by Shanon Hunt
“Yes.” The Fixer’s unflappable demeanor infuriated him further.
“What the hell is going on? Do you realize what you’ve just done? This isn’t acceptable. Now my safety is—”
“Dr. Harris.”
“—seriously compromised, not to mention that if I’m caught—”
“Dr. Harris.”
“—I’ll be tried for murder, even though I didn’t pull—”
“Dr. Harris.”
The Fixer raised his voice just slightly, but it was such a change from his otherwise emotionless tone that it unsettled Austin. He paused, breathing hard.
The Fixer’s voice returned to normal. “I apologize for the change in strategy. Unfortunately, we’re unable to continue with the original implementation of the contract.”
“But I’m the one who paid for the fucking contract!” His voice cracked.
“Your safe delivery over the border is our highest priority, and we’ll accomplish that despite the obstacles. But you must do exactly as we say, exactly when we say it. Do I make myself clear?”
“I don’t understand.” The roller coaster of the last fifteen minutes had drained his energy, and his hands shook. Who were these people?
“The best thing for you to do right now is relax and listen carefully to the instructions of your escorts. You need to understand that this situation is now beyond your control. If you want to achieve your objective, you need to follow our instructions.”
The line disconnected.
Austin lowered the phone to his lap. He listened to his drumming heart and raspy breath. He felt powerless and intimidated, like he was unraveling. The operation had gone off the rails, and someone had been killed. Certainly, the police would track the man’s death to him.
The situation is now beyond your control. But why? This was his contract. He was supposed to be the boss. For the first time since he was a child, and with all the will he could muster, Austin fought back tears of genuine, primal fear.
Chapter 26
“Mr. Richmond, this is the team working on your daughter’s case,” Wang said as he led Lyle Richmond into Malloy’s office.
Richmond could only be described as a burly man, hardly what you’d expect of the father of petite, athletic Karen Richmond. He had a Grizzly Adams look, with a large beer gut and a flannel shirt over a T-shirt that read Ban Idiots, Not Guns. Given the hundred-degree heat, Malloy presumed the flannel overshirt was the man’s rendition of a suit jacket.
Malloy shook Richmond’s hand, determined to remain professional, even though he was fuming inside. Richmond had lied to his team about the treatments his daughter had been taking.
“I’m Peter Malloy,” he said. “This is Danny Garcia, and you met Vincent Wang already.”
He gestured to a chair at his office conference table, and Richmond sat, nervously scratching the beard on his neck.
“How about some coffee?” Malloy asked, in an effort to ease the tension.
“Oh, yeah. Thanks. Appreciate that.”
Malloy nodded to Garcia, who gave him a “What the fuck?” expression before leaving the room. Richmond had been resistant, even combative, when the team had interviewed him after his daughter’s death. They needed to handle this interrogation today with kid gloves. If Richmond had a short fuse, he could get up and walk out as easily as he’d walked in, burying Malloy in paperwork and warrants to get him back again. You could catch more bees with honey than vinegar, as Suzanne used to say.
“How are the kids? Enjoying the summer?”
“Oh, well. Yeah, you know. Doin’ the best we can. It ain’t been easy.”
“I lost my wife, Suzanne, a few years ago—cancer,” Malloy said. “I remember those months where it just felt like all I could do was wake up and draw breath. Sometimes even getting up took more than I had. Anything more than that would have required a damn miracle.”
Richmond’s shoulders slumped. “Yeah.”
Garcia walked in with a cup of black coffee and handed it to Richmond, who thanked him politely. Malloy picked up his own coffee cup, which was now cold and he had no intention of drinking, and sat down at the table with Richmond. He’d mastered the tactic of “mirroring” years ago as an easy way to build rapport and, more importantly, trust.
Wang joined him at the table, but Garcia took his usual stance against the wall.
“Thank you for coming in today,” he began.
“After your secretary called me, I decided I needed to come forward. I’m a man o’ God. It’s the right thing to do.”
Richmond had a faraway look in his eyes, and Malloy sensed he had something to say. He remained silent, waiting for Richmond to continue. A full thirty seconds passed.
“My daughter, Karen, was an angel in our family.” Richmond’s lips tightened into a thin line. “A true angel. She gave her heart and soul to God and the community, and so when they approached her with an answer for her pain and a large amount of money to boot, it only seemed like God was answering her prayers. All our prayers.”
Malloy chose his words carefully. “Who approached Karen with an answer for her pain?”
“I dunno. I wadn’t there when it happened. Karen never spoke of ’em, and I never asked. Just assumed it was some marketing thing. You know, where you try something for a couple months and then you get your picture on a TV commercial or sumpin’ like that. But they said her sciatica would be gone.” His eyes shot up to Malloy’s. “She was crippled. Couldn’t even walk to the kitchen for dinner. And they said she’d be running fine, just like before. They wanted to pay her. Lots of money.”
“How much money?” Malloy asked, straining to keep his voice even.
Richmond dropped his eyes down to his still untouched coffee on his lap, like he was embarrassed. “Fifty thousand.”
