fireplace.

There was movement somewhere behind him and Leopold turned, a little too slow. A shadow moved fast, its shape blurred in the low light. Before he could move, the shadow was on him, blocking his path.

“What the hell?” Leopold stumbled, tripping over something on the floor. The main lights came on and he covered his eyes, squinting against the glare.

“It’s late.” The figure came into focus.

“Jerome? What are you doing up?”

“I’d ask you the same.”

Leopold blinked hard and put down his hands. They were balled into fists.

“Were you planning on using those?” Jerome said, apparently amused.

“I get by.”

“You missed training this morning.”

“I was up early.”

“How am I supposed to protect you if I don’t know where you are?”

Leopold walked toward the armchair. “You’re my bodyguard, not my nanny. It’s your job to figure this stuff out.” He dropped into the chair, feeling the soft leather envelope him. Sleep was near.

“That’s not how it works.” Jerome stalked over, crossing the room in two giant steps. He stood next to the fireplace and gazed down at his employer. “I’ll chain you to the bed if I have to.” At six feet seven inches tall and with the body of a pro wrestler, not many people argued with Jerome. His coal-black skin only intensified the look—clad in a finely tailored Armani suit and dark shirt, the bodyguard blended with the shadows perfectly.

“I’m touched,” said Leopold. “Listen, I’ll need you to take me downtown later this morning. I have an appointment at Needham. We’ll have company.”

“The cop again?”

Leopold looked up. “You have a problem with Detective Jordan?”

“Not at all,” said Jerome, a faint smile on his lips. “Though I’m guessing she might have a problem with you.”

“She’ll learn to live with it.”

“It’s late. You need to sleep.”

“Then stop talking and leave me to it.”

The bodyguard nodded and stepped away, leaving the room as silently as he had entered. Leopold took a moment to savor the emptiness of the room before leaning back in the armchair and closing his eyes. Within minutes, sleep was upon him, wrapping him tight like a soft blanket. Then the dreams came.

Leopold awoke early, just as the sun’s rays broke through the litter of high-rises outside his window, and blinked hard. With a quiet groan, he forced himself out of the armchair and wandered over to his bedroom’s bathroom, where he disrobed and threw himself into the shower.

Once dressed, he found Jerome waiting for him in the kitchen, a mug of steaming coffee in one hand. The bodyguard slid the drink across the polished marble countertop and Leopold caught it. He sipped, grateful for the caffeine boost.

“Assuming you’re ready, I’ve asked for the car to be brought around,” said Jerome. “We’ll pick up Detective Jordan on the way.”

Leopold smiled. “I don’t see that happening, somehow. Mary left a message saying to meet us at Needham’s.”

“You’re on first-name terms now, are you?”

“Don’t get cute. It’s far too early.”

“You’re the boss.”

Once he’d finished his coffee, Leopold followed Jerome down to the lobby and out to the curb where a glossy black Mercedes waited. A uniformed doorman helped Leopold into the back seat as the bodyguard got behind the wheel and started the engine. The V8 growled and Jerome pulled away, merging with the traffic heading south toward Seventh Avenue. They hit the FDR Drive and settled into a comfortable cruise.

“You gonna tell me a little about the case?” said Jerome, keeping his eyes on the road. “They got you doing anything good?”

“It started off as a fraud case, part of the NYPD’s recent crackdowns. They set up a task force and apparently my connections to the finance world were judged to be an asset.”

“Started off as a fraud case?”

Leopold shifted in his seat. “Yes. Suffice to say, things got a little more complicated last night after we found our lead suspect stabbed to death in his hotel room.”

Jerome accelerated, overtaking a slow-moving truck. “You working murder cases now? I thought partnering with the NYPD was supposed to keep you out of trouble, not get you stuck in the middle of it.”

“Relax. I can handle it. We’re on our way to follow up a lead right now. You can tag along if you’re worried.”

“Who else is going to look after you?”

“Just try not to flash your gun at anyone. It tends to get them riled up.”

The bodyguard grunted something in response.

Leopold grinned. “And let me do the talking, okay?”

Mary sat waiting for them in the reception lobby. She stood as they approached, holding out a thick manila folder. Leopold took it and leafed through the contents.

“This is everything?” he asked.

“Yeah. Autopsy won’t come back for a few days, so I included the crime scene photos. Forensics didn’t find much.” Mary glanced at Jerome. “Brought some muscle this time?”

“Don’t worry about him. He’s here to make sure I behave myself.”

“You’ve not learned how to do that yourself?”

“I’ve learned to, sure. I just don’t find it much fun.”

“We’re not here to have fun, we’re here to catch a killer.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He offered a mock salute. “By the way, how are we planning on getting inside?” He looked over toward the bank of elevators, flanked by a pair of burly security guards. “I don’t think they appreciate walk-ins.”

“That’s what this is for.” She fished out her NYPD shield.

“Put that away,” Leopold put his hand over the badge. “Any of the staff notice there’s a cop here, the whole building will be on alert. How’s that supposed to help us?” He sighed. “Look, just follow my lead.”

Leopold marched off toward the reception desk, beckoning the others to follow. The young blonde woman manning the phones looked up as he approached, flashing a set of brilliant white teeth.

“Can I help you?” she said, turning to face her visitors.

“Yes,” said Leopold. “I need to speak with Teddy Gordon. Immediately.”

“I’m very sorry, sir. But all appointments need to be made in advance. I’m afraid Mr. Gordon can’t see you right now.”

Leopold pulled a business card out of his jacket pocket and slid it across the desk. “I’m afraid it’s urgent. Can you please call up and ask Mr. Gordon whether he can squeeze me in.”

The receptionist glanced down at the card, maintaining her courteous smile. She typed something into her computer and Leopold noticed her expression shift almost immediately.

“I’m terribly sorry, Mr. Blake,” she said. “I’ll make sure somebody sees you right away. I’m afraid Mr. Gordon isn’t contactable right now, but one of the senior vice presidents would be more than happy to talk with you.”

“That will be fine, thank you.”

The blonde held up three plastic key cards. “Here, these will grant you access to the thirtieth floor. Mr. Creed will meet you in the lobby.”

Senior Vice President Vincent Creed was tall, very skinny, with closely cropped gray hair and a neat goatee. A well-tailored Astor and Black suit did a good job of bulking him out, but it could only go so far. The banker held out his hand as the trio drew close and Leopold shook it, surprised that Creed’s grip almost crushed his palm.

“Good morning, Gentlemen. And Lady,” said Creed, his dark eyes looking each of them up and down in turn. “Please, follow me to my office. This way.”

The thirtieth floor was a maze of corridors, branching out to connect the bank’s myriad departments into something resembling a cohesive whole. This floor, Leopold supposed, was designed to cater for the domestic efforts of their investment teams, based on the signage he could make out. Plaques above doors announced increasingly vague department names such as Intra-Continental Growth Strategy and Internal Reliability Growth. Creed kept up the pace and led them through to a waiting room at the end of the hallway, complete with receptionist, before pulling open a heavy glass door that opened up into a plush office.

“Come on through,” the banker said, stepping inside.

Leopold followed, with Jerome and Mary close behind. The room was light and spacious, with wall-to-ceiling glass providing a decent view of the city. A large desk faced the door and Creed took a seat behind it, gesturing toward the seating area against the back wall.

“Please, make yourselves comfortable,” said Creed, opening a drawer. He pulled out a glass decanter of amber liquid and four tumblers. “Can I offer anyone a drink? Single malt scotch, twenty years old.”

Mary pulled out her police shield and held it up. “Not today. My name is Detective Jordan. I assume you know why we’re here.”

The banker eyed Mary warily before relaxing and pouring himself a healthy measure of whisky. “It’s an ancient tradition, toasting a fallen comrade.” He raised the glass to his lips. “Terrible news. I got the call early this morning.”

“Do you know of anyone who might have wanted to hurt Mr. Gordon?”

Creed ignored the question, turning his gaze upon Leopold. “So, Mr. Blake. How are you wrapped up in all this?”

“I’d answer the lady’s question, if I were you,” he replied. “She has a habit of getting what she wants. Eventually.”

The banker straightened up and set his glass down on the desk. He stood and turned to face the window. “Teddy was a good man. A good worker. He looked after a great deal of money for our clients; he was always top tier. Teddy made a lot of people very rich, but there are always those who suffer as a consequence. It’s part of life. Something that Teddy knew all too well.”

“What do you mean?” asked Mary.

“There were threats. Nothing out of the ordinary. Some clients lose money; we can’t win them all. The private investors sometimes get a little passionate about their portfolios.” He sighed. “You have to understand, we take on a mix of clients. Teddy looked after mostly corporate accounts, but everyone takes a quota of private individuals looking to pad their retirement funds. Sometimes...” he trailed off. “Sometimes they don’t get as much attention. They take it badly.”

“Did anything specific happen to Mr. Gordon?”

“Teddy met his wife here at Needham,” said Creed. “Did you know that? In this line of work, it pays to have someone at your back. Teddy did well to find his early. Helped him climb the ladder. Marriage isn’t for everyone.” He turned back to the desk and drained his glass. “But I digress. To answer your question: yes, there were threats. I’ll have my secretary dig out the details.”

“Tell me more about the wife,” said Mary.

“Melissa Gordon,” said Creed. “Nice enough girl. She had drive, that one. It’s a shame really, what happened.”

“Tell me.”

“I’m guessing you’re my first port of call, so to speak,” he said, with a slight trace of amusement. “Well, I’m sure your due diligence would have turned it up anyway.” He poured himself another drink. “Teddy and Melissa met a few years ago, working a buy side portfolio for one of the bank’s up-and-coming accounts. They hit it off. She elected to take some time off after she got pregnant, but things didn’t work out. Hit them both hard. Hit her worst of all. Her career took a nosedive. Teddy worked hard to try and make up for lost time. The man’s a machine.” He drained his drink once more. “Was a machine.”

“They lost the baby?”

“Yes. And she was never the same afterwards. We ended up transferring her to a smaller office uptown, but she didn’t like the idea. Eventually, she quit.”

“What did this mean for Mr. Gordon?”

“Like I said, he worked hard to pick up the slack. Hell, it wasn’t long before he was earning more than enough money on his own, but he kept on going. Unfortunately, at the expense of some of our smaller accounts.”

“And these smaller investors got angry,” said Mary. “Maybe wanted some answers?”

Creed sat down again. “Like I said, I’ll have my secretary get the details for you. There was one guy in particular, used to show up at the office all the time. Briggs, I think his name was. Or Higgs. Something like that.”

“Anything happen?”

“Yeah, it got pretty hairy on occasion. Guy tried to follow Teddy home once or twice. He denies it, but I wouldn’t be surprised if they came to blows.”

“We’ll get the details from your assistant. Is there anything else you can tell us?”

“Nothing that comes to mind.”

“Thank you, Mr. Creed.” Mary stood up. “We’ll see ourselves out.”

The senior banker nodded curtly but remained seated, his gaze now fixed on the remnants of the scotch. Leopold knew the look well.

Vincent Creed was hiding something.

The secretary, a young man who introduced himself as Brian, handed them a printout of names and addresses after a few minutes of fiddling with his computer. The list contained a dozen entries, each with a short description, and Brian told them to work from the top down. Leopold had thanked him and stuffed the list into his jacket pocket, before leading the three of them back down to the lobby and outside onto the sidewalk. Jerome set off to retrieve the car.

“That’s police evidence,” said Mary, reaching out a hand. “Give it here.”

“Not a chance,” said Leopold. “You need me on this case, even if you don’t know it yet. If I give you this, you’ll try to shut me out. That would be a mistake.”

“Don’t flatter yourself. What the hell do you know about murder cases?”

“More than you think.”

“Yeah? Like what?” She folded her arms, apparently annoyed at her own temper.

“Like Creed wasn’t telling us everything.”

“I know that, dumbass. I’m a cop. I can smell bullshit a mile away.”

“That’s not all. The photographs you took of the crime scene—did you happen to notice anything a little odd about the body?”

“I told you already, the autopsy won’t be for a few days.”

“I’m not talking about using the autopsy report,” said Leopold. “I’m talking about using your eyes. Actually look at the photos.” He pulled a full-page print from the manila folder under his arm and prodded the paper with an index finger. “Tell me, what do you see here?”

Mary took a step back. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“Tell me what you see. Come on, you said you were a cop. Cops have instinct, don’t they?”

“Fine.” She peered at the photo. “I see a dead guy with a bunch of stab wounds to the chest and a slit throat. So what?”

“So what does this tell you about the attacker?”

“That he had a knife.”

Leopold sighed. “The cause of death was blood loss, thanks to the severed carotid arteries. When the killer slit Teddy’s throat, the blood sprayed all over the walls here, and here.” He pointed at the photo. “The blood pooling around the abdomen wounds suggests that he was alive when they were inflicted, but the lack of spreading suggests his blood pressure was very low. In short, he was practically dead already. So why would the killer stab someone who was already dying?”

“He might have wanted to make sure he’d done a good job.”

“Sure, I can buy that. Except when the victim has six stab wounds, all inflicted after the death blow was already dealt and Teddy was practically unconscious. Not to mention the wounds are irregular in depth and spacing.”

“So what? People freak out all the time.”

“The cut to the throat was a precise and deliberate attack. The stab wounds are entirely the opposite.”

“Get to the point.”

“Whoever did this was someone who knew Mr. Gordon personally. The killer would have harbored deep resentment toward Teddy—there’s a definite connection between them. There’s real hatred here. The killer enjoyed it.”

“And you can tell me what the connection is?” Mary took a step forward.

“Well, no. Not right now, but—”

“Then shut up and let me do my job. Half-baked theories aren’t going to help me get an arrest warrant, are they?”

Leopold slipped the photos back into the folder. “This doesn’t change anything. I’m coming with you to interview the first name on this list.” He patted his jacket.

“Fine. Just keep your opinions to yourself.”

“Whatever you say.”

Before Mary could respond, the Mercedes pulled up at the curb with a muffled growl. Jerome rolled down the front window and peered out. “Can we offer you a ride, Detective?”

Mary looked at Leopold. “I wouldn’t want to put you to any trouble.”

“Don’t be silly,” said Leopold. “How else are you going to get there? You have no idea where you’re going.” He pulled open one of the rear doors and stepped to the side. “Go on, jump on in.”

“You know, you could enjoy this a little less,” she said, before letting out a deep sigh. “Let’s just get it over with.”

The first name on the list belonged to Joseph Biggs, his address listed in the Brownsville district of Brooklyn. Mary stared at the piece of paper, eyebrows raised.

“This guy does business with Needham. Why is he living in one of the roughest areas in New York?” she said. “Even cops don’t hang around here after dark.”

“We’ll find out soon enough,” said Leopold. “Though I’d venture a guess that his investment portfolio probably didn’t yield quite the returns he was looking for.”

“We’re nearly there,” said Jerome, easing the big car into a side road.

Leopold glanced out of the window. The bustle and glamor of Manhattan seemed a long way behind them now; the Brownsville neighborhood was largely deserted, only a handful of people out on the streets. Empty cars lined the roads. Most of the stores were closed, metal shutters blocking the insides from view.

“Here’s the address,” said Jerome. “We can pull in here.” He steered the car onto the curb and down a wide alleyway, parking just out of sight. The door locks clicked open.

“This is the place?” Mary asked, climbing out of the back seat.

“According to this, yes.” Leopold held up the list of names. “Apartment B. Sounds like a basement apartment.”

“Great. Nothing better than confronting a potentially violent suspect when you’ve got no escape routes.” She patted her hip instinctively.

“Relax. Just try not to wave that thing around.” Leopold eyed the bulge of her firearm. “And keep that police shield to yourself. I don’t think this is a registered neighborhood watch area.”

“You can say that again.”

Leopold glanced around as Jerome locked the car. Across the road a group of young men huddled around a wooden bench. Some were smoking, others handed around a brown paper bag with something inside, probably alcohol. A couple of others sat engrossed in their cell phones. The few pedestrians in the area gave them a wide berth.

“Cloccs,” said Mary. “One of the smaller gangs. But they try to make up for it.”

“Let’s just hope they don’t try anything stupid,” said Leopold, glancing up at the bodyguard. “Lead the way.”

The entrance to the apartment building looked out onto the alleyway. The door was reinforced steel, with a panel of buzzers mounted off to the side. Jerome jabbed the call button for Apartment B and waited. After a few seconds, he pressed it again. With a short burst of static, an irritated voice came on the line.

“Who the hell is this?” The voice was male.

Mary stepped forward before Leopold could speak. “Mr. Biggs?” she said. “We’re here to talk to you about Teddy Gordon.”

Silence.

Mary tried a different approach. “We might have some news about your accounts at Needham. Can you let us in?”

Leopold heard a faint scuffle on the line and the door locks buzzed open. Mary pushed through into a darkened hallway and waved the others forward. Inside, the smell of stale cigarette smoke hung in the air, mingled with stale cooking smells. Chinese food. Curry. The stink of grease. At the end of the hallway an unmarked door led down a flight of steps to the basement. Apartments A and B were at the bottom. Mary knocked on Biggs’ front door, one hand resting against her hip, just underneath her jacket.

The door opened a crack, the chain still attached. A pair of bloodshot eyes peered out.

“Mr. Biggs?” said Mary. “Can we come in?”

“Who are you?” said Biggs, his voice scratchy. He looked and sounded like he hadn’t slept in days.

“My name is Detective Jordan. I’m with the NYPD.” She held up her shield. “We’re here to talk to you about Teddy Gordon.”

The door slammed shut.

“I told you to keep that thing to yourself,” said Leopold. “How are we going to speak to him if he won’t let us in?”

“What else was I supposed to do? It’s standard procedure. I have to identify myself as a police officer, otherwise anything we get from him is inadmissible.”

“You don’t get it. We’re not looking for admissible evidence, we’re looking for a link to Teddy. We can find the evidence once we know where to look. And now we’ve hit a dead end. What do—”

He was cut off by a scrabbling sound from behind the door. The hinges creaked again and Biggs opened up. He stood in the doorway, dressed in shorts and a stained white vest that showed off an ornate tattoo across the shoulder and neck. A protruding gut and several days’ stubble completed the look—classic white trash.

“You comin’ in or what?” Biggs said, turning his back and heading for a tattered sofa in the corner of the room. He slumped onto the cushions and let out a burp.

“Erm, thanks,” said Mary, stepping inside.

Leopold followed close behind. Biggs’ apartment was a small studio, with a kitchenette and bedroom-slash-lounge taking up most of the space. Empty beer cans littered the carpet, which was stained and worn even without the fresh beer spills, and the sickly-sweet aroma of flavored tobacco permeated the atmosphere. Leopold noticed an empty pipe discarded on the coffee table, its burned-up contents tipped out into tiny piles of black ash. Jerome closed the door behind them.

“Can I get you something to drink?” asked Biggs, eyeing the insides of a crumpled beer can. He tipped it upside down and shook. Nothing came out.

“We’re fine, thank you. Like I said, we’re here to talk about Teddy Gordon. You were one of his clients, right?”

“Yeah.”

Silence.

“Can you tell me about him? Were you happy with his work?”

“Yeah.”

Silence.

“Mr. Biggs, we know you and Mr. Gordon argued about the money you had tied up in Needham. Can you tell me what happened?”

The man sighed, throwing the empty beer can to the floor. “Look, shit happens, right? I came into some money a few years back. Big lotto win. Blew most of it on coke and hookers, but a buddy of mine convinced me to invest whatever I had left.”

“And how did that work out for you?” asked Mary.

“Went pretty good at first. Gordon promised me twenty percent in the first six months and the guy over-delivered. It was frickin’ unbelievable. It’s like the guy figured out how to print money or somethin’. After that,” Biggs shrugged, “the shit hit the fan. Returns shrank. A year later and my investment’s only worth half what I paid into the fund. As you can expect, I’m pretty frickin’ upset.”

“What did you do?”

“I went to see Gordon to ask him what the hell was going on. He blew me off, like I figured he would. Said he didn’t look after the small funds no more. Said the market goes up and down, and there’s nothin’ can be done about it. Told me to file a complaint with his boss or take my money elsewhere. Not that there was much left at that point.”

“How much?”

“Less than a hundred grand. I took the cash, blew it all. Wound up here. Like I said, shit happens.”

“We have a witness who says you and Mr. Gordon fought. Thinks you and him might have come to blows once or twice. That ever happen?”

Biggs laughed. “You gotta be kiddin’ me, lady. How the hell you think a guy like me is ever gonna get close enough to a guy like him? Not that I didn’t occasionally fantasize about socking him in the face...”

“You could have followed him home. Gone to his office.”

“What’s the matter, you simple or something? Gordon had a driver take him home each night. Took him in mornings, too. Spent all day in the office. How the hell is a guy like me gonna get past that? I never even bothered trying to get an appointment. We spoke on the phone. That was it.”

“You never met him in person?”

“I had a couple meetings early on, sure. But once the problems started, he didn’t wanna give me the time of day. Told me to speak to his boss.”

“Who was that?”

“Guy named Creed. Gordon said he was the one in charge of my account. Told me to take it up with him.”

Leopold stepped forward. “Vincent Creed? He was the one managing your account, not Gordon?”

“You deaf? That’s what I said. Gordon was the one bringing in the clients, laying the groundwork. Least, that’s how he put it. Creed was the one managing the day-to-day. Seemed a little weird to me; the boss man running the accounts. Apparently, he only did that for a select few. Made me feel pretty good about the whole thing, ‘til he messed it all up.”

“And you’re sure about this?”

“Of course I’m frickin’ sure. You think I’d get forgetful about money, a man in my position? It might sound like small change to those Needham assholes, but it was everything I had.” Biggs paused. “Why you here anyways? You got news about my money?”

Mary and Leopold looked at each other.

“Not exactly,” said Mary. “We found Mr. Gordon’s body late last night. He was murdered.”

Biggs sat up. “Murdered? The guy’s dead? Jeez, he was a scumbag but... hell. I’m never gonna see that money now, am I?”

“Your concern is touching. Can you think of anyone who might have wanted to hurt him?”

“You kidding? Probably every single person he ever screwed over. You got a pen and paper?” He laughed. “Might take a while.”

“No, that’s fine, Mr. Gordon. We have everything we need.” She glanced at Leopold and flicked her eyes toward the door. “We’ll see ourselves out.”

Biggs belched and slumped even further down the sofa. “Pleasure meetin’ you.”

“Looks like we’ll need to pay Mr. Creed another visit,” said Leopold, as the three of them made their way back up the stairs. “I knew he was hiding something.”

Mary pushed open the door into the hallway. “It’s nearly lunchtime. Do these bankers ever go out to eat?”

“That’s where they do most of their business. A guy like Creed would probably be meeting clients somewhere expensive. On company money, of course.”

“Of course.”

“I’ll ask my contact to check Creed’s schedule for the day.”

“I’m guessing this is another one of those times I shouldn’t ask questions.”

“See, I knew you’d get the hang of this working relationship,” said Leopold. “We’ll surprise Mr. Creed at lunch, catch him off guard.” He pushed open the steel door that led out to the alley and headed for the car.

As they rounded the corner, Leopold froze. The gang of young men he had noticed earlier had apparently taken an interest in his Mercedes—six of them were now inspecting the vehicle, taking it in turns to peer through the glass and test the doors. One of them looked up as Leopold, Mary, and Jerome approached.

“Hey, hey, what we got here?” the apparent ring leader shouted. His voice was deep and cocky, the hood of his coat pulled over his head. “Sweet ride. How much this cost you?” He turned to his companions and laughed. “Thinkin’ bout gettin’ me one of these. Needs a paint job, though. Maybe some new rims.” He rapped the windscreen with his knuckle.

“Let me call backup,” said Mary, her voice a whisper. “Don’t engage. We don’t know if they’re armed.”

“Of course they’re armed,” said Leopold. “But that doesn’t mean they get to mess with my car.”

“I think it does, actually.”

“Maybe where you come from.”

“We both come from New York.”

“You know what I mean.” Leopold looked up at Jerome. “Any ideas?”

The bodyguard looked at the gang of men. “Just stay behind me and don’t speak. Things always get much worse when you speak.”

Leopold considered a response, but too late. Jerome strode over to the hooded leader, closing the distance remarkably fast. The young man stood tall, chest puffed out, and met Jerome head on.

“You got somethin’ to say, homes?” the kid said.

“Step away from the car.”

“You gonna make me, big man? ‘Cos last time I checked, there’s six of us and three of you. One, two, three.” The hood prodded Jerome with an index finger, emphasizing his point.

Leopold turned to Mary. “That wasn’t a good idea,” he said.

Too fast for the gang leader to react, Jerome grabbed hold of the finger prodding him in the chest and wrenched it backward. There was a cracking sound and the kid yelped, eyes wide, his bravado gone. Jerome twisted the finger to the side and pulled, forcing the arm to hyperextend. The kid turned to compensate and Jerome pulled him in close, a thick forearm across the throat. The other five gang members twitched nervously, their leader held fast in the bodyguard’s grip.

“This would be your opportunity to leave,” he said, still holding onto his opponent’s finger.

The other gang members looked at one another, shuffling their feet. Nobody spoke. Jerome sighed and gave the leader’s broken finger another twist. The young man screamed, the pain now clearly beyond anything he could handle.

“Leave, right now,” said Jerome, “or I’ll pull his finger off. And after that, I’ll move on to the rest of you. I’d be lying if I said a part of me wouldn’t enjoy that. But I’m afraid we’re pressed for time, so I’ll just have to shoot you.” He let go of the finger and released his hold on the kid’s throat. The kid dropped to his knees. With practiced speed, Jerome pulled out the firearm holstered beneath his jacket and pointed it at the closest of the other gang members.

“All right, all right.” The new target held his palms up and backed away. “We’re goin’. Just don’t shoot.”

Jerome pressed his foot against the leader’s back and shoved him forward. “Take this with you,” he said, keeping his gun up.

The kid got to his feet and scrambled away to join his companions, cradling his broken finger as he went. Within a few seconds the gang had disappeared around the corner and Jerome holstered his weapon.

“Okay, we can go now,” he said, unlocking the car. “Apologies for the delay.”

Creed’s restaurant of choice nestled between a hair salon and clothing store. The sign outside boasted “A Fusion of East and West” and the tables were packed full of people in suits ordering lunch from oversized menus. Leopold pushed open the heavy glass doors and stepped inside, the smells from the kitchen hitting his nostrils immediately. The interior was all glass and chrome and leather.

“This place smells kinda funky,” said Mary, following behind.

“It’s called fusion food,” said Leopold. “It’s undergoing something of a resurgence at the moment. The chefs take two different cuisines and blend them into something new.”

“Just like Reese’s did with peanut butter and chocolate.” She chuckled to herself and picked up a menu. “Whoa, Jesus, I think I’d better stick with the candy after all. What the hell is with these prices? And why do they need such a big menu? There’s only like five dishes to choose from.” She squinted at the tiny italic text. “What exactly is grilled ahi?”

Leopold sighed. “We’re in the middle of the financial district. The clientele have a lot of money to spend. Speaking of which, I think I see our man.” He pointed across the room toward the back corner where Creed sat at a large table with half a dozen lunch guests. “How about we go say hello?” He took a step toward the dining area.

“Do you have a reservation, sir?” a maître d’ dressed in a crisp suit appeared out of nowhere, blocking the way.

Leopold stopped in his tracks. “We’re not here for lunch. I need to speak with a gentlemen at that table.” He pointed.

“I’m sorry sir, our diners value their privacy. We can’t allow anyone through without a table reservation.”

“Then can I make one?”

“For today?”

“Yes.”

“No.”

“No?”

“I’m sorry, sir,” said the maître d’. “We are fully booked for the next two weeks. Would you perhaps like to make a booking for next month?”

“No, I don’t want to come back next month,” snapped Leopold. “I want to speak to that man over there.”

“I’m sorry sir, but—“

Mary interrupted, pushing her way past Leopold. She held up her NYPD shield. “Listen. Either you let us through or I book you on an obstruction of justice charge. How does that sound?”

The maître d’ glanced at the shield. His expression relaxed a little. “Given the circumstances,” he said, straightening his tie. “I’m sure I can make an exception. Please,” he stepped to the side, “go on through.”

Leopold brushed past without a word and headed for Creed’s table. The senior banker was engrossed in a heated conversation with the other diners that Leopold couldn’t make out. As he drew closer, Creed noticed and halted the conversation. The banker got to his feet and left the table, drawing Leopold just out of earshot of his companions.

“Can I help you, Mr. Blake?” he said, keeping his voice low. “I’m in the middle of a meeting.” He spotted Mary and nodded. “Detective Jordan. A pleasure, as always. Where’s your big friend?”

“He’s in the car,” said Leopold. “He never did like fusion food.”

“Me neither, I’m afraid,” Creed said. “But these guys seem to. God knows why. It’s all sushi as far as I’m concerned. Now, what is it I can do for you? I really must get back.”

“We spoke with Biggs, the man you said had assaulted Mr. Gordon.”

“Good. And he was of some help?”

“Yes. Though he said that Gordon wasn’t the one looking after his account. He said that you were. He believes you’re responsible for the loss of his fortune.”

Creed’s calm expression flickered momentarily. “Look, this really isn’t a good time. I dealt with a lot of accounts, we all do. I already told you everything I know about Gordon. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have an important account on the hook here. It’s not going to reel itself in.”

“Mr. Creed...”

“Mr. Blake, if you need to speak with me again, either set up an appointment with my assistant or get yourself an arrest warrant. Now please excuse me.” He turned around and walked back to his table, slipping back into his chair just as his lunch arrived.“You think we can get a warrant?” said Leopold.

“Based on what?” said Mary. “The guy’s an asshole, and he’s definitely not telling us everything, but we can’t get a judge to sign off without some hard evidence.”

“We’ll just have to go dig some up. There must be someone out there who dislikes Creed enough to talk to us about what goes on at the bank. Someone who works with him, maybe.”

“Or worked. Preferably someone with a grudge. How do we narrow that down? There must be hundreds.”

Leopold grinned. “I know exactly who can help.” He turned and marched back toward the door. “Follow me.”

The brownstone home of Teddy and Melissa Gordon was situated in one of the leafier parts of the Upper East Side, squeezed in between two other identical buildings about halfway down one of the many pristine side streets. Jerome rolled the Mercedes up to the curb and killed the engine.

“Nice place,” said Mary, looking out the window. “Don’t you live around here?”

“I have an apartment, yes,” said Leopold. “Closer to the park.”

“What’s the matter? Couldn’t afford a real house?”

“Let’s try to stay focused, shall we?” he said, opening the door and stepping out onto the sidewalk.

“No need to be so sensitive.” She followed suit and joined Leopold outside. Jerome waited in the car.

“I’m guessing we won’t have to worry about the Mercedes around here,” said Mary. “The other cars parked out here are worth at least twice as much as yours.”

Leopold rolled his eyes. “Are you determined to get some kind of reaction from me?”

“Oh calm down. You can be such a baby.”

“Can we just get this over with? Creed is going to be on the defensive now, so time is short. We need to find something solid to link him to Gordon’s murder. If he was really trying to sabotage his investors and Gordon found out, that’s as good a reason as any. Hopefully Mrs. Gordon can help with that.” He walked up to the door and rang the bell. “Otherwise we’re back to square one.”

“I’m just saying, you don’t have to get all sensitive.”

“I’m not sensitive, but that doesn’t mean I have the patience to pretend your little remarks aren’t getting annoying. Why don’t you just spit it out? You clearly have something to say.”

Mary opened her mouth to reply but was interrupted by the sound of the intercom crackling into life.

“Gordon residence. Mrs. Gordon isn’t taking visitors, I’m afraid,” the disembodied voice said. “Kindly call her assistant to set up a meeting for another day.”

Leopold leaned in to the microphone. “I’m afraid it’s imperative that we speak with Mrs. Gordon today. Right now, actually. We have some important news regarding Mr. Gordon’s estate.”

Mary shot him a fierce look.

Leopold ignored her. “We need to go over the details immediately.”

There was a brief pause.

“Please wait there,” said the voice. The line went dead.

“What the hell are you doing?” said Mary. “We’re not here to talk about the estate. The minute she finds out we lied...”

“By that time, it won’t matter. I had to say something to get us inside, and if you whip out that damn badge she’s only going to be on the defensive.”

“I’m required to identify myself as a police officer. And, if you want any of the testimony from Mrs. Gordon to be worth a damn in future, you have to identify yourself as a consultant for the NYPD. Otherwise we’re wasting our time.”

“Relax. I only need a few seconds. You can tell her what you want after that.”

Mary sighed. “Fine. Just try not to get us into any trouble.”

The intercom buzzed and Leopold heard the locks disengage. The door swung inward, revealing a tall man dressed in a butler’s uniform. The man stepped to the side and waved them inside.

“Please, follow me. Mrs. Gordon will meet you in the drawing room.” The butler led them through to a spacious room toward the back of the house, complete with high ceilings and neoclassical furniture—delicate tables, cabinets, and chairs with finely crafted tapered detail and gold leaf accents. The floors were polished marble, the walls clad with bold wooden panels. The room would not have looked out of place in the Palace of Versailles. A woman, presumably Mrs. Gordon, sat attentively on the sofa. She got to her feet as Leopold and Mary were ushered through.

“Good afternoon,” she said, a weak smile forcing its way onto her lips. “Please, take a seat.” She indicated two armchairs opposite her.

Leopold settled into his seat. “I’m afraid I must confess we’re not here to talk about Mr. Gordon’s estate. We’re here to talk about who killed him.” He paused. “What can you tell me about Vincent Creed?”

Melissa Gordon flinched. “Who are you people?”

“Ma’am, we’re with the NYPD,” said Mary, holding up her ID. “I’m Detective Jordan, this is Leopold Blake. He’s a consultant.”

Mrs. Gordon took a moment to let the words sink in.

“I know this must be difficult for you, ma’am...”

“You know nothing of the sort, Detective,” she said, taking a seat. “My husband was a good man. He didn’t deserve to die. I would advise not trying to empathize with me right now.”

Mary nodded. “I understand, ma’am. We’re very sorry for your loss. Did you know of anyone who might have wanted to hurt him?”

“He was a successful man. A lot of that success came at the expense of other people. But that’s just business. I can think of dozens who would hold a grudge, but that’s no different from any other successful trader. You’ve met Mr. Creed, I assume?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She smiled. “Then you know what I mean. He’s hardly one to give off an aura of amiability, wouldn’t you agree?”

Mary shifted in her seat. “I wouldn’t know, ma’am. Did you and Mr. Creed know each other well?”

“Oh yes,” she leaned back and folded her arms. “My husband and I actually met while we both worked at Needham, did you know that? After a few years, we started working in Creed’s division and I took time out to have children.” She paused. “As you can probably tell, that didn’t work out. I was forced out of the firm not long after. Thankfully, Teddy managed to keep things going by himself. He always was a hard worker.”

“Did any of your husband’s clients express any negative feelings toward him?” asked Mary.

“He never spoke about work; I think he felt it might upset me. He would sometimes work from home, but most of the time he was at the office. He liked to keep his personal and professional lives separate.”

“Did he keep a workspace here?” said Leopold, leaning forward.

“Yes, he had a study just down the hall.”

“May we take a look?” He stood up. “There might be something we can use to figure out whether anyone at Needham might have been involved. Mr. Creed wasn’t exactly forthcoming in that respect.”

“I’m not sure my husband’s private business is something I’m comfortable you seeing.”

Leopold sighed. “His private business is what got him killed, Mrs. Gordon. If there’s something about this case I know for sure, it’s that somebody’s not telling me everything. There’s someone at Needham working to keep a secret and I’m going to find out what that is. Do you really want to stand in the way of that?”

Melissa Gordon’s features darkened. “You dare come into my house...”

“We came into your house because your husband was murdered. Killed because he knew something he shouldn’t. And somebody at your husband’s firm is very probably involved in covering it up.”

Mrs. Gordon stood up, shaking slightly. “Fine. You win. Follow me.” She led them through to the hallway. “It’s in here.” She opened a thick wooden door to reveal a cozy room filled with bookshelves. Against the far wall a messy desk spanned most of the width of the floor, piled high with papers and old copies of the Financial Times. A slim computer monitor peeked out above the sea of clutter.

“I haven’t touched it since he was last in here,” she said. “Perhaps I’d better clear some things away.”

Leopold leaned in and located the keyboard. He tapped the space bar and the screen burst into life. “Password?” he said.

“Try ‘PLUTUS999’. All capitals.”

He typed the letters. “Thank you. Here we are.” The operating system loaded. Leopold reached up and tilted the monitor, keeping his hand on the frame. “Viewing angle is a little messed up.”

“What are you looking for?”

“I’m not sure yet.” He clicked on a few folders. “There must be thousands of spreadsheets and presentations on here.”

“That’s pretty much what an investment banker does,” said Mrs. Gordon. “Push numbers around, make pretty graphs, and hope to hell whoever came up with the formulas knew what they were doing.”

Leopold chuckled. “Sounds like a blast. Do you mind if I print a copy of this?” He brought up a text document detailing a list of historic transactions.

She squinted at the screen. “Sure, suit yourself. The printer’s there.”

“Thank you so much for your help.” He fished the printed document from the tray and folded it, slipping it into his pocket. “I think we have everything we need. We’ll be in touch soon.”

As Melissa Gordon’s butler closed the front door behind them, Leopold caught Mary’s expression.

“What?” he asked, heading for the car.

“You did something I’m not going to like, didn’t you?”

“I have no idea what you mean.”

“Spill. I’ll only figure it out eventually.”

Leopold grinned, pulling an ornate Mont Blanc fountain pen from his jacket pocket. “Let’s just say this case has given me a few good ideas.” He unscrewed the nib to reveal a USB micro drive.

“You weren’t supposed to take that,” said Mary. “It’s evidence in a murder case.”

“Relax. We got all the pertinent information off it already. I was able to slip it into the port in the computer monitor. Copied over most of Teddy’s work files. I used the printout to hide the pen as I slipped it back into my jacket.” He grinned again. “We’ll be able to take a proper look without Mrs. Gordon peering over our shoulders.”

“Don’t look so pleased with yourself.” She opened the car door and climbed inside. “None of what we find is going to be admissible without a warrant. Just hope to God nobody finds out.”

“Well, I’m not going to tell anyone.” Leopold climbed into the front passenger seat. “And I don’t think Jerome is going to tell anyone.”

The bodyguard shook his head slowly.

“Good. Then I believe the only person who might cause any problems is sitting in the back seat.”

“Just take me back to the station.”

“Not a chance,” said Leopold. “I’m starving. I think it’s time you and I had a little lunch date.”

“They better serve real food in here,” said Mary, eyeing up Leopold’s choice of restaurant. “I’ve got no patience with tiny portions and giant plates.”

The sign above the door to Mama Leone’s boasted “New York City’s Best” and Leopold knew it to be true. What the place lacked in sophistication, it more than made up for with authentic food and a thriving atmosphere. Leopold pushed through the door and the smell of cooking hit him immediately—roasted meats, scented oils, garlic, herbs, chopped tomatoes—making his stomach growl even louder. A waiter greeted them by the door and showed them to a cozy table for two near the window.

“Unfortunately, this place doesn’t have wi-fi,” said Leopold, settling into his seat and pulling out the laptop he had brought from the car. “But we should at least be able to check through the contents of Teddy’s hard drive while we eat.”

“Speaking of which,” said Mary, “what’s good here?”

“Everything’s good. They’ll bring the food over as soon as it’s done, so they shouldn’t be long.”

“I haven’t even ordered.”

“It’s best not to choose for yourself; you’ll only get it wrong,” he said, slipping the micro drive into the laptop’s USB port. “They’ll bring over whatever is freshest. Their menu is based on what they could get their hands on at the markets earlier in the morning. Trust me, it’s better this way.”

“I’d rather just have a cheeseburger.”

“Just stop complaining and live a little.” Leopold tapped a few keys and the laptop started to whir. “Good. The contents are all copied over, so all we need to do is find something that links Creed to all this.”

“You really think he’s behind this? I mean, my gut’s telling me he’s scum, but is he capable of murder?”

“I know he’s hiding something.” He opened a search and typed in a few keywords. “We’re looking for anything covering the last few months’ numbers. Anything that shows a steep drop in share value.”

“Like we saw at the hotel?”

“Exactly. Here, look at this.” He turned the laptop around to face her. “Consolidated accounts for the firm’s top earners. See anything unusual?”

She peered in. “No. Should I?”

“That’s just it. Where some of the share value of the smaller clients dropped through the floor, these stayed constant.”

“So?”

“So, in any given week, the investment analysts allow for a variability of up to fifteen percent. They expect around five percent in a bad week, maybe one or two percent on an average one. Either way, it’s up and down. These numbers are showing a constant growth. A perfectly straight line. Real life just doesn’t work like that.”

“Someone’s cooking the numbers.”

“Right. There’s no way millions of dollars can drop off the accounts of a select few accounts, while the top earners show zero volatility. Someone’s taking one company’s losses and turning it into another company’s profits, making everything add up nicely.”

“Gordon was behind this?”

“These aren’t Teddy’s accounts,” said Leopold. “According to Biggs, Creed was the one overseeing the management. Teddy was the one bringing in the business. He wouldn’t have had any idea.”

“So why have all this on his computer?”

“Maybe he found something that didn’t add up. Maybe that’s what got him killed. But right now, there are more important things to focus on.”

“Like what?”

“Like lunch,” said Leopold, as the waiter arrived with two plates of steaming food. Leopold shut the laptop and stashed it under his chair.

“Buon appetito,” the waiter said, laying the plates on the table.

The first dish was gnocchi sautéed in butter and olive oil, with pesto, sprinkled with parmigiano-reggiano, and accompanied by a fresh salad. The hot salty dumplings made a fine contrast to the crispness of the salad, and both Leopold and Mary finished their portions after a few hungry mouthfuls. The food kept coming—roasted sea bass with chili tomato sauce, lamb skewers marinated in garlic oil, scrambled eggs with brie, walnuts, and white truffle—Leopold drank red wine, a rich sangiovese, while Mary sipped club soda. Both ate everything, mopping up remaining sauce with hunks of herby ciabatta. For dessert, the waiter brought them tiramisu and espresso.

“I couldn’t eat another bite,” said Mary after taking the last morsel of bread, hand on stomach. “I think you’ve killed me.”

“Take your time. The coffee will help you digest.” Leopold tipped the espresso down his throat.

“We need to find something linking Creed to Teddy Gordon’s murder. We don’t have time to digest.”

“Food is a kind of meditation. Your mind is focused on just one thing—eating. This allows your subconscious to churn away in the background on less exciting things.”

“Murder cases not exciting enough for you?” said Mary, sipping her coffee.

“I thought there would be more action. You know, maybe a car chase or something. You think we can fit one in?”

“We can only hope.”

Leopold smiled and shook his head. “Look, we have Biggs’ testimony to work with. We can probably lean on Mrs. Gordon to back us up. And we’ve got these accounts on Teddy’s hard drive. I’m betting they’re on Creed’s hard drive too.”

“That’s not enough to make an arrest. We need probable cause.”

“I’m not finished. Take a look at the metadata in these files.” He pulled out the laptop again.

“The what?”

“Every file is stamped with information about who owns the document, when it was created, and when it was modified. According to this,” he opened up the spreadsheet again, “the records were created three months ago and were modified in the last forty-eight hours. More importantly,” he turned the computer around and tapped the screen, “Creed’s name is listed as the author.”

“That still doesn’t link him to the murder.”

“No. But it should get you a warrant to search his computer. All you need is something giving him a motive. Maybe Gordon found out what he was doing, threatened to go public.”

“Okay, we can work with that.” Mary fished out her cell phone from her purse. She paused. “Wait a minute. If Creed was responsible for Gordon’s death, wouldn’t he have been at the hotel that night? We can check the security footage. If we can place him at the crime scene, we’ll have motive, means, and opportunity. That’ll get us our arrest warrant.”

“Now you’re talking,” said Leopold. “I told you lunch was a good idea.”

Creed came quietly enough. Halfway through a suit fitting in his office, Mary had presented him with a choice: either come along willingly, or face the walk of shame in front of an office full of subordinates. Creed had chosen wisely.

Following a brief wait at the station for the man’s lawyer, Mary had interviewed Vincent Creed to little result. The banker had remained silent throughout, speaking only to recite his name, address, and occupation. Mary had informed him of his rights and sent him down to the holding cells. Leopold had been told to wait outside.

“Are you done yet?” Leopold asked, as Mary stormed back into the waiting room. “The coffee here is terrible.”

“I’m sure you’ll survive a little longer,” she said.

“He’s been down in the cells for nearly an hour. What else do you expect to achieve by stomping around? His lawyer will be working to put a moratorium on any warrants to search Creed’s computers, so make sure you get there first. You can hardly expect the man to confess without putting a little pressure on him.”

“I know, I know. He just gets me riled up, that’s all. Entitled bastard. You should have seen the smirk on his face all the way through the interview. Like he knew I couldn’t do anything.”

“You’ll just have to prove him wrong.”

“We don’t have long. I need to officially charge him with something in the next five hours or he’ll walk. And that’s not going to happen without something a little more concrete to link him to the murder.”

“You get his bank accounts?”

“Yeah. I’ve got some people going through them right now.”

“Let’s go take a look.”

She hesitated, then let out a sigh. “Okay, fine. You can come; just don’t speak to anyone, okay?”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

Mary swiped her ID card across the magnetic strip near the steel door at the back of the room. “And don’t touch anything.”

The three-man tech team was sifting through Creed’s banking records as Leopold and Mary entered the room. Their office was small and dark, no windows and no natural light, and it smelled dusty. They clearly didn’t get out much.

“What you got for me, boys?” said Mary, eying up the computer monitors.

The largest of the three turned his head. “We got a whole lotta numbers, that’s what. This guy’s frickin’ loaded. A couple of transactions stand out though.” He pointed at the screen. “Check it. There was a large cash withdrawal a couple days ago from five different ATMs downtown. Just a few blocks from the hotel Gordon was killed.”

“That’s a good start. We got him on the CCTV tapes, maybe he paid someone off.”

“Yeah, maybe. We also got a large deposit, well, larger than usual, made into his account just this morning. Two hundred thousand dollars.”

“Who made the payment?”

“We don’t know,” said the tech. “It’s not from a US bank. Hell, we have no idea where it came from. It’s gonna take us a few days to trace.”

“Get on it,” said Mary. “In the meantime, this is enough to at least get the assistant DA to sign off on an official charge. We can hold him downstairs until the bail hearing. That gives us time to assemble a case. Good work boys.” She smiled.

“Ma’am.” The big guy smiled back before returning to his workstation.

“I’ll have some friends of mine check the bank account routing numbers,” said Leopold, firing off a text message on his cell phone as they left the room. “Shouldn’t take them long.”

“Just keep me out of it,” said Mary. “If you find any evidence we can’t use it directly. And I don’t want to know where it came from.”

“Agreed. We should have an answer soon. In the meantime, let’s go see Creed’s lawyer. See what he has to say about all this.”

Creed’s lawyer was unimpressed. “None of this links my client to the murder,” he said, getting up from behind the interview table. “You’re clutching at straws. Let Mr. Creed go and stop wasting everybody’s time.”

“Sit down, Mr. Osborne,” said Mary. “What we have is CCTV camera footage of your client at the scene of the murder. We have sensitive information exchanged between your client and the victim just hours before his death. We’ve also got a considerable amount of money deposited into Mr. Creed’s bank account shortly after Mr. Gordon was killed. That’s more than enough to file charges. Mr. Creed’s not going anywhere. I suggest you inform him.”

The lawyer picked up his suitcase. “You can expect me to fight this,” he said. “And if you think I won’t get bail, you’re very much mistaken.” He breezed out of the room without another word.

“God, I hate lawyers,” said Mary.

“Who doesn’t?” said Leopold.

Mr. Osborne returned less than twenty minutes later to find Mary and Leopold waiting for him outside the interview room.

“You done?” asked Mary.

“My client has been informed of the charges. When’s the bail hearing?”

“Judge Robertson, Monday morning.”

“I need to formally request the duty officer grant pretrial leave. Mr. Creed can be released on his own recognizance until then.”

“I’ll pass the request on. It will be denied.”

“Please send the confirmation to my office. I’ll see you in court.” The lawyer marched off, disappearing around the corner.

“I’m guessing Creed didn’t take the news too well,” said Leopold. “Maybe we should go find out how he’s doing.”

“We can’t. It would be ex parte,” said Mary. “We can’t speak to him without his lawyer.”

“Bullshit. We can speak to whomever we like. You need to loosen up a little. Come on, you said you needed more evidence—let’s go get some.”

The guard looking after the cells signed them in and led them through to the holding area. “You guys know his lawyer just left, right?” he said, fiddling with a giant set of keys.

“Yeah, we got it Jimmy,” said Mary. “Anyone else been down?”

“Just the guy bringing chow. The boys should have finished by now. Go on through.” He swung the heavy iron gate open and ushered them over the threshold. He followed, locking it behind him. “Just a couple more.”

After a few minutes, they reached the holding cells. The harsh neon lighting bounced off the white walls and floors, making Leopold squint. With no windows and the air conditioning shut off, the air in the room was thick with the smell of food. There were eight cells in total, each with solid metal doors. Jimmy the guard walked up to the farthest right and rapped a knuckle on the steel.

“Hey, yo. You got visitors,” he said.

No reply.

“Open it up, Jimmy,” said Mary, stepping forward. “You can wait for us outside, it’s not a problem.”

“Ma’am.” He nodded and slipped a key into the door lock. “Here you go.” He swung the door open.

“Good evening, Mr. Creed,” said Mary, stepping toward the empty cell. “You enjoying your stay at—” She stopped mid-sentence.

“Holy shit,” said Jimmy.

Leopold ran forward and peered past the others. Vincent Creed was slumped against the wall, his skin as white as porcelain, with one half of a prison fork protruding from his throat—his own hand still wrapped around the handle. Both carotid arteries appeared to have been punctured from several jabs to the soft flesh. There were dark bruises around the wounds, though there was very little blood on the body. Most of it had sprayed across the room and was dripping down the opposite wall.

“Holy shit,” Jimmy repeated. “What the hell happened?”

“You tell me,” said Mary. “You were supposed to be watching.”

Leopold pushed through and knelt by the body.

Jimmy held up his hands. “I can’t watch everyone at once, can I? I got other work to do, I can’t be expected—”

“Keep quiet, both of you,” said Leopold. “Who has had access to this cell today?”

“Just the guy’s lawyer. And the other guy bringing food. Damn, how the hell he do that with a spork?”

Leopold noticed something on the floor and bent down for a closer look. “Plastic shards. The cutlery was snapped in two, with one end filed down into a point against the wall.”

“Jesus.”

“And who said anything about him doing this to himself?”

“What, you think someone else broke in and killed him with a spork?” Mary said. “I don’t see any signs of a struggle here. No defensive wounds. The guy knew we were on to him; maybe prison was too much for him to face. It’s not unheard-of.”

Leopold sniffed the air. “What’s that smell?”

“What smell?”

He turned to Jimmy. “You let people smoke in here?”

“Not since Bloomberg’s witch hunt. Why?”

“There’s the stink of tobacco smoke in here. You not getting it?”

“My sense of smell ain’t what it used to be. Two decades of industrial cleaning products will do that to you.”

Mary tipped her head and sniffed. “Yeah, I can smell it too. Kinda sweet. Not like cigarettes. Something else.”

Leopold froze. The hairs on the back of his neck prickled. He turned to Mary, his eyes wide.

“What is it?” she asked.

“I recognize the scent from before,” he said. “We’ve come across it twice already, and I never made the connection. The smell isn’t from cigarette smoke,” he pulled out his cell phone and dialed a number. “It’s from pipe tobacco.”

Leopold paced the office. Mary sat at her desk watching, nursing a mug of coffee.

“Want to run that by me again?” she said.

“Think, think, think,” he tapped his forehead with an index finger. “Tobacco smoke. The employee at the hotel reeked of it. At Biggs’ house, there was an old pipe spilling ash all over the place. Then again in the cells. All three times, the same smell.”

“Plenty of people smoke pipes.”

“You ever run into three different guys smoking the same flavored tobacco, all in the same day? Smelled like cherry to me.”

Mary blinked. “Okay, maybe not. Still, it’s not exactly groundbreaking evidence.”

“Not by itself. But sometimes the smaller things lead us to the bigger things. You checked Biggs’ file?”

“Yeah. Nothing much there we didn’t already know.”

“You got a photo?”

“The guy’s got no record. No photo, no prints, no DNA. Why?”

“Call it a hunch.” Leopold turned his cell phone’s speaker on and lay the handset down on the desk. It was playing a Muzak rendition of “Uptown Girl.” He pulled Mary’s keyboard toward him and leaned in to get a view of the computer monitor.

“What the hell are you doing?”

“Just bear with me.” He loaded up the internet browser and punched Biggs’ name and address into the search bar. A few dozen relevant results bounced back, the top ones belonging to various social media sites.

“This isn’t exactly the police database,” said Mary.

Leopold ignored her and clicked on the top result. “Look. Recognize this guy?” He pointed at an image of a gaunt, aging man with black skin and gray hair.

“No, should I?”

“What about these photos?” He opened up the other search results, all pictures of the same man.

“You’re kidding me,” she said.

“Afraid not.”

“The guy we spoke to in Brooklyn...”

“Wasn’t Biggs.”

“Shit.”

“Well put.”

“Then who the hell were we talking to?”

Leopold grinned. “My guess: if the pipe smoker was the inside man at the hotel, our fake Biggs was probably the one with the connections. You know, the middleman. He dispatched the real Biggs and waits at the apartment for the cops to show. That just leaves the brains.”

“Don’t get all Wizard of Oz on me,” said Mary. “You’re just guessing here. We’re going to need more than that.”

“You really think the fake Biggs, whatever his name is, had the mental capacity to pull something like this off?”

Mary folded her arms. “I’m no psychologist. How would I know.”

“You should learn to rely on your instincts. We both know there must have been someone else involved, someone who had working knowledge of the bank. Now that Creed is dead, our pool of suspects just got a little smaller.”

“Not small enough. We need more to work with.”

“I’m working on it.” He picked up his cell phone just as the Muzak stopped and a man’s voice came on the line. Leopold walked away from Mary’s desk, just out of earshot.

“Blake?” The voice was strongly accented, maybe Puerto Rican.

“Yes. You have the information I need?”

“Your contact had to work fast. He had to drop a lot of important clients.”

“He’ll be well compensated. I trust you’ll see to that. What have you got for me?”

“The wire transfer came from an account in the Cayman Islands. The corporation was a shell, as you might expect. We followed the trail through Geneva and then back west to the Caribbean.

“You got a company name for me?”

“Yeah. Umbrella corporation calls itself ‘Plutus Inc.’ I got a list of the directors and shareholders, though it’s pretty short.”

Leopold felt his pulse quicken. “Let me guess. Just two people? Share a surname?”

There was a pause on the line. “Yeah, how’d you know?”

“Let’s just call it instinct. Text me the names.” He hung up without waiting for a response and made his way back to Mary’s desk.

“Let me guess: another lead?” she said, downing the remains of her coffee.

“You could say that.” His cell phone vibrated and he held up the screen so Mary could see. “Somebody’s been very, very naughty.”

“Absolutely no freakin’ way,” said Captain Oakes. The captain stood up, slamming two heavy palms down onto his desk. “And who the hell is this guy?” he glanced at Leopold.

“Sir, Blake has been working with us on this case from the beginning,” said Mary. “He found a lead on the killer. We need to get out there.”

“And you want me to sign off on this? Based on what evidence?”

“We found data on Teddy Gordon’s hard drive that suggests several accounts at Needham Brothers were being scammed. We also know that Gordon was killed because of his connection with the fraudulent activity. We also believe that Vincent Creed was set up to take the fall by another party.”

Oakes slumped back into his seat. “You still haven’t got any proof. This is all a hunch.”

Leopold opened his mouth to speak, but Mary cut him off.

“We came across information regarding a substantial deposit made into Creed’s bank account on the day of Gordon’s murder,” she said. “This payment was sent to make Creed look more guilty. We traced the accounts to an umbrella corporation.”

“This is Plutus Inc.?”

“Yes, sir. ‘Plutus666’ is also the password that Teddy Gordon and his wife use on their home computer, the same computer where we found all the documents covering the scammed accounts at Needham. The Gordons did a good job of making it look like Creed had authored the files, but our tech teams managed to see past that.”

“That’s still not enough, Lieutenant. I can’t get you your warrant without something concrete linking Melissa Gordon to the murder.” He raised a chunky finger. “And don’t pretend you followed protocol on this one, Jordan. I don’t even want to know how you traced those accounts.”

“But sir, we need to bring Mrs. Gordon in. And we’ll need backup.”

“Denied.” The captain got to his feet again. “The DA is satisfied with the evidence against Creed and the medical examiner doesn’t believe there was any foul play. Get some evidence, then you get your warrant. Play by the rules or don’t play at all.” He aimed the last comment at Leopold. “Now get the hell out of my office.”

Leopold stormed ahead, leading the way back to the Mercedes where Jerome was waiting. Mary jogged to keep up.

“Hey, slow down,” she said, putting one hand on Leopold’s shoulder. “You heard the captain. We’re on our own.”

He stopped and took a deep breath. “It just seems that, no matter the environment, those who are most effective at setting up road blocks are the ones put in charge.” He exhaled. “No matter. We just need to find something we can use. Why didn’t you mention the fake Biggs?”

“What, and make us look even more incompetent? We need to go to Oakes and the DA with an ironclad case. That means we can’t rely on anything you found on social media or anything your network of hackers managed to get hold of. We need to do this by the book.”

“You’re with me on this.”

“Damn right,” she said. “Everything I’ve seen today, Melissa Gordon is the only suspect that makes any sense. She and her husband must have been running the scam for years. I guess he grew a conscience.”

“We need to get back inside her house,” said Leopold. “If we can find something to link her to the fake Biggs or the money transfers, we’ve got probable cause. A full forensic sweep of her computer accounts should tell us the rest, along with whatever scams Needham was running. We can end this whole thing today.”

“How do we get inside without a warrant?”

“Easy.” Leopold smiled. “We just ask.”

Jerome put his right foot to the floor and the Mercedes surged forward, throwing Leopold into the back of the passenger seat. A white van sounded its horn as Jerome steered over to the fast lane and cut it off. The bodyguard kept his foot planted and the irate driver was soon lost in the traffic behind them.

“You know, this is a terrible idea,” said Jerome.

“I know you think so,” said Leopold. “Though I’d appreciate it if you didn’t run us off the road before we find out for sure.”

“You should have waited for police backup.”

“That wasn’t an option. We can’t get any support without evidence, and this is the only way we’re going to find any.”

“Have you at least told anyone at the precinct where you’re going?”

“And risk them stopping us? No. We’re well and truly on our own this time. Think you can handle it?”

“Assuming you don’t do anything stupid.”

“No promises.”

Jerome grunted and undertook a slow-moving truck ahead, eliciting more honks of outrage. The exit that led toward Melissa Gordon’s brownstone loomed ahead and Jerome took it, slowing the car down to a more sensible speed.

“We’ll be there in two minutes,” said Jerome. “Get ready.”

The butler opened the door.

“May we come in?” asked Mary, holding up her NYPD shield. “We have a few follow-up questions.”

The butler eyed the trio disdainfully. “Is Mrs. Gordon expecting you?”

“No. This is quite urgent.”

“Please wait here.” He closed the door.

“Once we’re inside,” said Leopold, “I’ll need you to distract Mrs. Gordon while I take a look around. I’ll make up some excuse. Jerome, I’ll need you to stay with her.”

Jerome nodded.

“What will you be looking for?” said Mary. “We already have most of the stuff off her computer.”

“I’ll know it when I see it. Just keep her busy.”

The front door opened once again and the Butler waved them through. “Mrs. Gordon will see you in the drawing room,” he said. “Follow me.”

Melissa Gordon sat on the sofa, as before, with what looked like a gin and tonic in her hand. She sipped the drink as her guests entered and set the glass down on the coffee table.

“Detective. Mr. Blake.” She nodded at Mary and Leopold before looking up at Jerome. “I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure, Mr...?”

“It’s Jerome,” said Leopold. “Just Jerome.”

She smiled. “Please, have a seat.”

They obliged.

“Detective, I heard about the incident with Vincent Creed. After what he did to my husband, I hope you’ll forgive me for not getting too choked up about it.”

Mary nodded. “We’re all dedicated to justice here, Mrs. Gordon. I just had a few questions for you about Mr. Creed. We’re hoping to get this wrapped up pretty quickly.”

“Ask away.”

“We are aware of some inconsistencies in the way Needham Brothers were reporting profits for their clients. Were you aware of anything like that?”

Melissa Gordon sighed and took another sip of her drink. “I haven’t worked there in years. Teddy might have known, but I’m afraid I’m not part of that world any more. I can’t help you.”

“If you’ll excuse me,” said Leopold, getting to his feet, “do you mind if I use your bathroom? I’m sure Detective Jordan can continue in my absence. It’s been rather a long drive.”

“I suppose so.” She put her drink down. “The door nearest the porch. I assume you can find your way?”

“I’ll manage.” Leopold brushed past the butler, who had brought in a tray of tea, and made his way out of the room.

He passed through the hallway and skipped the bathroom, opening one of the doors opposite. The kitchen lay beyond, pristine with shiny granite countertops. A large steel oven took center stage. Toward the back, another door led through to what looked like a utilities room. The smell of freshly laundered clothes wafted through, along with the quiet rumble of what Leopold assumed was a dryer.

He stepped into the small room, avoiding the basket of laundry on the floor. A side door led out to the garden. It had been left open. Leopold crouched and peered through the clear window of the dryer, watching the clothes tumble around inside. The machine stopped. Within, Leopold could make out several pairs of jeans, some underwear, and something else. The material looked different, cheaper. He shuffled closer and opened the hatch, looking in. A dark blue outfit had risen to the top, a clear insignia inscribed on the breast:

“New York City Department of Corrections.”

Leopold closed up the dryer and got to his feet, feeling his heart begin to pound. The smell of laundry detergent was overwhelming, the thin breeze from the open door barely making a difference. There was another smell too; sickly sweet, like burned grass and...

Cherries.

There was a sound from behind and Leopold spun on his heels, hands raised in defense. A flash of movement caught him unaware and he felt something heavy connect with the side of his head. As he crumpled to the floor, Leopold saw the figure of an old man standing above him. The pain in his skull reached a crescendo and the man bent down.

And then darkness.

Leopold awoke with a blinding headache. He was sitting on something hard. As the pain subsided, he tried to stand—but found that he was unable to move. His body wasn’t playing ball. Everything looked blurry. The room was dark, no windows. It smelled damp.

“Welcome back, Mr. Blake.” Melissa Gordon’s voice came from behind.

Leopold blinked hard and his vision returned to normal.

“I should have warned you about snooping around,” Melissa continued. “Though I had hoped you would be smart enough to know not to go prying.”

Flexing his wrists, Leopold felt something dig into his skin. He glanced down and saw he was tied to a chair, plastic zip-ties holding his forearms to the frame. Looking around, he could make out two figures in the shadows in front of him. Another voice came from his left.

“This was a dumb-ass move, lady.” Mary’s speech was slurred. “I’m a cop. You’re going to have the entire NYPD hunting you down if you don’t let us go.”

Leopold turned his head. Mary had been placed behind him, at the edge of his field of vision. She was in a similar state, her wrists tied to a wooden chair. Craning his neck, Leopold saw Jerome sat a little further away, slumped in his seat, unconscious. His hands were also bound.

Melissa Gordon stepped out from the shadows and made her way to the front of the room. “Do you think I got where I am today without learning how to take precautions?” She smiled. “If you had any evidence against me, you would have brought your friends from the precinct. As it stands, I think it’s a safe assumption you’re here without any support.”

“They’ll work out what happened eventually,” said Mary. “You should let us go. Now.”

“If and when the police come knocking, they’ll find nothing but an empty basement. My colleagues,” she gestured toward the two figures, “took the liberty of going through your wallets. You’d be surprised what you can do with a credit card number. The police will be chasing you around the planet long after your bodies have rotted away.” She smiled again. “I’m afraid there really is no way out of this.”

“What did you do to Jerome?” asked Leopold, feeling his hands start to go numb.

One of the figures stepped into the light. Leopold recognized him as the fake Biggs, though he was now dressed in a smart suit.

“Your big friend didn’t want any tea,” he said. “So we had to be a little more forceful. He should wake up soon enough.”

“You drugged the tea?” said Mary.

“I slipped a little something into your cup after Mr. Blake wandered off and got himself into trouble,” said Melissa. “It seemed a more civilized alternative to a crowbar to the head. Please pass my apologies to your big friend when you get a chance.”

“Tell him yourself,” said Leopold. “I’m sure he’d love the opportunity to have a chat with you all.”

The second figure stepped forward. A thick scent of pipe tobacco clung to his shabby clothes and he held an iron crowbar in one hand. “I bet he would.”

“Look, are you planning on doing anything with us? Or is your evil plan to bore us to death?”

The man with the crowbar slapped Leopold across the face with the back of his hand. It stung like hell, reinvigorating the pain in his skull.

“James, calm down,” said Melissa. “We’re not animals.”

The man called James grunted and stepped back, tapping his crowbar against his leg in irritation.

Mrs. Gordon continued. “I need to know what you found out about Needham. Tell me everything and I’ll make sure this passes as painlessly as possible. Try to fight me and I’ll let James and Bobby have their way with you.” She glanced over at the two men. “And, trust me, you won’t like that.”

“Go to hell,” said Mary. “They’ll figure out what happened to Creed eventually. All they need to do is check the personnel records and they’ll know the usual guard never showed. Do you think they won’t figure it all out?”

“The guard we paid off will get his uniform and credentials back, any DNA evidence removed, of course, and nobody will be any the wiser. It’s a pity you showed up when you did—James was due to make the drop before three.” She glanced at her watch. “If the guard decides to cause problems, we’ll deal with him then. Though I suppose that’s not really your main concern right now, is it?” She took a step toward the door. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have work to do.”

There was a muffled grunt from behind. Jerome was waking up.

“Oh good,” Melissa said. “The whole gang’s here. James, Bobby—make sure our guests behave themselves.” She opened the door and swept out of the basement.

“What, no bad-guy speech?” said Leopold. “I was really looking forward to that. I’ve got to say, you’re all letting the team down.”

James slapped him across the cheek again. It stung even worse than before.

“Cut it out,” said Mary. “Just get this over with. Try to ignore him.”

“Don’t blame me,” said Leopold. “I’m not the one being unreasonable.” He looked up at James. “Just one question; why kill Teddy? He was your inside man. And the real Biggs, I’m guessing he’s buried somewhere out in New Jersey? Or is that too much of a cliché?”

The fake Biggs, the man called Bobby, stepped forward. “Jimmy doesn’t like to get involved in the details,” he said. “He really just enjoys the action, know what I mean? Speaking of which, if you’re going to play the smartass card, I might just let him have a little fun.”

“It’s a serious question,” said Leopold. “We can give you the information you want. I have it all on a pen drive. If you tell me what happened with Teddy, I can tell you where to look.”

Bobby sighed. “Fine. Just don’t fuck with me, got it? I can make the remaining hours of your life very miserable, so don’t tempt me.”

“Yeah, I got it.” Leopold turned to Mary. “You on board?”

“Whatever. It’s not like you could make things any worse.”

He turned to Jerome. “You awake yet?”

Jerome blinked hard and looked back at him. “Keep your voice down. I’ve got a splitting headache.”

“You remember that time we were in Brazil?” Leopold said. “Happy memories, right?”

“Yeah. Happy memories.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” said Mary.

“Nothing,” said Leopold. “Just trying to take our minds off the situation. I guess this is the wrong crowd, so I’ll get to the point.” He looked over at Bobby. “Why kill Teddy? He was your meal ticket, after all.”

Bobby folded his arms. “Don’t mess around.”

“I’m not messing around. I need to know what scam you were running. There was a lot of data on Gordon’s computer. I need to narrow it down.”

Bobby chewed his bottom lip. “Yeah, Teddy was a smart guy. But he was careless. He was the one who came up with a new market model—one that was more accurate than anything Needham had used before. Helped them make a shitload of cash by figuring out which direction the market was going.”

“And you used this to bet against the poor performers.”

“Damn right we did. And we managed to cover it up by moving losses around the balance sheets. Nobody had a clue.”

“Let me guess,” said Mary, “Teddy decided to call it a day?”

James snorted.

“You could say that,” said Bobby. “He found something in the formula. Something nobody else could see.”

“A way to scam even more money from innocent people?” said Mary.

Bobby laughed. “Innocent? You gotta be kidding. The market model Teddy had developed could accurately predict where the market was heading, but it was all based on the assumption that conditions kept stable. You know, that everyone paid their loans on time, kept buying shit they didn’t need. They called it the ‘volatility index’ or some shit like that.”

“And?”

“If the market conditions shift by more than fifteen percent in one week, the model is completely screwed. For a firm like Needham, if they see a big change in the market, even over a few days, they could lose everything.”

Mary shook her head. “How the hell would that work?”

“Investment banks trade on other people’s assets,” said Leopold. “They borrow money against stock they don’t actually own, so if the deal goes south, the bank is on the hook for the difference between the market value of the stock and the amount they borrowed against it. If the volatility index gets too high, they start owing money. Hundreds of millions of dollars just vanish from their books and the bank has to stop trading. That means anyone who’s invested with them risks losing everything. And I mean everything.”

“Jesus. This is why I keep my spare cash in the mattress.”

“Best place for it now,” said Bobby. “He figured this out weeks ago. He wanted to come clean, wanted the bank to try and fix the situation before it got out of hand. Naturally, we didn’t see eye to eye on that.” Bobby grinned.

“You just saw a way to make more cash,” said Leopold. “And now it’s too late. Something this big is going to go public. You knew your days of scamming Needham were over, so you had no need for Teddy. So you decided to tie up any loose ends, which, I’m guessing, included Vincent Creed.”

“Creed was the patsy,” said Bobby. “He was too frickin’ dumb to figure out what we were doing, but he made a perfect fall guy.” He stepped forward. “Now, we answered your damn question. Tell us what we need to know.”

Leopold glanced over at Jerome. The bodyguard blinked.

“Sorry, fellas,” said Leopold. “I was hoping you’d keep talking a little longer. I actually don’t have anything for you.” He shrugged. “I figured you to be the talkative types. My bad.”

Bobby looked at James and nodded. James cracked a smile. He walked casually toward Leopold, his crowbar in one hand. As he came within arm’s length, he drew back the weapon and held it over his head.

“Last chance, smart guy,” said Bobby. “Speak up, or we’ll start with your shins.”

Leopold sighed and looked over at Jerome.

“He ain’t gonna save you,” said Bobby.

The bodyguard shifted position in his chair. He shook his head.

“Looks like you’re right about that,” said Leopold.

“Hey, dumbass.” James brought the crowbar down hard, aiming for the shin. There was a dull crunch as the iron bar hit bone and Leopold fought hard to hold back a scream. The pain was immediate and overwhelming, as though a firecracker had gone off in his skull.

“You’re gonna answer Bobby’s goddamn question or I’m gonna hack your freakin’ leg off.” James kicked Leopold’s ruined leg with his right boot to prove his point.

The agony peaked. Tears streaming down his face, Leopold bit his lip and tried to clear his mind—an ancient meditation technique that supposedly made a person immune to pain.

It didn’t work.

“You got any more wisecracks, asshole?” James said, brandishing the crowbar. “Or we gonna start on the other leg?”

“Wait, wait,” Leopold said, barely able to get the words out. He looked over at Jerome again. The bodyguard nodded.

“Last chance,” Bobby said.

Leopold tilted his head up. “Go screw yourselves.”

James smiled and lifted the crowbar. As he brought the weapon down, a grunt of pain from the back of the room caught him by surprise. He froze. “What the f—”

In one fluid movement, Jerome tipped himself backward, flipping over the back of his chair. He landed silently and drew up to his full height, his right arm hanging at a strange angle. He held the heavy chair out in front of him. Before James or Bobby could react, Jerome charged across the basement floor and swung the chair around, narrowly missing Leopold’s head. The wooden frame smashed into James’ shoulder, sending him tumbling across the room and into the back wall. His head smacked against the bricks.Bobby took a step backward, his palms raised. “Listen, buddy, don’t do anything stupid. I got money.” He backed up against the bricks. “I’m just a middleman, this was all her idea, I don’t...”

He never finished his sentence. Jerome brought the chair around once again and smashed Bobby over the head, splintering the wood. Bobby hit the floor hard. He didn’t get up.

“Jesus, are you okay? What the hell did you do to your arm?” said Mary, straining against her zip ties.

“Is he okay?” said Leopold. “I’m the one with a shattered leg.” He winced as the pain in his shins reached an all-time high.

“I dislocated my shoulder. It’s a little trick I learned when I was younger,” said Jerome, pulling apart the remnants of the wooden chair. “I tried to teach Leopold, but he wasn’t exactly a model student.”

“Let me guess—Brazil, right?”

“Right.”

“Doesn’t it hurt?” asked Mary.

“Hurts like hell. I just choose not to be a baby about it.” He looked down at Leopold. “Speaking of which, I assume you’re not going to be able to walk?”

“Good guess.”

“Let me out of here. We’ll carry him,” said Mary.

Jerome nodded and walked over to the edge of the room. He took a deep breath and slammed his dislocated shoulder into the wall. He let out a quiet grunt as it popped back into the socket.

“I’m ready.” He flexed his right arm a few times. “We’ll lock up on our way out. I assume you’ll call this in?”

“With pleasure,” said Mary.

“Then let’s get out of here. We’ve got one more loose end to tie up.”

Leopold hopped up the basement stairs on one leg, supported by Mary and Jerome. They reached the hallway and found it deserted.

“You going to call for backup anytime soon?” said Leopold, trying to ignore the searing pain in his shin. “It’s about time the NYPD started pulling their weight.”

“You know, for a genius, you really aren’t that smart,” said Mary. “They took our cell phones, remember? And before you think of anything else clever to say, just bear in mind I’m holding you up here.”

“Try the land line.”

“Hey, if you can find the damn thing, be my guest. But, in case you’d forgotten, we’ve got a homicidal she-demon to track down. Who knows what someone with her money has access to? She could be halfway to Canada by now.”

Leopold opened his mouth to reply, but a loud noise cut him off. Outside on the street, the unmistakable sound of a large engine revving to the redline and the squeal of spinning tires.

“She sounds like she’s at least got access to a car,” said Jerome. “And unless you happen to know her license plate, we’re gonna need to get moving.” He lunged toward the front door, dragging Leopold and Mary behind him.

“Ow, Jesus!” Leopold buckled under his ruined leg.

“Stop being such a girl,” said Mary, trying to keep up.

Jerome charged through the doorway and on to the sidewalk, the others barely slowing him down. They reached the Mercedes and clambered inside. Jerome gunned the engine and slammed his right foot to the floor, wrenching the steering wheel to the side. The car executed a perfect donut, throwing up a plume of white smoke. Now facing the right direction, the bodyguard followed the tire tracks left by Melissa’s car and took off in pursuit. After less than thirty seconds, he slammed on the brakes.

The traffic on Fifth Avenue was jammed, as usual. A sea of yellow cabs blocked most of the lanes and pedestrians weaved in and out of the stationary traffic. On the far side of the road, horse-drawn carriages filed in and out of Central Park.

“What now?” said Mary. “This car got a phone?”

“Just a Bluetooth connection,” said Jerome. “Needs a handset to work.”

“Well, then we’re just shit out of luck. All this fancy equipment and we can’t even call for help.”

“We’ll just have to do this the old-fashioned way,” said Leopold. He could feel the pain in his leg start to throb. He couldn’t feel his feet.

“Great. Just great.”

“Use your eyes. Look for anything out of place.”

Mary looked out the window. “All I see is cabs. And those damn horses.”

“Look harder.”

“I’m looking, I’m looking. Wait...” she pointed. “There.”

Leopold leaned over and glanced out the window. Across the street, a sleek Aston Martin convertible was parked on the curb. It looked empty.

“She’s in the park,” he said. “She’s on foot. We need to move.” He sucked in a deep breath and reached over Mary, opening the car door. “Come on, you’re going to have to help me over the street.”

“You’re insane. How the hell are you going to catch up with her in your condition?”

“Just help me out the goddamn car.”

“Jesus, fine.” She slung his right arm over her shoulder and climbed out. Jerome turned off the engine and joined them, holding up the other side.

“Faster. That way.” Leopold pointed toward the gates.

“Just shut up and hobble.”

They crossed the road in a hurry, ignoring the angry honks and profanities from the frustrated drivers trapped in their cars. They reached the sidewalk and Leopold kept hopping, driving all three of them toward an empty horse and carriage. The driver looked up as they approached.

“We need a ride,” said Leopold, slipping off his watch. “Here, take this. It’s a Rolex.”

The man stared back at him, wide-eyed.

“It’s worth ten grand. Take it.” He thrust the watch into the driver’s hand. “Just drive.”

The man nodded profusely and clambered into the buggy. Leopold, Mary, and Jerome followed, settling in to the uncomfortable seats in the back.

“Just head into the park,” said Leopold, shouting over the noise of the traffic. “We’ll tell you when to turn off. Go!”

The driver jostled the reins and they set off at walking pace.

“Move faster!” Leopold banged on the wood.

“I can’t, it’s the law.”

“Screw the law.” He felt Mary jab him in the ribs with her elbow and he winced. “Sorry. There’s another five grand in it for you.”

“I’m a cop,” Mary said, taking over. “Don’t worry about causing a scene. In fact, it would help us if you attracted as much attention as possible. And I’ll make sure you get your money, don’t worry.”

“You’re the boss.” The driver coaxed the horse into a brisk canter and they picked up speed. Several people shouted abuse as they were forced to duck out of the way. The scenery whipped past outside and Leopold strained his eyes for a glimpse of Melissa Gordon. He gritted his teeth as the clatter of the horse’s hooves reinvigorated the pain in his skull.

“How the hell are we going to find her in this crowd?” Mary asked.

“The park’s full of tourists and joggers,” said Leopold, raising his voice above the cacophony. “Use your eyes, like I told you. Everyone is wearing sweat pants or shorts, maybe a baseball cap if they’re feeling dressy—it should be easy enough to spot a woman in two-thousand-dollar Chanel and four-inch heels.” He pointed outside. “Look, over there.”

Ahead, the path veered off to the right. Most of the pedestrians were heading in the opposite direction, toward what looked like a farmers’ market. A brass band was set up in the middle of the lawn, playing some kind of Dixieland melody that Leopold couldn’t quite make out over the noise of the horseshoes on the asphalt.

“Turn right here,” said Leopold, addressing the driver. “And don’t slow down.” He felt the carriage tip to the left as they swerved.

“We’re going the wrong way,” said Mary. “She’ll hide in the crowd.”

“This woman is on the run—instinct is taking over. Trust me, she’ll aim for the most secluded route out of here. And that’s where I’m taking us.” He felt the buggy hit a pothole and nearly slammed his head into the ceiling.

“I hope you’re right. By the time I find a cell phone and get a unit over here...” She paused mid-sentence. “Wait a minute, what’s that?”

Leopold squinted through the gap in the carriage, looking past the driver out front. Ahead, a figure was speed walking in bare feet, a pair of high heels clutched in one hand. A woman, dressed in expensive clothes. She turned her head as they drew closer.“That’s her!” Mary shouted. She instinctively reached for her hip. “Dammit.”

“We can do this without resorting to firearms,” said Leopold.

“Says the man with the shattered leg.”

“Your legs look pretty good to me.”

“Flattery will get you nowhere.”

He rolled his eyes. “You got this or not?”

“Relax,” said Mary. “The bitch is mine. Just get me close enough.” She assumed a crouching position near the doorway and knocked on the wood. “Keep it steady.”

“Doing the best I can,” the driver shouted back. “Just don’t mess up my cart.”

Ahead, Melissa started to run. Her pace was surprisingly quick given her bare feet.

“Dammit, she’s seen us.” Mary grabbed hold of the door frame and tensed. “Can’t this thing go any faster?”

The driver yelled something Leopold couldn’t make out and he felt the buggy lurch as their speed increased.

“That’s it. Keep her steady.”

The noise of the horse’s hooves on the path intensified. They drew closer. Mary was almost hanging out of the carriage, a look of intense concentration on her face. They were almost level with their target.

“Now!” Mary leapt from the buggy as they pulled within a few feet, her arms spread wide open. She landed hard, knocking Melissa onto the ground. Leopold heard a shriek of pain and saw the two women tumble over a grassy bank and into a ditch. They disappeared from sight.

“Stop the cab,” he shouted. The driver obliged and Leopold almost fell out of his seat as the buggy screeched to a halt. His injured leg hit the wall of the compartment, sending more firecrackers off in his head.

“You all right?” Jerome asked, lifting his boss up under the arm.

“Yeah, I’ll live. You haven’t got any morphine on you, by any chance?”

“Over there.” Jerome ignored him, pointing toward a wooded area twenty feet away. “Feeling up to some exercise?”

Before Leopold could reply, Jerome grabbed ahold of him and clambered out of the carriage, setting off at a jog with his employer in tow. They reached the grass in just a few seconds—despite repeated pleas from Leopold to leave him behind—and Jerome let go.

“Jesus, you trying to cripple me permanently?” Leopold leaned against the bodyguard for support. “Can you see anything?”

A muffled grunt and a rustle of branches answered his question. A few feet ahead, Melissa Gordon stumbled backward out of a hedge and toppled onto her back. A split second later, Mary burst out of the shrubbery and landed on top, pinning her to the ground.

“Looks like she’s got it under control,” said Leopold. “Maybe we should just stay here.”

Jerome looked down at him. “And this has nothing to do with you not wanting to get your ass kicked?”

“Of course not. I just don’t want to interfere with police business, that’s all.”

Melissa grunted as Mary held her arms down, preventing her from rolling over.

“You have the right to remain silent,” said Mary, as her quarry squirmed and tried to spit in her face. “You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford one, the court will appoint one for you.”

“I’ll kill you, you little bi—”

Mary slapped Melissa across the face with the back of her hand. “You have the right to shut the hell up,” she said, using her knees to keep Melissa from rolling away. “Any other dumbass thing you do say can be used against you as evidence. Now, do you understand your goddamn rights?”

Melissa snarled and tried to push Mary away, to little effect. She let out a scream of frustration.

“I’ll take that as a ‘yes’.”

Leopold looked up at Jerome. “See, nothing to worry about.”

The NYPD forensic team didn’t take long to crack Melissa Gordon’s computer passwords. After less than an hour, they had scoured the contents of her home and remote hard drives—giving Mary enough evidence to agree a formal charge with the DA over the phone. They found incriminating emails, client records, phone calls, money transfers, bank accounts. More than enough to guarantee a speedy trial. James and Bobby were brought in after a brief trip to the emergency room, and all three had opted to keep their mouths shut during interrogation.

Not that it made any difference.

Leopold and Jerome waited in the viewing room, watching Mary interview Melissa. After some medical attention and enough painkillers to keep him from passing out, Leopold had opted to stick around. The Gordon family attorney was present, dressed in an immaculate suit and looking uncomfortable as hell. He advised his client to keep quiet. Leopold knew Mary wasn’t going to let that stand for much longer.

“Understand me, Mrs. Gordon. This doesn’t end well for you,” said Mary, her voice clear as a bell through the interrogation room speakers. “You scammed people out of millions of dollars. Important people. You killed two men—your husband and Joseph Biggs. You tried to kill three others, including me. We have enough to push for a federal case here and there’s only one deal on the table. If you play ball, the district attorney will recommend a custodial sentence. If not, it’s the death penalty. The DA has a lot of pull, so his word goes a long way.” She paused. “Do you really want to die, Melissa?”

The lawyer twitched. “Don’t answer that.” He looked straight at Mary. “Keep to the point, Detective.”

“Fine.” Mary leaned on the table with both hands. “I’ll make it real simple. Before he died, Teddy Gordon discovered a financial model that could predict market behavior with greater accuracy. He figured out a shit storm is heading our way and he thought it was important enough to risk losing everything to make sure people knew about it. We want you to give us the formula. Tell us where you hid the files.”

Melissa smiled. “The mayor is getting pressure from Wall Street and he wants me to help, is that it? Maybe you should tell me why the hell I should care.”

“You should care because it means you get to live.”

“I get to spend the rest of my life in prison? That’s no kind of life.”

Mary sighed and took a seat opposite. “You know what the lethal injection does to a person, Mrs. Gordon?”

“Detective,” the lawyer said, “we can end this interview right now. Keep the questions relevant to the case.”