“They gave her $50,000 to take their drug? And they promised she’d feel better?”
“That’s right. I’m sorry. I know I shoulda tole you folks when you come to the house a couple months back. But thing is, we really needed that money, and I didn’t wanna give it back. I been outta work a long time, and I have a family to support.”
“We won’t take the money from you. It’s yours to keep. But is it okay if I ask you some questions about it? It might help us track down the people who killed Karen and the seven others. You know, two of the others were kids—younger than Karen, in fact.” Malloy hoped a man of God would see the horrible crime in that. Children were a heritage from the lord, according to Proverbs or Psalms or one of those.
“Don’t know too much, but I’ll tell you what I can.”
“Did you receive the payment by a check?”
Richmond shook his head. “Karen set up a new bank account at MidFirst, separate from our home account. They’d given her clear instructions. If she did anything different, they wouldn’t give her the second payment. Money just showed up.”
“There was a second payment?” Malloy leaned forward slightly and noticed that Richmond leaned back in response. He leaned back and crossed his legs.
“Supposed to be another fifty. But it never came through.”
“Is the money still there? In that new account?”
“Nah, we pulled it out right away. We were afraid it wouldn’t be real, you know? After y’all come knockin’, I closed up the account.”
Now for the million-dollar question. “Do you have any papers from the bank or a statement that might have information about where that deposit came from?”
“’Fraid not, sorry. Bank never sent us a statement, and as I said, the account’s all closed up now.”
Wang looked at Malloy as if asking permission to speak. Malloy nodded.
“Mr. Richmond, do you know who performed the surgery to implant the spinal port in Karen’s back?”
Richmond turned his whole body toward Wang. “No, sir. She never tole me the details. Wadn’t supposed to. I don’t know anything about the folks who she was involved with. Way she talked, they seemed like the real deal
. Medical doctor types.”
“And did you do the injections for her?”
“Yes. Yes, I did. Ever day. One syringeful for three months. We had us a full box of vials, but I took ’em to the dump after Karen … after she …”
“How did she respond to the treatment?” Wang asked.
“It was like God himself reached down from heaven and touched her. Within the first couple weeks, she was walking. After another week or two, she was back to jogging. By the end of the second month, she was running marathons again. Like she hadn’t missed a day.”
Mark Vespe’s PCP expression flashed through Malloy’s mind. “Did she behave differently while she was taking the treatment? Did she seem loopy? Do anything strange?”
“No, sir. She was same old Kare Bear. Happy to be alive and happy to be moving around again.”
Malloy noticed Richmond’s knee had begun shaking, and he decided the man had had enough interrogation, gentle though it was. It didn’t appear he knew much more that could help them. “You’ve done a very good thing by coming forward today. My colleagues and I are grateful for everything you’ve told us. If you can think of anything else that might help, no matter how small, please call me. My cell phone is right here.” Malloy handed him a card and pointed to his mobile number.
Richmond pushed his chair back and set his full cup of coffee on the table. “I have one more thing.” He pulled a cell phone from his shirt pocket. “They gave her this.” He handed the phone to Malloy. “It ain’t never been used, far as I can tell. No calls in the log comin’ in or goin’ out. But maybe you can trace it to somebody.”
Malloy handed it straight to Garcia, who gave him a nod of understanding, but Malloy wasn’t optimistic. It was a Tracfone, and likely the most they’d learn is which Walmart had sold the damn thing.
“Sorry about the coffee. I haven’t been eating or drinking much of anything lately. Karen used to …”
“Mr. Richmond, I’ll walk you out.” Wang saved him from a memory that might have caused him to tear up.
Richmond shook hands with Malloy and Garcia. “Funny.” He pointed to Garcia’s vintage T-shirt that read Robot Is the Future. “Karen once told me they were pumpin’ tiny robots into her. I called her crazy, but maybe that ain’t far from the truth.”
He croaked a hollow laugh and followed Wang out of Malloy’s office.
Malloy closed the door after them. “Start the paperwork for a warrant—”
“—for Karen Richmond’s bank account. On it, boss.”
“And see what you can get on that Tracfone. I doubt we’ll get any good fingerprints, but give it a try.”
“Yup.” He slammed the door behind him.
Malloy’s phone rang, and he glanced down at the caller ID: John Cramer, FBI. He hadn’t spoken to Cramer since he’d dumped this case on Malloy weeks ago.
He picked up. “John, what’s going on? Don’t tell me the FBI has another vic.”
“On the contrary, I have some good news for you.”
“I could use some.”
“The FBI received some intel about that drug you’re chasing, the one with the spinal port. The case has been reclassified, and the FBI is reclaiming it. Full stop for your team.”
Malloy leaned against the edge of his desk. “Are you joking?”
“Like Christmas in August, huh?”
Chapter 27
Allison gasped awake as if she’d stopped breathing. It took several moments before she realized where she was, and she groaned, turning her face from the stench of vomit that lay in a semi-dried pool just inches away on the kitchen floor. Her head pounded. As she tried to pull herself to her knees, a wave of dizziness flattened her to the blessedly cool ceramic tile.