“This is relevant to the case,” said Mary. “I want your client to understand the ramifications of her decision. Or would you prefer she remain uninformed?”

The lawyer frowned.

“I didn’t think so.” She turned back to Melissa. “You’ll spend at least six years after the trial waiting on death row. Your lawyers will appeal, of course, but the chances of a repeal or a stay of execution are less than 1%. You’ll have to deal with the stress and disappointment of six years’ of failed attempts to save your life.” She leaned in close. “And when the day finally comes, you’ll be led into a sealed room where your family and a few witnesses will be sat watching you through a window. You’ll be strapped to a bed. Three injections will be administered. They’ll stop your heart and lungs from working. And then you’ll be gone.”

Melissa didn’t respond.

“Is that the end you really want? Six years spent waiting to die, in a cell by yourself? To die like a coward?”

After a moment of silence, Melissa turned to her lawyer. “Get out,” she said.

“You can’t be serious,” the attorney said.

“Bill, I’m telling you to get the hell out. Go wait in the hall. Have a cigarette or something.”

The lawyer left the room.

“You got something to say?” Mary said.

“Tell me the deal.”

“You give us the market model. The DA recommends a custodial sentence. We put in a good word with the Bureau of Prisons, maybe get you somewhere with a little sunshine.”

“And if I refuse?”

“You’ll spend the next six to ten years locked up in the worst shit-hole supermax we can find, waiting to die. The choice is yours.”

Melissa ground her teeth and stared at the floor. “It’s not much of a choice.”

“It’s not supposed to be.” Mary made her way to the door. “You have five minutes to decide.”

“I’m guessing she caved?” Leopold caught up with Mary at her desk. “Although I wouldn’t need to guess if you’d let me hang around to watch.”

“Melissa Gordon’s lawyer found out you were spying. He insisted.”

“Fine, fine. Did you get the files?”

She held up a USB micro drive. “Damn straight.”

“A job well done. What’s the captain going to do with it?” He took the drive out of Mary’s hand and held it up under the light.

“Those aren’t for you,” she said. “The evidence will be authenticated by a representative from each of the top financial institutes. If it’s real, the decision will fall to the mayor. The SEC will probably get involved.”

“What about the public?”

“I don’t know; it’s not my call. The captain seems to think if the general public finds out, there will be mass panic. You know, people rushing to withdraw all the cash from their accounts. That sort of thing.”

“If what Teddy predicted was going to happen actually does happen, maybe that would be the smartest thing to do.”

“Well, maybe. Who knows? It’s not our decision to make.” She held out her hand. “I’ll need that back.”

“Heads up.” Leopold smiled and tossed the drive back. “So, what’s to become of Melissa Gordon?”

“The DA already signed the paperwork. She’ll serve a life sentence, no parole. The lawyer wasn’t happy.”

“I bet he wasn’t. He probably could have pushed for a better deal.”

“You’re right there,” she said. “The mayor is practically salivating over this market model. She could have done much better. Thankfully, she’s where she belongs.”

“Wall Street always did support the mayor’s policies on corporate taxation,” said Leopold. “I’m sure they’ll stand to profit from Teddy’s work. Even if everyone else has to suffer for it.”

“Like I said, not our call.” Mary looked up at Leopold, a hint of concern in her eyes. “This bothers you, doesn’t it?”

“What, the banks making cash out of everyone else’s misfortunes? I can’t say it appeals to me, no. If Teddy was right and this storm is coming, all we’re doing here is giving the financial institutions notice to dump their bad investments. It’s delaying the inevitable. And who the hell gave them the right to come out of this any better?”

“What’s the alternative?”

“If the news went public, we could recover. It might take a few years, but we’d get there. If we keep this secret and let the banks work their accounting scams, millions will lose everything. The economy will dry up and investment will move overseas. Other nations will start calling in their tabs. Entire cities will be forced to declare bankruptcy. Healthcare will be a mess. The government itself could shut down.”

Mary sighed. “It’s pointless speculating.”

“I’m not speculating. I’ve seen the numbers in the Needham accounts. If Teddy’s formula is accurate, and the DA seems to think it is, we’ve already reached the tipping point. It’s already happening.”

“Maybe it is.” Mary stood up. “And maybe it isn’t. But its not our job to make this decision. I’m taking this to the captain and then I’m going home. It’s been a long day.”

Leopold nodded. “Fine. I guess you’re right. I’m going to go home too.” He turned to leave. “Goodnight, Detective Jordan.”

“Goodnight, Mr. Blake.”

Leopold made his way to the exit. One hand thrust deep into his pocket cradled a USB drive, one that looked almost identical to the one currently in Mary’s possession. But there was one key difference. Leopold’s version wasn’t completely wiped.

He allowed himself a smile. The mayor was not going to be happy.

The glow of the computer monitors hurt Leopold’s eyes. It was past midnight and he was at home, going through the contents of the filched USB drive. The situation was worse than he had expected. Using Needham’s numbers as a starting point, the math didn’t lie. Any lingering doubts were now grim certainties.

There was a faint noise from behind and Leopold spun around in his chair. Jerome stood in the doorway to the study. He flicked on a light.

“You’ve been sitting up here in the dark for hours,” he said, stepping inside.

“I hadn’t noticed.”

“You have a visitor.”

“Let me guess...”

Jerome nodded. “Detective Jordan. She’s not happy.”

“She come alone?”

“Yes.”

“Good, then I’m probably not going to get arrested tonight. Send her up.”

“She’s waiting in the hall.”

“Then tell her to come through.” He took a deep breath. “Oh, and give us a little privacy. This might take a while.”

Jerome left. A few seconds later, Mary appeared. She looked pissed.

“Come in, take a seat,” said Leopold, gesturing toward a set of armchairs in the corner. Mary obliged.

“You were expecting me,” she said, as Leopold sat down opposite.

“I had a feeling you’d drop by, yes.”

“You switched the pen drives. When we were talking earlier—you slipped me a blank one. Give it back.”

Leopold leaned forward in his seat. “I would never do such a thing.” He smiled. “But, if I did take Teddy’s files I can assure you it would have been for noble reasons.”

“Drop the bullshit. You’ve got millions tied up in the stock market; you’re just covering your ass.”

“On the contrary. Unlike most, I choose not to keep all my eggs in one basket. Sure, I might take a hit, but the impact will be minimal, I assure you. What concerns me is the effect this is all going to have on people like you.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“Look, these analysts you’ve called in to help—what do you think they’re going to do once they authenticate the source? They’ll run on home to their bosses and spill their guts. The banks will dump their stock and tie up their capital somewhere else, meaning the people who invested with them stand to lose a fortune.”

“So what? I don’t invest in the stock market.”

“No, but you can bet your ass the banks that control your savings and pension do,” said Leopold. “Once they’ve been cleaned out, what do you think happens to your money? It goes right back into the pockets of the guys that screwed you over in the first place.”

Mary frowned. “My money is safe. Not that there’s much of it, but it’s safe.”

“It’s happened before,” Leopold continued. “In 1901 and again in 1929. You ever heard of The Great Depression? What about 1937, 1987, and 1989? Then again and again, every few years. And that’s just in this country. Each and every time, regular people were hit the hardest—they lost everything. This time it’s no different, except now we have a chance to warn people. Give them the ability to prepare for the inevitable, maybe make their lives a little easier. It’s not going to be pretty, but it’s a damn sight better than letting the banks have their way.”

“What were you planning on doing, Leopold?”

He sat back. “If the media got hold of this information, we’re all on equal footing. No special treatment for the banks. People can make arrangements, hopefully mitigate the impact. Maybe even keep their homes, keep their jobs.”

“And the banks?”

“They’re doomed anyway. The smart ones will bounce back, the others... well, suffice to say, there’s very little they can do about it now. Giving them access to Teddy’s work is only going to allow them to pad their directors’ wallets before the doors shut for good. You really think they deserve to be treated better than everyone else?”

“What I think doesn’t matter.”

“Yes it does, Mary. You’re a cop—it’s your job to protect the people. That means not letting the bad guys win if you can stop them. That’s what’s happening here. Are you telling me you can’t see it?”

Mary shifted uncomfortably in her seat.

“When the dust settles, the SEC is going to figure out what happened. But by the time they get enough evidence together, most of these bastards will be out of their reach. If we act now, we can at least guarantee some kind of justice.”

“But the mayor...”

“Nobody will know the source of the leak, I guarantee it. None of this will be traced back to you. Melissa Gordon will spend the rest of her life in jail for her part in this—but it’s time to cast the net wider. This is your chance to do the right thing.”

“I don’t know what the right thing is any more,” said Mary.

“You do. You know it in your gut. These people we’re talking about—they stand to make a fortune out of ruining the lives of millions. Are you going to sit back and let that happen?”

“You know, for someone with such loose morals, you’re actually not completely rotten inside,” Mary said, getting up.

“Thanks. That’s the nicest thing you’ve said to me since we met.”

“Don’t get used to it.”

“So what are you going to do?”

“The mayor is expecting the micro drive with Teddy Gordon’s files by three a.m. So long as it arrives on time, I don’t think there’s anything I need to worry about.”

Leopold smiled. “I’ve got a feeling that won’t be a problem.”

“And if the media does get hold of the story, and it leaks on the national news, there really isn’t anything I can do about it, is there?”

“Good,” said Leopold. “Because I already sent the email.”

Mary opened her mouth to say something but the words never came out. She shook her head.

“What?”

“You know, I was wrong about you,” she said, heading for the door. “I take it all back. You really are a total asshole.”

“Coming from you, that’s almost a compliment.” He got to his feet. “It was a pleasure working with you, Detective Jordan.”

“Let’s not make a habit out of it.”

He took a step toward the doorway. “I had a brief chat with Captain Oakes. He agrees we make a good team. I suggested we might make use of our respective talents again in the future.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“Nothing,” he held up his hands. “I merely suggested that the Blake Foundation is looking for some charitable causes to support. And I pointed out that the NYPD annual fundraiser is just around the corner.”

Mary clenched her teeth. “Get to the point.”

“Let’s just say, I’ve enjoyed our time together and I’m looking forward to our next case.” He smiled. “Hey, maybe they’ll get me a desk near yours.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“Is that any way to talk to your new partner?”

“Go to hell, Blake.” She stormed out, slamming the door behind her. Her footsteps echoed through the corridors of the penthouse. He heard the front door slam shut. A few seconds later, Jerome appeared. He peeked his head through.

“How’d it go?” he asked.

Leopold pulled down a bottle of whiskey and a crystal tumbler from the bookcase and settled back into his armchair. He looked up at Jerome and poured himself a drink.

“Better than I thought,” he said.

Later that Morning

Martin Parks always came in early. As a senior analyst at Needham Brothers, one of the top New York boutique investment firms, he was expected to put in a good deal of face time with the junior staff—and that meant beating them to the coffee machine. But today had been a little different. Instead of rising at six a.m. and getting into the office at seven, Martin had awoken to the sound of his cell phone going off at a little after four thirty.

Apparently, it was all hands on deck.

Forty minutes later, Martin had showered, dressed, and caught a cab to the office. Now, just as the first hints of dawn were visible over the horizon, the senior vice president of trading was gathering his people and preparing to give a speech. That was never a good sign.

Straightening his tie, Martin made his way toward the mass of people, keeping his ears open for any snippets of conversation that might explain what was going on. As he passed by his boss’ office door, he felt someone grab hold of his arm.

“Parks, get the hell in here.” Ryan Gibbs, Martin’s immediate superior, pulled him inside the room.

“Jesus, Gibbs. What’s going on? This a fire drill or what?”

His boss’ office was a mess of paperwork—client files stacked knee-high all over the floor, the desk a clutter of stationery and disposable coffee cups. The blinds were pulled shut over the plate glass windows, shutting out the glare of the city lights.“The whole floor’s being let go,” said Gibbs, collapsing into his ergonomic chair. “We’re screwed. This is it.”

“What the hell are you talking about? Is this something to do with Creed and whatever the hell he and Gordon were mixed up in?”

Gibbs fished a pack of cigarettes out of his desk draw. He studied the pack carefully but didn’t open it. “I’m talking about the end of the world as we know it,” he smiled, a slightly manic expression on his face. “The shit’s about to hit the fan, and guess where we’re standing.”

“Speak English, Ryan. What’s going on?”

“It’s going to be headline news in a couple hours. Our analysts have done the math. The board of directors has been here all night. Hell, I’ve been awake for thirty hours. The numbers don’t lie.”

“What numbers? What are you talking about?”

“A few months ago, we stumbled across a piece of information. It was a formula, a market model. Similar to the ones we use every day. Except this one was more accurate. We trialed it, made a freakin’ fortune. Problem is, we didn’t figure the market would shift more than a few points in a given week. We were wrong.”

“Yeah, so what? Happens all the time.”

“Not by thirty percent, Parks. Over the last month.”

Martin’s jaw dropped.

“You see what I’m getting at?” Gibbs said. “We used the new model to make smart buys. But we monitored the volatilities with our old model. Like some freakin’ amateurs, we didn’t notice until it was too late. We’re leveraged up the ass, Parks.”

“How bad?”

“Let’s just put it this way—our liabilities will exceed the value of our assets if we don’t unload everything in the next six hours.”

“We’ll get shut down.”

“That’s not the worst of it,” Gibbs said. “If we try to unload our stock now, before the value tanks, people are going to notice. We’ll have started a chain reaction.”

“What are we going to do?”

“The board voted last night. That’s why we’re all here.”

“They’re going to dump the stock.” Parks knew the answer already.

Gibbs nodded, staring intently at the packet of cigarettes. “Carson is going to brief you all. The first few hours are the most crucial. If we don’t sell the bulk of our options before lunch, the buyers will catch on and run for the hills.”

“They want us to sell the stock, knowing it’s going to tank?”

“They’re offering a bonus for the entire floor if we get this done on time. One mil each. Plus another mil each if we hit ninety cents on the dollar.”

Parks leaned against the desk, his head spinning. “This is a lot to take in.”

“Get your head around it quick, son. This is happening. Right now.” Gibbs stuffed the unopened packet of smokes into his jacket pocket and stood up. “Fair warning. Get your head straight.” He escorted Martin out the door. “And put on your game face.”

Martin paused in the doorway. “Wait a minute. You said you found this new model months ago? Why are we only just figuring out the problem now?”

“Some people asked questions at first, but I guess nobody wanted to hear it. The signs were all there, but we were all too busy riding the high to notice. The alarm bells started ringing when one of our biggest accounts pulled out their entire portfolio. Happened yesterday evening, pretty late. Obviously, that got people asking questions. Made us look at the numbers properly.”

“Which account?”

Gibbs leaned against the doorframe. “Blake Investments. They cleared out their stock options pretty much across the board.”

“Guess they saw this coming.”

“Yeah, and they left it ‘til the last minute to do anything. Could have given us a heads up. Instead, the bastards hung us out to dry.” Gibbs shook his head. “Carson’s getting ready. You need to go. Good luck.” He shut the door and disappeared back into his office, probably to sneak a cigarette.

Martin felt his throat close up. It was all over. Less than five years and his career was done—and two million dollars wouldn’t last long. Not in this town. Not after the IRS took half and the rest went on the house. Not with school loans. Not with car payments.

Across the office, Senior Vice President Jack Carson stood with his back to the window. With the sun coming up behind him through the tall glass, he was surrounded by an aura of light. Like some kind of bizarre angel. Or a prophet. Or a demon. Either way, Martin knew, in the next few minutes everything was going to change—and he’d better be ready for it.

The senior VP held up both hands. The room fell silent. Carson addressed the floor. Martin listened, feeling the tension in the air. The words were carefully chosen but, somehow, hearing Carson say them had a deeper impact than Martin had expected. There were hurried whispers in the audience. Looks of shock and surprise. The curtain had been pulled back, revealing a sham—one that an entire office of people had given their careers to support. And their leader, the man charged with guiding them through the storm, was selling out.

The whispers grew louder and Carson finished. He looked around at the worried faces. “I can’t pretend this won’t be difficult,” he said. “But we’re survivors. We’re warriors. You’re the best of the best and I have every confidence in you.” He waited as the murmurs died down.

“Are there any questions?”

_______

Nick Stephenson is an Amazon Kindle Bestselling author of mysteries and thrillers. To find out more information about Nick Stephenson’s work and other books featuring Leopold Blake, you can visit his website at: http://www.nickstephensonbooks.com

Turn the page to continue, or click the link to go back to the Table of Contents.

Loose Ends

A California Corwin Mystery Thriller

By David VanDyke

With a clear docket and hope for a new case, I reached down to flip the drop box open, the one inside my Mission District office off of Valencia. The sounds and smells of San Francisco streets faded behind me as the door swung shut and latched automatically, a feature that said a lot about the neighborhood. If people wanted in to California Investigations, they had to buzz, or have a key.

Typical Monday mail. Bills, junk, bills. As I sorted, a business card fluttered to the floor. Bending over, I used my left forefinger’s sharp nail to lift it off the tile floor, then held it up with my thumb tip while I walked over to my desk. Never know where stuff has been.

On the front, the card read Miranda Sorkin, Pharm.D, with the phone number printed beneath it hastily scribbled out and obscured with ballpoint. I turned it over.

Cole said you can help—PLEASE CALL RIGHT AWAY and a Marin number scrawled across the back of the stiff cream stock, in a hand that was probably neat on most days, but not this time. This time it seemed shaky, anxious, like a woman in trouble might write. I was no expert, but as a former cop of almost a decade’s experience I boasted a passing familiarity with all of the forensic disciplines, including handwriting analysis.

And I got these vibes sometimes, ever since the bomb. The blast had left me with nerve damage in my right hand, put some scars on the far right side of my face and rang my bell but good. Ever since, I got the occasional flash of weird insight. My new-age hippie mother said “the spirits” had given me something supernatural in return for their pound of flesh, but I didn’t believe it. If anything, my brain had been rewired, and not necessarily for the better.

It was nice to get a line on a new case on a Monday, especially from Cole Sage. The journalist had sent me more than one lucrative commission, and I appreciated it, even if I couldn’t get him to take a serious look at me, what with him always drooling over that Sausalito houseboat hottie.

I sighed. Men.

Taking off my classic-cut gray blazer, I hiked the automatic holstered at my left hip so it didn’t catch on the arm of the old captain’s chair behind my oaken desk. I tossed the jacket on the sofa to my left and reached for the phone on my desk.

When I was in my office, I used my landline as much as possible. It had certain advantages, one of which was the custom-made device it sat on that recorded everything—incoming, outgoing, voice, numbers dialed, messages, the works.

My tech guy Mickey says by 2010 everyone was going to ditch their landlines in favor of wireless, but that was a handful of years away, and I didn’t believe it anyway. He still thinks flying cars are just around the corner. I chalked that up to the same fantasy that promised honest politicians and cheap gas.

I dialed the number on the card.

“Good morning, Ms. Sorkin. This is Cal Corwin of California Investigations,” I said as soon as I heard a woman’s voice on the other end. “You said Cole Sage referred me? How may I help you?”

Silence. Then, “I thought Cole said you were...”

“A man? It’s all right. I get that all the time.” I had a dozen different responses to that reaction ranging from polite to withering. With potential clients, I played nice. “Is that an issue? I have men among my employees, fit for any necessary role.” Not strictly true—the employee part, that was. More like regular freelancers.

“Yes, uh...I have a serious problem, and I need your help.” The woman sounded mid-young, thirties perhaps, like me.

“I’m in my office. Come on by.”

“Ms. Corwin—”

“California. Just call me Cal. Everyone does.”

“All right, uh...Cal. Call me Mira. I thought this was going to be discreet, and I can’t leave my home.”

Thought it was going to be discreet? What is that supposed to mean? And it sounded like she didn’t believe Cal was my real name. What did Cole tell Mira about me? I brushed my dark brown bob back behind my left ear, a nervous habit, and asked, “Can you explain what this is about?”

“Not over the phone. This is a prepaid cell but I want to talk face to face. I want to see what kind of person you are.”

I shrugged mentally. Clients were quirky sometimes, but as long as they paid... “All right. Where are you?”

Mira gave a Mill Valley address and then said, “I’m not entirely sure they aren’t watching the house. I’ll leave the back gate open and you can come in there if you don’t mind.”

I paused a moment as I wrote it down, long enough for Mira to ask, “Did you hear?”

“Yes. I’ll do my best to be discreet. See you within an hour.” I put the phone down, and rather than leaping up to go, let myself think for a few minutes.

A house in Marin County’s Mill Valley meant upper middle class, except for a few older folks that bought long ago and didn’t sell out to the yuppies. Across the Golden Gate Bridge from the City, Marin was upscale for even its downscale residents, rivalled only by San Francisco proper in the price of housing. Mira’s accent had been pure West Coast, though without the stereotypical Valley-hippie-airhead tones the rest of the country associated with California.

The state, not me.

Someone was watching, Mira seemed to think, perhaps tapping her phone or the house itself, and she worried enough to try a bit of cloak and dagger. I tried to tease out more observations, Sherlock Holmes style, but couldn’t come up with anything. I was throwing on my blazer when I heard the groan.

Instinctively my left hand dropped to the butt of my automatic, right reaching for the phone again. That was another reason I like the hard line—911 had a much better response time. “Mickey?” I called, easing over toward the open door at the top of the stairs leading to the floor below.

A strained voice drifted up. “Yeah, boss. Sorry.”

I took my hand off the weapon and descended the steps quickly. On the lower level—technically not a basement, as it walked out the back into a common courtyard-cum-private-parking-lot—I flipped on the light.

“Ow, ow, please, Cal.”

I picked my way across the floor cluttered with computer gear and rotated the blinds open, then turned the ceiling light back off from the nearest switch. The overcast of a Bay Area October provided soft but sufficient illumination to reveal the corpulent body of Mickey Tucker, my—well, it was hard to say just what he was. Lost soul, hacker extraordinaire, sloppy puppy, champion online gamer, research assistant. Mickey was all of those things, and often put his considerable talents to work for the relatively cheap price of computer gear, crash space and food money.

“Mickey, how many times have I asked you to just close the door at the top of the stairs and move the little slider to ‘The Wizard is IN.’ Someday I’ll end up shooting your sorry ass.”

“Some days I wish you would.” Mickey sat up on the old overstuffed sofa that served him as a crash couch and rubbed his eyes with the back of his pudgy hands. He reached for a half-empty thousand-pill bottle of generic aspirin sitting on the subwoofer and palmed a handful into his mouth, following it up with a swig from one of the dozen half-filled plastic bottles of flat diet soda scattered around the place.

“All-nighter?”

“A double. Been here since Saturday, trying to beat the boss on Level 666. No cheats.”

“Did you?”

Mickey shook his head. “No. Think I passed out. Woke up on the floor. Crawled to the couch...”

I sniffed. “At least you still have something to look forward to.”

“Got any food?” he asked hopefully.

“No, but I have a case, which means you have a job and you can buy yourself breakfast. Stay near your gear, all right? I need you to actually work today.”

Mickey licked his lips and put on puppy eyes above his scraggly beard. “Umm...”

Understanding perfectly, I took out a money clip from my front jeans pocket and peeled off a twenty. “That’ll get you something from Ritual. Here.” I photocopied the business card, back and front, on the all-in-one printer, and then handed it to Mickey, taking the copy for myself. “See if you can lift the original number from under that scribble, and then find out all you can about Miranda Sorkin, pharmacist.”

“Above or below the line?”

I chewed my inner lip. “Above, for now. I’ll let you know when to start tunneling.” I could afford to hire Mickey as a researcher, but didn’t want to promise him a lot more for hacking until I found out what this job would pay. While I wasn’t behind on my bills right now, I detested a negative cash flow like Mickey hated losing his T1 line.

“You got a working sniffer?” I went on.

“Sure...around here somewhere.” Mickey rooted among some equipment and came up with a box the size of an old transistor radio. I took it, checked the battery, and thanked him with a nod, sliding it into my blazer pocket.

Exiting the walkout, I approached Molly, my royal blue Subaru Impreza, parked in the courtyard. Her parking space was part of the office building deed, and of my two cars, Molly was the more practical and could stand the weather best. I preferred to walk the couple of blocks from where I lived at Mother’s house to work, and keep Molly handy here.

I gave the car a once-over by habit and then slid behind the steering wheel with a contented sigh. Something about the driver’s seat of a rally car felt like home. No, not home. It felt like where I belonged.

Molly’s supercharged two-liter screamed and her grippy rain tires would have squealed if the pavement hadn’t been wet. While I had foregone all of the external markers of a hot rally ride when my girl had been customized, on the inside the car was a regionals-class racer. I indulged my rally hobby whenever I had both time and money to spare, which meant not often enough.

Shooting up Valencia to catch 101, I wove exuberantly through light traffic past the Palace of Fine Arts, then crossed the old Presidio onto the Golden Gate Bridge. This early the breeze was gusty and the night’s fog clearing, the day promising to be misty at sea level beneath brooding overcast until the night fog rolled back in.

Five miles later I reached Mill Valley, a Marin suburb now very green with recent rains. My GPS brought me to a house at the edge of the flat older section of town, where the road just started to crawl upward into the low hills above. The dwellings I saw there were a bit smaller and more aged than those perched above, meaning they could be had for under a million. The higher the view, the higher the price. I glanced at a monstrosity at the top that had to cost at least ten.

Driving past the address without staring, I flicked the GPS off to stop the cheery canned voice from complaining. I cruised the neighborhood looking for obvious signs of surveillance—delivery vans or small RVs parked on the street, large dark American sedans with suits in them, or houses with blinds lowered but rotated open. Nothing jumped out at me, so I parked around the corner at the end of the block.

Fortunately an unusual vacant lot bearing signs of local kids and their BMX habits allowed me to access the back gate of the Sorkin home without too much trouble, via a footpath that wended its way behind the houses. This arrangement was odd but not unknown, especially in older developments built under liberal or nonexistent zoning laws.

It looked like these places had been individually constructed in the 1950s to house the Greatest Generation as they rebuilt postwar America, and had been renovated many times since, creating a patchwork of styles. Pseudo-Spanish architecture abounded—Sorkin’s was one of those—but I also spotted Cape Cod, Colonial and several variants on mid-century modernism.

In short, typical coastal California.

The state, not me. Sorry, is that joke getting old?

I pushed on the back gate of the weathered wooden six-foot privacy fence and slipped inside, pushing it to. The yard I saw teemed lush and had begun sliding into overgrown, as if neglected for months. No swimming pool—the coast range towns were too cold from the Pacific breezes to make that feature de rigeur. Mark Twain had famously said, “The coldest winter I ever spent was a summer in San Francisco,” which applied to Marin County as well.

Movement behind the kitchen window made me pick my way up the garden path toward the back door, where I met a Caucasian woman not too different in build from myself. With unwashed hair and housecoat, bloodshot eyes and shaky hands, she looked like hell.

Without speaking, she took my arm and pulled us toward a small, separate building.

Opening a door, the woman motioned us into what turned out to be the house’s separated one-car garage. It smelled of automobile and dust. Shutting the portal behind, the woman flipped on the bare-bulb light above a nondescript Toyota sedan, and then let out a sigh of relief. “Thank you for coming, Ms. Corwin. I’m Mira Sorkin.” She clutched my right hand as if drowning, and then let go suddenly, confused at my lack of grip.

It hardly bothered me anymore, people’s reactions. Best to get it over with. I brushed the hair back on my right side, revealing the scars that the reconstructive surgery hadn’t been able to completely banish. I’d had my jawline bob cut to fall over them, and with a bit of makeup I could conceal where they crept into the open along my jawline.

Mira’s surprise flattened out with the smoothing of her face. I ignored the other woman’s emotions by dint of long practice. “Bomb,” I said curtly, holding up my right hand and flexing it. “I was lucky. This hand’s a bit weak, but the blast didn’t even damage my eye.”

“Oh, I’m sorry.” Mira froze, as if not sure what to be sorry about, or how to act. “I suppose in your business...”

My business? I wondered if Mira thought all PIs encountered bombs, or should be damaged goods. Maybe Cole had told her I had been a cop, “my business,” or that the PI trade was shady. Maybe that’s what she meant. Well, she wasn’t far wrong, I suppose.

“It’s fine, really,” I repeated. “Can’t even tell with my hair in place. Got some ID?”

“What?”

“ID. I like to know for sure who I’m talking to.”

“Oh...not on me. Inside.”

I grunted in irritation. “Okay, later. Why are we in the garage?”

“I can’t be sure the house isn’t bugged.”

“Then why don’t we go somewhere else?”

Mira pulled a cordless handset out of her housecoat pocket. “I have to stay by my home phone.”

It appeared Mira would say more, but I held my hand out for the cordless and examined it briefly before pulling out a multi-tool from my belt. “Let’s make sure this isn’t bugged either, otherwise we’re in here for nothing.”

After opening it up, I shook my head, screwed it back together and handed it to Mira. “Nope. It’s clear. Now what’s this all about?”

Mira shuddered and breathed deeply in and then out. Her exhalation sent the sharp sour smell of alcohol wafting under my nose. “My daughter was kidnapped two days ago.”

Hairs rose on the back of my neck as my cop sense woke up with a surge of adrenaline. I had expected some kind of marital dispute, even a custody battle, not capital crimes for breakfast. And Mira had been so calm on the phone.

If it was my daughter I’d have been climbing the walls.

I wiped the leg of my jeans off where I’d brushed the Toyota in the close confines of the small garage. “Mira, let’s go inside. I’ll check for bugs in your house,” I said, pulling out the sniffer and holding it up, “and maybe I could trouble you for a bagel or something. I came right over after our call and I think better with some calories in me.”

“Of course, of course.” Mira retraced her steps, leading us through the back yard.

“Remember, don’t speak until I give you the all-clear.”

Once we’d made our way into the house, Mira poured mugs of coffee and dropped two bagels into the toaster, puttering around as if lost. The interior of the house showed off the latest look, the kitchen had high-end counters, cabinets and appliances, and the coffee dripped from a machine that probably cost more than a set of rally tires.

It smelled heavenly.

So Mira was comfortably off. I tried to figure how much I could charge and not feel guilty, reminding myself that “a workman is worthy of his wages.” Even after two years off the force it was hard to charge people money to help them, but I had a business to run and bills to pay.

While Mira puttered, I ran the sniffer over the kitchen and nook, then the living room, working outward.

Nothing.

A less thorough check of the three-bedroom upstairs made me reasonably sure that no microphones lurked. Someone might be wiretapping the phone line on the way out, or there might be one of any number of devices attached to the computer in the corner, but at least it seemed we didn’t have to worry about just talking.

I did see pictures of Mira and a girl, taken within the last ten years, in various settings. I recognized a couple of local landmarks—the carousel at Fisherman’s Wharf, the observation deck of Coit Tower, the Alcatraz dock. As I looked at the photos, nowhere did I see a man, or anybody else that might be family.

The father must be out of the picture, I thought with an internal smile at the wordplay. Gone, rather than dead. People didn’t excise the dear departed from their memorabilia, only those they didn’t like anymore.

Or I supposed he could have just been a donor. Unusual, but not unknown.

Just to be sure we were not overheard, I shut the drapes and turned on the stereo in the living room, hoping the two tactics would limit the ability of anyone to paint a windowpane with a laser pickup. Devices like that read the sound waves coming off the glass, but worked best with a quiet background.

Finally I sat down in the kitchen nook across from Mira and then buttered a bagel. “Okay, I think we’re clear. First,” I lifted a finger, “business. It’s a hundred an hour plus expenses, max a thousand a day, and I need five thousand up front as a retainer.” I’d charged more, and occasionally a lot less, but to a pharmacist that probably took down two hundred large a year, five should be doable.

Nor was I wrong. Mira nodded without flinching. “I’ll write you a check. Just help me, please.”

“Good. Now, tell me about this kidnapping. Start with why you haven’t called the cops.”

Mira gulped from her mug, her eyes bleak. “The people that took her said not to talk to police, but they didn’t say anything specifically about a...someone like you.”

My smile might have turned a bit strained, but I tried to ignore her words. The client was the client. “I used to be a cop, if that makes you feel better. So why did you wait two days to get in touch with me?” Or maybe she didn’t, I thought. The card could have been put into my drop box any time after Friday night.

“Cole Sage was the only person I knew that wasn’t police, that has...connections to...people like you...so I called him first and he referred me. I gave them what they wanted and thought I would get her back right away but it didn’t happen, and now it’s been more than an extra day and I’m about to lose my mind.” She lifted her mug, drank some more.

I fished the photocopy of the business card from a pocket, not letting Mira see the front as I unfolded it, glanced at it, then folded it over again. Something tugged at my cop sense, but wasn’t ready to surface. “Cole said to get in touch with me...how?”

“I put the card where he told me to, and he said you’d get it.”

Something about the way she said that seemed off, but I couldn’t quite put my finger on it for a moment. Then I did. How did the card get to my office, if Mira was home all this time by her phone?

Cole Sage must have picked it up and dropped off. He did live in the City, just a couple of miles from the Mission District. It would be just like the journalist to do it that way.

While I was thinking, Mira finished her coffee, then went back to the machine for another fill-up. Her motions as she did it, the details hidden by her turned back, the stealthy clink of glass, triggered recognition in my brain.

“I’ll take some of that, if you don’t mind,” I said.

Slowly Mira turned, a half-filled bottle of expensive brandy clutched in her hand, and then she brought it and her coffee over to the table, setting the liquor in front of me. “I just...”

“You don’t have to make excuses. I’d be drinking too if I was in your position.” I splashed a bit into my cup for the sake of camaraderie, and maybe to help Mira talk. Fortunately I never had any trouble with alcohol abuse.

Adrenaline...that was another story.

Mira sighed. “I’m a pharmacist, you know.”

“Yes. It was on your card.”

“I don’t have enough money for anyone to make Talley a ransom target—that’s my daughter, Talley, she’s ten—but I am the assistant warehouse manager for the biggest distributor in the northern Bay Area. My building has a hundred million dollars worth of high-grade pharmaceuticals in it.”

“And they wanted you to, what, help them rob the place?”

“Yes. I gave them my keycard, my codes and they have my thumbprint on a silicone thingy, which I assume they were going to use on the scanner. They also have all my personal info like social, former addresses, family names...and they made me tell them what my security questions and responses were.”

“There’s a monitored alarm?”

Mira nodded, relaxing as the additional brandy hit her. “Yes. To open the warehouse you have to call them, identify yourself, give them a password, respond correctly to a security question, scan a keycard, put in a PIN code, and put your thumb on a scanner. Oh, and all of that is in front of a high-resolution camera with the monitoring center looking on. Otherwise they send a security team and call the cops.”

I sat back, taking a bite of bagel and sipping my slightly fortified coffee. It gave me time to think. “That’s a lot of security. They would have to have someone to double for you on camera. So right off the bat, we know there’s a Caucasian woman of about your age involved, maybe with dark hair. Of course, she could wear a wig. Did you see any of them?”

“No. Just a male voice, middle aged maybe, on the home phone. Blocked number.”

I took another bite and a sip while Mira fidgeted and then added more brandy to her mug. “But you say they haven’t pulled the heist?”

“I...I don’t think so. I had the grocery nearby bring me a prepaid phone along with a few other things—they do deliveries, costs an arm and a leg, but what can you do—and used it to call the security center and ask them for the exact time I’d been at the warehouse. I told them I needed it for my records, and they gave me the time. It was when I closed up Friday night. So they haven’t used my info yet. As far as I know.”

“Maybe you better start at the beginning and tell me step by step what happened.”

“But my daughter! Anything could be happening!”

I put my cup and bagel down. “Mira, I have to get all the details straight in my mind because any clue might be the one that helps me find Talley. Believe me, this will save time later, and, if you call the cops it’ll take them twice as long to get started on this, and there will be a lot of hoopla. Odds are very good that your daughter is fine. Because you have had no personal contact with them, there’s no reason for property criminals to kill, especially not a pretty little middle-class white girl. The public would eat it up and there would be a manhunt coast to coast. They probably don’t want that kind of heat on them.”

Mira’s face turned shocked and angry. “What does being a pretty white girl have to do with it?”

I sighed. “I’m just stating the bald, non-PC truth. Dozens of poor kids of color go missing every day in America, but only a handful of well-off white girls. Who gets on TV?”

Mira looked as if she was on the verge of tears. “That’s horrible. I never thought anything like this would ever happen to us.”

“No one ever does.” I projected my best professional sympathy, to get the client back to the vital topic. “Take a deep breath and tell me what happened from the beginning. Give me details if you can.”

Mira took that deep breath and spoke. “Friday night after work I drove home and parked in my garage. Talley should have been here waiting for me—she’s a latchkey kid. The school bus drops her off on the corner. When I got inside I found a note in the middle of the table. There was also a big envelope with a form to fill out with all the information they wanted, just like an application, and a little plastic box with silicone in it for my thumbprint.”

“What did it say? I don’t suppose you copied it?”

“No, I didn’t think to...It just said to fill out the form and put everything including the note into the envelope, seal it and put it in my mailbox. It said they were watching, and not to call the cops or anyone, or else, and that they would return Talley by Saturday evening.”

“What happened next?”

“I did exactly what they said. I filled in every bit of information and put my thumbprint in the silicone box.”

I couldn’t resist. “And they could read your handwriting?”

Mira rolled her eyes. “That’s doctors. I am the one who has to interpret their scrawls, so my penmanship is very good, thank you very much.”

“Sorry.” I wasn’t, really, because I was beginning to vaguely dislike Mira. I wasn’t sure why. Mira wasn’t overly privileged, or rude, and she certainly couldn’t be blamed too much for knocking back a few in a situation like this, two days full of helplessness. Maybe it was just the feeling the woman looked down on me, despite the fact it would be my ass on the line. Or maybe it was a hunch she wasn’t being fully truthful with me, risking her daughter.

“Anyway, I put the envelope in my mailbox—it’s out front at the curb—and went into my bedroom and stayed there like the note said.”

“Your bedroom faces the back, right?”

“Right.”

“So when did the envelope get picked up?”

“Sometime in the middle of the night, I guess. I fell asleep finally about two and then I woke up around seven, thinking it had all been a dream, until I remembered again that Talley was gone. No one had called. I went out to check and the envelope was gone from the mailbox. I came back inside, got something to eat, checked my email, turned on the TV, and I waited. They called about an hour later.”

“So that was Saturday morning...they called around eight? But you checked the mailbox around seven?”

“Yes...does that matter?”

“It may.” It indicated, but did not prove, that the kidnapper-thieves were not actually watching or listening in at the Sorkin house. I would have thought they’d have called as soon as they saw or heard Mira check the mailbox, not an hour later...unless they were very clever, and that’s what they wanted anyone to think.

“Go on. Tell me about the phone call. You didn’t happen to record it, did you?” Lots of doctors had recorders on their phones, for malpractice protection.

“No. I never thought I’d need anything like that. I mean, I don’t deal directly with patients. I was hired for my degree, not my clinicals.”

Maybe that was what bothered me about Mira: the fact that she was a part, if only a minor one, of the Big Pharma machine that kept prices artificially high and profits fat. I tried to fight my emotions by reminding myself that I had also sometimes wandered into gray areas in the service of the greater good. Who was I to judge a single mom trying to give her daughter a good life? It wasn’t as if Mira was on their board of directors, holding fat stock options.

Every snowflake in an avalanche thinks itself guiltless.

A little girl was in the hands of kidnappers, I reminded myself. Not to mention the five grand and a client that, no matter who she worked for, did not deserve her current karma.

On the other hand, the whole point of karma was that what comes around really does go around, so maybe Mira had earned this pain. Who knew? I’d only met the woman today. Maybe she was not what she seemed.

But Talley...no. I refused to buy that one. At ten, Talley was innocent. I had a child to find and, if I could, to bring home safe. “The phone call,” I reminded Mira.

“Yeah. Well, his voice was ordinary. Middle aged, as I said, I think, and probably white. At least, he didn’t seem to have any...”

“Ethnic markers?” I prompted.

“Yes. No accent, either.”

“So you mean he sounded like he was from around here?” When people said “no accent,” what they usually meant was that the person sounded like they did.

“Yes, that’s what I mean. American English, not black or Hispanic or Asian...no offense.”

I chuckled. “One grandmother was Chinese, one Mexican, but my parents and I were all born here, so...none taken.” It showed just how PC everything was getting that Mira felt she had to apologize for making a simple factual observation. “Go on.”

“He reminded me they were watching and listening, and that if I kept quiet and they had no trouble, Talley would be returned Sunday morning. It wasn’t fair, because they said Saturday night before, and now they pushed it back. Then they let me talk to her for a few seconds, I guess just to show that she was all right. She said she was okay. I could tell she was scared, but not absolutely terrified. She always was a brave little thing, like a boy.”

I bit back a reflexive lecture on gender stereotypes. Reminded me of myself and things my mom used to say. So much for enlightenment. Instead, I stuck to the facts. “Was that it? Did they say how Talley would be returned to you?”

“No, but...I mean, this is supposed to be a safe neighborhood. They could drop her off anywhere and she could just walk home, and it’s not like they care about her...oh, God.” A sob welled up from Mira and forced itself from her throat. “Please, you have to get her back.”

I reached across to take Mira’s soft, well-manicured hand in my own callused left, keeping my right back. Though I’m a leftie and hadn’t lost much capability, and to look at the right you couldn’t tell anything was amiss, people were still funny when they sensed injury, as if at some level they thought it was contagious.

“I’ll do my best. So, what next?”

“Well, I waited all day and all night, just trying to keep busy. It was agonizing. Then, when Talley didn’t show up Sunday morning, I started to panic. I got the prepaid phone and called Cole. He said he was out of town on assignment, but he asked a couple of questions that made me think to call the alarm monitoring, like I said, and found out they hadn’t used my info to get in to the building and steal the drugs. Then he told me about you, though I didn’t know who you were then. He just said you were someone connected who could help. The rest you know.”

No, I thought as I stared at Mira. I don’t know why you didn’t just phone me on your burner and try to reach me Sunday. I don’t know how that card got into my drop box. It’s one of the things about this whole deal that makes no sense. There might be a couple of other things I don’t know, but I can’t pin them down yet, and if I ask outright, I’ll tip you off for sure...

“So here it is Monday morning. Are you sure they haven’t stolen the drugs between your call yesterday and right now?”

“Well, I emailed in sick, and then got a reply from my assistant. Then I called the monitoring center again this morning, just after shift change so it was different guys. I didn’t want them to wonder about me asking the same question again. They gave me the same answer as before so...pretty sure.”

“And you have heard nothing more from the kidnappers?”

“No. Nothing.”

“Okay. You know,” I said, speaking clearly and distinctly to try to help Mira focus, “at some point we will have to bring the police into this, even if it’s just to report the whole thing after we get her back, so you need to be ready. Once I’m gone, I want you to write down everything that happened, every detail, every jot and tittle that you can think of. It will help you later when you have to make a statement, and I may find it useful too. I notice you have a fax machine. When you are done, fax it to my office at this number. Don’t email it, fax it. harder to intercept, even if they are tapping your home phone, which I believe they are not.” I scribbled my fax number down on the corner of the card photocopy and tore it off, then I added my cell. “Call me on that burner phone if you need anything, or you think of anything else.”

Mira picked up the scrap of paper and looked at it, and then nodded.

“Do you have a picture of Talley you could lend me?”

“Sure.” She retrieved a snapshot from a desk in the other room, and set it in front of me.

I cleared my throat. “And I’ll need that check.”

“Of course.” Mira pulled a beautiful wallet out of her matching designer handbag and quickly wrote out the amount and the numbers, and then signed it. She left the TO line blank when she handed it to me.

I stared at the check for a moment. That tug again. My conscience, or my cop sense? Sometimes they were hard to distinguish. I folded it in half, slipping it deep into my money clip, which resided in a tight front jeans pocket. “Thank you. I’ll be in touch by dinnertime at the latest. Please don’t do anything before then without calling.” I stood.

“Of course. Thank you so much.” Mira reached for the bottle again.

“And Mira...go easy on that, all right?” I held up a hand in apology. “I’m not judging. Just because you need to be clearheaded today. For your daughter. For Talley.”

“Yeah. I’ll...I’ll put it away.”

“Is there anyone who can come stay with you? That you can trust?”

Mira shook her head. “No. No one.”

I wasn’t huggy with women, but I made myself reach across to take Mira’s hand. “If you want me to look into this, I have to go now. You’ll be all right? You’ll be strong?”

A tear rolled down Mira’s cheek, quickly wiped away. “I think so.”

“Okay, then. I have to go find your daughter, if I can.”

“I know. Go on.”

I let herself out the back way with relief. Adrenaline already zipped around my veins like a road full of rally cars, making me feel like going, doing. I dialed Mickey’s desk phone before I had reached Molly, speaking as I picked my way across the wet unmowed grasses of the vacant lot, avoiding the muddy BMX paths. “What you got?”

“Miranda Almone Sorkin, née Herndon, thirty-five years old, married once to Dennis Wilson Sorkin. Divorced two years ago, no criminal record for either of them. Graduated Stanford pre-med at twenty and then UOP Doctor of Pharmacy at twenty-three. Married shortly after graduating, and then she went to work for Arkin Medical Distribution, a big wholesaler. One child, Talley, about a year later.”

“What does the ex do?” I asked as I fobbed open the car with a beep and got in. At this point I really didn’t think Mira was being watched. In fact, given that the heist—the presumed heist—had not taken place, and Mira supposedly had not heard from the kidnappers, and I had found no bugs, I doubted they were watching the house at all.

“MBA, stockbroker. Flew high for a while then lost a bunch of his clients’ money on some bad trades right before the divorce. Dodged criminal charges but the trading house dumped him hard. Looks like she was paying his bills for a while. Then they split up and he moved to Seattle, where he works now at a small firm managing for peanuts. Less than two mil in client assets. That’s nothing. He might be pulling fifty K in commissions, max.”

“Huh.” I popped the phone into its hands-free cradle and stuck the headset on. “So he either learned from getting burned and is on the straight and level, or he’s got something else going, something not obviously traceable, and is working as a cover.”

“Does that mean you want me to start tunneling?” Mickey sounded eager to put his skills to use, and incidentally to up his rates quite a bit.

“Yeah. Dig away on both of them. I got an advance, and as long as the check doesn’t bounce, you’re good for a couple of days of work.”

“Sa-weet.”

I revved the Impreza’s engine, spun the wheel and hit forty in the twenty-five zone in two seconds flat, twisting through the narrow car-lined streets. Unlike more modern suburbs, garages and driveways were small in this neighborhood, seldom holding more than one car, and curbside parking was the norm. “I need you to take a look at Sorkin’s landline records for the last week, incoming and outgoing. Flag repeat calls, and try to match all the numbers to names. Then cross-reference them with the ex’s. Also,” I kept my voice casual, “pull up Cole Sage’s records. Any numbers he has, including his office number at the Chronicle. See if anything lines up. Print those all out, will you?” If I was going to pay Mickey to hack, I might as well feed my favorite obsession. Okay, maybe second favorite, or third, after racing and poker.

“Okay, boss. I’ll have all this before lunchtime.”

“That’s my boy.”

“I wish.” Mickey hung up.

I heard the undertone of truth in his words. Poor guy had had a crush on me since I’d hired him for an early case, but I figured it was a hopeless nerdy fanboy thing, like having the hots for Halle Berry because she’d played superheroes and supervillains. I didn’t even have to flirt with Mickey to keep him interested; unrequited hope seemed to flow like caffeine through the whole gamer crowd’s veins, a pathetically familiar poison.

Then I thought about Cole and realized I might have more in common with Mickey than I’d thought. What did some marina-dwelling cougar with perfect hair and a plastic-surgery body have on me? I massaged the area around my right ear with the heel of my hand. That part that still felt like it was asleep, and my thoughts turned dark as I answered my own question.

Objectively I know I don’t look that bad. Children don’t run screaming, people don’t flinch away. When I look in the mirror or at a snapshot someone has taken of me I look completely normal, but what woman doesn’t obsess over her flaws, at least a little?

Breaking out of the cramped neighborhood, I floored it onto Miller Avenue and raced through the midmorning traffic as if I was at Le Mans. My fuzzbuster showed green, and lasers didn’t work very well in the drizzling rain, so unless some overzealous uniform got eyeballs on me, I should be fine. Adrenaline still sang through my veins like joy, mixed with frustration and anger.

I found myself ignoring the on-ramp to 101 and staying on the surface streets all the way to Bridgeway, which just happened to be Sausalito’s main artery that ran past the marinas with their cabin cruisers and speedboats and fishing boats...and houseboats.

Bitch. Bitchbitchbitchbitchbitch. Five times seemed like the right number to name her. Only the fact that I didn’t know exactly where the wench’s vessel berthed kept me from turning in and...

And what, Cal? I asked myself. Even if I did know, what would I do? Kick her ass? That’s really going to get Cole to throw her over and...and what?

Acting like a stupid schoolgirl again, crush and all.

I pounded the steering wheel, then slowed down with deep breaths as I spotted a pair of Sausalito PD parked at a 7-Eleven, windows open and facing opposite directions so they could chat. The sight of the two representatives of my former profession hit me like a bucket of cold water in the face. Professionalism slammed shut on my emotions like a falling steel door.

Screw Cole, I thought. Get a grip, girl. Plenty of fish in the sea.

I proceeded down Bridgeway until it turned into Alexander and then met 101 again. The state highway was still lightly traveled and should remain so in the misty daytime until rush hour and ocean fog made their inevitable rendezvous on the Golden Gate before dusk.

I was happy to live and work in the same neighborhood where I grew up, the Mission District, now a bit more gentrified than it used to be but still full of character, and not have to commute in to work as I used to. Beat cops, even detectives, didn’t make enough to live alone in the City, but now I owned my office free and clear, as well as Molly and Madge, a 1968 Mustang that I kept in Mother’s garage. Mom didn’t drive, so I wasn’t worried about that.

I’d also paid off Mom’s house and stayed on there, and all it had cost was my career, a damaged hand, an eardrum and some skin.

I’d happily trade back if I could. Because I couldn’t, I worked hard, played harder, and lived life the hardest I could.

After the rage blew through and receded like a summer storm, my cop sense clicked back in and told me that the same hunter-green Audi had been following since before the Bridge. My subconscious had obviously noted it, but the realization only now bubbled up.

I’d intended to head back to the office, but now I didn’t necessarily want to lead whoever it was there. Besides, I wasn’t certain yet it wasn’t a coincidence...but watching in the mirror with half an eye, I noted the way the car drove, the way it kept back so it could see me, not too near and not too far. Also, the way it moved on its wheels...I was sure it was also a performance car, with stiffened suspension and four wheel drive, maybe a high-end Quattro model. Audi made some of the best factory rally cars in the world. I wished I could afford one.

Turning away from my office, I pulled suddenly into a rare open parallel parking space and shut off the car, releasing the four-point seatbelt and popping my video dash-camera from its mount. The Audi made no move to turn off or pull in behind me, but cruised on past. I recorded it as it went by, making sure to get the license plate. The driver was male, I felt sure, but he held up his folded right arm and kept his face back behind it. I caught a flash of medium-length, dark-colored hair and perhaps a light jacket before the sports sedan got too far away.

Coincidence? Not likely, and the anger suppressed only a short time ago bobbed to the surface, this time with a tangible target. Whoever followed me had to be involved somehow, or so my instincts screamed. I thought for a moment about the risk to the little girl, and whether I should back off and keep cool, but it looked like the guy had already made me. I couldn’t investigate quietly the way I had hoped to if the bad guys already had me on radar.

Fine. There was a time for subtlety and there was a time to grab balls and man up, and this was a time for a girl to grab.

Maybe it was an excess of adrenaline talking; I never could say no to its request. I buckled up again—not for legal reasons but for hard-nosed safety ones—and started the car. I left the lights off and eased out several lengths back from the Audi.

Now, you son of a bitch, we’ll see who follows who.

Redialing Mickey, I asked, “Got anything yet?”

“Yeah, I was gonna call you when I had it all.”

“Just tell me now, quick and dirty. I’m tailing a bad guy.”

“Whoa, cool. Okay, your pharmacist called several different cell numbers since Friday night, from her prepaid. Two are also prepaid cells, I think. One was a number I traced to your buddy Cole, but it’s unlisted, maybe his private number.”

“Make sure you keep that one on file.” I eased over a lane to keep the Audi in sight.

“After that she receives a call from one of those prepaids. Doesn’t have to mean anything. Everyone uses them nowadays, even you.”

I sighed audibly.

“Okay, okay. Then she gets a call on her home phone from another prepaid, but what’s weird is, it’s a number that’s almost sequential to one of the other ones she has been talking to. Like it was in the same lot, maybe bought at the same store near the same time.”

My mind chewed on that one for a moment as I drove with half my brain. “Anything else?”

“She called Cole again Sunday morning.”

“Hmm. She never said anything about that.”

“What do you think it means?”

I shifted lanes again as I rounded a corner, ducking behind a delivery truck. “No telling. That it?”

“I still have more numbers to correlate.”

“Keep at it, Mickey. I’ll call you back.” The Audi sped up and dove in between two cabs.

Using all my skill, I trailed the other through the intermittent San Francisco drizzle. Unfortunately, a one-car follow was easy for anyone to spot, no matter how expert the tail. Real surveillance required a team and three or four cars to drive in front and behind, trading off and moving in and out of view of the target. It was only a matter of time before...

There he went. My quarry had made me.

Gritting my teeth, I grunted as water fantailed behind the Audi. Its tires spun in a controlled slide around the next corner. I followed fast, using both lanes and part of the center line. My world shrank to a bubble that encompassed just us drivers charging hard through the streets of San Francisco in the drizzly mist.

Back off, Cal. You don’t have to beat him this time, just stick with him until something breaks. This guy knows something. This guy is part of it, and you’re not letting go of this lead. If you can save the kid, there won’t be any charges, no matter how many enemies you have in the Department.

Fantasies of putting a gun in the driver’s face floated next to the vision of a bound and frightened little girl, erasing all thought of lawful arrest. I would beat it out of the bastard if I had to.

Twisting through the grid of the Mission District, I followed the Audi eastward, keeping it in sight but not pressing close. This guy was good, but not as good as I was; his lines through the corners were a little less clean, a little less confident, as if he didn’t know his machine and the very edges of its limits the way I knew Molly.

Good girl, Molly. Keep the revs up.

The Audi hit a hundred as my quarry rushed the onramp onto I-80. Once on the freeway, he wove from lane to lane, gaining distance. I was ready for the driver to dive off before they crossed the Bay Bridge, but he kept going. I followed onto the eastbound lower level, Molly’s tires humming on metal mesh and bumping over joints.

With a good clear left lane for half a minute and the Audi blocked by traffic, I floored it and pulled to within a hundred yards, then settled in through the Yerba Buena Island tunnel. The tiny spot of land in the middle of the Bay formed an anchor for the two sections of the crossing.

Nothing I could do on the Bridge.

Once past, the Bay Bridge split again from its under-over configuration to a side-by-side concrete causeway just a score of feet above the water. Half a mile ahead I could see ships at anchor in Oakland’s outer harbor.

Bastard. Where is he leading me? An ambush maybe, and I might be risking the girl, but...it just feels right, where other things about this client felt wrong. Who can stand to wait an extra day with no word from kidnappers? Why drop me a card instead of just phoning her office? Why not save the time of me driving to Mill Valley and just explain the situation on the untraceable prepaid phone?

Hidden elements, incidents and accidents and things left unsaid...but I was convinced there really was a child in danger. Mira hadn’t been faking that, even if some of her responses seemed off, and sometimes...sometimes the best thing to do is go for the throat, get a bulldog grip and hang on, just choke the life out of the problem.

It had worked before.

Sometimes.

So here I was, with my foot to the floor like a modern remake of Bullitt.

Exiting the Bay Bridge, the Audi took 580 northbound and accelerated to over a hundred again. I matched him easily, Molly’s tires humming and the wind rushing. I kept it in fourth, the engine revving high, a song of more than two hundred horses. Molly was so light that was all she needed.

When I crossed one hundred thirty I shifted into fifth and started to worry. Even on dry pavement, any error at this speed could be instantly fatal, and the freeway was rough and ill-maintained in spots.

Molly took it all with perfect equanimity until I had to slam on the brakes, ABS pulsing beneath my foot to avoid a damn fool who had pulled into the passing lane without clearing his rear. Instead of laying on the horn, I just swerved and blazed past him on the right at ninety, then kept going.

The straight stretch along the waterside lasted only four miles and two minutes as we screamed up to autobahn speeds again. The Audi suddenly slowed to eighty, threading between cars and trucks as the freeway split.

Ignoring I-80 toward Sacramento, my white rabbit took 580, a route that would lead him across the Richmond-San Rafael Bridge and back into Marin County. If he did, I would have nearly completed a vast loop around the north Bay.

I leaned on the horn and shot a narrowing gap as another idiot tried to cut me off.

This whole thing is crazy, I thought. I ought to have Mickey call the cops and, oh by the way, where’s the damned CHP when you need them?

Around the wide curve into Richmond we blazed, Molly’s wipers working furiously to keep the windshield clear. A mile later, just before the bridge, the Audi took the last exit, dumping straight into an industrial district next to the railroad terminus. Two hundred yards behind, I decelerated smoothly to seventy before fishtailing onto the surface streets in hot pursuit.

Horns blared as I ran the red light crossing Richmond Parkway. No way I was going to let this son of a bitch get away.

Weaving deeper into the warehouse park, the Audi led me past petroleum tanks and cracking towers of the refinery complex that filled most of the peninsula. Chemical smells sucked into Molly’s interior made my eyes water.

Rounding one final corner, the Audi slewed through the open gate into the parking lot of a rundown warehouse that backed up to a dozen huge oil tanks looming like fat cylindrical high-rises. Between the petroleum containers, tall uncut grass provided ground cover for the sandy coastal soil.

I was about to follow the Audi in when I finally came to my senses.

While there might be a back gate, as far as I could tell the big building was ringed by a ten-foot fence. I pulled over at the gap and watched my quarry drive up a ramp and into the warehouse itself.

Calming my breathing, I dialed Mickey. “Mickey, you got me on GPS?”

“Yeah, boss, I got you.” Molly updated her location in Mickey’s computer once a minute. It was a very cool system that he had built himself. He’d said someday everyone would be findable on GPS, day or night, but I didn’t really believe that either. At least, not in my lifetime. Where would the thing go? It’s not like you can cram it into a cell phone, after all. Maybe cars, sure, but...that was for the year 2050, not the 2000s.

Yeah, funny, I know. But that’s what I thought at the time.

“Get the cops out here right now,” I told him. “Warehouse fifty yards north of me. Anonymous tip, kidnapped child, perps armed and dangerous. Give them the Audi, too. Tell them female officer on scene.”

“But you’re not an officer anymore, boss.”

“So lie. It’s better than getting shot on sight.”

“Righto. You going in?” Mickey sounded eager, like this whole thing was a video game. Maybe to him it was. Cal Corwin, avatar...only real life had no respawns.

“I shouldn’t...but I am.” Just like with the bomb, and falling for Cole, and a dozen other things I could name in my life, pushing all in and hoping the right card fell.

“You crazy, girl. Stay low.”

“Doubtless.” I hung up.

Mickey was right. I was crazy, but the thought of the child kept me in that zone where it seemed like I could do anything, like in a perfect rally, like a hot streak at the tables, like that one sweet break in a case.

Riding the tiger.

PD would take from three to ten minutes to respond with a couple of cruisers, and they would be alerting the tactical team in case they were needed. With plenty of crazies calling 911 every day, they had to confirm the tip before committing resources. That left me just enough time.

Dropping Molly into first, I accelerated smoothly along the outside of the fence line. It met another barrier at the corner, one more warehouse, but that was fine. It gave me a chance to get out of sight. I swung wide around the second building and passed behind it along the old access road that dead-ended at the oil tanks in the back. Nothing barred me from driving straight into the deep grass between the painted white cylinders, though I slowed to under twenty. It wouldn’t do to blow a tire slamming into some hidden chunk of concrete.

With rally clearance and four-wheel drive, Molly powered through the scrub.

Gonna be hell to pay on the undercarriage, I thought as something banged up into a wheel well and a hidden hole made Molly bounce hard. Not at all what I figured I’d be doing when my day started.

One minute.

I drove deeper into the forest of cylinders and parked behind one of the tanks, out of sight of the back of the warehouse the Audi had entered. Once hidden I hopped out, hurriedly stripped off the blazer and opened the hatchback. Shrugging on a Kevlar vest, the one with SECURITY in big white letters on the back—technically I wasn’t impersonating a law enforcement official—and a ball cap with the same, I grabbed a 12-gauge shotgun and a set of bolt cutters.

Crouch-running in the high grass, I reached the back fence to the warehouse and began cutting. The cyclone wire popped with metallic pings as I worked the cutters as fast as I could from the bottom up. As soon as I had a little door of fencing material I bent it out of the way, dropped the tool and wormed through, and then ran for the building.

Two minutes.

A loading dock ran along this side of the warehouse, with the big doors all closed. At each end a personnel entrance beckoned. I made for the left one, the closer of the two.

Sirens wailed in the distance. I hoped it was the response to Mickey’s call coming in hot. If so, they would provide a distraction. If not...well, I’d do the best I could.

At the door I paused and racked a beanbag round into the shotgun. Useful for taking down wanted criminals without killing them, I used it for the occasional bounty hunt. The attached sling held slugs and buck in case things turned ugly, and then there were my handguns. I was as ready as I could be.

Reaching out, I tested the rusty round knob. It turned, so I tried pulling. It resisted, but only because it was stuck, not locked. Slowly, trying to avoid too much noise, I dragged the barrier open by half inches.

Eye to the crack, I could see nothing. The wan daylight outside made the dim interior even darker.

Taking a deep breath I crouched, reached my fingers around the edge of the door and gave a steady pull. It ground against the concrete floor for a moment, then came free. Quickly I slipped inside and pulled it shut again with some difficulty, but left it not-quite-closed in case I had to get out fast.

I found myself behind tall cylinders, visible by looking upward to see light reflected off the steel-strutted roof’s underside. Reaching over to touch one, I found it was composed of enormous rolls of paper stacked on their ends like coins, six feet wide and twelve high. As my eyes adjusted I was able to see down the row to a gap.

I stood there a moment more, ears straining to hear anything above the faint background hum of the city outside, the breeze catching the edges of the metal building, and the spinning rattle of the ventilator balls on the roof. Voices, maybe; the burbling tones of conversation.

Three minutes.

The sirens came closer.

A low thud came to my ears then, and I turned the left to listen. My right eardrum had been burst by the bomb blast, and had never completely recovered. I moved stealthily forward toward the gap. I also thought I heard a faint cough, and then two more thuds, as of sacks of dirt being dropped on ground.

Or bodies hitting the floor?

I raised the shotgun to my shoulder and hurried to the gap, swinging around it to my left and pausing to assess. More rows of paper appeared, braced like gigantic worshippers in a church, with me standing in the center aisle. Light from the large open door the Audi had entered poured from the far end.

Gliding forward on soft-soled boots, my heart thudded and I fought the urge to sneeze from the paper dust kicked up by my footsteps. I sped to a run as I heard a car start up, its engine revving once before its tires squealed and the sonic evidence faded.

Must have been the Audi driving out the door again. I wondered why it had done that. Maybe the kidnappers had fled, warned by my pursuit and the approaching sirens.

At the end of the aisle between the giant sentinels of paper I slowed, easing out into the better-lit open space carefully, scanning across my field of vision for threats.

To my left sat pallets stacked with boxes, barrels and cans. To the front, the row of giant access doors, one of them open. To the right, an enclosed office space with windows, portable air conditioner visible on its roof, one door, and a domestic SUV, probably a Ford, parked farther in, surrounded by a spreading puddle.

On the concrete floor in front of it, three bodies.

I took two more deep breaths to calm myself and pushed them all the way out, yoga style. Then I moved forward, keeping the shotgun ready, and approached the scene of death, smelling gasoline from the puddle.

The body nearest the office door was female, and appeared to have been shot twice in the back of the head at close range with a very small caliber, probably a .22.

Reaching down, I turned the dead woman’s head just enough. I could see no exit wounds, which supported my theory. Such tiny bullets might penetrate a human skull once, but not twice, especially if, as I suspected, they were unjacketed soft lead, maybe hollowpoints. Those would expand and dump all their energy into the soft matter of the brain and then stop at bone.

The woman looked like Mira, kind of.

Except for the being dead part.

The other two had fallen, one on each side of the cargo door, each shot twice in the chest and then once through an eye, and then dragged over to the woman. I could see the marks on the floor.

The face shots looked to me as if they had been delivered last, from close range. The possibility that any marksman, no matter how expert, would make two head shots, putting bullets precisely through the standing men’s eyes, and then shoot them twice each in their chests afterward, strained belief.

So...they had been executed. They had all been executed.

On the concrete near the big door I could see the marks where the Audi had peeled out and down the ramp. It was long gone. I made very sure I did not walk in any of the blood. Glancing behind, I realized the puddle of gasoline from the SUV continued to widen, dripping from its undercarriage, undoubtedly a punctured gas tank. It had reached the bodies, and would soon surround them, soaking into their clothes.

Four minutes. I could see flashing lights approaching in the distance and the sirens were getting louder. Apparently law enforcement had decided to come in fast and noisy.

A loud ding sounded from the direction of the office door. I turned to aim the shotgun before I saw what had made the noise: a white cooking timer, the spring-powered kind. It lay on the floor in front of the office entrance, weighting a piece of paper to the concrete.

The girl is in the office, it read, and beneath: Take her and go. You have three minutes until the bomb goes off.

I looked up to see a child’s wide-eyed face behind the office window.

The girl, Talley.

I seized the office doorknob, turned and pushed. “Hi, Talley. I’m Cal. I’m here to rescue you.” I held out my hand to her.

“They said not come out.” Like a skittish animal, she held her own hands behind her.

“The bad people are dead, and we have to go now.” I gestured, come here.

That seemed to do it. “Okay. The man said you’d come.” Talley seized my right hand in both of hers, and I ignored the twinge, then she threw her arms around me and clung on.

“Really, Talley. A bomb is going to go off soon, and we have to go now.”

“Okay,” Talley said, and then started running for the nearest opening, pulling on my arm.

I swung her around and directed her toward the rear of the warehouse, retracing my steps. “This way. My car’s out back.”

The cop cars rounded the last corner in front, but by then Talley and I had made it to Molly without being seen. I hoped the cops would approach with caution. The Audi driver, if he had set the bomb, was cutting things close. Maybe he didn’t care about cops, only little girls.

Driving sedately out of the tall grass of the tank farm, I casually skirted the fence line where I could see three cruisers pulled in to the front of the warehouse. I turned away at the corner and reached for my phone.

At that moment came a whoomph, and smoke started pouring from the open warehouse door, startling the cops into ducking behind their cars. Tally oohed.

“Mira, it’s me, Cal. I have good news. Your daughter is safe.”

“You’re sure?” Mira seemed ecstatic.

“Yes, I’m sure. Listen, Mira...I’d really appreciate it if you could keep me out of this with the police. If you even want to report it.”

Silence on the other end. Then, “Why wouldn’t I report it?”

I sighed. “I don’t know, Mira. I’m just saying, as a former cop, they don’t like me much, and they like me even less when I upstage them, so I’d rather keep my distance. I’ll come by sometime this week and explain, if you want, but for now, please, Mira, just don’t mention me. Don’t lie. If you have to, just say you engaged a private investigator who managed to find your daughter. That’s actually the God’s-honest truth. Okay?”

Mira babbled. “Right, private investigator. That’s a good story. This is amazing. This is so incredible. If you hadn’t...”

I suppressed an urge to choke. “Yes, well.” Then, because I had to, I thought about the money. Best to get a verbal agreement right now. At least half the retainer seemed fair, as I had risked my life to find the girl. “About my fee. I was thinking—”

“Oh, please, keep it all,” Mira gushed. “Five grand? Worth every penny. And if I can ever do anything for you...”

“Sure. Now...there’s someone that wants to talk to you.” I handed the phone to Talley.

“Mom?”

For the rest of the ride to Mill Valley I had to put up with excited girl babble, but after a moment I decided I didn’t mind. Talley seemed remarkably unaffected by her ordeal. Perhaps the kidnappers hadn’t scared her so much, or maybe she just recovered fast. And Mira...hysterically happy of course, and relieved, but still...something about the woman’s reactions bothered me still. I just couldn’t pin it down.

Maybe Mira was popping Valium with her morning cocktails. Certainly there was some other element here that I didn’t understand, but I didn’t really have to. People’s real lives were complicated. Talley was safe and sound and soon would be back with her mother. That was the important thing.

I dropped Talley off at the Sorkin curb and watched her dash up to the front door. Mira opened it before she got there and mother and daughter threw themselves at each other in a desperate hug. Molly was already in motion. The last thing I wanted was Mira running out to the sidewalk in awkward gratitude.

Five grand was thanks enough. I reached for my phone again.

“Mickey, it’s me. I’m coming back to the office. The girl is safe.”

“What girl? The child you talked about?”

I remembered I hadn’t actually briefed him on the case. “I’ll tell you all about it when I get there. Just don’t leave. Be back in half an hour.”

“Roger dodger, boss. Over and out.”

I sighed as I hung up. Seemed like I was surrounded by children. Maybe that was why I liked Cole. Craggy, with some mileage on him, but the world hadn’t beaten him down yet. He still cared. Like Dad. Tears welled up suddenly as I thought of my father.

I missed him so much.

I shook my head to clear my eyes, pushing sentimental thoughts out as I parked on a side street. First I unloaded the shotgun and then reloaded its magazine, leaving the chamber empty, and slid it carefully backward by the barrel over the seat into the rear cargo space.

Taking off the Security hat, I got out of Molly and opened the hatchback to put the shotgun and vest back in their places. Then I bent over and stretched, working the kinks out before I drove back into the City. This time I ignored the Sausalito route and stuck to the freeway. I was feeling too good about saving the kid and the five grand in my pocket to want to darken the day again with negativity.

Five grand. That’s what Mira had said. My cop sense prickled again, but refused to disgorge. My subconscious churned and bubbled. I let it be for the moment. Likely I would be processing this weird little situation for some time, but I had plenty of open cases on my mental books from back in the cop days. Not everything got solved, or when it did, lots of details never surfaced. I gave a deliberate mental shrug and tried to put it behind me.

Pulling out, I hung a U and accelerated, enjoying the press of the seat against my back and the nimble sensation of Molly’s tires on the road. I felt a bit let down now that I had no Audi to follow, no excuse to shatter traffic laws for a higher purpose.

The city skyline from this side was gorgeous as the overcast had lifted and broken in places, patches of sunlight pushing through and shining on the grimy bay and crowded landscape. Seabirds perched on the Golden Gate, watching the endless traffic. As I exited the bridge over Fort Point, a pelican dove and came up with a struggling fish, flipping it into his mouth, and my stomach growled. The bagel and cup of coffee had long since vanished.

On the other side of the bridge the restaurants of the Marina District called to me but I ignored them. Parking there was hell anyway, the prices high, and besides, Cole lived there, and I wanted to forget about him right now. A few minutes more would bring me back to Molly’s own space in the cozy Mission District. I speed-dialed Udupi Palace and put in a delivery order for curry, betting I would be at my office in time to meet the runner and pay in cash. Mickey wouldn’t have enough left from the twenty I’d fronted him.

I made it to Molly’s parking space just ahead of the scooter, paid and grabbed the bag, and then knocked on the walkout. When Mickey opened it I slapped his reaching hand, and then locked the door by habit behind me.

“Come upstairs and eat like a human being,” I said. “And afterward, you go home and shower. If I can smell you over the curry, you’re pretty rank.”

“Okay, boss. You gonna get paid for this job?”

“Of course,” I said lightly as I climbed two flights to the top floor, Mickey huffing behind. “I got a check.”

“Hope it’s good,” he grunted.

“Don’t I always take care of you?”

Mickey mumbled something under his breath.

“What? I didn’t catch that.”

“Didn’t mean for you to, boss.”

Probably something juvenile, sexual, or both. “Open the window and sit down.” I pointed at the back side of the house, then opened the opposite door to the balcony that overlooked the street. Between the two I got a nice airflow that kept Mickey’s B.O. away. Only then did I set the food on the kitchenette table and hand my helper the Vindaloo, his favorite. Containers of Basmati rice and Mulligatawny soup came out next, and two packets of naan. For me, the butter chicken.

It came with biodegradable bowls, plates and cutlery. San Francisco was serious about its environmentalism.

Over fantastic South Asian flavors, I swore Mickey to secrecy again and told him about the case, leaving out only my wayward and unrelated thoughts. When I was finished with my food and story, Mickey said, “Let me see the check.”

“You’ll get paid, Mickey. Don’t worry.”

He made an impatient motion. “I know that, boss. Just show me.”

I unfolded the precious piece of paper and set it carefully on the table where he could see, but kept a finger on it. It wasn’t that I didn’t trust him. It was just that he had curry all over his hands and his sweatshirt front.

Mickey wiped his fingers and then fished the business card out of his pocket, setting it down next to the check. “Notice anything?”

I stared at it a moment, then rotated it to line up with the check. “The handwriting on the card...the number is Mira’s. They match the check. But the words...almost, but not quite.” I picked it up and brought it in close to my eyes. “And the pen and pressure is slightly different.

“So?” Mickey stared expectantly, triumph that he had gotten ahead of me written on his face.

“So if Mira passed it to Cole, why wouldn’t it all be in her handwriting? And the words are not written in Cole’s hand either. Did she lie? Who would write on the card except her or Cole?” I sat back.

“You know what?” Mickey pulled out a sheaf of papers and unfolded them. “Her home phone records...” He looked them over. I could see notes scribbled up and down the right margins. “Calls to the alarm center just like she said, but...” He tapped the marked entries.

I craned my neck to look. “Five seconds. Seven seconds.”

“Yeah. Too short to be asking for the info like she said.”

“But long enough to claim it was a wrong number, maybe chat for a few seconds, but most people don’t really have a good sense of time. She wanted to make the calls to support her story, but she didn’t plan well enough to make sure she stayed on the line an appropriate amount of time.”

Mickey nodded.

“Good work.”

“What do we do about it?”

I pressed my lips together. “Nothing.”

“Nothing? But...” he trailed off.

“But what? What have we got? A strong hunch? The cops will just laugh at us. I can pass this observation on to a friend in the department, but if I do that I’ll have to explain everything, such as why I didn’t turn the girl over to them at the warehouse. And how do we know the kidnappers weren’t threatening Mira the whole time? They could have given her a script to run through, and this might have been her trying to deviate from it, to gum up their plan? No, Mickey. We saved the girl,”—I was feeling charitable right now so I included him—“and we got paid. That’s it. Mira might have been dirty somehow, but three kidnappers are dead, and I never got the impression she wasn’t genuinely frightened for Talley.”

“Okay. You’re the boss. Mind if I keep digging?”

“Off the clock, I don’t care what you do.”

“Aww...”

“You’re lucky I keep you in high-end graphics chips, Mickey. You could never afford those on your own.”

He held up his hands in surrender. “All right, all right.”

“I’ll be giving you a bonus on this one anyway, Mick my man. The handwriting...that was a good catch.”

Mickey beamed.

“And what about the Audi? Did you run it?”

“Dead end. Stolen just this morning over in Hayward.”

I made a disappointed sound. “Oh, well.” I wiped my hands on a paper napkin. “Now go shower and put on some clean clothes. You stink.”

His face fell and he scratched self-consciously under one arm, then stood up with sad eyes.

I felt like I’d kicked a puppy. “Sorry, but it’s true. You’ve been down there for days. Go on. Go home, say hi to your mom for me, and tell her you did a good job, and you made some money. Come back tomorrow. I’ll clean the food up.” Suddenly I was desperate to have him gone and the place to myself for a while.

“Okay. Thanks.”

I heard him shuffle down the steep stairs to the bottom level.

“And lock the door!” I yelled down the stairwell after him, but too late. The walkout had already banged shut. I reminded myself to get the basement door hardware changed to the self-securing kind, like the front. Now that I had a nice five-grand payday I could afford the locksmith.

Five grand. Might have a G for the tables, or at least five bills.

No, not yet. One jones at a time.

It only took a few moments to tidy the kitchenette, despite having to wipe the drips off the polished hardwood floor around Mickey’s chair. Messy didn’t even begin to describe it. I’d just started the coffee machine when I heard a creak on the stair.

“Forget something?” I called as I turned, expecting to see Mickey.

Instead, a youngish man stood at the top of the stairs, holding a gun in his gloved hand.

Pointed at me.

Which is never a good thing.

Adrenaline surged but I froze, suppressing the cop instinct to reach and draw.

The gunman seemed calm and made no move, just stared at me with clear liquid eyes beneath longish dark hair. He wore a lightweight trench coat, not unusual in this weather, and had a high-end knit scarf concealing his lower face. Average tall, average looks—except for those bottomless pale gray orbs—Caucasian, with white eyebrows. That clued me in to the fact that he had on a wig to cover what must be lighter hair.

“Who are you—”

“— and what do I want?” Part of a smile reached the upper half of his face, contrasting oddly with the slim revolver, suppressor pointed unwaveringly at my chest. “Just to talk, I assure you, but you need to divest yourself of your firearms first, so we can be civil.” English accent, though I wasn’t savvy enough about such things to place him better.

Slowly I slid my handgun from its holster and set it down on the counter.

“Put that into the freezer, along with your holdout, and sit down on the balcony,” he said, his aim never budging.

As I complied, taking the compact from the small of my back and setting both guns gently into the freezer, my mind flared with realization. “You killed the kidnappers.”

“Brava. Well reasoned. Balcony. Sit. I’ll get the coffee.”

I turned, keeping my hands in sight, and walked out onto the balcony. Settling into one of the white-painted wrought iron chairs there, I folded my hands into my lap to still their adrenalized shaking. The rational part of my mind wasn’t terribly frightened. After all, he could have shot me already, and with the suppressor no one would have noticed. In the warehouse, I hadn’t heard any shots.

Or maybe I had. I thought about the coughs.

The man stepped onto the balcony with two mugs in his hands, setting one in front of me. The gun was nowhere in sight. “I’m trusting you with hot liquid, Cal. Please, just enjoy it and don’t do anything to spoil the moment. I really have no desire to hurt you.”

I nodded in tentative agreement as I took a sip of coffee. Black, as I liked it. His appeared to have been creamed. I hadn’t even heard the fridge open. Eerie quiet, this guy.

“You know my name.”

His eyes crinkled again. “It is on the door plaque.”

“Touché. What’s yours?”

The man sipped beneath the scarf, a two-handed trick, then sat back and didn’t answer. Sounds of the street below echoed against the mishmash of classic San Francisco Victorians and more modern styles. Across the street an old woman watered plants on her balcony, an irrational act in this weather.

Nothing as strange as people, especially in a city.

“Call me Thomas,” he finally said. “It’s not my name, but it will do. Good coffee, by the way. Hard to get this side of the pond, outside of an upscale restaurant or speciality cafe.” He put the extra syllable into that word, spe-ci-a-li-ty.

I found myself liking the sound of his voice, despite the opening threat. A charming rogue, then. “It’s an expensive machine. I like good coffee.”

“Then we have more than one thing in common.”

“Oh? What else? Fast cars and guns?”

“True, but not what came to mind. We both detest people who use little girls.”

My blood surged with memories I’d rather forget, of men who tried to do things when I was much younger, with Dad away and Mom drunk or high, passed out on the sofa.

Lucky, I’m lucky. The words ran through my mind as a mantra, lucky it never got that far, always the fear, relieved only when Dad had come back home and Mom’s parties were banished again for a time.

“You’re wandering,” Thomas said, waving a diffident hand.

“Sorry. You’re right.” My voice tightened. “Very right. Kidnappers disgust me, but I wouldn’t have put them down like dogs.”

“No?” He stared at me until I dropped my eyes.

“I don’t think so. Not...not in cold blood like that. What was it? Did your gang fall out, or the plan go wrong?” I raised my chin defiantly.

“Yes, it did. But it wasn’t my gang, or my plan. I’m a contractor, not a kidnapper or blackmailer.” He sounded sincerely outraged.

“Contractor. You mean hit man.”

Thomas glanced away as if I’d said something distasteful. “Are you a gumshoe, or a private dick?”

“I prefer independent investigator.”

“And I prefer contractor. A hit man is a thug for hire, a mercenary. I tidy up certain specific problems. I won’t do just anything, or anyone. I have a code.”

“A code. How nice. And you get paid well, I suppose.”

“You just took a five-thousand-dollar check from a distraught mother. You’re not going to cash it?”

I reddened and my eyes dropped, though the set of my shoulders remained defiant. “Point taken. But that doesn’t make us the same. I wouldn’t have killed those people.”

“Unless you had to. You have two righteous shoots under your belt.”

“Most big-city cops have a couple by the time they retire, at least in this country. Goes with the territory. But there’s a difference between self defense and murder.”

“I’m not going to debate terminology. That little girl is alive and safe because of me, mostly, and a bit of you. They were about to kill her and run when I took care of them. They heard the sirens, and they saw you chase me into the warehouse. You put her at risk by calling the police, not me.”

I slammed my mug down, slopping coffee, and sat forward. “You didn’t have to bring me there. You could have gone anywhere else. You could have driven up the freeway and tried to lose me a long ways from there, but instead you led me right to them, and the cops too.”

Thomas spread his hands. “Poor planning on my part, I suppose.” He sipped again, but did not seem in the least contrite.

I shook my head. “No. I think it was perfect planning. You used me and the cops to distract them, then popped them just like you wanted to. Somehow this heist went wrong. Maybe they didn’t get the drugs after all, and maybe they were going to kill the girl, I’ll give you that. I’ll never know, I suppose. Did your mutual bosses send you to, how do you English say, ‘sort them’? Tie up the loose ends? The girl goes home, the dead guys turn out to be dangerous felons with records as long as your arm, the case is solved and the incident gets featured on next season’s America’s Dumbest Criminals.”

“You’re forgetting something, dear. I’m a professional, and they weren’t. I could have popped them at any time, with no fuss or mess. I could have set the place on fire and dropped the girl off on her own corner none the wiser.”

Nonplussed, I stared at Thomas, running left-hand fingers around my ear to push my straight dark hair back, angling my head as I usually did to minimize view of the right side. “Okay.” I stared some more, and he gazed back calmly. “Okay, well. I don’t get it, then.”

The sun came out in his eyes again, and I really wanted to see the smile he hid. I guessed it was a heart-stopper. “Good. You’ll have something to chew on for a while. Thanks for the coffee, but now I must be going.” He stood.

I jumped to my feet. Questions still seethed in my head. “You can’t just walk out.”

“Whyever not?”

“I...I need information. The mother. What about Mira?” Keep him talking, keep him engaged.

“What about her?”

“She was in on it somehow.”

Thomas raised one of those incongruous white eyebrows. “Oh?” Amusement danced in his eyes.

“Yes. Something about her responses was off. And if it was me, my kid, I would have called the cops the next day, when she found out the heist hadn’t happened. Only she didn’t find out, because she only talked to the monitoring center for about five seconds, not long enough to really check to see if someone had opened the drug warehouse with her stolen identity like she claimed.”

“That’s it? That’s all you have?” I could tell he was grinning at me beneath that scarf.

“Five grand.”

“Come again?”

“Mira said ‘five grand.’ Most people would have said ‘five thousand dollars.’ Who uses words like that?” I paused for his answer.

“People who watch cop shows, thrillers, and organized crime dramas?”

I shook my head. “Maybe, but I don’t buy it. I think she was part of it somehow.”

Thomas cocked his head in apparent disbelief. “A mother using her own child like that?”

“A few years back a mother strapped her two kids into her Mazda and rolled it into a lake because her new boyfriend didn’t want a family.”

“Not this mother. She loves Talley, whatever her faults.” Thomas’s calm demeanor stirred slightly. “I’ll tell you something I shouldn’t, but you have to promise me you’ll leave well enough alone.”

I snorted. “A promise made at gunpoint is meaningless.”

“Do you see a gun? Mine was just to make sure you put yours aside. You can walk out of here any time and you’ll never see me again.” He paused, then made a shooing motion. “Go on. Run along. Take your phone with you. Call the coppers.”

I pressed my lips together. “No thanks.”

“I figured. You want all the answers, but I’m not going to provide them. I’ll give you this, though, because I’d rather you didn’t press further. You’re right. The plan did go wrong. The girl was never supposed to be part of it, but the crew wanted more leverage than they had on the mother. She was going to get a cut for selling them the way in to the warehouse, and then deny all knowledge, but they wanted insurance, so they took the girl.”

I leaned back against the doorframe, mind spinning. “Right. That fits. But if Mira needs money, and there was no heist...”

Thomas shrugged. “The check’s worthless.”

“Crap.” The epithet thudded flatly.

“Indeed. C’est la vie.” He sidled toward the stairway, keeping me in sight. I suppose it was a trained habit; I had no intention of lunging for my guns. Who knew whether they would even fire properly after sitting in the freezer?

“Wait, Thomas, or whatever. Why did you do this? Why even come to me? I could make a report.”

“You won’t.”

“Why not?”

His mouth twitched. “Because you appreciate justice. Even if it’s imperfect.”

“Is that what this was?”

Thomas shrugged, backing down the steps. “You decide. Toodle-oo.” Then he was gone, down the stairs and undoubtedly out the unlocked lower level door.

“Cheerio, guv’ner,” I breathed, and took the guns out of the freezer. Setting them on the table to warm, I shut the upstairs against the threat of further rain, and then put the two mugs in the sink and rinsed them, the ritual helping to calm me as excess adrenaline bled off.

He’d never taken his gloves off, so fingerprints were out. Opening a cupboard, I brought out a bottle of wine, not even looking at the label. Though not much of a drinker, I grew up in California with Napa on my tongue, and felt in need right now.

Setting a wine glass on the table, I poured it full and then stared at the empty surface.

The check. The card. The bastard. He had filched both of them.

Taking a drink, I sat down again and pulled out the photocopy of Mira’s business card I had made. Read it again. Cole said you can help—PLEASE CALL RIGHT AWAY. And what had Mira said at her house? “Cole Sage was the only one who had connections to people like you.” Which was silly. Mira didn’t need any special connections to hire a PI. And who would call a middle-class professional like me “people like you”?

I stared at the copy of the card.

“I suppose in your business...” Mira had also said. As if the PI trade was unsavory.

But what if that wasn’t what she had meant?

All the little clues added up suddenly. It had been staring me in the face the whole time. The card had not been meant for me at all.

People in your business. People like you. Thought you would be a man.

The card had been for Thomas. Thomas, who in his line of work wouldn’t want direct contact with a client. Who wouldn’t keep a phone number for long. Who might have a dead drop somewhere that Cole would know about, maybe activated by an anonymous web address. That’s how she would do it. And Mira hadn’t written any words on the card. Just the number.

Instead of calling Mira, Thomas had added the plea for help and the reference to Cole, to really pique my interest. Then he had put the card in my office night drop, directing me onto the case. He must have deliberately let himself be seen in the Audi, provoked me into following him, and to the girl.

I shook my head to clear it and gulped more wine. Too many loose ends. Too many questions. I hated both, but unless I somehow found Thomas again, I wasn’t likely to get any.

I can always call Cole, I thought. It’s a good excuse to see what he knows about it, or how Mira knows him—another of his conquests? No, Cole’s not really like that...I don’t think. I can ask how he’s acquainted with Thomas, why he trusts him...meet Cole over coffee, maybe a light dinner. I’ll put on a dress. God, I hate dresses but I do have nice legs, and oh, I’m doing it again. Forget him. Just forget him. He’s as inaccessible as...

As Thomas?

Just my luck. I meet two really interesting guys in the past few months and both are out of reach.

Glass in hand and half-empty bottle in the crook of my elbow, guns snugly back in their holsters, I descended the stairs to the main floor and my spacious office. Intending to throw back the curtains, I placed the bottle and the glass on the desk and then stopped, startled.

A neat, half-inch pile of hundred-dollar bills sat in the exact middle of the desk calendar, bound with a rubber band. They did not have the fresh-printed look of a bank stack. Before I even picked up the bundle I knew what it would contain.

Five thousand dollars.

I sat down in the dimness, forgetting the curtains, and stared at the pile for a moment before picking it up and riffling it. Well, I had earned it...though Thomas might be setting me up for the future. Taking his money might give him some kind of leverage. But I had bills to pay.

Feeling generous, I pulled five Benjamins out of the pile for Mickey, slipped the rest into the floor safe, and refilled my glass.

Looking at the phone, I contemplated calling the cops, one of my old friends perhaps. I had enough on Thomas to cause him trouble, with a physical description and that accent to identify him, but he was right.

I wouldn’t.

Why not? Not because of the money, or his charm, or even because of a dozen loose ends I hoped he might someday tie up.

Because he was right. I do appreciate justice. Even if it is imperfect.

_______

David VanDyke is a former US Army Airborne enlisted soldier and, later in life, a US Air Force officer. He served in and out of combat zones all over the world in the 1980s through the 2000s. He lives on the East Coast with his wife and three dogs.. Look for more Cal Corwin stories by David VanDyke at your favorite book vendor and find out more at http://www.davidvandykeauthor.com

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Mr. Mockingbird Drive

By Robert Swartwood

They wait until he finishes with his transaction before they make their move.

Taking his card back from the machine, putting it in his wallet along with the twenty-dollar bills, he turns around with his head down and starts to take a step forward and doesn’t even hear them when they walk right up to him, Tyshawn already with his gun out and pointed at the man’s head.

“Freeze, motherfucker.”

The man freezes. Doesn’t even look up at them, just keeps staring down at his wallet.

Julio glances around the bank parking lot, sees no trouble, knows they have to hurry anyway. “We goin for a ride, mi amigo.”

The man still hasn’t looked up. His black leather wallet shakes in his hands.

Tyshawn steps forward, presses the barrel of his gun against the man’s head. “Yo, he’s talkin to you.”

The man raises his head, but in a slow, cautious way, Julio happy to see the fear in the man’s eyes.

“Your keys,” Julio says, motioning to the man’s BMW behind them.

The man’s lips tremble. “My—my—my keys?”

“To your fuckin car, dickhead,” Tyshawn says, pressing the barrel against the man’s head once again.

The man’s hands are shaking so bad now that he drops the wallet. It hits the ground with a dry thud. The man looks down, looks back up, raises his hands slowly.

“I have to reach into my pocket,” he says.

Julio says, “Keys better be what comes out, or else my boy here will blow your face off.”

The man reaches into his pocket. He brings out a set of keys.

Tyshawn grabs them from the man’s hand, tosses them back to Julio. Julio catches them, smiles, says, “Now get in the car.”

“What? But I thought—I thought you just wanted my car!”

“No way, Mr. Mockingbird Drive. We want a whole lot fucking more.”

Tyshawn had come up with the name Mr. Mockingbird Drive. It wasn’t all that original. Mockingbird Drive was the street the man lived on. Tyshawn just added the Mr.

They’d been watching the man for a couple weeks, the man every other night always going to the ATM at the Hartford Street Bank, always withdrawing three hundred dollars.

Sticking him up for the cash was out of the question. They’d graduated from that shit years ago. Even jacking him for the car wasn’t their style, though true, the BMW was a sweet ride.

Nah, they wanted so much more.

Because a man that withdraws three hundred dollars every other day, a man that drives a BMW, he has to be sitting pretty.

So they followed him one day, out of the city and into the suburbs. The man lived in a white brick house on Mockingbird Drive.

They cased the house, saw the man appeared to live alone.

Always left home at the same time each morning, always arrived home at the same time each night.

Breaking and entering between then was out of the question.

The man would have a safe, a lockbox, someplace where he kept valuables.

What they needed were the location and the combination.

“So, Mr. Mockingbird Drive, you a faggot?”

The man’s real name is Matthew Horner. That’s what his ID says. Julio doesn’t care. He likes the nickname Tyshawn came up with better.

The man says, “Excuse me?”

“A faggot. You know, sucking cock, taking it up the ass. You into that?”

The man is hunched down in the shotgun seat, staring out his window. Julio drives the BMW carefully, not going too fast, not going too slow, taking them out of the city, Tyshawn in the backseat, bopping his head to some song he’s humming.

“I mean, we been watching you for two weeks now. You ain’t got no wife, no girlfriend. Thought maybe, you know, you had a boyfriend someplace.” Julio snaps his fingers. “Or wait—you into kiddie porn? That your thing?”

The man doesn’t answer, just keeps staring out his window.

Tyshawn puts a pause on the humming and whacks the man in the back of the head with his gun. “Yo, he asked you a question.”

“Where are you taking me?”

“I told you,” Julio says. “We’re takin you home.”

“Then what—are you going to kill me?”

“Not if you’re a good boy.”

“You can have everything I own. Just please”—the man now shaking his head, his voice quivering—”please don’t kill me.”

“I’ll think about it,” Julio says. Then asks, “So give, you like to spit or swallow?”

They’re not professionals by any means. But they manage to get by. Always being careful, always picking and choosing the right marks, they’ve never been caught.

The past three years they’ve done four home invasions. Walked away with a pretty good payday each time. Enough to keep them going for a while, enough cash to pay for their weed and beer and video games.

Tyshawn’s the one that does the killing. Julio doesn’t want any part in it. He’ll be an accessory, sure, but he don’t want to stand in front of God one day and say he ever pulled the trigger.

Four home invasions, six people dead.

And tonight, well, the count’s gonna go up in both categories.

Ten o’clock at night, Mockingbird Drive is dark and quiet. They pull into the driveway, Julio hits the button to raise the garage door, and they slip inside.

They stay in the car until the garage door has closed.

Julio says, “All right, Mr. Mockingbird Drive. Do like we say and not like we do. Got it?”

The man nods slowly, says he does.

“Good. Now we’re gonna go inside. We’re gonna go to your safe or lockbox. You do have a safe or lockbox, don’t you?”

The man looks at him, shakes his head.

Tyshawn whacks him again, shouts, “Lyin motherfucker!”

His eyes squeezed tight, his face red, the man says, “Okay, okay. Yes, I have a safe.”

“Good,” Julio says. “Now we’re gonna take what’s in that safe, take a shit load of other stuff, and then we’ll be on our way. Got it?”

The first thing Julio notices is just how clean and neat the house is. The kitchen, the living room, the dining room—it’s like some fucking model home, nothing out of place.

Julio asks the man, “Where’s the safe?”

“Upstairs.”

They go upstairs, the man leading Julio with Tyshawn bringing up the rear. Like the first floor, it’s spotless.

“How long you been living here?” Julio asks the man.

“Two years.”

“You sure you ain’t gay?”

The man pauses. “What?”

“This place is so clean, looks like a faggot lives here.”

The man looks back at him. “You want the money or not?”

Tyshawn says, “Get your ass movin, motherfucker.”

The man keeps walking.

He brings them to the master bedroom. He points at the closet, says the safe is in there. Tyshawn keeps the gun close on the man as the man opens the closet and pushes away the shirts and slacks on hangers.

Julio looks around. There’s a bunch of jar candles scattered around the room, making the place smell like cinnamon. He doesn’t know why, but it reminds him of something, another house they’d robbed years ago.

He glances back at the man, sees the man has now revealed the safe, putting his fingers and thumb on the dial.

A picture frame sits on the nightstand. It’s the only picture in the bedroom. The only picture in the entire fucking house.

As the man moves the dial, left to right, right to left, Julio walks away from the closet and goes to the nightstand. He picks up the frame. A woman smiles back at him. She has blond hair and straight white teeth, and Julio doesn’t know why, but something about her is familiar, just like that cinnamon smell.

Tyshawn says, “Fuckin-A,” just as the man opens the safe, and right then Julio remembers where he’s seen this woman before.

He turns suddenly, already reaching for his gun, but the man has opened the safe, reached inside, pulled out a .38. The man turns back around and places the gun to Tyshawn’s head, pulls the trigger, steps past his falling body and shoots at Julio.

The first bullet misses Julio.

The second doesn’t.

It hits him right in the shoulder, and he loses his grip on the gun, the piece falling to the floor.

He tries to grab it but he’s too slow and the man is too fast, this Mr. Mockingbird Drive who has visited the same ATM every other day for the past month, this man who is now hurrying toward him.

“You recognize her, don’t you?” The man kicks Julio’s gun away, crouches down and puts the .38 right into Julio’s face. “Her name was Melanie. She was your second victim.”

He whacks Julio in the face with the gun.

“She was my wife.”

Julio tries standing back up, he tries pushing the man away, but the man hits him again with the gun. He hits him right in the head and the world goes blurry and Julio can’t see straight at first, he can’t see anything, but then the man puts the gun to his gut and pulls the trigger and it isn’t pain that Julio feels but a sudden warmness, a sudden bright light, like he has never felt before.

“The police wouldn’t do anything about it,” the man says, “so I knew I had to take matters into my own hands. No way could you know this, but I was in the army. Served six years. Got out and wanted nothing more to do with any killing. Never wanted to kill anyone ever again.”

The warmness getting warmer, the brightness getting brighter.

“But then you two fuckers had to come along. I was away on business. Didn’t even find out what happened until two days went by and the police finally managed to contact me.”

Julio tries to speak, tries to say something, but blood is in his mouth, blood is dribbling down his lips.

“The ATM cameras never could get a good shot of your faces. Cops said there wasn’t much they could do. Didn’t matter to them, wasn’t their wife that was murdered. So I studied the cases. I knew what you guys looked for. And I became your perfect mark.”

Blood all over him, pouring out of his body, soaking into his clothes.

“And you stupid arrogant fuckers, you should’ve stopped when you were ahead.”

The man shakes his head, stands back up, takes a deep breath. He walks to the nightstand, grabs the picture of his wife, comes back to Julio. He crouches back down, holds the picture up in front of Julio’s face.

“Say you’re sorry.”

“Fa ... Fa ... Fuck you!” Julio manages, and the man once more whacks him in the head.

He holds up the picture again. “Say you’re sorry.”

Julio tries crawling away but the warmth is too much, the brightness is too fucking much.

“Doesn’t matter,” the man says, standing back up. “She wouldn’t forgive you anyway. Neither would I.”

The gun, he spots his gun underneath the bed, and he reaches out for it but it’s a mile away, ten miles away.

“Know the most painful place to get shot?” the man asks. He has the .38 pointed at Julio’s face but starts to lower it down Julio’s body, settling it over Julio’s crotch. Says, “Right here,” and pulls the trigger.

Julio screams, or he thinks he screams, and the warmth and the light melt into one, and he still sees the gun but it’s so far away now it’s like on another planet, and as the man walks away, leaving him, Julio thinks about those jar candles, he thinks about that cinnamon smell, and how the night they’d invaded that woman’s house a candle had been burning, and how the smell had filled the house, and after they had killed her and taken all the money and jewelry and everything else, that candle had still been burning, the flame reaching toward the ceiling, the wisp of black smoke rising up and up and up into the air until it disappeared into nothing.

_______

Robert Swartwood is the USA TODAY bestselling author of The Serial Killer’s Wife, The Calling, Man of Wax, and several other novels. His work has appeared in The Los Angeles Review, The Daily Beast, Chizine, Space and Time, Postscripts, and PANK. He created the term “hint fiction” and is the editor of Hint Fiction: An Anthology of Stories in 25 Words or Fewer. He lives with his wife in Pennsylvania. Visit him at www.robertswartwood.com

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Ladies’ Weekend

By Ryan King

Cathy needed a drink. More than she needed to get out of the van. More than she had ever needed anything in her life.

She could actually feel the world crushing in on her like a black wave of despair. Her stomach roiled and her skin wanted to crawl right off her bones. Her hand shook slightly as she pushed the hair out of her eyes. The van ride to the beach seemed like it was never going to end.

“You okay back there, hon?” Ruby asked her daughter-in-law.

“Probably didn’t sleep right in my upstairs bed,” said her sister Martha. “I’ve been trying to get Greg to replace that set for years, but you know he don’t listen to me.”

“It ain’t the bed,” rasped the third sister Dolores. “It’s the damn heat. Can’t you turn up the AC just a little bitty bit?” She immediately followed this up with a coughing fit.

The van became quiet, and the women tried not to look at each other or Dolores. She had made a good run at it, but the cancer was starting to get to her now. It was only a matter of time. This weekend was supposed to be about enjoying some time together while the oldest sister was still able to enjoy anything.

Dolores’ daughter Trish reached up between the two front seats and cranked the air conditioning all the way to full blast.

Cathy who was already shivering, degraded to full-fledged shaking. Oh, how I hate these women. Couldn’t they have driven in separate vehicles at least? Why did all six of us have to cram into one mini-van for God’s sake? They all wanted to do everything together, but why do I have to be a part of it? I’m not a Biddle after all. I just married into the damn family. That would be over soon enough if everything went as planned. The image of Ruby’s face when she finally discovered what her daughter-in-law had done made Cathy smile despite her agony.

Stephanie, Martha’s daughter and always the mother hen, turned around from the second row of seats and caught Cathy’s eyes. Her face took on a look of concern and she reached back to put the back of her hand against Cathy’s face.

“You don’t look so good,” she said. “A little warm too. Are you coming down with a fever?”

With a supreme effort, Cathy smiled. “I’ll be okay once we get there, my stomach’s just a little upset with all the time on the road.”

Martha and Ruby gave each other a knowing look.

“Well it won’t be long now,” quipped Ruby from behind the steering wheel. “We’re almost in Foley, not more than a half hour from here.”

Cathy wasn’t sure if she could make it that long. She had some Percocet tablets in her purse that would stop the shaking, but she couldn’t think of a way to take one without someone noticing. Although she was sitting in the third row seat, Dolores was beside her, and sick or not, that old lady didn’t miss a thing.

“Why do you gals always come to Gulf Shores?” asked Trish. “You know there are lots of other places you could go. What is it about the coast of Alabama? I just don’t get it.”

The question was obviously for Martha. Although they had all been down there before except for Trish and Cathy, Martha had been vacationing there for over twenty years.

Martha didn’t immediately answer. Her eyes took on a far off look before a slight smile relaxed her face, “You know, I’ve just always loved the ocean. The peacefulness, the calm winds, everything about it.”

“I get that,” said Trish, “I like the ocean too, one reason I live on Nantucket. But you gals are all from Tennessee and Kentucky. I don’t know if anyone’s ever told you, but there’s a lot more ocean out there. It kind of goes all the way around.”

“I’ve been to some of those places,” answered Martha. “They’re flashy and loud and filled with busy people. I like Gulf Shores because it’s peaceful and because it never really seems to change.”

“Well they did build the mall out here a few years ago,” said Stephanie pointing at the gigantic Outlet Mall they were currently passing on their left.

“Yes, but that’s not Gulf Shores,” answered Martha. “If you’re ever more than rock throwing distance from the water, you’re not really in Gulf Shores.”

As if on cue, they drove over the bay bridge onto the long thin island. Cathy felt her stomach turn a little, not sure if she could make it to their condo before she vomited all over these noisy women. Maybe that wouldn’t be such a bad thing, she thought.

“Everywhere else you’re a tourist,” said Dolores slowly. “Here it’s like you’re a local. Even if you only visit a few days a year. It’s like a second home somehow.”

Martha grinned and nodded, “Yes! That’s what I meant, you’re not an outsider here even if you are. You can be a local for a little while.”

They were passing between t-shirt shops and oyster bars with flags whipping in the always constant, and almost always gentle, ocean breeze. Ruby turned off the air conditioning and put all the windows down. The sounds of sea gulls, wind, and crashing waves filled the van. The smell of salt nearly overwhelmed the senses, clean and refreshing.

Cathy expected Dolores or her daughter to complain about the wind and the lack of AC, but both sat contentedly. The serene looks on their faces made her want to claw their eyes out.

The road ended at a fork with nothing in front of them but sand, ocean, and beach bars. Ruby turned left and they passed tall condominiums and smaller beach houses on both sides of the road with the shimmering sunlit water a constant and steady presence to their right.

“There it is!” said Martha pointing, “The Oasis, you better slow down, Ruby, or you’ll miss it.”

“I got it!” hissed Ruby annoyed, but she stomped on the brakes hard enough to cause everyone to ride forward out of their seats and press against their seat belts.

“Yeah, I can see that,” answered Martha with both hands on the dashboard to keep herself from flying through the windshield.

Ruby whipped the wheel sharply to the right and bounced them up over a curb before sliding into a parking space. With a flourish she put the van in park and shut it off. “Here we are! Let the party begin!”

“Thank the Lord,” rasped Dolores, “I can’t wait to get out of this damn van.”

“You should probably take a nap, mom,” said Trish.

The old lady shook her head. “I’ll have plenty of time to nap soon enough. Let’s get checked in and have a look at the water.”

They all piled out of the vehicle and Martha went to the office to secure their room keys. Dolores climbed out of the van on her own, but didn’t protest when her daughter unfolded the wheelchair behind her. She sat down carefully and Trish pushed her over to where everyone else was admiring the condo’s large pool.

The sun seemed far too bright to Cathy and she thought she was going to faint.

“You okay?” asked Stephanie again.

Cathy wanted to scream at her to mind her own damn business. “I’m fine, just need to go to the bathroom, that’s all.”

“I bet there’s one in the office you could use,” said Stephanie pointing in the direction Martha had just gone. “Want me to go with you.”

“No that’s okay,” answered Cathy pushing up her sunglasses and clutching her purse. She walked briskly across the parking lot and into the sudden coolness of the office. The sharp contrast of the hot and cold environments was physically painful to Cathy. Couldn’t someplace just be warm or cool or comfortable? Why was everything either the Arctic or the Sahara?

Martha and the receptionist turned from their business to look at Cathy, who asked quickly, “Do you have a bathroom I could use?”

“Of course, hon,” said the receptionist. “It’s right down that hall there on the left.”

“Thank you,” said Cathy, hurrying off. Why did these southern ladies call everyone ‘hon’? Of course it’s short for honey, but that’s even stranger than hon somehow. Were they trying to say you’re as sweet as honey? Cathy couldn’t decide if that was disgusting or just plain silly.

She stumbled as she reached for the bathroom door handle. When it didn’t turn she felt a moment of panic and moaned. She twisted the handle the other way and was able to pull the door open. Cathy turned on the light and slammed the door shut, fumbling with the thumb lock. She then dumped the contents of her purse out onto the white linoleum floor.

There it is. Oh thank goodness. Cathy smiled as she reached for the pint of vodka even as waves of shaking washed over her. She spun the cap off and tilted the bottle back, taking a long greedy swallow. She didn’t want to stop, but a little of the fiery liquid went down her windpipe and she started choking.

Finally getting the coughing under control, she took another slower and smaller swallow. Cathy looked at the bottle and considered another drink and instead pulled out a little red metal tin and selected two Percocets, which she washed down with another chug of vodka.

Cathy closed her eyes and sat on the floor for a few minutes until she felt better. When she finally stood, the shaking was gone and her skin felt like it belonged to her. She pulled a small toothbrush and paste out of her purse and brushed the smell of vodka away. Can’t have those nosey know-it-alls in her business.

Justin knew about her increasing fondness for alcohol, but she didn’t think he knew about the pills. Besides he had promised to keep everything a secret until it was over. Until it’s too late for him to do anything about it, Cathy chuckled at her own cleverness.

She put everything back in her purse and walked out of the bathroom feeling better than she had since getting in the van for the Road Trip from Hell that morning. She didn’t see Martha in the lobby.

“They went ahead and started unloading,” said the receptionist. “Said to go on up to Room 409.”

“Thank you very much,” said Cathy walking out the door.

“My pleasure, hon,” came the reply from the closing door.

Cathy realized the hon didn’t bother her nearly as much as it had before. Getting out of that van and away from all those silly women even for a few minutes certainly improved her disposition.

By the time she got up to Room 409, they had already unloaded the van and Martha was busy putting everything away. The other ladies knew better than to try to help; Martha intuitively and mysteriously knew the proper place for every item. No one else possessed this secret power and would only get in the way, or worse, stop the Earth’s rotation by putting the paper towels somewhere other than where they were predestined to reside from before the dawn of time.

By unspoken agreement, the other women congregated on the balcony overlooking the vast expanse of ocean. Martha joined them and they all stood silently as their troubles and worries blew away on the wind.

“Wow,” said Stephanie at last.

“Sure is a whole lot of water,” commented Ruby.

Dolores cracked from her wheelchair, “Yeah, and you’re only seeing the top part.”

There was a moment of silence before the ladies, one at a time, snorted and began laughing. Soon they were all chuckling and smiling. Cathy found herself carried along with their joy and thought that maybe this weekend wouldn’t be so bad after all.

“So what do we want to do now?” asked Ruby.

“Should we go eat?” asked Trish.

“No,” groaned Martha. “We just ate a few hours ago.”

“Okay, what then?” asked Stephanie.

Everyone unconsciously turned to Dolores. They didn’t want to do anything without her, but also didn’t want to push her too far. She had been off the chemo for months, but her strength ebbed and flowed like the tides. Pulled not by the gravity of the moon, but by the inoperable softball sized tumor wrapped around her aorta and left lung.

The old lady pushed the bandana back off her shriveled and near hairless scalp and smiled up at them. “I think it’s time we go have some fun.”

“You sure, mom?” asked Trish.

“I’m sure,” nodded Dolores.

“All right then,” said Ruby. “Where to?”

Martha smiled, “No sense in wasting time. We might as well get serious right out of the gate. Let’s go to the Florabama.”

The Florabama was the closest thing you could find anymore to a real roadhouse. It sat squarely on the Florida Alabama border and thus its name. It had suffered fires and hurricanes and floods but always sprung back again like a stubborn stand of bamboo.

It was a Friday night and around dinner time, but even so Gulf Shores never really had much of a rush hour. Compared to the major beach and resort destinations to the east, the Redneck Riviera was calm and tranquil even during peak tourist months.

The drive from the Oasis Condo to the Florabama took only about ten minutes and they arrived to find a sizable crowd at the establishment. The women unloaded from the van, placing Dolores carefully in her wheelchair before making their way with some difficulty across the white seashell and gravel parking lot.

The Florabama itself was a sprawling mishmash of timber, sheet metal, and neon lights. One would have been hard-pressed to pick out the main entrance from the half dozen or so options presented. There were about a dozen different bar areas to buy drinks both outside and inside loosely connected by open rooms, winding passageways, and wooden stairwells. The Florabama was less a building than a giant tree house resting on the sand, seemingly designed by hyperactive and imaginative toddlers.

Despite this, or possibly because of its idiosyncrasies, the Florabama had lasted where other bars and roadhouses had come and gone and it boasted a large and loyal customer base of both locals and seasonal tourists. The sprawling complex of driftwood and plastic screamed carefree enjoyment and relaxation where nothing was expected of a patron other than to relax and not take anything seriously.

Martha deftly guided them to the wheelchair ramp which led up to what could have been equally and correctly termed the second, third, or second-and-a-half floor, depending on the vantage point.

“What can I do for you ladies,” asked a perky diminutive girl behind the bar.

“Any specials?” asked Ruby.

The girl smiled and pointed to a chalkboard to their right, “Bushwhackers are two for five dollars the next hour. After that we got three dollar shots and domestic beer the rest of the night.”

“What’s a bushwhacker?” asked Trish and the bartender started to explain, but Dolores cut her off.

“What the hell does it matter?” she said with a wave of a hand. “I bet it’s good and will wash the road right off of us nicely. Give us a round of those, little lady.”

“Coming up,” she said with a smile and began pulling out glasses and several bottles of liquor.

They all stood and looked around at the graffiti, dollar bills, and bras adorning the walls and ceilings. A gentle wind carried the sounds of slowly crashing waves and unhurried seagulls.

“Here you go,” said the bartender, finally placing the drinks on the counter. “Do you want to run a tab?”

Everyone reached into their purses for money at the same time, but Dolores was prepared and beat them all handing over a credit card. “Tab please, keep those drinks coming until we cry uncle and then bring ‘em twice as fast.”

“Sis’,” protested Ruby, “you don’t have to do that. You’re retired, let the rest of us get this.”

Dolores chuckled, “What else am I going to do with my social security? Besides, the government is going to cut it off the minute I’m not around to collect. Might as well enjoy it while I can. Now drink up before I get pissed and have to go find someone who is willing to have fun with me.”

“All right then,” said Martha handing out the large drinks and then holding up her own glass ceremonially. “Here’s to ladies weekend.”

“To ladies weekend,” they all echoed and clicked their drinks together before taking tentative sips from the straws.

Stephanie made an appreciative noise around her straw. “Man, these are good!”

“I bet they sneak up on you too,” commented Cathy already halfway through her drink. “Drinks like this carry a kick that knocks you on your ass.”

“Sounds like you have some experience with that,” commented Ruby with a wicked smile.

“Haven’t we all?” answered Trish before Cathy could answer and the ladies all nodded knowingly.

They heard the sounds of someone tuning a guitar and Stephanie walked over to the railing and looked down into one of the main dance floors and a makeshift stage.

“Someone getting ready to play?” Martha asked the perky bartender.

“Yep, Big Earl. You ladies ever heard him play?’

They shook their heads.

“Well then,” she said with a smile, “you had better stick around and get comfortable. It’s a real experience.”

“We ain’t going nowhere,” said Dolores finishing her drink and signaling for another round.

They completed their first round of drinks before retrieving the sequels and moving over to a table Stephanie had secured for them by the rail. The booths and tables below were starting to fill up with a smiling and easy-going crowd that seemed to all know each other whether they did or not.

The man on the stage finally stopped tinkering with his guitar and without ceremony looked out onto the crowd and asked, “You drunk sombitches wanna hear some music?”

The response was immediate and enthusiastic. Big Earl immediately launched into one of his evidently proven crowd pleasers, Poontang on a Pontoon.

Looking at her watch, Dolores ordered another round of bushwhackers before the special ended. Everyone but Cathy was struggling to keep up with the old lady.

Big Earl next launched into Baby Done Floated Away, coincidently about parents drinking bushwhackers on the beach and getting so drunk that their baby playing in the shallow waves in water wings floated away into the vastness of the sea. Despite the horrific tale, the crowd laughed and cheered and drank more.

Dolores transitioned them effortlessly to shots of tequila, which moved on to shots of Jaeger, and then on to chilled coconut rum. By then Big Earl was finishing up his routine to Get Out of the Left Lane You Stupid Sombitch.

Cathy was feeling so fine and in such grand spirits that she didn’t notice that no one but her was actually drinking anymore. Big Earl was followed by a trio that played proven oldies and she danced at the rail giving some watching boys inviting looks. After a few more drinks she danced provocatively with a number of men oblivious to the silent and stern looks of the Biddle women.

They stayed late into the night and Cathy lost her sense of time and amount of consumed alcohol hours prior to their departure. Back at the condo, the other women placed her in bed on her back and then withdrew to the living room to talk amongst themselves in hushed and serious whispers.

They let Cathy sleep in the next morning while they dropped Trish off at Perdido Bay. A friend of a friend from Nantucket was willing to rent her a nice thirty foot boat at a reasonable rate.

The rest went to a local grocery store where they bought ice, food, and drinks for a day out on the water. Dolores had insisted on leaving her wheelchair at the condo, and stayed in the van while they shopped. They then drove back to the marina where they all loaded their supplies onto the boat and prepped for departure.

Stephanie got the van keys from Martha and jumped up onto the dock. “I’ll be back in a half hour,” she said loud enough for nearby boaters prepped for the ocean themselves to hear. “I’m gonna go get Dolores.”

“No problem,” said Ruby, giving Dolores a look to stay inside the cabin. The old lady nodded and slumped down on a bench seat. All the walking had drained her strength, but the worst part was over.

Back at the condo, Stephanie pushed Dolores’ wheelchair into the small bedroom she and Cathy shared. She shook the nearly comatose woman gently and then progressively harder until Cathy protested.

“What!” groaned Cathy. “What is it? Leave me alone, my head is about to split.”

“It’s time to get up,” said Stephanie cheerfully. “We got a trip out on the water planned for today.”

“Out on the water?” asked Cathy trying to roll back over to sleep. “Count me out.”

“No can do,” said Stephanie yanking the blankets violently off of Cathy and throwing them into the floor.

“What the hell, Steph!” said Cathy sitting up on her elbows. “How can any of you feel up to anything this morning after last night? I just want to rest.”

“Can’t do that,” answered Stephanie still smiling cheerfully. “You know what this weekend is about. It’s all about Dolores and whatever she wants, she gets. She wants to go out on the water.”

“What about what I want?” asked Cathy peevishly. “It’s my weekend too.”

“Yes,” nodded Stephanie, “but this is Dolores’ last ladies weekend. She won’t have any more. Her days are numbered and we all know it. Especially her. So if she wants a day on the water, then we’re going to give it to her and you’re going to come along and put on a good face.”

Cathy sat up feeling a little ashamed and put her aching head in her hands.

Stephanie handed her a hooded grey sweatshirt. “Put this on, it’s a little cold outside.”

The woman complied without even looking at the sweatshirt, which was one of Dolores’.

Cathy stopped rubbing her face and looked at the wheelchair Stephanie had brought into the room. “What’s that for?”

“This,” said Stephanie with a smile, “is to show you I am not without sympathy. Dolores let me borrow it to come get you in case you were feeling a little under the weather.”

Cathy shook her head as she stood on shaking feet, “I can walk at least.”

Stephanie shrugged, “We got to take it back anyway, might as well use it. If you’re not going to sit in it, then let me take a seat and you can push me.”

Cathy looked at Stephanie as if she weren’t sure if she were joking or not, “What?”

“Just sit in the freaking chair for goodness sake!” said Stephanie exasperated.

Cathy sighed and plopped down into the chair, “Fine.” She really didn’t feel like standing anyway.

By the time they arrived at the marina, Cathy had fallen back asleep and it wasn’t that difficult to get her into the wheelchair. She slumped down and tried to go back to sleep and Stephanie pulled her hood up over the slumbering woman’s head to hide her face.

She locked the van and then pushed Cathy down the pier to the awaiting boat named Carefree. Once at the boat, it took the other three ladies to help lift the wheelchair bearing a sleeping Cathy off the dock and onto the deck while Dolores rested on a bench inside the cabin. They pushed Cathy to the back of the boat and secured the wheelchair brakes.

“Are we finally ready to go or what?” asked a clearly irritated Trish.

“Just relax,” chided Ruby, “we ain’t got nowhere to be and no schedule.”

“Says you,” answered Trish, “I got to be back at work on Monday. At this rate, we won’t even be past the breakwater by then.”

“Okay, okay,” answered Ruby who with Martha and Stephanie’s help cast off the boat’s restraining lines.

Trish cranked the boat’s engine and expertly eased them out of the slip into more open water. Cruising slowly in order to adhere to the posted speed limits and avoid creating a large wake, they made their way out of the little harbor area. Once in open water, Trish cranked up the engine a little more.

The sun had risen and taken the chill out of the air. The breeze and spray created by the boat were more refreshing than annoying. Dolores emerged from the cabin and went to check on Cathy.

“How you like my wheelchair?” she asked her. “Oh my,” she said suddenly, “you’ve gotten hot, take that damn sweatshirt off, you don’t need that.”

With Dolores’ help she shrugged out of the grey material and shielding her eyes from the sun yawned. “I feel like warmed over crap.”

Dolores chuckled, “I know just the thing, be right back.”

Cathy sat there looking at the receding shoreline trying to decide if she were going to get sick and if she cared.

The old lady came back holding out two small pills, “Here take these, they’re stronger than your average aspirin, but will set things right as rain.”

Cathy took the pills and plopped them into her mouth and took the small cup from Dolores and gulped it down. Most of the fiery liquid was down before she realized it wasn’t water. She coughed and sputtered.

Dolores just chuckled, “Hair of the dog. Trust me, you’ll feel better in a few minutes. In the meantime, follow it up with this,” she said handing Cathy a cold canned beer and then walking away.

Cathy mentally cursed them all. She hated these women, but admitted she did already feel better. Her head didn’t pound and her stomach had settled. She put the cool can against her forehead and found it soothing.

They rode south away from shore for nearly an hour and a half. The water was as flat and still as glass making millions of shimmering reflections of the sun’s cheerful morning rays. Finally the boat engine stopped and they coasted on the water. The sudden quiet was shocking after nearly two hours of constant engine noise.

“This is a good a place as any,” said Trish climbing out of the boat’s cabin.

“Place for what?” asked Cathy looking around.

Cathy’s mother-in-law came up behind her and hugged her, “To relax, to be at ease. Isn’t it nice out here? Peaceful? Don’t you just want to stay out here forever?”

Cathy started to voice a sarcastic retort, but realized it was nice and peaceful and she felt nice and peaceful, down to the very core of her being.

“Anyone ready for a drink?” asked Martha.

“You better believe it,” answered Dolores. “Here let me make the first round, I got a surprise for you.”

She went into the cabin and soon the sounds of clinking glass and ice mixed with pouring and stirring. Emerging with a drink in each hand she passed two large plastic cups to her sisters, then did the same for her daughter and niece, and came back out with two more, presenting one to Cathy.

“This one’s for you dear,” she said with a smile.

“What is it?” Cathy asked sniffing the green colored drink.

“A little something I call ‘Ladies Weekend.’ I hope you like it.”

“Cheers, everyone,” said Ruby. “To ladies weekend and to family. The most important thing in the world.”

“Cheers,” they all echoed and drank deeply.

Cathy discovered the drink was actually delicious. She didn’t care for concoctions that were too fruity or sweet, but also didn’t care for excessively bitter drinks. Ladies Weekend seemed to be a mix of both and she felt the warmth and relaxation roll from her stomach out to her extremities. She sat back in the chair and smiled easily.

They had two more Ladies Weekends before Cathy realized something wasn’t right.

As a closet pill-popper and functional alcoholic for almost two years now, she was somewhat of an expert on what to expect in those areas. Alcohol should not be hitting her this hard. Not only did she feel sluggish, but she realized that she was nearly paralyzed. She could turn her head and lift her hand ever so slightly, but anything beyond that was akin to bench-pressing a rhinoceros.

Seeing her concern and confusion, the other ladies gathered around. Dolores and Stephanie smiled knowingly. Martha and Trish frowned. Ruby’s face showed nothing but ice.

“What’s happening?” Cathy asked in a distant voice.

Dolores crouched down beside her and patted Cathy’s knee comfortingly. “No need to fear. You’re just really relaxed and zooming. I slipped some of my cancer meds into your drink.”

“Cancer meds?” asked Cathy confused.

“Yes, a few Kadians and Vanatrips to be exact,” answered Dolores. “The Kadians are just morphine, the Vanatrips are strong antidepressants. They kind of zone you out, especially when you take as many as you have.”

Cathy’s head was literally spinning and she wondered if there were giant waves on the ocean, but she saw nothing but flat water, “But why?”

“Because,” answered Martha, “even though you’re a total bitch and deserve what’s coming to you, we don’t want you suffering any more than you have to. Also, it makes it easier to do what needs to be done.”

“I don’t understand,” said Cathy as a single tear slipped down her face.

Ruby leaned in close to her face, her hands on the wheelchairs arms. Cathy tried to pull back away from her fierce gaze, but there was nowhere to go.

“Did you really think you were going to get away with it?” asked Ruby. “Just come in and ruin my son’s life? Make fools of us all? Take my grandkids from me?”

Cathy shook her head, “I don’t understa—”

“Yes, you do,” answered Ruby, slapping her daughter-in-law across the face. “You’re in the process of a divorce with my son. You’re going to take everything and then run off with that boyfriend of yours taking the kids with you.”

“Justin said he wouldn’t tell,” whined Cathy in a betrayed voice.

Ruby shook her head, “He didn’t. Doesn’t know that I know. My son is loyal and honest to a fault. You never deserved a man like him.”

“Then how?” asked Cathy.

“Your divorce lawyer, Dave Hawkins, is an old friend of mine,” answered Ruby.

“But, lawyer-client—”

“Doesn’t count for shit when it comes to family and friends,” answered Martha. “Especially to an outsider like you. Our families have been together for generations. Did you really think you could just come in here and take from us and walk away and expect us to do nothing? Not likely.”

Full-fledged tears were flowing down Cathy’s face now. She knew she should be terrified, but in actuality she just wanted to go to sleep and rest. To escape it all. She closed her eyes hoping it would all go away.

She opened her eyes again when she felt hands on her and the sound of peeling duct tape. Stephanie was binding her hands together and Martha was doing the same with her feet. Trish meanwhile was dragging an anchor across the smooth deck to her bound feet. Once there, she took nylon rope and tied it around her feet in a series of complicated knots before attaching it to the anchor.

“You’ll never get away with it,” Cathy rasped. “They’ll find me and then come looking for you.”

Trish’s smile was sad, “Nobody’s ever going to find you, hon. The water’s almost a quarter mile deep out here. You’ll sink to the bottom and stay there.”

“At least until the crabs and fish down there eat all your flesh away and your bones leach and rot,” said Ruby in a flat voice.

Cathy tried to struggle, but she no longer had control of her body. “But people saw me get on this boat! They’ll ask questions! You’ll all go to jail!”

“They saw Dolores get on the boat,” said Stephanie with a sad look. “You’re still back at the condo sleeping off a hangover. By the time we get back there, you’ll be mysteriously gone. We’ll worry, and eventually report you missing, but you’ll still be gone.”

“Probably run off with your boyfriend,” answered Ruby, “or had to go score some pills or booze. Who knows what happened?”

“You can’t do this!” wailed Cathy.

“We didn’t do anything,” answered Dolores. “You did this. You don’t mess with family.”

Trish reached down and lifted the anchor up onto the boat rail with Martha and Stephanie’s help. Then they looked at Ruby.

She nodded.

Trish pushed the anchor over the side. It sank with a splash for a few seconds as the rope ran after. Cathy felt a sudden and painful pull on her ankles and the wheelchair spun around to follow the rope leading off the boat into the water.

“Get my chair!” screamed Dolores.

Martha and Ruby stopped the chair’s slide and then slipped their arms through each of Cathy’s. Stephanie picked her feet up and put them over the side where the weight of the anchor was pulling relentlessly down into the darkness.

“Don’t do this!” Cathy begged. “Please! Just let me go! I won’t say anything, I promise!”

Ruby looked at her closely. “I believe you,” she said and kissed Cathy on the cheek. “Good-bye, honey.”

She and Martha lifted her over the edge and dropped her into the water with a splash.

Cathy’s instinct took over and she gulped down a breath of air and closed her mouth as the water sealed over her. She looked up at the receding surface. Her heart was beating fast enough to explode. She had been a swimmer in high school and knew she could hold her breath for over two minutes. But did she want to?

The darkness closed in and it got cold. Pressure built up and Cathy felt her ears pop. The light above was only a faint echo, a lost and broken promise.

She looked down and saw nothing but a vast and menacing darkness. The enormity of it all was too much for a mind to grasp. What sorts of predatory evil were waiting for her down there?

Cathy couldn’t control herself any longer. She screamed in horror and despair. In the cold dark depths, it made no sound.

The ladies had a pleasant lunch on the deck of Carefree. They ate boiled shrimp and crabmeat, washing it down with sweet tea. Afterwards, they had blueberry muffins from the grocery’s bakery and then sat silently and peacefully in the sun.

“We better get back,” Trish finally said. “The rental’s only for half a day.”

Everyone nodded and gathered up their feast.

“It sure has been nice, ladies,” said Dolores wistfully.

“Don’t say it like that,” said Martha. “This weekend ain’t over yet. Not by a long shot.”

“What’s next?” asked Stephanie.

Ruby smiled, “Guess who’s playing at the Florabama this afternoon?”

“Not Big Earl,” said Dolores.

“The very same,” answered Ruby.

“Well, I think we should go see him,” said Dolores.

They went back into the marina and cleaned the boat thoroughly using bleach and ammonia over every possible surface. The boat owner was amazed, saying the boat hadn’t been that clean even when brand new. He was so pleased that he didn’t get too upset over them losing his spare anchor. Besides, they willingly paid for it and left him the rest of their beer.

They pushed Dolores out into the parking lot and loaded up the van.

“Should we go check on Cathy first?” asked Stephanie. “She might be up by now.”

Everyone was quiet for a minute before Ruby answered. “She can call us if she wakes up and wants to come along. No, let’s just let her rest.”

“You know,” said Dolores after a long pause. “These ladies weekends are good for me I think. I feel just perfectly fine.”

They all smiled in agreement.

_______

Ryan King is a career army officer with multiple combat tours who continues to serve in the military. He has lived, worked, and traveled throughout Europe, Africa, the Middle East, and Asia. King is married to fellow author Kristin King and they have four young and energetic boys who keep them constantly busy. Ryan King writes post-apocalyptic, dystopian, thriller, horror, and action short stories, short novels, and novels. You can find out more about Ryan King at Goodreads here: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/6422624.Ryan_King

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Table of Contents

VERITAS: CONCUBINE

By R.S. Guthrie

The pair of blockish jailhouse guards with tight crew-cuts, slabs of meat for hands, and disconnected expressions, led the tall, angular man in the orange jumpsuit into the visitor waiting room of the Walla Walla, Washington State Penitentiary. The prisoner was shackled from hands to feet and back again, though, as writer Francis Constantine knew better than most, Shale Veritas was hardly a man the innocent need fear.

For the guilty, however, Veritas was a self-constructed and brutally efficient grim reaper.

The beefy officers of the State sat Veritas down across from the too-thin, cream-colored journalist with the onyx hair so striking it had provided a thousand conversation starters over her twenty-seven years in the field. It was not her most impressive feature by far. The woman could write a story. Yet despite her ego’s protestations, she knew without doubt that her talent was not why she was here.

After further securing their charge to the half-circle pieces of steel mounted to the metal table, the armed men moved back to a corner without ever speaking a word or even making a sound. They’d given up breathing as far as Constantine could tell.

Veritas had the face of an angel—not those of childhood stories and picture-books, but rather a geometrically pleasing shape, narrow yet manly, as if chiseled from a piece of flesh-shaded granite, straight lines and few curves. His hair, as dark as her own in younger pictures posted in newspapers and magazines around the country, was now more salt than pepper, but still flowed down silkily and lay slightly atop his broad shoulders.

His eyes, with near colorless irises, looked not at her but through, as if he could sense that there, in that room, but one man-made wall stood between himself and the outside, where surely such a man could clear the razor-wired fence in a single thrusting leap.

“You look afraid,” he said, crushing the oppressive silence.

“I’m not,” she said.

“If you don’t understand me enough not to fear me, I may have made a mistake in choosing you.”

“It’s not fear. You are a striking man in person. The papers and television don’t do you justice.”

“A flirt?” Veritas said, mocking her with his expression.

“The truth.”

His eyes opened then, more soft than before. “The truth I can appreciate. Rather than love, than money, than fame, give me truth.”

“Benjamin Franklin?”

“Thoreau. I’d have thought you’d recognize your own species.”

“Species?”

“Writus gregarious.”

“You’re intimidating,” she said. “And you enjoy that fact.”

“Not too much truth, however,” he said, and smiled for the first time. His teeth were not gleaming and perfectly aligned, as she’d subconsciously assumed, yet still, they were unquestionably fitting. A partial flash into the reality of his whole; portents of his imperfection and—what?

His humanity?

“How much time do we have?” she said.

“As much as it takes,” he told her. “That’s part of the deal. As many visits, as many phone calls. I want you to get it right. That’s all I ask.”

“You realize this is the story of the century.”

“I hope your written style is less cliché than your spoken word.”

“Cheap shots seem beneath you.”

“They aren’t. I’m not a spectacle or an oddity. I’m also not impervious to human failings. I hurt, I feel, I can easily become embarrassed, or flattered. The press has turned Shale Veritas into some kind of unearthly machination; a construct out of Greek mythology.”

“Can you blame them?”

“Yes, I can. What I’ve done—the acts I’ve committed—are far more human than not.”

“Is that why you picked me?”

“You know why I picked you. Let’s not start this affair playing cat and mouse, as if we can pretend that reality isn’t what it is. If we can’t get something so simple to work—”

“I know why you picked me.”

“Then you know how it is that yes, I can blame them. Or at least you will know.”

“I still want to hear you say it.”

“You want to hear me say it?”

“Yes. Is that so hard for you to comprehend?”

Veritas did not answer her. Instead, he tilted his head, nearly imperceptibly, as if he were puzzled. Or sizing her up. Then he looked again to that faraway place—the one beyond the walls of captivity.

“I miss the smell of a fresh rain the most,” he said. “I spent more time in my life living outdoors than in. Now I never see the sun or the rain; two realities I took for granted.”

“Tell me why.”

He locked horns with her gaze, perhaps the smallest bit annoyed. “I picked you because of Emily.”

Francis Constantine looked down, the levy that retained a torrential ocean of mourning tears, depended upon too long to support her dry, emotionless façade, suddenly threatening to burst apart, washing away the illusion of the past being endured and forgotten.

She opened a fresh notebook, wishing her shorthand were better. The prison forbade any recording devices whatsoever and would not be swayed by any deals made with the District Attorney. Lengthy and unlimited visitation had already pressed the limits of the warden’s ego.

“Your given name—” she began, but he waved her off.

“Takes me back to a time I choose not to remember and is off the table as far as the interview and the story.”

“It’s not like you’re Batman; the name is public record.”

“And anyone that wants to know badly enough to petition the County Clerk in Waco, Texas can have it. But not your readers. And not for the price of a biography.”

“I have to say it again: your story isn’t fully told if you leave out the beginning of your life.”

“What you mean are the reasons, and that’s not where you’ll find them. My story—my life—began the day I turned eighteen and walked into the recruiter’s office for the United States Army.”

“You’ve got to give me something.”

“Off the record: my father died when I was too young to remember and my mother remarried twice. I was not abused, I did not hate my stepfathers, and I loved my mother. The reason I changed my name had nothing to do with hating my family and everything to do with the angst a teenaged boy feels when he wants to begin a life for himself. Honestly, if I could travel back in time and tell that kid to suck it up and keep the name of the father he never knew, I’d do it. But I’m forty-seven, I am who I am, and the world is never going to think of me as anyone but Shale Veritas. So that’s where the story begins.”

“So did you always know you were destined for Special Ops?”

“Three days into Basic Combat Training—the first part of what most people call ‘boot camp’—I didn’t even think I was destined to remain in the Army.”

“Then things changed?”

“Things began to come naturally. I was a good shot. I got into shape for the first time in my life and discovered I had decent hand-eye coordination. I’d never been into athletics; always preferred reading in solitude. But it turns out beneath all that apathy and complacency was a pretty decent athlete. Hand-to-hand combat came easily to me. I scored high on all the psych and intelligence and proficiency exams. After BCT came Advanced Individual Training. I was selected to train at the JFK Special Warfare School at Fort Bragg.”

“Airborne.”

“Eventually.”

“And when were you approached regarding Delta Force training?”

“I was promoted to E4 Corporal ahead of those who joined rank and file alongside me. I earned my stripes, but as it happens, I had spent more time than I knew under the eye of Colonel Franklin Treanor. He was the commander of Delta during my time at Bragg, but I came to discover he’d rooted through my test scores and proficiency ratings and had observed me as early as those first burgeoning weeks at Basic.”

Corporal Shale Veritas was quietly attending to chow when the most feared and respected man on base sat down across the table from him. Veritas looked up and hesitated for only an instant before leaping to his feet and standing at brisk attention.

“Sit down, soldier,” Col Franklin “Cobra” Treanor said. “At ease.”

Veritas noticed the rest of the table had deserted him. “Yes, Colonel.”

“That name. You going for the Jungian duality thing, like in Full Metal Jacket?”

“Sir?”

“I love that movie. Please tell me you’ve seen it, or our conversation just might be over.”

“I’ve seen it, Colonel. One of my favorites. It’s just that—that—”

“Shale being made of stone, yet treacherous. Slippery Truth, as it were.”

“Well, yes, sir. I’m just not sure I put that much meaning into it at the time.”

“You trying to make my line of questioning difficult for me, son?”

“No, Colonel.”

“I think you put plenty of thought into everything you do.”

“I chose the name based on a literary character I’d read about who wanted his own identity and changed his name the day he turned eighteen, sir.”

“A new beginning to the story?”

“Something like that, Colonel.”

“I confused things with their names: that is belief.”

“Sir?”

“Jean-Paul Sartre.”

“I haven’t studied, o-or read him, sir.”

“Just as well; he was a Marxist. Brilliant man, nonetheless.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I want you to apply for Delta consideration,” Treanor said. “And by that, I mean apply for Delta. No duality. No metaphoric substance. Just git ‘er done, Corporal.” He then stood and departed before Corporal Veritas could answer, much less muster and rise from his seat.

Back at the barracks Veritas lay on his bunk in total silence, staring at the cracks in the ceiling. It was difficult to fathom, the visit from what amounted to the most senior officer on premise. The base commander was a Brigadier General, but there wasn’t a soldier at Bragg (the General included) who would not acquiesce to Colonel Cobra Treanor as the most senior and revered presence in perhaps all the Army.

But Delta? Veritas was only halfway through Ranger School. Of course it was true that he was mastering his classroom exams and was first in platoon in all physical, combat soldiering, intelligence, and paratrooping endeavors. Of course Delta had always been the dream. Few entered into Special Forces without thinking of the Seals or of Delta. But Veritas preferred to be ready when he made a move, and if he were honest with himself—despite the enormity of the personage who had made the declaration that he submit—he liked to make his own decisions.

That said, at least in his own mind, he could never disobey even a soft order from a man like Cobra Treanor. He might just as well file his dishonorable discharge papers and apply at the carnival as the World’s Greatest Coward.

The next morning Corporal Shale Veritas double-timed it to the Office of Administration to complete the application for Delta consideration; an official request to enter into—no, to be considered for entry into—the training regimen of the most prestigious unit in the Army, and, inarguably, equaled in all the military only by the Naval unit, Seal Team Six.

When he arrived at the clerk’s desk, however, he found there was already a prepared application with the “Referred Recommendation” section completed and signed by Treanor himself. All that the clerk required of Veritas was his signature, which he gave through the fog of elated disbelief and more than a twinge of terror.

“Pretty impressive,” Francis Constantine said, still trying to catch up with her dilapidated shorthand. “Have you spoken to the Colonel since—” the words trailed off as she realized she’d not been planning the words but rather blurted what was on her mind.

“You’re wondering if he disowned me,” Veritas said.

“No. I—”

“It’s acceptable, Constantine. You’re a journalist, not a member of Delta. How could you know the depth of brotherhood that exists between those who passed the ultimate challenge only to spill blood together in some foreign shithole?”

“I’m sorry, Shale. That’s not what I meant.”

“No, he isn’t shamed by me. We spoke just yesterday.”

“I apologize.”

“Did you know I’ve received hate mail from some of the families?”

“Of the men you killed?”

“Families of the original victims. From those whose loved ones I avenged. I had considered that not everyone would agree with my cause, but hate mail? One woman told me to burn in Hell, right next to her son’s rapist and murderer.”

Constantine had known this moment would come, she’d only lacked the knowledge of when. The discussion of the ethical and moral dilemma proposed by his actions. How many nights had she herself lain awake, imagining her daughter’s final months on the earth? Had she ever really answered her own questions about the man who had tortured and murdered the man who kidnapped, drugged, and sold her precious child into a life of human sex trafficking, drug abuse, and eventually, death?

Not until then. She reached across and laid a hand atop that of her daughter’s only avenger.

“They are wrong, Shale. What you did—the courage and compassion and total sacrifice it took to follow through for the families—for me—in the name of our loved ones...well, it will never be repaid because we, those left in the horrific aftermath, don’t possess the amount of gratitude that might come close to equaling such action on our behalf.”

“You may be in the minority in that line of thinking,” said Veritas.

“Not after I write your story.”

“And now, dear Francis, you know why I chose you.”

An interagency federal task force including the Department of Justice, the FBI, The Central Intelligence Agency, and Interpol had been investigating and building a case against the human trafficking ring led by Silas Drew for over three years. The task force had followed the movements of Drew all over the west coast, but had finally caught a break in the missing person case of Emily Constantine.

Emily, an eleven-year-old girl, had been listed as missing for over seven years and was suspected to have been abducted just outside Rainier, Washington. The case of Emily Constantine had exhibited the M.O. of Silas Drew—young, pre-teen girls, abducted in remote locations along the Pacific and Northern Pacific coast states—but in all other cases, the remote locations were close to major metropolises, which suggested that Drew might have known Emily Constantine.

The theory led law enforcement to uncover a tie between Silas Drew and the township of Rainier: his third ex-wife, Marsha Glick, lived there, and interviews with the ex and with several other people who knew the family, ultimately placed Drew in the Rainier area in 2006, when the little girl had gone missing.

After being offered a deal that included immunity from the death penalty, the federal agents convinced the Glick woman to reveal the entire story. The authorities had yet to uncover Drew’s habit of revisiting his ex-wife, a battered woman who still harbored hope of reconciliation. Marsha Glick had been convinced to assist in the abduction of Emily Constantine by posing as a lost tourist in Drew’s van and luring the child to the vehicle, where Drew opened the sliding door and subdued the young girl.

Glick claimed to know nothing of her ex-husband’s further enterprises with Constantine, despite her having been complicit in the past of also helping him locate young prostitutes. Drew was also suspected of a string of murders in the Portland and Seattle areas, though forensic behavioral analysts believed the murders occurred early in the psychopathological development of Silas Drew. His eventual entrance into human trafficking and his devolution into direct involvement by perpetrating his own sadistic captivity, rape, torture, and murder of some of the young women he abducted.

Federal authorities had developed their lead into an arrest warrant. U.S. Marshals arrested Drew at his dwelling in the Los Angeles neighborhood of North Hollywood and extradited him back to Washington State.

Shale Veritas had followed the Silas Drew investigation closely. Colonel Cobra Treanor, who was by then riding a desk at the Pentagon, awaiting the elusive star he’d sought since leaving Delta in the late nineties, spoke often with his prize recruit. Both shared a common feeling of politics playing too large a role in Delta Force anti-terrorist operations. Treanor talked to Veritas many times about matters ongoing—things he’d heard; information he’d rooted out—most recently talking to Shale about the special interagency investigation into the human trafficking ring and, eventually, the arrest of Silas Drew for the abduction of Emily Constantine.

The Department of Justice decided to allow Washington State to prosecute the case of Emily Constantine, even though there was no body—live or dead—stating a desire to see the family of the girl receive justice. Both Veritas and Treanor agreed that the true decision was one made to shield the current administration’s platform—which had been elected largely on an anti-capital punishment decree—from using the death penalty as a pry-bar to convince Drew to give them more direct information of the trafficking business, names higher in the organization, with the longer-term goal of handing the administration a successful takedown after the years and millions of dollars spent chasing the spectral criminal enterprise.

“The DOJ could have leveraged the death penalty,” Constantine said to Veritas in their third interview.

“Leveraging the death penalty implies a willingness to use it if the deal isn’t made.”

“So the Feds dumped their circumstantial case on the State of Washington.”

“In their defense, they did have the testimony of Marsha Glick.”

“A meth junkie and multiple tenant of the Washington Corrections Center for Women. Not that those attacks were ever used to discredit her, of course.”

Marsha Glick had been released on bond and died in a suspicious house fire three weeks before the trial of Silas Drew was to begin.

“The government tends to focus on a bigger picture,” said Veritas.

“Don’t defend them. Not you.”

“I’m not defending them. You’ll find no bigger opponent of political machinations than me.”

“You left Delta after only four years.”

“Some would argue that was four years too many.”

“Clearly it wasn’t because of the demands of the job.”

Veritas laughed quietly. “There’s not a lot I can say about the nature of my training there, at Bragg. An interesting story, however: on the final day of bivouac—a multiple day test of the candidate’s ability to live off the land while still meeting mission objectives, time tables, checkpoints, et cetera—I was the first to reach what we all believed was the final rally point. It was the end of the day, the sun nearly behind the hills, and I was at the end of my physical capability to perform. Every man was, since that was the point. Previous rally point procedure indicated we should expect a dismissal to the barracks after the final evolution for the day.”

“I take it that’s not what happened?”

“The rally point official told me to muster at what appeared to be yet a further mission gathering area. My body screamed to the brain that there was nothing left in the tank. It was over. Still, I acquiesced and walked to the next evolution. I sat on a fallen tree, waiting for the rest of the candidates to finish the challenge. At that point there had been seven of us beginning the day. Only four finished on time, myself included. Of the three others, one—my closest friend in the program—quit on the spot.”

“After all that time? So close to the finish line?”

“When candidates ring out, or opt out, of Special Forces training like that, it isn’t a decision. A decision implies alternatives. When the mind and body come to an agreement like that, it just happens. No pomp and circumstance. No hesitation.”

“There was no further evolution, was there?”

“It was just another test. Once all the candidates had returned, the proxy told us to head down to the barracks, offering a ride to any who wanted one.”

“Your friend quit for nothing.”

“Not nothing. The accomplishment of making it so far into the program would allow him a second attempt. He made the cut six months later and joined my operational unit.”

“And you?”

“It was at that moment I knew I would make it. The only test remaining was to face a board of superiors who had access to every fitness report, background investigation, Delta performance rating—it was a tribunal configured to break the candidate. And they were very good at what they did. But after the night before, I had come to the realization that I’d grown. I couldn’t be defeated. I could feel Delta in my core.”

“And the tribunal?”

“As I said, they were good at their job. I nearly broke, despite my convictions otherwise. In fact, when I exited the ‘interview’, I was certain the board would not consider me Delta material.”

“Tell me what you can about the reasons you left.”

“I was deployed as a forward operator over a dozen times. Eventually I realized that our missions were less about stopping terrorists and more about stopping specific terrorist operations—ones that happened to knock over dominoes those in command were instructed needed to remain in place.”

“Not based on threat?”

“No. Based on political necessities.”

“How long after your honorable discharge did you begin—”

“Killing?”

“When did you decide there was more work to be done and that you were the one for the job?”

“You’re asking for the trigger—what event caused me to snap,” Veritas said, annoyed.

“You didn’t ‘snap’. I want to know when.”

“After my wife died.”

“I respect your boundaries, Shale. Tell me as much or as little as you want.”

“When my wife died, she was run down by a driver high on prescription medications and alcohol.”

“Pain killers. Not his own.”

“He was a repeat offender. Three DWI offenses. The man had connections in the judicial and law enforcement system. He served a total of eighteen months in county jail, not prison, before he murdered my wife. For intoxication manslaughter, he was given ten years. His sentence was ultimately reduced to forty-two months because of prison overcrowding.”

“But James Gavin was never one of your victims.”

“In Delta, I learned that death is a part of life. I also learned that once someone was dead, they weren’t ever coming back. It sounds obvious, but our inner selves tend to disbelieve that our loved ones are gone or that there is some act that will bring them back. I held no unrealistic expectations. Everything I did, I did for the sake of vengeance and, more importantly, justice.”

“So why not Gavin?”

“Too obvious. If I wanted to embark on a career and not a simple act of retribution, I couldn’t possibly risk a crime that would call for the police to suspect me first and foremost, particularly with my background.”

“How many?” Constantine said. It was another big question that she knew had to be asked, and she hated the way she spewed it forth like a spray of vomit.

“Thirty-seven,” Veritas said. “Give or take.”

“You don’t remember for certain?”

“Thirty-seven.”

“And then you claim you turned yourself in. After Silas Drew.”

“Claim?”

“Retired Texas Ranger—”

“Bertram James is an egomaniac.”

“He claims the arrest was part of his long-standing, unauthorized investigation.”

“Well, our versions differ.”

“He did bring you in.”

“I knew of retired Ranger James for a long time. He had done well to close in on my trail. I reached a point where I had to decide whether to continue or whether I was finished.”

“How could you be finished without dispensing justice to your own demon?”

“Gavin?”

“Bert James claims the fact that you never killed Gavin proves you weren’t finished.”

“I stopped because I realized somewhere along the line I ceased doing this for the right reasons and rather was feeding my own monster. Killing Gavin would have been the final step into the abyss.”

“So you allowed the Ranger to catch you?”

“I left him what he wanted. And it’s retired Ranger.”

“Why Emily? Why did you decide my daughter would be your final chapter?”

“You remind me of Selena.”

“Of your wife?”

“I decided my penance would be to allow my story to be told. I’ve read your columns in the Seattle Times. Your article about human trafficking that Esquire published. Your voice reminds me of Selena’s. She was a strong woman. You’re a strong woman. It was time.”

“You accepted the death penalty as your penance.”

“The death penalty is not my penance but my punishment under the laws of this land. I needed to do more than that.”

“More than die yourself?”

“Yes. But I couldn’t risk my story being mistaken as a plea for understanding. For forgiveness. I’m not asking for that. All I want is the truth.”

“The District Attorney announced there would be no appeals,” said Constantine.

“It was part of the deal I made. I can’t last long caged from the outside world. And I don’t care to appeal a fair and just sentence.”

Constantine retrieved from her purse a folded piece of newspaper. She carefully unfolded it and paused a moment before reading a paragraph. “Without benefit of the appeals process and by the corporal punishment statute of the State of Washington, the death sentence will be carried out exactly thirty days post-sentencing.”

“That was from your column,” Shale said.

“Shale, the book, your story—it won’t be published before you’re—goddammit, you know.”

“Easy, Constantine. I have faith. I know you will tell this tale the right way.”

Veritas knew retired Texas Ranger Bertram James had made a ferocious post-career hobby of connecting the dots in what the ex-cop believed to be a large string of related homicides all across the United States. Veritas had, over a year earlier, begun his own counter-surveillance on the investigation and had been monitoring the progress since. The old man was good. A detailed background investigation by Veritas revealed much about his pursuer, most of the information not favorable for a man intent on carrying out a personal, five-year clandestine operation of dispensing justice under his own established code.

Former Ranger James did not possess enough hard evidence to put a proven name on his prey, but he’d gotten far enough in his diligence to understand the truth about the man he was chasing, and it would be only a matter of time before the retired lawman had enough circumstantial evidence to present it to current officials.

Therefore, Veritas intended on using James for what he knew was close anyway.

The end.

And Veritas wished it were simply the finish of his own personal vendetta.

For half a decade he’d waged a private war. However, his campaign against the trail of offal left in the wake of a long-time ineffectual justice system had changed him. When he began, it was in part because that ineffectual system had not only let him down, but also so very many other helpless victims of heinous crimes. Now it was more than that; now the evil had infected him.

In fact, a part of him believed that the evil inside himself had poisoned the only person ever to really believe in Corporal Shale Veritas. He’d made a decorated war hero an accomplice both before and after the facts. And he feared compromising his friend and mentor, Cobra Treanor, had poisoned the Colonel, too.

Could there be a better explanation as to why the toughest man to walk in the dirt was battling an extraordinarily rare bone disease capable of delivering a death no human being in the world could—not throughout fifty operations in some of the most dangerous war zones the world had to offer?

Treanor had provided his younger charge with crucial classified, closely guarded, inside information that allowed Veritas to carefully plan and execute many of his missions. But more than that, the Colonel was the singular member of both his family and a partner in the belief that even a small, concentrated personal effort might make a difference in the lives of honest Americans—a mission both soldiers believed they had once signed up to accomplish.

But Treanor had not done the things Veritas had. Not that he was incapable but, rather, because Veritas had kept him at a distance and then, ending the campaign on his own terms would ensure the Colonel’s name would never need be avowed or dragged through the mud of Veritas’ own creation.

So began the process of Shale Veritas’ last operation—Silas Drew—to be followed by the surrender of the worst enemy the heartless criminals in the country never knew they had.

Silas Drew, then with a license and Social Security card naming him Jason Bachman, had been a free man in the WITSEC program for less than thirty-seven hours. He’d puttered around the shabby one-story, one-bedroom house in Albuquerque, New Mexico all day, bored beyond the comprehension of his sociopathic brain. He didn’t feel. But he could still be malcontented, and he was. The plan to escape his new, sedentary life—a plan that had germinated and been growing nicely from the moment he acquiesced to the sweet plea agreement—was to contend with the vanilla life of Jason the warehouse manager until the U.S. Marshals charged with his transition came to believe him settled and less a flight risk.

Part of the arrangement of his new digs was a lifetime ban from ever owning a passport, but men like Silas Drew had enough connections to supply themselves with several lifetimes’ worth of identities. He only required patience for his plan to be successful and of patience he was eminently capable.

So it was with egomaniacal confidence that Drew nested in his freshly-purchased bed and almost did not hear the slightest of inexplicable sounds in the darkness—the kind of inexplicable sounds monsters like Silas Drew were pre-wired to detect; not unlike predators living a cautious existence in the wild, in-tune with others like themselves.

But Drew did hear the unusual sound, and as he began to turn silently and reach for the Glock 9 millimeter in the nightstand, he instead felt a quick bee sting in his neck—and before him flashed a moment of pure curiosity, which quickly became prelude to his brand new, promised world fading pleasantly away.

He awoke strapped to a gurney much like the one he avoided by turning Federal witness against the much larger human trafficking ring with which he was accused of having done a great deal of business and made an even larger amount of money.

A predator captured.

The kill room was of Shale’s own design and was portable: a fifty-seven foot motorhome that had been completely remodeled inside. The front half looked like any modern, spare-no-expense, bus-sized luxury home on wheels. Leather-bound furniture that converted to comfortable sleeping quarters; a stainless steel refrigerator/freezer, stove, oven, microwave, air-conditioner, and furnace.

Style worthy of a travelling rock star or billionaire recluse.

When one entered the rearmost door, however, the illusion ended abruptly. Instead of a large master suite, Veritas had moved everything in the motorhome—bathroom and shower included—forward several feet, and behind the façade had constructed a sound-proof room as devoid of comfort or decadence as it was of compassion or mercy.

“You’re awake,” Veritas said.

“W-what? Who—”

“When I began this part of my life,” Shale said, “I used to enjoy this moment. I liked telling my captive who I was and why our two lives had intersected. There was a shining purpose in the center of my being, probably not unlike the warming purpose you felt each time you ravaged or murdered one of your victims.”

“I have no idea to whom you are refer—”

“Save it, Silas.”

Drew’s breathing hitched when he heard his given name spoken out loud by his captor. Perhaps, Veritas wondered silently, he had hoped this was a mistake of gargantuan proportion. Certainly then he knew otherwise.

Veritas uncovered a table full of equipment that looked well-suited for a dentist in medieval centuries. Hooks and scalpels and every shape and manner of blade.

“I don’t feel righteous any longer,” Veritas said, as much to no one as to Silas Drew. “You know what they say about playing with the Devil.”

“Is that what I am?” Drew said. “Your Devil?”

“Hardly,” said Veritas. “My demons go far beyond the likes of a piece of garbage like yourself, Silas. You are a run-of-the-mill psychopath. I’ve met dozens of you over the past handful of years and you’d be embarrassed to know what common simpletons you all really are.”

“Fuck you,” Drew said, and spat at him.

“There’s that sociopathic gusto. Good for you, Silas. You’re going to need it.”

Veritas picked up two items of his vast collection. One was a medium-sized hook, the other a larger, silver blade that looked sharp enough to split atoms. He walked over to Silas Drew, contemplating both instruments.

“This is the opportunity I give to each of my victims,” he said. “Answer the questions I have for you to my satisfaction and I give you a quick, relatively painless death—with the knife. One hint of subterfuge or unwillingness to speak the truth and, well, a man like you, Silas—I doubt you need me to draw you any pictures.”

Veritas put the flat, razor-edged hook within inches of Silas Drew’s face, eliminating any possibility of confusion.

“I’ll answer any questions you have,” said Drew, ostensibly having given in to his situation. The response was common. Veritas really had seen enough psychopaths over the years to have come to an understanding that lack of compassion or mercy also meant a strange lack of fear for the self.

And a willingness to talk, particularly when the jig was up.

“A man like you kills because of a need inside; he doesn’t change his methods because of something as lacking in scintillation as money.”

“Is there a question in there somewhere?” said Drew.

“You changed both your victimology and your behavior when you entered into the human trafficking business. Until then, a common murderer of prostitutes—your victims became much younger and many of them you simply sold into servitude. Why?”

“You are correct about money,” Drew said. “For me, personally, it holds no glamorous appeal. Materialism is not something with which I can relate. But necessity is another thing entirely.”

“You needed the money.”

“Yes.”

“For?”

“What if I told you it was for a gambling problem?”

“I’d begin with the hook.”

“That’s what I assumed. One of the women I—”

“Say it. Full disclosure, Silas. Remember it because I won’t warn you again.”

“One of the women I killed was actually a runaway from a very powerful man.”

“Fredrico Montalvo,” Veritas said.

“Then you know.”

“I know who your victims are, and I know their families, regardless of how unsavory.”

“Then you know Montalvo is a key figure in the Sustantivo cartel. A major distributor in the heroin pipeline here in the States.”

“Yes.”

“Apparently he has investigative skills similar to yours,” said Drew.

“He found out it was you.”

“Surely you know Montalvo is into more than drugs. He could not have cared less about his daughter. She was dead to him. But that didn’t mean just anyone could touch her.”

“You were enlisted to supply women—girls—to Fredrico Montalvo and his operation.”

“Even psychopaths feel the need for self-preservation,” Drew acknowledged.

“But you continued your extracurricular activities on the side.”

“Yes.”

“And you found your tastes had changed?”

“I don’t understand the question.”

Veritas lay the knife down and placed the hook at the nape of Drew’s shirt. He pulled down and the curved blade split through the fabric like a warm spoon through ice cream.

“YES,” said the prisoner. “YES, I found my tastes had changed.”

“You wanted them younger, too. Like your bosses.”

“Yes.”

Veritas didn’t stop slicing the shirt until all of Silas Drew’s front torso was exposed.

“Do you remember Emily Constantine?”

“I remember them all,” Drew said.

Veritas hooked Drew’s left nipple and in one quick movement, severed it from its owner.

“AAAAAAAAH,” Drew screamed. “Jesus. Yes, yes, yes. I remember her.”

“Say her name.”

“Emily. Emily Constantine.”

“You sold her into servitude.”

“Yes. I gave her to Fredrico Montalvo.”

“As payment for your debt.”

“Yes.”

“But not before you had your own fun with her.”

“What—?”

Veritas removed the second nipple as easily as the first. Silas Drew howled, blood now running in two streams down his stomach and into a pool at the top of his pants.

“They say the nipples are two of the least painful extensions to be removed from the human body,” Veritas said. “Something about the way the nerve endings die post-amputation. Fingers, however—”

“I did,” Drew cried. “I did terrible things to her.”

“Raped her.”

“Yes.”

“Tortured her.”

“Yes.”

“But not enough to spoil her for Montalvo.”

“No.”

“Because you already knew Montalvo planned to keep her for himself.”

“How did you—?”

Veritas leaned over Drew until he could smell the previous meal on his prisoner’s breath and the stale sweat then running from every pore. He reversed the hook and pressed the tip into the belly button of the man who had ruined the lives of so many mothers and fathers and sisters and brothers. He pulled upward and the skin gave way as easily as the material of the shirt.

Silas Drew let forth a primal, inhuman groan as his entrails began to spill across his lap.

“I knew all the answers, you fucking monster.”

Shale held the trembling hands of his biographer, tears running down her face and streaking what small amount of makeup she’d used that last morning, coming to the prison to spend the final day with him.

“A powerful first chapter,” he said softly, and wiped away what he could with the back of a finger. “I’m sorry for the pain you’ve felt all these years. And now—”

Francis Constantine looked up, her eyes red and swollen. “And now these are tears of release,” she said. “You gave me that closure and release.”

Veritas nodded.

“I can write the rest of the book now,” Constantine said. “I had to begin this at the end. With Emily.”

“I know.”

“There’s still time,” she said. “You could still file an appeal and be granted at least a stay.”

“It wouldn’t change anything,” he said.

“It would keep you alive.”

“I don’t want that anymore. You have my journals. You know the descent I experienced. The only thing that separates me from them, in my heart, is this.”

“But what is this?” she said.

“Doing the right thing. Accepting who I am, what I did—admitting it, giving myself over to the system that failed me, and accepting my punishment.”

“But that is so contradictory,” she said, no longer crying, cleaning up. “You have to see that.”

“I see the irony,” Veritas said. “But it doesn’t change the fact that I owe someone for what I’ve done. And no one here on earth can judge me. I’ve long since judged myself.”

“I don’t think I can do this,” she said.

“I need you today,” Veritas said. “I don’t remember the last time I felt needy of anyone or anything, but I am now. I need you here with me today. And you need to tell the last chapter as vividly as the first.”

Constantine only nodded. “You know Bertram James still denies your side of the story.”

“I wouldn’t expect anything less from him.”

“I can only go so far in painting him in a good light, you know. He was drummed out of the Rangers.”

“He was given early retirement because he wouldn’t swallow the new regime’s pile of paperwork propaganda. That’s something I can relate to.”

“But why come after you if the two of you are cut from the same material?”

“I didn’t say we were cut from the same cloth. James is old-school lawman. To him, there’s no distinction between what I’ve done and what my victims have done. Both break the law, and the law is all-consuming to a man like Bert James.”

“Well I still believe you should rethink your request of kindness in the way he plays out in your story.”

“It’s not a story, Francis. It’s my life. And I want you to write James the way I believe him to be. That’s all.”

“There’s something else,” she said. “It has nothing to do with Bertram James.”

“I know.”

“You know? What do you mean, you know?”

“I know why you were crying earlier.”

“I told you why.”

“I know about Treanor.”

After disposing of the remains of Silas Drew, and cleaning up, Shale Veritas drove the motorhome to a pad he’d rented at a local campground a week earlier. He sat in a high-back chair with the two boxes of journals that he’d written over the past several years, each detailing the evidence gathered against his victims, the weeks of preparation, and the brutal facets of the execution of every crime he’d committed over the same span of time. The journals and the locations of the bodies were the only hard evidence that existed; Veritas knew that ex-Ranger James had nothing but a lot of threadbare, circumstantial evidence that depended on too many suppositions and gut feelings to be absolute fact in order to make his case.

Shale drove to a storage unit he owned under one of the aliases he knew for certain had not been compromised by James’s investigation. He locked the two boxes of handwritten evidence away. Then he drove to the hotel where ex-Texas Ranger Bert James was staying.

James opened the door and—probably for the first time in his adult life—had nothing to say. He stood there in his robe, hair wet from having just showered, and his mouth literally hung there agape.

“Ranger,” Veritas said out of respect. He could only imagine the thoughts racing through the old lawman’s head. Should he arrest him? Close the door in his face? Speak?

“I—I.”

“Invite me in, Bertram,” Veritas said, smiling. “I’m about to make your millennium.”

James motioned for him to enter.

Veritas sat in one of the guest chairs while James, still silent, put on his pants, shirt, socks, shoes, and even his one-gallon hat.

“What’re you here for?” Bert James said from where he’d dropped his butt on the edge of the bed, facing Veritas. “You should know I’m armed.”

“I’m here—unarmed—to turn myself over to you, sir.”

“Well I—that makes no goddamned sense,” James said. “I mean, shit. How the hell do you even know who I am?”

“If you can’t answer that question for yourself,” said Veritas, “I overestimated the relevance of your career as a Texas Ranger.”

“But it still makes no sense. And I can’t arrest you. Not legally. Is that it? You here to taunt me? Or what, taint a confession by giving it to a retired officer of the law who has no earthly right to be chasing you?”

“No. I’m done, Ranger. I’m done with it all. And I admire your resilience and fortitude and I figured if I was going to turn myself in, I’d just as soon have you get credit for the takedown.”

“Just like that?”

“Just like that.”

The Execution Suite at the Walla Walla, Washington State Penitentiary had recently been remodeled. When the state stopped using the gas chamber and adopted the lethal injection protocol several years prior, the Department of Corrections simply removed the chair and strap-downs from the cylindrical, windowed room, and replaced them with a medical gurney and strap-downs (along with the I.V. tubes, injection machine, and a new seat for the executioner).

Several human rights organizations had protested the horrific portends of the old, green chamber, claiming it put upon the condemned an inhumane visage as he was walked to the site, prior to execution.

Of course, the groups also protested execution of any kind, but the Washington State Supreme Court had twice upheld capital punishment as allowable under both the State and U.S. Constitution. In what many believed to be nothing more than a door prize, the court voted to uphold the claim that the specter of the original gas chamber as cruel and unusual treatment.

As if to thumb their collective noses at those they openly called “liberal do-gooders”, the Department of Corrections remodeled the rooms, patterning the floor plan after many other similar facilities, but painted every wall the exact same color of dead green and officially named it the Execution Suite, which was manifested proudly above all entrances to the facility.

There was a time when Francis Constantine found the story amusing. In fact, being then a proponent of the death penalty herself, she’d written a tongue-in-cheek column regarding the import (or lack thereof) and the questionable decorum of the highest court in the state in hearing such a claim in the first place.

She no longer harbored such lighthearted feelings toward either the place or the punishment. Having spent the day with the condemned man—a person she considered not only innocent but heroic—she was still unsure of her mettle. Shale Veritas had made it clear that he not only wanted but needed her to be there, be strong, and to keep his gaze from wavering.

Constantine shuffled into the facility with only five other people: the District Attorney, the Lieutenant Governor, and three paid witnesses. No families of the victims had chosen to attend, and no family members of those who Veritas had avenged unbidden were invited.

At five minutes before midnight, the curtains opened to reveal Shale Veritas in navy blue uniform pants, a matched button-down, short-sleeved shirt, strapped to a gurney in the shape of a “T”. The unspoken resemblance of a crucifixion could be lost on no one, particularly when they leaned the condemned man forward to make a final statement.

I.V. lines had been attached beforehand and snaked from his right arm.

The witnesses—including the high-ranking officials—were typically stoic. Constantine found the task of holding back her tears impossible as Shale turned and gazed at her. He looked so very weak—as if he’d finally given over to his inner self; not the self who withstood all the challenges Delta training could give him; not the self who inflicted ruthless vengeance on so many evildoers in the world; but rather, the true, child-like self that hides inside all people with a heart and a soul.

Tears streamed down Constantine’s roundish face, but she did not make a sound—no sobs or breaths or hiccups. She remained as resigned and as supportive as she was able.

The Warden stepped forward at two minutes before twelve and read the death warrant aloud for all to hear:

“Whereas, one Shale Veritas, on the twenty-fifth day of June, two thousand and thirteen, pleaded guilty before the Rainier County Circuit Court of the crime of Murder combined with Special Circumstances and was by the judge of said court sentenced to die by lethal injection here, this twenty-fifth day of July, two thousand and thirteen, at the appointed time of twelve oh-one A.M. and whereas no appeals have been filed, said execution will be carried out by licensed and duly trained personnel of the Washington State Department of Corrections and I, Warden Stanley G. Smith, do hereby certify and concord with this preceding and may God have Mercy on the condemned’s soul.”

The warden paused and then said: “The condemned man is now afforded his legal right to an official statement of record before proceeding.”

Shale kept his eyes fixed steadfast on Constantine and spoke clearly and evenly:

“I willingly accept the legal punishment of the State of Washington, having willfully turned myself over to the system for which I have held the contempt of no confidence. My surrender should not be interpreted as any form of apology for my deeds. I believe in what I have done, and in what I do here today.”

After a moment of silence, Veritas was lowered back to a horizontal position and the warden nodded toward a pane of one-way mirrored glass.

Immediately a loud clacking filled the room. Constantine had memorized the process, hoping it would somehow draw her closer, knowing what Veritas was going through. It did not.

The first of the syringes was a saline push to clean the lines. The second release—sodium pentothal—caused Shale to lose consciousness. One pump fired after the other and as the pancuronium bromide interrupted his breathing, Veritas’ body began to quake slightly. His hands involuntarily opened and closed. Finally, the potassium chloride stopped his heart, and it was over.

The entire process of injection took just over two minutes.

The coroner entered the execution chamber and officially pronounced the death of Shale Veritas; and Francis Constantine, mother of Emily, sister perhaps to justice, wept openly.

_______

Afterword

With this short story begins the Veritas series, and of the character of Shale Veritas—in 2014, the novella continuations of the story and life of this perhaps unlikely hero, his counterparts, and his missions, will be released. The series is intended to have a long life and dig much, much deeper into the man named Shale Veritas, exposing even more of the truth at the center of his universe. You can anticipate this revelatory series of novellas to begin with Veritas: Pugilist, in the early months of 2014!

You can find out more about R.S. Guthrie at his website here: http://www.rsguthrie.com

Turn the page to continue, or click the link to go back to the Table of Contents.

Divide and Conquer

By Kay Hadashi

After a U-turn in the dead end street, a car parked at the curb with the wheels angled out. Three men quietly sat inside until a luxury sedan parked at a house down the block. They watched the driver intently as she unbuckled two little girls’ seat belts.

“Nice car,” the driver said.

“Nice ass,” said the large man seated in the back seat.

“And we’re not here for either one,” said the front passenger.

They watched as the woman disabled the home alarm system and led the little girls into the house, kicking the door closed behind them.

“I keep telling you, we should get that alarm code,” said the man slouched in the back seat. He was the biggest, uncomfortably packed into the small car.

“It’ll be fine,” the front seat passenger said back authoritatively. “With any luck, the alarm system will be turned off. If not, we go to Plan B.”

“Which is kick in the door and rush them,” the driver offered, grinning.

“And we want to avoid that at all costs,” replied the front seat passenger, the man in charge. “Everything calm and relaxed. We need to keep those little brats quiet.”

“Smack ‘em if they cry. That’ll shut them up,” said the man in back. “The woman too.”

“Shut up, idiot. Try to remember these women ain’t stupid. And the last thing we need is some woman freakin’ out.”

“Who are they again?” the driver asked.

“The one that just went in is some classy fashion model. Owns a clothing company also. She’s the one with money.”

The driver snorted a laugh. “Fashion model? How bright can she be?”

“She didn’t get rich by being dumb. And the sister is some sort of doctor. She won’t be dumb either.”

“A lady doctor? Book smart but not street wise.”

An old brown Toyota parking in the driveway got their attention.

“That’s the sister, the brats’ aunt. She’s the one that lives there. The mom’s the one with the money.”

“She’s a doctor? And she drives that old piece of junk? I’m telling you, neither of ‘ems too bright. This is gonna be easy,” the man in the back seat said, rubbing his hands on his pants.

The one in charge finally heard enough. “And I’m telling both of you to keep your word holes clamped.”

The woman slammed the car door shut and went into the house with a grocery bag.

“How’d you hear about these babes again?” asked the driver.

“Look, I got from a reliable source that the mother is going out of town this weekend and is leaving the kids with the sister,” the one in charge explained. “She has a big house in Orange County and just got a home safe installed, stuffed full of cash.”

“If the cash is there, why are we here?” Neat and tidy, the driver was the slimmest of the three.

The one in charge explained the plan again. “It’s a surprise job, just like we talked. We knock on the door, rush the sister and tie her up. Ignore the kids, but just don’t let them run off. I don’t want any of that female hysterical shit. Then we call the mother and demand the combo to the safe.”

The one in the back seat stuck a cigarette in his mouth and was about to light it.

“Hey!” said the man in front, looking back at him. “What’d I tell you about smokin’? No real names, no food, and no butts till the job is done. Take everything out of your pockets except what we need. No evidence. And I’ll do all the talking.”

The cigarette was reluctantly put away.

“Where’d you hear about the safe?” the driver asked.

“A dude I know monitors alarm calls at a security company. On the side, he sells customer info for pocket money.”

“Not a bad gig, as long as someone doesn’t finger him.”

“How’d he hear about the money in the safe?” the driver asked.

“He gets bulletins for security changes.” He looked at the driver. “Nevermind. That’s my problem. You just worry about driving. After we get the safe combo, you and I go to the house. On the way, I’ll call the guy to shut down the home security system for a few minutes so we can get in.” He looked at the guy in the back seat. “You wait behind with the aunt and kids.”

The driver squirmed in his seat. “Yeah, but once we get the combination, why wouldn’t the mother just call the cops? They could be waiting at the house for us.”

“Cause she wants her two little brats back again, safe and sound.”

“How do you know there’s money in the safe if it was just installed?” the driver argued.

“That was in the bulletin my buddy got. An armored car delivery was made to her address one day last week.”

“And if she had only a few hundred clams in there, she’d bring it home herself,” the driver mumbled. “But an armored car would bring a whole lot more than that, right?”

“Exactly.”

They watched the mother leave the house alone and drive off.

“You’re right. She left the kids with the sister.”

The leader of the operation opened a shopping bag and handed something to each of them. Each had a rubber Halloween mask to wear with images of past Presidents.

“What’s this?” the big guy in the back seat asked.

“We’re wearing masks. You’re Clinton.”

“Ah, come on!” the man complained.

“Yeah, well, I got George Bush,” the driver said, holding the mask up for inspection. He looked at the man in the passenger seat. “What’re you wearing?”

“Reagan. I voted for him twice, so I figured, why not?”

After going through the plan one more time, they put on their masks and checked their pockets for everything they would need.

June took a small grocery bag to the kitchen as soon as she was inside her front door. Her sister Amy had the kids at the dinner table with juice boxes.

“Done with rounds at the hospital?” Amy asked from her supervisory position standing over her twin four-year-olds.

“Sorry. Ran a little late,” June said, looking at her sister for the first time. “Is that your latest business suit concept?”

“I’m not sure I like it. Might not make it into the winter catalogue.” Amy tugged at a lapel and straightened a cuff on her business suit. She looked under the table at an active pair of legs. “Ruka, stop kicking Koemi.”

As she prepared to leave, Amy warned her daughters to behave at auntie’s house.

“Where are you staying this weekend?” asked June as Amy grabbed her purse.

Amy waved June away from the kids to talk in private.

“Look, I’ll be at home if anything should come up,” she whispered. “But I’ll have a guest, if you know what I mean.”

“Someone new?”

Amy glanced at her daughters playing with empty juice boxes. “Nevermind about that.”

June grinned. “Yeah, we’ll catch up later.”

Amy went to the desk in the corner of the living room. “I got a new phone, and a new number. Too many creeps these days. Major pain in the neck to change contact numbers, too. Which means I have to change them one at a time.” Amy scrawled her new number on a note pad at the desk and tossed down the pencil. “The kids know it already, but make them practice a few times. And as always...”

“Don’t give it out. Yes, I know. Just pick up the kids by six on Sunday. I have a date and don’t want to be late for it.”

“What’s this?” Amy asked in mock surprise. “June Kato has a date? With a man? In the evening? That right there is incentive enough to pick them up early! Wish I could stay and hear about it, but I gotta go.”

With smooches to her daughters and the message from June that everything would be fine, Amy was gone. June turned back to the dinner table and smiled at her nieces.

“Wow! Now that mommy’s gone, we can have some fun!” she told them.

What she got in return were four big brown eyes looking back at her.

“Okay, what should we do first?”

“We eat our lunch first,” Koemi, the older one said.

“And you eat too,” Ruka said.

“Mommy say to make you eat.”

“Oh really?”

She collected the empty juice boxes and tossed them away.

“Big news!” June said, trying to break the ice with her nieces that were normally much more raucous. “I have ice cream for later.”

“We can’t have ice cream...” one said soberly.

“No sugar...”

“Makes us wiggle...”

“And no juice after dinner...”

“We don’t sleep good...”

“Might wet the bed.”

“I see,” said June, doing her best to suppress a laugh at the tennis match dialogue. “Well, we better follow mommy’s rules, huh? But right now I have a big, big surprise!”

“Mommy gave us homework,” Koemi said. Her legs swung back and forth as she sat on the dinner chair. “Read the books first before we play.”

“Oh? You go to school now?”

Ruka began kicking Koemi under the table before June dragged her chair back.

“Mama gave us books to read.”

“Wow! Can I see one?”

Ruka scampered off to a guest bedroom to where their knapsacks sat on a bed. The room had been set up for the kids to use whenever they came for a visit. Ruka returned a moment later with a stack of kids’ books.

“These are my new books...”

“Mine too!”

“Oh, so cute!” June said, slowing flipping through the first book, something with comical pictures of animals speaking in short sentences to each other. “You’re big girls, learning to read now.”

“Just little words,” Koemi mewed in a tiny voice.

“We can write our names.”

“We’ll practice later, okay? I have lots of paper to use.” June looked at the next book, something that looked familiar from her distant past. “These books are very cute!”

She gave them both a book and asked if they could read something to her. While they picked through colorful pages, June put Amy’s new number into her phone, labeling it only as ‘new’. Once the girls had read what they could, June tried again to spring her surprise on them.

“Guess what?” she asked, looking back and forth between them. “Auntie has a big surprise!”

They looked up from their books.

“There’s fish in the pond!”

“Yellow fish?”

“Of course!”

Both the girls jumped down from their chairs and bolted for the back garden.

After feeding the goldfish in the small backyard pond, June worked the energy out of them with several games of hide and seek. Counting to ten one last time, June slipped the phone out of her pocket and made a call.

“What’s wrong?” Amy asked as soon as she answered.

“Nothing. Everything is fine. I just wanted to check the number is all.”

“Did they eat?”

“In just a few minutes. Right now it’s hide and seek.” June heard the girls giggling from their hiding places not far away. “They’re learning to read already?”

“Just stick the books in front of them if they get bored. If you want, you can read the stories to them. They like bedtime stories these days.”

“I heard about the ice cream rule.”

“Give them sugar after dinner and they won’t conk out till dawn.” Amy laughed. “And you really don’t want to give them something to drink in the evening.”

“Unless they find it themselves. But hey, who’s the guy?” June asked, still trying to pry information from her sister.

“We’ll talk later, ‘kay? Bye!”

The call ended abruptly.

“You rat...”

June pretended she was surprised when she found the girls in the same hiding places. All three had gotten bored with the game, so they turned back for the sliding patio door that led into the living room.

Just as June looked up, she stopped and grabbed the girls.

June pulled the girls back and hid them behind her.

“Who the hell are you?” she asked.

“New friends,” a man said. He had a Ronald Reagan Halloween mask over his head.

Standing just outside the patio door, he raised his arm, a pistol in his hand. Two other men in rubber masks raised their hands with guns in their grips.

“What the...”

The man posing as Ronald Reagan fired a shot. The little girls shrieked. June pushed them down onto the patio floor, crowding them under her slender body as best she could.

“Don’t worry,” the man wearing the Ronald Reagan mask said. “The bullet was over your head. If I wanted you dead, you’d be that way. That shot was just to let you know the gun is loaded and that I know how to use it. If you’re smart about this, you’ll be just fine.”

Both the girls were crying. June looked up, still shielding her nieces while trying to comfort them. “If it isn’t too much trouble, why are you in my home?” June shouted.

“Get up,” one of the men demanded. The largest of the three, he wore a Bill Clinton mask.

“Leave us alone!”

The large man leveled his pistol at her. Still lying on top of her nieces, she had no idea of what to do. With three pistols aimed at her, she decided lying still was best. She kissed the backs of the girls’ heads and whispered soothing words.

“Get up,” Clinton insisted.

“Leave them alone.” Her voice changed to a quiet, steadier tone when she looked up at him. “I’m warning you...if you hurt them there would be no end to the world of pain I’d lay on you.”

Clinton took a step and stood at her head. He reached his gun hand down to her, June lowering her face as the gun got close. Laying her face on one of the girl’s shoulders, she felt the muzzle of the pistol press against the back of her head. “Try me,” he said.

“They’ll be just fine. It’s you that we’re concerned about,” Reagan told her.

Unable to watch what was going on, June heard steps around her.

One of them began talking slowly. “Tell the brats to park it on the couch. If the three of you do exactly as you’re told, everything will be just fine. Try to get clever and problems will start. Understand?”

June kept her eyes down, listening to her nieces whimper. In the calmest voice she could muster, she spoke quietly to the girls.

“Girls, we’re going to play a game with our new friends. Number One rule, be very good girls. Understand?”

They nodded in unison, sniffling tears.

“Number Two rule, only talk to me, okay?”

They nodded.

“Last rule, only listen to me, and not them. Don’t do anything unless I tell you, okay?”

“Auntie...”

“Shh.” June hushed her voice to a whisper. “Be quiet, baby. I want both of you to sit on the couch and be very quiet. In a few minutes you can watch TV while you eat your lunch.”

When she felt the muzzle retreat from the back of her head, June pushed up from the patio floor and shooed the girls in the direction of the couch. They got there at a gallop, crowding together at one end, their sobs turning to soft whimpers and sniffles.

Once they settled, June was led into the house, a gun pressed up against the back of her head by Clinton.

Through years of self-defense training, something she still trained at every Sunday afternoon, she knew a way to disarm and disable a man holding a gun to her head or back. But the method didn’t include two other armed men. The likelihood she could disarm all three without a shot being fired was nil. And she just wasn’t going to put the kids at risk while attempting something with such low odds of succeeding. She gave up on the idea, at least for the moment.

“Stop,” the large man behind her commanded.

She had to comply, but she would also ask questions. The more information she had, the better she would be able to defuse the situation. Standing directly in front of the kids in the middle of the living room, she tried to offer a reassuring smile to them.

“What is going...”

“Shut up.” Ronald Reagan stood a few feet away and aimed his gun at her chest. He kept his gaze set on June’s face. “Georgie, do your thing.”

It was obvious to June that Reagan was the boss.

Clinton kept his gun at the back of June’s head, pressing hard to make the point it was there. Off to the side, George Bush pocketed his pistol. He moved carefully toward June, one step at a time. From his back pocket, he pulled several loops of heavy plastic zip ties.

The sight of the plastic ties forced up stomach acid, washing the back of her mouth.

Standing erect, she had more options to choose from than prone on the floor. She balled one hand into a fist, slightly hidden behind her hip, the side away from the man with the ties. She knew exactly what she could do, having trained for something like this a few times in the past. However, that was only training, not real life, and not with four year old nieces only a few feet away. Or an extra gun aimed at her. Frustrated she could do nothing, it took all her strength just to stand still.

“Go ahead and do something stupid, auntie, and find out what a gun shot wound feels like...” Reagan said, pronouncing her title in a mockingly child-like voice.

June glared back at him.

“Auntie, just relax your hands and put them out in front of you.”

June raised her open hands they way she was told. “I like your masks. They suit you in some twisted ironic way,” she said to no one in particular.

“Auntie...” one of the girls whined.

“Quiet,” June commanded, but softly.

“But Auntie...” the other girl began to say.

“I said be quiet!” June scolded.

With a snicker, the man with the plastic loops went around behind June. He passed a long tie around her waist and zip-tightened it snug to her body. He then put a short loop around one arm. Pulling that arm down to her body, he connected the ties together with another, securing her arm to her side. He did the same, slowly and carefully, with the other arm.

“Good girl. You’re very obedient when you want to be.”

“You have no fu...”

The man with the ties backhanded her in the face, knocking her off to the side.

“Did you have a comment?” Reagan asked with a grin.

Her cheek pulsed with heat and an eye watered, but she focused on the boss, keeping her eyes in an unwavering fighter’s glare.

At first, Reagan looked surprised at the glare, and then tried to laugh it off. June’s angry gaze didn’t change, and the smile dropped from his face, which was replaced with a nervous look.

“Georgie, quit fucking around and get those last ties on her legs, will ya?” Reagan said.

George Bush went back to securing her legs with zip ties. While he did that, Reagan started in on his next message.

“You’ve already met Georgie. He was the one that gave you the love tickle across the cheek.” Georgie was thin, almost underfed, but worked efficiently. “Now, let me introduce my other partner, Bill Clinton.”

Clinton was the one holding the pistol to the back of her head, the largest of the group. “Hey ya,” was all he said.

Without watching, she felt her legs get tied by Georgie, only keeping her glaring attention on the man in charge. The plastic ties were loose enough to walk, but only at a shuffle.

“My name is Reagan,” the man in charge told her, picking at his Ronald Reagan Halloween mask. Broad shouldered and thick through the middle, he was also the shortest of the three. June responded only by looking at the man with as much derision as she could muster.

She tried to figure out the relationships between the three of them. It was obvious they were hiding their identities, each wearing not only the masks but odd-fitting and colorful clothes. Whatever they were up to, they would surely change their clothes at the end and get rid of the masks. Clinton and George needed instructions from Reagan, as though they had only discussed the job but had not rehearsed it. Maybe that meant they knew each other previously, and Reagan had always been in charge. Right at that particular moment, however, she couldn’t clear her mind well enough to think how she could use it to her advantage. All she could figure was that their plan included leaving her and the kids alive at the end. Otherwise, why bother with masks?

“No questions?” Reagan asked her.

June wasn’t going to play the man’s game by asking the obvious. It was best to keep all of them off kilter. She glanced over at the girls on the couch, intently watching her. Their whimpers had turned to wet faces, but at least they were quiet. “Would it be okay if the kids watch TV?”

“If it keeps them quiet.”

She told the girls what channel to watch and to remain quiet. One of them grabbed the remote and flicked on the flat screen, changing to the prescribed channel. They glanced a few times at June before settling their attention on the TV.

Ankles secured and arms tied to her waist, she was no longer a threat to the men, and she knew it. As they each pocketed their guns, Reagan stepped to face her.

“I’ll save you the trouble of asking what’s going on here. We know who you are, and who your sister is. And those brats belong to your sister.”

Her plan had worked, of forcing information out of him, only by out-waiting him.

“They’re not brats.”

Unblinkingly ready to take another hit, June didn’t flinch when Georgie raised his hand to her again. She kept her eyes locked into Reagan’s.

“Georgie...” Ronald shook his head to warn him off. “Take a seat, buddy. You too, Clinton.”

They both took a seat at the dining table as commanded. Reagan smiled back at June. She had won a small battle of wits, and in the process learned they were chummy enough to use ‘buddy’.

“Okay, they’re not brats. Those kids belong to your sister, and that’s why we’re here today.”

“So?”

“We want money, and your sister has plenty. We have her kids, and their mommy will want them back. Pretty easy to figure out.”

“So, this is a kidnapping?”

“Not at all. Those little dickens can walk out of the house any time they want. So can you for that matter.”

“And get bullets in our heads?” June shook her head. She had to approach everything she said very carefully. But patience had never been her strong suit. “What do you expect me to do all tied up like this, go to an ATM for five hundred dollars?”

Reagan took a seat in an easy chair and slouched down into the soft cushions. The other two chuckled. “We ain’t doin’ this for no five hundred bucks. We know she has a whole lot more’n that.”

“Are you guys idiots? If you want more than that, she’ll have to go to a bank, and this is a weekend. You really expect to keep us here until Monday morning?”

“Why not?” Clinton asked, his smile full of yellow teeth.

She kept looking at Reagan as though answering him. “Well, because people need to be fed, go to the bathroom, sleep, those sorts of things. And the way things sit right now, you’ve made that pretty damn difficult.”

Reagan sighed and pulled a pack of smokes out of his shirt pocket.

“No smoking in the house,” June said to him.

He snorted a laugh. “I’m supposed to go out in the back and smoke?” he asked with a note of incredulity to his voice.

“No smoking out there either.”

She tried staring him down again but lost the battle when he lit a cigarette. He exhaled a long stream of gray smoke in her direction, smoke seeping out the eye, ear, and nose holes of the mask. “Anyway, we know where she lives and we know she has a wall safe there. We know an armored truck made a delivery of cash. And a wealthy woman like her is gonna have plenty of cash on hand, just for times like this.”

“Really? How did you find out she has a wall safe? Because she’s never said a thing about it to me. Seems odd that strangers would know that but not her own sister.”

“Cause we’ve been figuring out a way of getting’ money from her, you haven’t. You and me, we pay attention to different things, and learn different stuff. You know what the brats like to eat, and I know she has money in the house.”

“And you think I have the combination to the safe?”

“No. You just made it sound like you don’t. Which means we need to get it from her.” He grinned at her. “And we ain’t waitin’ till she gets back here. We want the combination to the safe, and the code that will get us past the alarm system at the house. Plus, we want the pass from your car that will get us past the guard at the front gate to the neighborhood.”

“You don’t want much, do you?” June fidgeted uncomfortably in her tight plastic restraints. “Anything else? A helicopter to take you to a yacht out at sea for your get-away?”

“Not a bad idea. But we already have that all worked out.”

June watched the twins watching the television, a colorful and busy children’s show she had never seen before. They had settled down and were more interested in the show than what was going on around them. Both had at least one finger in their mouth. Satisfied there was a measure of control in the house, at least over emotions, she looked back at the man in the easy chair.

“How do you know I’m going to cooperate?”

Silently, Reagan left his chair and went to the couch where the girls were sitting. Holding the cigarette with his teeth, he pushed the girls’ shoulders together, and then their heads. They looked startled to be touched from behind and began whimpering again.

“Hey! Leave them alone!” June struggled against the plastic ties.

He pulled the gun from his jacket pocket and shoved the muzzle up against the side of a head. He slid the gun around in the girl’s hair until it settled onto a point just over her ear.

Reagan looked back at June. “This is how we get you to cooperate...”

Hot tears welled up in June’s eyes hearing the girls whimpering more.

“Sit still, girls, and be quiet,” June warned them. “Sit still or auntie will be very angry with you.” She looked again at the gun in the man’s hand, and then back at his face. “Do that and you have no leverage at all. It would be a one way trip to the gas chamber.”

“Want to try out your theory?” the man asked, smoke curling up from the cigarette locked between his teeth. “So far we’ve left no evidence, no prints or fibers anywhere in the house. Two bullets would silence the three of you forever. Then we’d simply walk out the front door happier than a gang of missionaries.”

June thought about the situation. Amy had mentioned she was spending the weekend at home, and there was no way she would send these men to her house if Amy was home. The situation was bad enough already; she wasn’t going to let it get worse.

“But I don’t know the combination to her safe! I didn’t even know she had a safe until you told me!”

“Look, idiot. There’s this new technology called cell phones. You’re going to call her and get the combination. Right now.”

“But...”

She watched as he flicked the safety off his pistol, making the gun ready to be fired.

“Fine.”

He left the gun aimed where it was. “This is how it works. We’ll use your phone. Clinton will dial the number and hold the phone up to your ear. You talk nice and calm. No chitchat, no girl talk. Got it?”

June nodded her head.

“You’ll calmly explain the situation to her, about how there is a gun held to the heads of her precious little miracles, but all we want is the money from the safe. Once we get that, we go away and none of you ever sees us again.”

“But what if...”

“No what ifs.” He smiled. “If she hears a gunshot, she’ll know we’re for real.”

June stared back. Her soul wanted to cry, but her mind won that fight. Crying could be done later. Right now she needed to keep a clear mind.

“If she hears a gun shot, she’ll have no reason to give you the combination.”

“We’ll still have you to negotiate with.”

“All you want is the combination to the safe?”

“It’s a complex safe. There’s an electronic password that needs to be put in, plus a dial combination, to get the safe open. You’ll get both, repeat them out loud so I can hear. Any questions?”

She nodded. “How’d you learn all that?”

“Not your problem, is it, auntie?”

“Where’s your phone?” Georgie asked after he stood up from the dinner table.

“My purse, on the desk.”

George dumped the contents of June’s purse on the desk and collected her smart phone. He began scrolling through numbers looking for the right one.

“How do you have her listed?” he asked when he got to her side.

June kept her eyes on Reagan, and on the pistol held against Koemi’s head. He gave June a look as though she shouldn’t stall. “Sis.”

George kept scrolling.

“Just make sure she understands exactly what we want. No fuss, no long explanations. She needs to know we’re serious.”

Reagan nodded his head at Clinton, who then went to June’s side. She was still in the middle of the living room, wrists and ankles restrained. Clinton pulled out his pistol and set the muzzle against her head, in the exact same point Reagan’s gun was aimed at Koemi’s head, just above her ear.

Georgie found the number labeled ‘sis’ and pressed call. He held the phone out in front of June, where they could hear it ringing. For the first time since being tied up, she broke eye contact with Reagan and stared down at the phone.

She listened to it ring, then another ring, and then again. June listened as it rang a seventh, an eighth, a tenth time. No answer, not even voice mail.

“She’s not answering,” June said. “She’s too busy.”

“Georgie, did you dial the right number?” Reagan asked impatiently.

He looked at the screen. “It’s says sis on it.”

June could see sweat forming on Reagan’s neck below the edge of the mask, running down into his shirt. Part of it was the rubber mask over his head, and maybe part was his nerves. She needed to apply more pressure to force him into a mistake.

“If you take off the masks, you won’t be so hot,” she told them.

“And risk going back to prison? Forget that,” Clinton said.

“Shut your hole!” shouted Reagan.

He answered what June had been thinking, that they knew each other in prison. She needed to tread lightly, but still apply pressure.

“Who helped you with all this?” she asked. “There is no way you could’ve got that much information about her without help, especially about the safe. Or how you knew the kids would be here today.”

“Shut up.” Reagan glanced down at the phone. “Georgie, you sure you dialed the right number?”

“Yeah, but...”

“But nothing. Her name is Amy. Look at all the ‘A’ names. She might have it hidden in there.”

June set her eyes on Reagan, ignoring Georgie working with the phone in front of her and Clinton at her side. Mostly, she did her best to ignore the hard metal muzzle pressed against her nieces’ heads.

Scrolling through numbers one at a time for several minutes, Georgie said, “There’s nothing here with her name.”

“Try the first one again.”

Georgie found ‘sis’ and dialed.

June stared down at the phone as it rang a dozen more times.

“She went out of town for peace and quiet for the weekend,” June lied. She knew if the men found out Amy was home right then, they might go straight there for their second home invasion of the day. But she was as confused as they were why Amy wasn’t answering her calls. “She probably turned her phone off.”

“Why isn’t it going to voice mail?” Reagan asked.

“I have no idea. Maybe she saw my number and just doesn’t want to talk to me?” June asked. “I mean, there are more interesting people to talk to than me.”

Reagan was obviously pissed that the call hadn’t gone though. His neck had broken into a full sweat and he tugged at the edges of the rubber mask. He dropped his cigarette to the hardwood floor and stepped his toe on it. “If you’re screwing with us...”

“What? What can I be doing? I’m tied up with a gun to my head, you have my phone, George found the number and called. What could I possibly be doing?”

That’s when she remembered the last thing Amy said to her, that she had got a new phone and number, and that she wrote it on a slip of paper at the desk. Amy even mentioned that both girls already had it memorized. The number George had found under ‘sis’ was the old number, and June hadn’t taken the time yet to correct it. The correct number in the phone was labeled only as ‘new’.

Mostly she was ambivalent if she wanted to help the three men with the sudden recall, or just let them flounder for a while. If they got frustrated enough, there was the chance they would just leave. She couldn’t allow them to go to Amy’s house when she was there, but she was also putting her nieces at risk by not divulging the new phone number. Either way, she had the growing dread deep inside that the afternoon was going to end poorly.

Reagan tapped one of the girls’ heads with the muzzle of his gun. “Hey brat, what’s your mother’s name?”

“Hey! Leave her alone!” June shouted.

Reagan aimed the gun at June for a moment. “You were saying?” He turned the gun back to Koemi’s head. “I asked you, what’s your mother’s name?”

“Mommy...” the girl mewed softly.

Reagan sighed. “Georgie, look for mommy in the phone.”

“Auntie...” one of the girls began to say.

“Be quiet, please, Ruka.”

The little girl turned her head a bit to look in June’s direction. “But mommy has...”

“You’re making me very angry, Ruka!” June said, barely holding her temper.

“Not to interrupt the soap opera, but could the two of you shut the hell up?” Reagan said. His gun hand shook, the one that held the pistol to the side of the girls’ heads.

June turned her sights back on him. “Don’t even think of hurting them,” she said with as much control as she could muster.

Both girls burst into tears.

Reagan shoved the butt of his pistol into a girl’s head, nudging it to the side.

“God damn you...” June muttered.

She got a backhand across her face from Clinton.

“I told you to shut up!” bellowed Reagan. “I won’t put up with this hysterical female shit!”

Georgie had his gun in his hand again, aimed then at June’s chest from point blank range, the phone call forgotten. His eye began to tick.

They all remained that way for some time, the girls whimpering, Reagan’s gun hand shaking, Clinton pressing his pistol against June’s head, Georgie’s eye ticking, and June fighting swirling numbness in her mind. She could taste blood in her mouth from being slapped by Clinton.

Maybe because of the stress, Reagan’s voice was falling into a southern drawl. And the way he called the man in the George Bush mask Georgie, June figured that was his real first name. Just as she figured, the men were beginning to crack. She was getting some power back from them.

She had to continue to push.

After several minutes, Reagan lifted his pistol away from Koemi’s head, put the safety on, and stowed it in his jacket. He nodded to the other two men and they slowly put their guns away.

“Okay.” He pronounced his words carefully, but his voice warbled with cracked nerves. “Now that everyone has their heads out of their butts, we’re all gonna start playin’ nice again. Everything is going to be just fine.”

June knew she had to distract the intruders from trying to call Amy again, and to keep Georgie from snooping through her phone numbers too closely. It would only be a matter of time before he found the heading called ‘new’ and figured it belonged to Amy. Or for one of the girls to let it slip that they knew the number by heart. If she let on with the right number then, they’d never believe she only just remembered it. She also needed to find a way to distract the girls from the drama that was unfolding in front of them.

“I have to make lunch for the girls.”

“Forget it,” Reagan told her, taking a seat again.

“Then I gotta sit down before I fall over. My feet are numb from standing here.”

“Help yourself. The floor looks very comfortable.”

She bent her knees and sank down. Without the use of her hands, she fell to the hardwood floor with a clunk. She pushed up to an elbow, and then struggled to a sitting position.

“Okay now?” Clinton asked, glaring down at her.

“Never better.”

As soon as she settled, June inspected the skin on her wrists being abraded from the plastic ties. The one on her right hand was much looser then the other, loose enough that she might even be able to jerk that hand loose if she had a chance. She decided to leave it alone for the time being.

“Georgie,” Reagan said. “Try sending a text to that number you called before.”

Georgie found the number. “What should I write?”

“Send, call ASAP,” Reagan said.

Georgie wrote the message. But before he could send it, June got his attention.

“That’s not what I would write to her. ASAP means something else to us,” she lied.

June had no choice but to pretend to go along with their captors. Part of the plan she had been working out was to lie, deceive, and manipulate dialogue, if only to create as much confusion as possible. If she could do that, she might just be able to turn them against each other. Then all she could do was try and separate them. And she had to do it soon.

Georgie looked down at where June sat awkwardly on the floor. So far, he had been the only one that had acted reasonably toward her and the girls, if aiming a gun at her chest could be called reasonable. “What would you write to get her to call right away?”

“Something like, prob with kids.”

He started tapping that into a text message.

“No! She’s lying,” Reagan said suddenly. “That will just bring her here. Put in that ASAP thing instead.”

“I’m telling you...” June started.

Clinton leaned down to her level. “You’re telling us nothin’,” he said into her ear. “We make the decisions around here, not you.”

“Suit yourself,” June muttered.

“What’s A-S-A-P mean then?” Clinton asked.

“Alert, send all police.”

The three men looked at each other for a moment, until Reagan broke into a grin.

“Just send it, Georgie.”

He sent the ASAP text. George took the phone to where Reagan sat in his chair, both waiting for a reply. When none came, Georgie wandered off.

June looked at Reagan. “Look, the girls need lunch. May I make them something, please?” She was barely able to mask the hostility in her voice as she feigned courtesy.

“If you can cook with your hands tied. Otherwise, forget it.”

“Then one of you knuckleheads is going to have to make something. One way or another, those girls aren’t going hungry.”

Reagan laughed. “Clinton, you know how to make a roast beef? What about you, Georgie? Want to fire up the barbecue and grill steaks for us?”

“I ain’t no chef,” Clinton said.

“And we don’t eat meat,” June said back.

Georgie sat on the couch and worked with the phone. The girls huddled together, still sniffling, the silly antics of cartoon characters on the TV barely holding their interest. They had curled up with each other as far from Georgie at the opposite end of the couch as they could get.

He finally tossed the phone aside. “I still can’t find a number for the woman. Maybe I should go get a pizza?”

“What is this, a pajama party?” Reagan asked. He asked Georgie for the phone and it was tossed to him. He began scrolling through numbers, June watching him.

“Just let me go in the kitchen to make sandwiches for them,” June offered. “It won’t take any more than five minutes, and then you can tie me up again.”

Clinton snorted a sharp laugh out his nose. “Sure, so you can get a gun you have hid in there? Or a knife?” He laughed again. “That ain’t gonna happen.”

“Okay, you can come and watch. Since you’re so helpless, I’ll even teach you how to make a sandwich. You wouldn’t even have to undo the zip ties on me.”

“She’s up to something, Clinton,” Reagan said from the living room easy chair. “Don’t trust her.”

“You’re hungry, aren’t you Clinton?” she said to him. “I bet a strong guy like you gets hungry a lot.”

“I’m a little hungry too,” Georgie said.

“Fine. We’ll get a pizza for all you ladies, just so y’all don’t start cryin’. Is there someplace around here that delivers?” Reagan finally said.

“Not here in the hills,” said June back to him. “There’s a place down the road at the base of the canyon that has take out. One of your clowns can go pick it up. I’ll even pay.”

Clinton took a handful of her hair and twisted it around, wrenching her head sideways. “You’re in no position to do any name callin’, understand?”

“Just trying to get you something to eat...” she said, grimacing.

“Knock it off, Clinton.” Reagan tossed the phone down on the table again. “I don’t want either of you being away for that long to pick up a pizza from town.”

Clinton let loose of her hair and tossed her down again.

“I saw a minimart down the road a few blocks,” Georgie offered. “I could swing down there and be back in just a few minutes.”

June craned her head up to look in Georgie’s direction. She had to keep her agenda moving forward. “Get money from my purse. They have sandwiches there. And get some juice also.”

“Can I, Reagan?” asked Georgie.

“Yeah, fine, whatever. Just don’t drag your feet. As soon as we get that combination, you and I are out of here.”

Georgie went to the things dumped from June’s purse on the desk, and got her wallet. June watched him, not at his hands picking though her money, but in fear that he might find Amy’s new phone number written on the desk pad of paper. He stayed focused on her money, and took only what he might need, even returning the rest to her wallet.

Reagan picked up the phone and began scrolling again. June watched Georgie reach for the front door knob.

“I wouldn’t open that door if I were you...” June called from across the room.

Reagan looked up. Georgie froze and turned. “Why?”

June had to think fast, only hatching the idea that moment. The biggest problem in getting her idea to work was to make it sound plausible. “When you came into the house through the door and then closed it, it activated the alarm system.”

“So?” Reagan asked.

“So, see that little red light on the alarm system control box?” All their eyes went to the alarm box mounted on the wall next to the front door. “That means the system wasn’t set properly, and will send a message to the authorities if the door is opened again. Now, if you let me have use of a hand, I can reset it.”

“Nice try...” Clinton muttered from his position leaning against the wall.

“But what if there’s a fire and you’re just running out the door? How does it know which authorities to send the message?”

“The alarm has a carbon monoxide monitor and smoke alarm built in. If it doesn’t sense smoke and the door opens, the message is sent to a security agency, and then to the police. You’d get out of the house but not down the hill before the cops were coming up.”

“Yeah, but how do we know it wasn’t set correctly? You could be lying to us,” Clinton said.

“Have I lied to you yet? Every step of the way I’ve cooperated, right? Anyway, if it was set properly with the right code number, a little green light would show.”

Georgie inspected the control box. “Hey, there is another little light on here. It looks like it would be green also, if it were lit up.”

“What is it with you women? Codes and safes and everything locked up tight,” said Reagan before turning his attention back to the Disney movie that had started on the TV. “Just give George the code number.”

“Needs a thumb on that touch pad, the correct thumb.” She looked at Georgie, the most gullible of the group. “Flip open that front cover on the alarm box. See that shiny black square inside? That’s the touch pad.”

June could see Georgie’s eyes flit from her face to her hand secured at her waist. He looked at the box again, trying to figure out the logistics of getting her hand up to the box without cutting her arm loose. She couldn’t let him figure it out.

“But we can go out the back garden gate with less trouble. You just have to take me along.”

“Why?”

“At the gate, the control panel is low on the wall, so you don’t even have to untie me for it. That’s the only way it’ll work,” June explained. “It really was a mistake closing the door like that.”

The deal was okayed by Reagan, the man in charge, also the one least at ease. She could tell he was trying to hide it, but he showed all the earmarks of losing his nerves. It meant he was most likely to use his gun, but was also most easily tricked with confusion. June had to rely on that.

Georgie helped June to a standing position. She eyed him close up and saw he wasn’t any bigger than her, and probably not as strong.

He took his pistol out of his pocket and pushed her toward the back door.

“Kids, stay on the couch,” she said over her shoulder. “No talking.”

She waddled as she led him out the patio door and around the side of the house, turning the corner in silence. With Georgie right behind her, he couldn’t see her work a hand loose from the zip ties, freeing up one hand. When they got to the gate with the old potting shed next to it, she stopped and turned toward Georgie.

He looked around at the wall and fence. “Where’s the box?” he asked.

“Right here.”

She swung her arm at the gun, which went flying into the garden. Before he could react, she swung up again, catching him under the chin with her forearm. While he was still unsteady, she took a cross at his face.

That last blow put him on the ground. Since her legs were tied together, she couldn’t finish him off with her favorite weapon, a heavy stomp to the chest. Instead, she landed a hammerstrike to his throat.

George’s head flew back and hit the corner of the potting shed with a bounce. When he settled, he laid motionless on the pathway.

“Stupid dickhead.”

She had to hurry. Not visible from the patio windows, she got the potting shed door open and found rope. She was able to lash the man’s arms and legs together, and then pulled the rubber mask from his face. She had never seen him before. Without delay, she shoved an old rag in his mouth, wrapping the last of the rope around his head as a gag. Using only one hand, she dragged him into the potting shed.

Just before closing the door, she had a thought. She poked through his pockets, found the last of the plastic ties, and stuffed them in her pocket. She could use them later.

June found the gun in the garden and considered going back to the house with it. Having a shoot out with two armed men that acted as though they had nothing to lose seemed like a bad idea. Plus, with her nieces right in the middle of the group, there was no way she would risk their lives. Especially since she had never been a good shot with a gun.

She could also cut the bands with a tool and run, and call the police from a neighbor’s house. If it were only her, she would give it more consideration. But abandoning the kids was out of the question. She had to go back into the house.

She removed the magazine from the pistol and discovered it was empty. She tried a couple times to eject the cartridge already loaded into the gun, but there wasn’t one. In the end, the gun was never a threat to her or the kids. She tossed all of it into a small grove of bamboo at the side of the shed. Just as she began waddling back to the patio, she heard the back door bang open.

“What’s going on?” Clinton said from the far end of the walkway.

“Nothing.” June just had the chance to get her hand stuffed back through the plastic ties while waddling as fast as she could. “Your friend had a problem with the code number is all.”

“He left?”

“Yeah. He decided to walk since its so close.”

“That dumbshit.” He looked beyond June toward the far end of the yard. “This ain’t no picnic.”

She got up to him. “You could go get him if you want. It looked like he was going at a pretty good pace though.

He pushed June into the house and slammed the door shut behind them. June took an immense amount of pleasure knowing one of the three had been eliminated, even if Georgie was the dumbest one of the group.

“While we’re waiting for him to get back, can the girls go in and lie down for a while?” she asked Reagan.

He was fully engaged in the TV, which had been changed from the kids Disney movie to a men’s programming channel. She looked at the two girls on the couch, who looked either bored or stunned, June couldn’t tell.

He nodded them toward the side of the house with the bedrooms.

With little prompting, she followed the four year olds into the guest room and watched as they tucked themselves under the top blanket. Clinton watched from the doorway.

“Be quiet, okay?” she admonished them with kisses. “We’ll have lunch in a little while. But stay in here until I come get you, okay?” She pecked kisses at them several more times. “And please please please be quiet.”

With the door closed, she went back to the living room and stood facing Reagan, still plunked down on the couch intently watching the TV. She stood in his line of sight.

“Now what?” she asked.

“Park it somewhere.”

“Can I use the bathroom?” she asked.

“How ya gonna get your pants down?” Clinton asked with a leer.

“I can do it,” she said back with a hard glare at him.

She didn’t need to go, but she had another idea in her mind. It was working already.

Reagan nodded her off again. “Go with her, Clinton. Make sure she stays out of trouble.”

June waddled to the bathroom next to the master bedroom, Clinton following right behind. She heard the bedroom door shut behind them. It was exactly what she wanted.

When she got the toilet, she struggled to get her jeans button undone and the zipper down because of the plastic ties. Before she pulled her pants down, she looked back at Clinton, leaning against the doorframe watching with a new smile.

She pushed her pants down and sat. “Enjoying the show?”

“Oh yeah.”

She sat for a moment then stood again.

“Stage fright?” he asked with a laugh.

“Something like that.”

She waddled to the door, pretending to have a hard time getting her pants back up.

“Let me do that, little missy.”

He reached forward to her pants, and she let him take hold. She watched his thick fingers fumble with the button, and for the first time smelt the scent of old tobacco on his breath. What he hadn’t noticed about her was that she had worked her hand loose from the ties again.

As he struggled with her button, she reached up between his arms and grabbed him under the jaw. Using the element of surprise, and with as tight of a grip as she could muster, she pushed him backwards into the bedroom. Only able to scurry her feet a few inches at a time, she shoved as hard as she could when they got to the doorway. He stumbled backward, pulling her with him.

His gun fell to the floor when he was pushed, landing far from his reach.

They both landed on the bed. By then Clinton was fighting back, but she was straddling him. Trying to keep as much of her body weight on top of him, she landed hammer strikes to his collarbones, mixed with punches to his face and neck. Just as she felt his hands get a grip on her chest and push her away, she landed one last fierce blow to the center of his masked face.

He fell back, motionless.

She waited for Reagan to burst through the door, but he never did. Instead, he called out from the other room with a laughing tone to his voice.

“Not so rough in there, Clinton! We still need her later!”

“Shove it, jerk...” June muttered, panting quickly.

June dug into her pocket for the plastic ties she got from Georgie and zip tied Clinton’s wrists and ankles, using two at each place. She ripped the rubber mask from his head and didn’t recognize him either.

From being punched in the face so hard, blood welled up from both his nostrils and overflowed his cheeks. She knew if she left him on his back, he could easily choke to death on his own blood. Gagging him would risk suffocation. She would have to turn him on his side to allow the welling blood to flow away from his airway. It was emergency medicine at its most basic, to keep his airway open. But that would require compassion.

Instead, June dug through his pockets. All she found was a cell phone and a pocketknife. She gave the knife a stare, and looked at Clinton.

“Not worth it...” she mumbled.

She cut her own thick plastic ties with the knife, releasing her left arm and both legs from their prisons, working her joints loose again and some blood into her limbs.

Clinton’s breathing sputtered through his blood.

“Looks like I’m still the one making the decisions around here, huh?” she muttered.

She turned him onto his side, allowing the blood to flow away from his nose and mouth. His breathing improved to a soft snore as blood soaked into the bedspread. It was her bed he was on, and one of her favorite spreads.

June was down to only one intruder, an ex-con with a loaded gun and a bad case of frayed nerves. Ronald Reagan wasn’t going to be so easy to deal with.

She listened at the door and heard only the TV playing.

Reagan would still be on the couch watching TV, facing away from the bedroom door. It would be easy enough to walk out the door, aim Clinton’s gun at the man’s back, and pull the trigger. She wouldn’t have to be an expert shot to accomplish that, and the girls wouldn’t be in the way. As soon as that was done, she could call the police and be done with the ordeal. Surely, no one could blame her for defending herself and the girls with a gun one of the intruders had brought.

The pistol was still on the floor where it landed during the fight. Giving its use one last consideration, June picked up the pistol, feeling the weight of it in her hand. She turned it from side to side, inspecting it closely. She had a decision to make.

As serious as the situation was, she couldn’t bring herself to shooting a man in the back. She removed the clip. It too was empty just like George’s, and she could only assume they were unloaded to prevent a major crime from being committed in the heat of the moment. She dropped the gun to the floor and gave it a kick it under the bed.

She took several calming breaths while rubbing the raw spots on her wrists. Not that those breaths were particularly calming. Two men were down and out, hopefully remaining out and thoroughly tied. But there was still one more to go.

And two hungry, scared nieces only steps away.

There was no phone in the bedroom, and her smart phone was in Reagan’s hand the last she saw. With Clinton’s phone, she could call 9-1-1 for the police, but risked being overheard by Ronald in the other room. She had no door to the outside, only a window to shinny out. But she wouldn’t desert the kids in the other bedroom.

If she went out and crept to their window, they would make too much fuss when they saw her peek in the window. There was no way she could get them out of the house without being heard.

She had to hurry with some sort of plan. With no better idea of what to do, June took Clinton’s phone to the bathroom. She opened it, and dialed those three numbers that have been so troublesome for her in the past. Ignoring the emergency operator when she came on, she wrapped the phone in a towel and set it in the tub, closing the door behind her as she left.

She figured the operator would stay on the phone for at least a couple minutes, talking louder and louder. The towel and closed door would have to be enough to drown out whatever noise the 9-1-1 operator would make, or a ringing call back. Maybe, just maybe, there was a GPS chip in the phone to locate its where-abouts, and police would eventually be sent to her home to check on the call.

She went to the door and listened again without opening it. The TV was still playing, only now a game show of some sort. June wondered what sort of weapon she could use against a man with a loaded gun. She still had the pocketknife she got from Clinton’s pocket. Small and flimsy, it wasn’t much of a fighting weapon.

She went to the nightstand and slid open the drawer. There was nothing inside but a romance paperback, a nail file, and antacid. She had nothing else in the bedroom to use as a weapon.

Her only other option was to get to the baseball bat from next to the front door and use it on the man before he knew what was happening. Thinking of the area she would have to cover to get to it, she would be exposed to him for several steps before she could even get to the bat, let alone attack him with it before getting shot. He had already fired off one shot, so she had to assume the gun was fully loaded, unlike the others.

She would have to use her mind. That would have to be her best weapon.

That’s when it hit her, what Reagan had said a couple times about not going back to prison for doing something stupid. No bullets were in either of his partner’s guns, only so murder couldn’t impulsively be committed. If she was lucky, Reagan might have done the same with his, putting only one bullet in for show.

But she couldn’t count on it.

She opened the door and walked out.

“Hey, there you are! Have a good time with that...” He looked over the back of the couch. He had removed the rubber Ronald Reagan mask from his head. Their eyes met; he looked startled it was her and not his partner. She didn’t recognize him either.

“I doubt he had much fun,” she said to him.

He was immediately up on his feet, his gun rising. June froze in her tracks, not sure of what to do.

“What’d you do to him?”

“He wasn’t my type.”

“You killed him?”

“He’s taking a nap.”

They stared at each other. His gun hand began to shake. She struggled to control her nerves, waiting for the gun to fire. When it didn’t, she took another step.

His face twisted into a frown, turning red. When his face went dark, he looked like somebody that belonged in a mental institution rather than prison. With no other option, that was the game she would have to play with him. She had to shake him to the point of making a mistake. It was all she had.

A banging sound came from outside in the garden.

“What’s that?” he asked, glancing quickly toward the back of the house.

It had to be Georgie in the shed, now awake, trying to draw attention to his plight. She shrugged.

“Where’s Donny?” he asked.

“Oh, so that’s his real name. He’s taking a nap out in the shed.” She took another hesitant step toward him. From the side of her eye she could see the baseball bat next to the front door. “We’re all alone now. Just you against me.”

“You should stand still,” he told her. “I’m the one with the gun.”

“And you should set that gun down before you get hurt,” she said back.

The guest bedroom door creaked open, the movement catching her eye.

“Auntie,” said a tiny voice. “What’s...”

“Koemi, go back inside and close the door,” June said steadily.

“But...”

“I said go back inside!” June could barely keep from screaming at her nieces, but kept her gaze on the man in front of her.

After she heard the door close, she took another step forward, followed by another to close the gap between them.

Reagan’s gun hand wavered a bit as he wiped sweat from his brow. “Stand still.”

“Your partners’ guns were empty. What’s up with that?”

“Those two Bozo’s with live ammo?” he asked. “I don’t think so. I ain’t goin’ to prison for murder, just because they might do something stupid.”

“You’re going back to prison anyway. Right after a trip to the hospital.” June took another step. She was almost to the side of the couch. She had angled toward him and away from the bat, forsaking its potential use. “You’ve been there before, haven’t you?”

“You seriously think I won’t shoot you?”

“I thought you weren’t going to prison for doing something stupid?”

“Don’t push your luck, missy.”

“Don’t call me missy. If you were a real man you’d beat the crap out of me.” She smiled, surprising herself that one formed on her face. At least she thought it was a smile and not nausea.

He grinned for only a moment, and then releveled his gun at her chest.

“You are a man, right? Because those other two...well, I checked and there wasn’t much there, really. But a big, smart guy like you wouldn’t be so deficient, right?”

She took one last step, then only two steps away from him. She couldn’t risk any more. She stood still, her eyes locked onto his face, his gun pointed at her chest.

“So, are you a man or not?”

“You wanna come check?”

“Only if you promise to pull my hair and pinch my butt...”

He grinned. His gun hand relaxed ever so slightly and lowered a bit.

That was her chance, the opening she needed, exactly what she had been angling for. Bullets or not, she had to do something.

She swung her open hand at the gun. He was quick with it, but she caught just enough of it for the gun to drop to the floor.

He looked at her surprised, but fell to the floor for the gun. She dropped right after him, having guessed wrong about the gun being empty. He went after the gun because it was still loaded.

In the small space between the heavy coffee table and the couch, they fought feverishly for the gun. Back and forth it went from one set of fingertips to the other, until it finally ended up in his grasp.

A shot rang out in the house, and wall plaster shattered. They wrestled more. It was his body weight against her training. She had to be better at ground grappling than him.

June splayed her legs out and hooked an ankle around a coffee table leg so she couldn’t be flipped. She got an arm around his neck, using his armpit as a grip and pulled back, stretching his spine backwards. Her other hand still tried to get control of the gun. Or at least her finger through the pistol guard so it couldn’t be fired. Anything to keep the muzzle pointed away.

As their hands frantically fought for the gun, he gave her an elbow to the jaw. Seeing stars for a moment was nothing new to her during a fight, and she grunted through the sharp but temporary pain. Unable to see the gun then, she pulled back on his neck even harder, trying to keep the gun aimed away from her.

Another shot rang out. That time there was a jolt of pain in her ribs.

June almost let go. But she had to hang on. She had nieces to protect. She was so close to winning the fight.

June saw something she could do. The man’s arm was almost straight at the elbow. If she could lock it straight, she could turn his arm and force pain down the length of it. It was a struggle, but she got his elbow straight and locked, and began twisting. Arching her back as much as she could with the pain of a gunshot wound to her rib cage, she pulled hard.

The man groaned and the gun fell from his hand.

Just as she couldn’t hold him any longer, he elbowed her ribs and broke loose.

Before he could get to his pistol, June kicked it under the couch. They were now even in weaponry, but she was fighting injured.

She had no idea how bad her injury was. So far, it was only searing pain, but she could still take deep breaths. Wherever the bullet went, it hadn’t gone through her lungs, and maybe didn’t even penetrate her chest at all.

She couldn’t look. She had a desperate ex-con in front of her, and she needed to do something with him. She got both her hands up and prepared to throw a cross.

Instead, he dropped to the floor to grab for the gun. It was a mistake, and she took full advantage of his sudden vulnerability. Raising one fist over her head, she sent a hammer strike to the back of his neck. He collapsed flat on the floor, but she kept with the hammer strikes, one after another, his neck, his head, his back, his neck again, until all that happened was his body bounced on the hardwood floor.

She stopped and stood upright, looking down at him. He didn’t move.

June arched her back, trying to ease some of the muscles, but there was a massive spasm in her chest wall, bending her sideways. She lifted her shirt looked at her wound for the first time.

The bullet had plowed a deep furrow through her flesh just below her bra, running right over a rib. She knew then the bullet hadn’t entered her body but had skipped off the rib and continued on past her. She had been lucky she was only deeply grazed. It didn’t mean she wasn’t in pain though.

One of the girls called from inside the guest room. “Auntie, can we come out?”

“Not yet, honey,” she called out. She still felt frantic over the scene in her home, strange men unconscious, her chest bleeding, the girls wanting to get out of the room. It took more effort than what she realized to talk after being shot. Panting for air barely helped. “Be good girls for auntie and stay in there. I’ll come get you in just a minute.”

She pulled her torn and blood soaked shirt back down.

June went around to the man’s head, grabbed a hold of his collar and dragged him into the middle of the floor. She had one last plastic tie in her pocket and used it on his wrists behind his back. She felt for a pulse at his neck and found one, then listened to his breathing. It was good enough as far as she was concerned. Alive anyway. Just as she was picking up her phone to dial 9-1-1 for the police again, she heard sirens outside the house. Her earlier anonymous call in the bathroom had worked.

She opened the front door to see a black and white patrol car angle parked at the curb. The cop got out, stayed behind his door, his pistol in his hand.

“It’s alright now. Just bring lots of handcuffs.” She got another spasm in her ribs and had to lean against the doorjamb to stay upright. “And an ambulance would be good.”

June turned around and tried taking a deep breath. She heard a new round of crying in the bedroom and couldn’t put off her nieces any longer. Walking to the guest bedroom, her phone rang with her sister’s new number.

“Having fun?” Amy asked when June answered the call.

“Something like that.” June had no idea of what to say when she pushed the bedroom door open, either to the kids or to her sister. But they ran to her, pressing their faces into her body to hide their tears. With her free arm, she hugged them close to her. “But something has come up. Maybe you should come pick up the kids. It seems I’m not such a good babysitter after all.”

_______

Kay Hadashi learned Japanese traditions from her grandparents, and the lessons of modern-day life in Honolulu, Hawaii. Dividing her life between Hawaii and the mainland of America, she spends her time refining her tai chi skills, taking zumba classes, and has a busy career in health care. You can find out more about Kay Hadashi at her website here: http://www.junekatointrigue.com/

Turn the page to continue, or click the link to go back to the Table of Contents.

Recidivist

By Alan McDermott

David Bowden looked out of the minibus window at the driving rain. The journey had taken them from the outskirts of the city into the heart of the countryside and for the last twenty minutes none of the names on the myriad signposts along the route had been familiar.

His fellow travelers were a boy of similar age whom he had never seen before, a social worker whose name he had been told and which he had promptly forgotten, and Steven Howe, an eleven-year-old from a neighboring estate whom he had met on a couple of occasions, which was two occasions too many.

Two hours earlier David had been told by his regular social worker to meet the minibus with enough clothes for an overnight stay. When he pressed for more information and was simply told that it was a “rehabilitation weekend.”

“My mate told me about these places,” Steven suddenly offered to no-one in particular. “They’ve got all sorts of water sports and climbing and stuff, and it’s all free. Something about us being disadvantaged or something, and giving us a free holiday makes us stop nicking stuff.

“Did it work for your mate?” the other boy asked.

“Nah, he just nicked stuff while he was there. He got a couple of car stereos and stuff.”

“You reckon we will be doing climbing and water sports and all that in just one day?” David scoffed. “That’ll take a week at least. You don’t know shit, Steve.”

“Yeah I do,” Howe said with indignation.

“Bollocks. You wouldn’t know an arse-biting jumping spider if it jumped up and bit you on the arse.”

The third boy laughed. “You two know each other?”

“We’ve met a couple of times, that’s all. I’m David.”

“Mark Bridges, and I don’t mind anything that gets me away from the house for a few hours. Me mum’s driving me crazy: ‘Why can’t you be like your brother? He’s in the Army and it’s made a man of him, while you just go through life making other peoples’ lives a misery! Trashing that house, Police at the door day after day. If your Dad was alive...’”

“If my Dad was alive he’d be out there nicking with me!! It was him what taught me how to do houses. Before that it was just stuff from cars, shoplifting, stuff like that.”

“Shut up, big man.” David said, throwing Steven a glare that dared him to reply.

They rode in silence for the rest of the journey, Mark enjoying his time away from home, Steven sulking at David’s rebuke. After another fifteen minutes they turned off the main road into an unkempt drive with a sign proclaiming their destination as Broughton Hall. Another hundred yards later the minibus pulled up in front of a dilapidated house. Weeds overwhelmed the garden and ivy covered every inch of the walls

“We can forget about water sports, climbing and go-karts.” David mused. “I bet this shit hole hasn’t even got a telly.”

The social worker opened the sliding door and the three boys stepped down, carrying their overnight bags. Once they were all out, he closed the door and the boys were alone, doing their best to keep dry. They were taking in the squalid surroundings when the front door opened and a man in his early fifties ushered them inside.

“Welcome to Broughton Hall. My name is Gordon Wells and I’ll be looking after you for the next two days. You’ll meet some of the staff later, but first let’s get you out of the rain and into your rooms. You must be hungry after your journey so dinner is being prepared.”

Inside the house they saw that the hallway matched the exterior of the building. However, a room off to their left contained a pool table, wide screen TV and DVD player, a selection of DVDs, two of the latest video consoles, a pinball table and a glass-fronted fridge containing countless soft drinks. Wells led them upstairs and the first room they came to mirrored the one they had seen downstairs.

“This will be your bedroom, Steven. As you can see, you have all the facilities that are in the common room downstairs, except for the pool table, so you have the choice of using them on your own up here or as a group downstairs. There is a menu on your desk should you feel hungry later on, but room service finishes at ten o’clock. All rooms are identical and I think you’ll find everything you need for your stay. If you could meet in the hallway downstairs in thirty minutes I’ll show you through to dinner.”

David and Mark were shown their rooms and Wells left them to take in their temporary surroundings. David put his overnight bag on the bed and walked slowly around the room, touching the equipment but not attempting to use any of it. He thought of his bedroom at home, with its ancient games console and a 14-inch portable TV to play it on, and the mattress on the floor.

The telephone next to the bed interrupted his thoughts, and when he answered it Wells asked him to join the others downstairs. The clock on the wall told him that he had been alone in the room for forty minutes.

David left the room and as an afterthought he returned and shut the door. In the hallway, Wells and the two boys were waiting for him.

“Sorry,” he offered, “I was just...”

“No matter. Come, let’s eat.” Wells led them into a room opposite the common room. A long table which could comfortably seat eight was laid with a lace tablecloth, an assortment of condiments and four place settings at one end. Wells took his place at the head of the table and turned on the 50-inch widescreen television which dominated the far wall.

“I hope you like The Simpsons.” Wells said. “It’s my favorite.” He rang a small bell and almost immediately a matronly woman appeared carrying a large tray. She placed it on the table and set four individual trays in front of them: cheeseburgers; hotdogs, chips and cottage pie. She took their drink order before returning to the kitchen.

They ate in silence, only interrupted by the serving of their various soft drinks and the arrival of the dessert trolley.

When the meal was over, Wells excused himself and told the boys he would be back in thirty minutes. “Is this what your mate told you about?” Mark asked Steven.

“They didn’t have half this stuff where he went. Have you seen all the stuff in the room? Mine’s full of stuff.”

“Have you got a thesaurus?” David asked, winking at Mark.

“No,” Steven replied, “but I got Resident Evil II and Vice City for the X-box, and loads of other stuff.”

“What he means,” Mark explained, “is that you keep saying ‘stuff’ all the time. It’s getting on my nerves, too.”

“Yeah? Well you can get stuffe...get bent.”

Ignoring Steven, who had gone into another huff, Mark asked: “What are you here for, Dave?”

“Criminal damage and assault. Me and my mum got moved onto a new estate where all the kids had mobiles, Wiis, DVDs and TVs in their bedroom, you name it, they had it. When they found out I had sod all they kept taking the piss. There was one kid called Callum who was a real shit. One day I had enough and bunked off school and went to his house. I found some paint in his shed and broke in, then spread the paint everywhere. I covered everything in his bedroom, ruined the lot. When they caught me for that, I found out he was insured and got everything replaced, brand new as well. After that I just beat them up when I saw them and they soon stopped taking the piss. What about you?”

“All sorts. Mostly nicking and vandalism. There’s nothing to do where I live so we have to make our own fun. I never hurt anyone and they were all insured, probably...”

“You wanna know what I’m here for?” Steven asked.

“To annoy us?” David guessed.

“To ruin our weekend?” Mark added.

Steven brushed their jibes aside. “I’m serious. I got 97 offences but they can’t do nothing ‘cos I’m only eleven. But then I’m doing this house and the old bird comes back early from the shops. I tried to leg it but she grabs hold of me shirt, and I swing out and catch her on the head and she goes down like a sack of spuds. They got me ‘cos I did about ten houses in that street and then when I put me hands up they tell me she went into a coma.”

“I was right,” Mark said, “you’ve just ruined my weekend.”

“Steven, give me your address before we leave. We can hang out and do stuff.” David said.

“Great!” Steven beamed. “I’ll give it to you later. I’m off to my room to see what stuff I can nick.” When he was gone, Mark looked incredulously at David. “Are you really going to hang around with that knob?”

“Don’t be daft. I used to live in the same street as that woman he put in a coma. She was really sweet, always giving us sweets and that. When me mum told me about it being in the paper I was really hurt. Now I know who did it I can get her some payback.”

“Good man. Give me a call and I’ll be glad to help out.”

The boys went across the hallway to the common room and had a game of pool, watched by Wells on a monitor in a side room. He turned to his assistant, Elias Sinden. “I think these two show some potential, but young Steven shows no remorse at all. I think he’ll need the full treatment. I’ll give them all the bog standard “you’re not bad kids” and point them in the way of some job opportunities but I think it will be lost on him. Besides, I think the older boys might be smarter than they’ve let on so far. How old are they?”

“David is 15, Mark is 14.” Elias said.

“We know Mark likes go-karts so we’ll set him up at the track on weekends. David’s case file doesn’t show any hobbies but we’ll have a chat and try to find something for him. As for Steven...what’s the weather forecast for tomorrow?”

“Bright early on, some cloud later but no rain forecast.” Elias confirmed.

“Excellent. If you can make sure the arrangements are ready for Steven’s treatment tomorrow morning, I’ll have a chat with these two. Give Steven a call and ask him to join us in the common room.”

Wells left the room and joined the boys at the pool table. “Guys, can I have a word?”

They all took seats in the corner of the room and Wells opened a folder. “I bet you’ve both spoken to counselors and social workers and a lot of other people telling you what you’ve done wrong and what you have to do in the future, eh?” The boys look at each other and nod in unison. Steven arrived and took a seat next to the other boys.

“Do you know who paid for all this?” Wells asked them.

“The government?” was David’s guess.

“No, I did. We have government support but all funding comes from private companies. I am the director of the Wells group and while we spend over £30 million a year on this project, although our main contribution is the jobs we provide to the likes of you three boys.”

“You must be loaded,” Steven said.

Wells confirmed it with a smile. “Yes, I guess I am, but believe it or not, I was in your shoes thirty years ago. Always in trouble with the police, and always getting caught!! I was given a helping hand and I’ve never looked back. I was put on a computer course which led to a good job and lots of money and responsibility. Now I’m offering you the same chance I had. You don’t have to accept it, but let me tell you what I have in mind and you can decide for yourselves later.

“Mark, I can offer you a place at your local go-kart track as a trainee mechanic. I know you spend a lot of time...” he glanced at the folder “and money there, so I’m offering you the chance to work there at weekends, learn the trade for a fair wage and have free use of the track each evening. They’ll show you how to build your own kart, supply all the parts and when it’s built you’ll try out for their kart team, travelling all over the country for competitions.”

Marks face lit up for a moment, but then a frown appeared. “What’s the catch?”

“There isn’t one, really. I just want to see an end to your wild days, that’s all. I’m not here to punish you if you do wrong, but I can reward you if you do right. I have 87 businesses here in England and more abroad, and everyone who goes through this program is offered a position within one of my companies. No-one will discriminate because of your past and I’ll get monthly reports regarding your conduct. I expect them to be exemplary. If they are, and a majority of those who have passed through the program here get good reports, then you can expect further rewards.

“You’ll work weekends and holidays until you leave school - and I’ll be getting your school reports as well—and then you’ll be offered full time positions in one of my companies. In each of your rooms you’ll find a pack containing a list of all the companies I own and a link to the website which details each and every position available within the Wells group. Take the pack with you, have a look through it and decide what you want to do in the future.”

Wells closed the folder and rested his elbows on it. “Do you like the things in your rooms?”

The boys all nodded in agreement.

“Well, they’re not yours, but they are examples of what you can aspire to. If you stay with the program until you’re 21 you’ll each receive an interest free loan as a deposit for your first home. I’ll also put money in a trust fund which you will be entitled to on your 30th birthday—again, if you’re still in the program. It should give you something in the region of £100,000.”

He paused to gauge their reaction and got two positives, while Steven stared out of the window disinterestedly.

“The alternatives,” he raised his voice to ensure Steven’s attention “are these: carry on as you are and end up in prison by the time you’re eighteen; or you could keep your noses clean for a few years and try to get a job when you leave school, but that won’t be easy with your records, so you’ll probably go back to crime and end up in prison anyway.”

Wells focused on Steven for a moment. “Let me tell you about prison. It doesn’t make you a man and you have no friends inside. You’ll be beaten up on an almost daily basis and men, big men, will have sex with you. It doesn’t matter how tough you think you are, there are always tougher men in prison. “

“That’s rubbish” Steven scoffed. “My uncle was inside for three years and he said it was easy.” He waved his arms around. “Anyway, I could nick enough stuff to make my room at home look like this one in a week.”

“And how are you going to enjoy your new toys when the police seize them and you’re in prison?” Wells asked.

“Well, they won’t catch me, will they?”

“Is that because you’re too clever for the police?” Wells asked him.

“Too right!” Steven said defiantly.

“Which is why you’ve been caught... what is it now, 97 times?”

“That doesn’t count. The police can’t do nothing cos I’m not old enough, so I don’t bother trying to get away with it.”

Wells said, “If you’re clever enough to fool the police, then you’re clever enough to know that crime doesn’t pay. If you’re not clever enough to know that, then you’re not clever enough to fool the police.” All three enjoyed the look of confusion on Steven’s face.

“You boys think about what I’ve said and I’ll see you in the morning. Please be in your rooms by 9:30 this evening, and don’t worry if you hear your doors being locked. Just think of it as a taste of what you can expect if you fail the program. Goodnight.”

When Wells left the room Mark and David resumed their game of pool.

“What have you nicked from your room then?” Mark asked Steven.

“A few CDs, some DVDs, stuff like that. What about you?”

“Nothing,” said David.

“Me neither.”

“What? There’s loads of great stuff up there. Who’s gonna know?”

“You don’t get it, do you, Steve?”

“What??”

David and Mark shook their heads and resumed their game, while Steven went in search of treasure.

Gordon Wells entered Steven’s room just after first light and drew the curtains. There was no movement from the bed so he pulled back the covers and got the reaction he wanted.

“What time is it?” Steven groaned sleepily.

“Just after seven. Get dressed and meet me in the hallway in fifteen minutes.” Wells had to wait twenty minutes for the boy to appear.

“Did you think about what I said yesterday?” he asked Steven.

“Yeah...”

“And did I convince you to take a different path?”

“Look, all that stuff is fine for the others but I don’t need it. I don’t need your job, I can look after myself until my brother gets out and he’ll look after me and I’ll be fine. I don’t need no-one’s help.”

“Sorry you see it that way. I was hoping I could convince you that you were doing wrong but now I’ve got to try a different approach. Follow me.”

Wells led him to a metal door and opened the three locks. He pushed the door open to reveal what looked like a sound studio, with a huge panel of knobs and switches underneath a full-length window. Through the glass Steven could see what appeared to be two dentists’ chairs. Wells led Steven through a door to the second chamber and gestured to the furthest chair.

“I’m going to strap you in now. Don’t worry; I’m not going to hurt you. I’ll be back in a moment and I’ll be sitting in the chair next to you.”

Wells returned to the other chamber and busied himself at the control panel for a few moments before returning to his chair and strapping himself in. Nothing happened for a while, then without warning the temperature seemed to rise twenty degrees and the room took on a red hue. A blinding white flash followed and as quickly as the temperature had risen it was back to normal.

“What was that? Did you just brainwash me?”

Wells unstrapped himself and helped Steven out of the chair. “Come with me, we haven’t got long.” He led Steven out of the room, into the hallway and to the front door. He looked through the spy hole before gesturing for Steven to do the same.

“What do you see, Steven?”

“Nothing, just the drive.”

“What’s the weather like?”

“It’s raining again.” He pulled away from the spy hole. “What am I supposed to be looking at? Rain? I’ve seen rain before.”

“Just keep looking and tell me when a vehicle arrives.”

Three long minutes passed until Steven finally spoke. “A minibus is here. Now what?”

“Just keep watching and tell me what you see.”

“Okay, it’s stopped outside. Someone is getting out... he’s opened the side door...someone’s getting out. Hey! He looks like Mark. And that one looks like David. How can that...hang on, that’s...”

“Correct, Steven. It’s you.”

“But how...”

“Later. We have to go, right now.” Wells dragged Steven back to the room and secured the door from the inside. He went through the process again, strapping Steven in and setting the controls before strapping himself in. The heat came again, as did the red hue. The blinding flash signaled the end of the ordeal. This time Wells took his time in releasing Steven, obviously no longer in a rush.

“Come with me, Steven, and I’ll explain what just happened.” Steven followed in silence and took the offered seat across from Wells at the dining table.

“What’s going on? What just happened? You did brainwash me, didn’t you?”

“No, Steven. We just went back in time.”

There was silence for what seemed an eternity while Steven Howe contemplated this. Then: “Yeah, right. That’s impossible.”

“Then explain what you just saw. I mean, look out of the window. Bright sunshine, not a drop of rain in sight. The ground is bone dry. How else would you explain that?”

He was answered with silence as Steven tried to make sense of the last few minutes.

“Time travel has been possible for thirteen years now, but it isn’t public knowledge. If everyone could own a time machine there would be chaos. This is the only one in existence, and we move it from place to place each week. It’s actually built onto the back of a truck so we can move it easily. That’s why we use houses like this one, so we can knock a wall out and drive the truck straight in. If you come back in tomorrow you’ll just see a ruined old house where no-one lives and a big hole in the wall.

“So your next question would probably be “why show this to me”, eh? Simple. To prove to you that time travel exists and that we can go back to any day in your life and meet you again.”

Wells opened the folder in front of him and handed Steven a few photographs. “Have a look at some of the kids who have been through this program over the years.”

Steven looked at the first few photographs before setting them back on the table. “So what? Are you going to tell me that they are all in prison now?”

“Sort of.” Wells replied. “Their own, personal prison. Turn the top one over.”

Steven did so and dropped it as if it was on fire. “Christ! What happened to him?”

“He was walking home from school one day when a car pulled up and the driver asked for directions. As he approached the car he was sprayed with acid. It was the day before he was going to commit his first crime. They never did find out who did it.”

Steven leaned over and looked at the image. The boy’s eye sockets were empty and there was no discernable nose. The lips were pulled back over the teeth and only small clumps of hair remained on his head.

Wells leaned over and turned over the next photograph. “This one was burgling his first house when he was savaged by a Rottweiler. The homeowners didn’t even like dogs and were at a loss to explain what it was doing in their garden. The real owner was never traced. As you can see, the surgeons couldn’t save his lower jaw. He also lost the use of his right arm.”

Wells turned over the next picture. “That one was a girl, believe it or not. She was abducted one night, doused with petrol and set alight. She ran into the road in flames and was hit by a car, shattering both her legs. Again, they never caught the person who did it. The important thing is that all the people in those photographs, at one time or another, were sitting in that same chair that you’re sitting in, looking at these same photos. Take a look at this one.”

He handed another photo to Steven, who took it gingerly. His jaw dropped as he recognized the face. “It’s me.”

“That’s right, Steven. Turn it over.”

It took Steven a long time to build up the courage to do so, but eventually he found himself staring that the same image. “I don’t understand.”

“It’s quite simple.” Wells explained. “It will stay that way until we hear about your next offence. You see, we aren’t the police; we don’t care how old you are. If you’re old enough to know the law regarding young offenders, you’re old enough to know that what you’re doing is wrong. All the kids in these photographs had the opportunity to change their ways and decided not to. They all paid the price. If you decide to join the program, and stick to it, then your photograph will remain as it is. If you decide that you know best and you think you can outsmart us, then someone will have to go back and pay you a visit. You may commit a crime and nothing happens for a while, but don’t think we’ve forgotten about you. It takes time to research your past and find out the best way to “correct” your behavior. You’ll wake up one day, see yourself in the mirror and ask “Why me?” And do you know what? Somewhere inside you’ll know the answer.”

“But you said the government ran this. They wouldn’t let you do this to kids.”

“Steven, I said the government supported the project, which is true. We have several people in positions of great authority who are tired of the feral youth blighting this country. In short, they’ve had enough. They’ve done all they can to help kids lead a decent life but at your age you think you know better than everyone else. They have tried countless ways to get you to become valuable members of society but now it has come down to a simple choice: take us up on our offer, give up the life of crime and reap the benefits; or we’ll show you what punishment really means. You might be lucky and end up on one of those cards. Not everyone we revisit survives the ordeal.

Wells pulled out a mobile phone and selected a number from his contact list. After a moment he said “It’s Gordon. Do you have the file on Steven Howe? Good, good. Go back about 3 weeks and tell him that time never stands still. Yes, those exact words.”

As Steven heard the words he found himself outside the corner shop at the beginning of the month. When the man had driven by and spoken those words Steven had thought he was on drugs or something. Now it all made sense.

Wells noted the reaction and considered the job done. “Now, I’m going to wake the others up and have breakfast. Do you want to join us? No? I thought not. Okay, go back to your room and pack your things. The bus will be here in two hours. I have to warn you that speaking to anyone about what happened today will also require us to go back and “visit” you again, okay? Good. Off you go.”

Steven Howe walked blindly into the hallway and up the stairs to his bedroom. Gordon Wells followed him up and unlocked the doors to the other boys’ rooms, waking them up and informing them of breakfast and their departure time.

At nine thirty all three boys were standing outside the front door, two of them enjoying the fresh morning, Steven Howe seemingly oblivious. Gordon Wells approached the group.

“Mark, any thoughts on what we discussed yesterday?”

“I’d like to take up the offer, if that’s ok. The chance of free go-karting doesn’t come along every day. And thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” Wells said, turning to David. “Have you made a decision, David?”

“I’ve had a look at some of the jobs on the website. Who should I contact about them?”

“Just click the link in the job description, fill in your details and quote the reference number shown on the inside cover. They’ll get in touch with me and I’ll give them my personal recommendation. Good luck.”

“Thanks.”

The minibus arrived and the boys climbed in the back. As it pulled away Wells saw Mark and David deep in conversation, while Steven was just staring blankly ahead.

Elias Sinden came out to join Wells. “How do you think it went? With Steven, I mean?”

Wells frowned. “I honestly don’t know. He’s petrified at the moment, but if he ever figures out that his journey back in time was nothing more than flashing lights and a sun lamp there will always be the seed of doubt to keep him straight. However, I am concerned that he’s too immature for this treatment. I should imagine the images he saw will give him nightmares for a while. Let’s keep and eye on him for the next couple of weeks.”

Sinden nodded, taking notes.

“Is anything missing from their rooms?” Wells asked him.

“Not a thing.”

“Good, good. Now then, we’ve got three more arriving on Monday morning and I want the camera that records their arrival replaced and tested by the end of the day. I noticed a couple of dead pixels in the spy hole just before Steven viewed it. It wasn’t obvious but we can’t have dead pixels in a spy hole, can we...”

_______

Alan McDermott is a software developer from the south of England, married with beautiful twin daughters. When he isn’t creating critical applications for the NHS, he is writing action thrillers.

His debut novel, Gray Justice, has been very well received. The other two books in the series - Gray Resurrection and Gray Redemption - were released in 2012. You can find out more about Alan McDermott at his website here: http://jambalian.blogspot.com

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Return of the Bride

By Micheal Maxwell

The harsh bite of Turkish cigarettes and hookah smoke filled the small café and burned Sear’s eyes. His right hand rested gently on the pocket of his khaki jacket, his left hand stretched out flat on the tabletop. He hated waiting. He’d spent the day sleeping in a filthy hotel waiting for this meeting. Fifteen minutes slipped into the river of time since he arrived and the thick black mud they called coffee was now cold.

Sear had made the trip from Abadan during the night. He’d crossed the Arvand River as the last burning rays of sun cast long-fingered shadows across the water. A bone-thin sliver of a man, with rotten stubs for teeth and a milk-white eye, took Sear across the river for two packs of Marlboros and a twenty dollar bill. His small boat took in water and smelled of rotten fish and diesel. No questions asked; no conversation made. They parted without a word.

At dawn an unsuspecting driver provided Sear a lift to Al-Qurnah in the back of his truck. He had slipped under the heavy canvas as the truck pulled away from a small warehouse, beside a rickety dock, on the edge of the riverside village that didn’t deserve even the smallest speck on a map. Al-Qurnah was about seventy-five kilometers from Basrah, a bullet-pocked scar of a town left nearly abandoned after the Iran/Iraq war.

Tradition had it that Al-Qurnah is the site of the Garden of Eden. Sear smiled at the thought and credited someone’s twisted idea of humor. The desolation of the place was severe even for the Middle East. With all His choices, Sear figured God surely must have chosen somewhere else for the site of creation.

Reaching back with his left hand, Sear felt the wall behind him. It was warm and chalky. Glancing around the room, the silence that accompanied his arrival was beginning to crack, and interrupted conversations restarted, but the eyes of the café patrons never left Sear.

Forty-five minutes after he arrived, Sear watched as two men entered the café, took in every table, and then walked straight toward where he sat.

“Phillip Sear?”

Sear nodded and motioned for the two men to sit down.

“Where is she?” Sear asked in near-native Farsi.

“Not far,” the smaller of the two men said.

The two men smelled of cheap aftershave and body odor. Sweat ringed their collars and armpits, and both were in need of a shave.

The smaller man pulled a Polaroid photo from his shirt pocket and slid it across the table toward Sear.

Sear picked up the photo and tried not to wince as he looked into the eyes of his brother’s wife. She was stripped to the waist and holding a newspaper in front of her bare breasts. The headline showed that she was still alive three days ago when the President visited the Chancellor of Germany. She showed obvious signs of bruising and both eyes were blackened.

“Where is she?” Sear said, trying to repress his rage.

“As I said, near.”

“Not good enough.”

“Within a short walk.” The smaller man gave Sear a forced smile.

Through his khaki jacket Sear squeezed the grip of his SIG P-229. Not now he thought, soon.

“Take me to her.” Sear’s voice came out dry and graveled.

“In time.” The small man waved to the waiter. “First we will enjoy your hospitality.”

Sear turned the photograph face down and pushed it back across the table. He tried to erase the picture of his brother’s wife from his mind. Try as he might, he could not bring up the image of the wedding photo that hung on the wall of their small apartment in Lansing.

Mahvash Eliaszadeh had been a doctoral candidate in Economics at the University of Michigan when Sear’s brother Aaron met her. They married a year and a half later. Sear missed the wedding and had a row of crosshatch scars from being stitched up in a Sudanese mud hut as his excuse.

They were happy, in love, and celebrating their graduation when they accepted a gift of a trip to Iran to visit Mahvash’s parents. A week later Mahvash was kidnapped from in front of her parent’s home. Four days later, Aaron was dead. Attempting to rescue him had proven fatal.

The last time Sear spoke with his brother, Aaron begged him to find Mahvash and send her back to him. Since their parents died, Sear had disappointed his little brother too many times: missed soccer games, graduations, even his wedding.

Sear stared across the table at the only thing that stood between him and keeping his last promise. This time he would be where he was supposed to be, when he was supposed to be there, and would not let Aaron down.

“Parviz, what will you have?” the small man asked his bulky partner.

“Tea.”

“Would you like a fresh coffee, Mr. Phillip Sear?”

“I want to see my brother’s wife,” Sear said, leaning forward.

“Careful, Yousef; I think he is not happy with you!” Parviz laughed and gave Sear a mocking imitation of a dog snapping at him.

“After our refreshment, there is time. You will see her soon.”

After several minutes, the waiter brought a tray, served two cups of tea and set a small bowl of sugar cubes on the table.

“Our host will pay,” Yousef told the waiter, jerking his head at Sear.

Sear dropped several coins on the tray and felt the cocked hammer of the SIG through the fabric of his jacket pocket.

Several men left the café and the waiter cleared their tables of cups and ashtrays. An old grey-bearded man sat in the corner, the hose and mouthpiece of the hookah never leaving his clenched teeth.

“How long will this take?” Sear asked.

Yousef looked over the top of his steaming cup at Sear and blew across the tea. “Do you have the money?”

Sear tapped the hard shell case at his feet with the toe of his boot.

“Then it won’t take long.” Yousef poked Parvis in the shoulder and laughed. “Let us see the money,” His tone became deadly serious as he turned to face Sear.

“When I see the girl.”

“As you wish,” Yousef said as he stood. “We’ll get something better after,” he said to Parvis, gesturing for him to follow.

The three men left the café by the side door and entered an alley adjacent to the ruins of a brick building. Under the security light at the back door of the café sat a badly worn and rusted white Ford Econoline van that rested at a strange angle. Sear decided the odd tilt was from the tires being different sizes.

Yousef stopped by the side of the van. Reaching behind him, he pulled a revolver from the waistband of his pants.

“I want no tricks from you, “Yousef said, waving the pistol in a casual, almost comic way.

“Me neither,” Parvis said, also producing a handgun.

“No tricks,” Sears said as he set the case at his feet.

Parviz yanked the handle and the door of the rusted Econoline slid open. Mahvash turned and tried to sit up. Zip ties binding her hands made the struggle difficult and Mahvash fell against the dented interior wall. A blast of hot air rolled from the van and reeked of the burning ammonia stench of urine. Inside the floor was covered with a layer of rags and three army-issue khaki colored sleeping bags.

The rag tied around Mahvash’s mouth was stained with blood, sweat and what appeared to be vomit. Her eyes met Sear’s and flooded flashed with tears, anger and fear. Even though they met only once, she hoped she would recognized her brother-in-law. instantly. There was no recognition, only hate.

Sear quickly scanned the back of the van for explosives, or another member of the group. Mahvash was stripped below the waist. The sight of the blackened soles of her pink socks and the torn and stained University of Michigan sweat pants punctuated the lack of concern her captors had for her well-being. Her nakedness above the waist was barely covered by the lace bra she wore. Mahvash’s skin was a canvas for a myriad of cuts, scrapes, bruises and filth that marked the ninety plus days of her captivity.

“Mahvash, I’m here to free you,” Sear said softly as he pulled the filthy rag from her mouth and let it hang around her neck.

Her beautiful white teeth were yellowed and one of her front teeth was broken off nearly to the gums. She jerked her head, tossing back her greasy matted hair out of her face.

“You want me too?” Mahvash said in a sultry purr as she opened her knees wide.

“We have no more use for her. With the money we can get a good whore!” Parvis laughed and looked at Yousef for approval.

“Shut up,” Yousef growled.

Sear glared at the two men, his disgust flaring at the thought of what they must have done to Mahvash.

“So, there she is. Give me the money,” said Yousef taking a step toward Sear.

Sear shoved the case toward the two men with his foot. Unseen by either man Sear slipped his hand into the pocket of his jacket. As Yousef bent to pick up the case Sear put a bullet through the top of his head.

Without removing the SIG from his pocket Sear fired two shots into Parvis’ chest. Both men were dead before they fell to the sand-covered pavement.

Sear stepped to the door of the van. The woman inside was not the college girl his brother had fallen in love with. She was not the young bride who had been taken from her parent’s home three months before. She was a shattered, damaged vessel that barely looked like the young woman who was taken and then repeatedly raped by the dead men at his feet.

The promise Sear made to Mahvash’s parents seemed an eternity ago. The promise to get her back no longer seemed reasonable to Sear. The daughter they knew was dead. Not just the life she led, but psychologically. He had seen it before; from Kabul to Croatia and back. What kind of life would she lead now? The nightmares, depression and terrors she would live with, he wouldn’t curse upon anyone.

Sear drew the pistol from his jacket pocket. He put one bullet through her heart. “Go to Aaron, sister.”

Moving quickly and with practiced purpose, Sear lifted the bodies of the kidnappers into the back of the rusty Econoline. He removed the five gallon gas can from the rack on the back of the van. There was less than two liters left, but enough to douse the interior, the bodies, and the front seats.

Sear took a rag near Mahvash’s feet and shoved it into the gas tank opening. Using his dented Zippo lighter he ignited the rag. Sear tossed the briefcase he had filled with newspapers in Abadan into the back of the van and slid the door shut.

He was a hundred yards down the street when the sound of the gas tank exploding rocked the silent night and the orange ball of flame shot heavenward.

Promise kept.

_______

Micheal Maxwell says he was taught the beauty and majesty of the English language by Bob Dylan, Robertson Davies, Charles Dickens and Leonard Cohen. Micheal Maxwell writes from life and a love of music, film, and literature. Missing one of his books is like finding part of a memory you thought you lost. You can find out more about the author at his website here: http://meettheauthor.blogspot.com/2013/10/micheal-maxwell.html

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Afterword

If you enjoyed reading this anthology and want to sample any further works from the authors you’ve read, you can out more information here:

Nick Stephenson, author of Paydown: www.nickstephensonbooks.com

David Vandyke, author of Loose Ends: http://www.davidvandykeauthor.com

Robert Swartwood, author of Mr. Mockingbird Drive: www.robertswartwood.com

Ryan King, author of Ladies Weekend: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/6422624.Ryan_King

R.S. Guthrie, author of Veritas: Concubine: www.rsguthrie.com

Kay Hadashi, author of Divide and Conquer: www.junekatointrigue.com

Alan McDermott, author of Recidivist: http://jambalian.blogspot.com

Micheal Maxwell, author of Return of the Bride: www.michaelmaxwellauthor.blogspot.com

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Stephenson Nick Eight the Hard Way