Her foot tapped something hard, which rolled across the floor and into the wall. Plink. Without moving her head, she tracked its path. An empty bottle. Not vodka, but—oh god. She’d drunk the full bottle of Austin’s bourbon, a gift she’d given him last year that he’d not gotten around to trying. Her stomach heaved, and she took a deep breath to avoid another round of vomiting.
She wiped her mouth and nose with the back of her sleeve and rolled onto all fours. Pain shot into her knee, and she jerked her leg up and pulled a shard of glass from her kneecap. Too dizzy to stand, she crawled to the living room in search of her phone. She found it on the floor under the coffee table. No messages, but dozens of outgoing calls to Austin after one five-minute-and-forty-second incoming call from an unknown number.
A muffled warble escaped her lips, a voice that didn’t sound like her own. She squeezed her eyes shut. Her head throbbed and she pressed her knuckles against her eyes to relieve the pressure.
No, no, no.
She turned onto her side and opened a browser window on her phone. Her thumbs trembled as she keyed in “Austin Harris” and selected news results.
Nothing.
Had she dreamed the gunshots?
Dr. Harris, I have warrant for your arrest. Let’s not make this difficult.
I’m not armed.
Two unmistakable gunshots. Then silence.
Were they police? Did they kill him? Tremors wracked her body.
Her phone vibrated. The office. Maybe they had news.
She sat up, and the room spun. She cleared her throat. “Hi, Carol.”
Her assistant’s voice was barely above a whisper. “Oh, hi, Allison. I’m sorry to bother you. I’m sure you’re, uh, busy, but there are two FBI agents here. They want to speak with you.”
This was it. Austin was … dead.
Her vision swam.
“I’m coming,” she croaked.
***
Carol hurried over as soon as Allison entered the lobby.
“I sent them to the conference room. They seemed”—Carol glanced over her shoulder, as if they might have sneaked up on her—“angry.”
Allison swallowed and peered past Carol toward the conference room. “I’m sure it’s nothing to be worried about.” Her armpits were already damp and her stomach still hadn’t settled, despite forcing herself to eat a sleeve of saltines. She was neither physically nor mentally prepared for this.
“Do you think it has something to do with Austin?”
She ignored the question.
She stepped into the conference room and approached the agents with her hand out, ready to offer a firm handshake. But her confidence drained as the agent turned toward her. It was the agent who arrested Austin at that bar in Boston. There was nothing friendly about the sneer on his face.
She dropped her hand. “Can I help you?” She flinched inwardly at her sheepish tone.
“Ms. Stevens. You probably don’t remember, but we met briefly once before. Up in Boston.” That deep, scratchy voice was unforgettable. “It’s nice to see you again. I don’t think we formally met, though. I’m Special Agent Gary Gadorski with the FBI. This is Agent Paul Wymer. Could we have a few minutes of your time?”
Allison gestured to the conference table. Gadorski sat at the head of the table, and Wymer sat to the right, in Allison’s usual seat as Austin’s chief of staff. Such an insignificant detail, the random choice of seating, but it made her feel even more insecure.
“What can I do for you?” She eyed the badges they displayed on the table in front of her, flashing back to the bar in Boston.
“I love your ring,” Agent Wymer said. “I’ve been looking for a ring for my wife. You know, an anniversary gift.”
She pulled her hand back, momentarily confused. Did they think small talk would soften the blow? “Well, this one isn’t real. Cubic zirconia.”
Gadorski took the lead. “We’ve been reaching out to some of Dr. Harris’s friends and family in an effort to find him. We were hoping we could ask you a few questions.”
“Uh, of course.” She dropped her shaking hands to her lap.
“If I recall correctly, you and Dr. Harris are in a physical relationship. Is that right?”
She drew back slightly.
“Is that right?” Gadorski looked down at his notebook.
She took a bottle of water from the bowl in the center of the table. “That’s right.” No point in lying about it. “We’re obviously not now.”
“Is that because you had a falling out?”
“It’s because Austin was a fugitive. Is a fugitive.” Shit.
Gadorski looked up and appraised her. She shoved her hands under her legs to keep from fidgeting.
“How would you characterize your relationship with Austin before he left?”
“I’m sorry?”
“Your relationship with Austin. Would you say you were extremely close?”
“We worked together and occasionally spent time together outside the office.”
“Has he contacted you since he left his home in Connecticut?”
Don’t talk to the police. This is bigger than you and me. Didn’t Gadorski know what happened last night? Was he testing her?
“Has he contacted you, Ms. Stevens?” Gadorski pressed.
Allison didn’t know anything about the law or her rights in this particular situation, but she did know one thing, thanks to hundreds of hours of crime TV shows. Don’t talk to the police until you have an attorney beside you.
“Cat got your tongue?” Gadorski leaned forward on his elbows. His unblinking eyes bore into her.
She hated that expression. She shifted back to put some space between them. She was sure Gadorski could sense her nervousness.
“Actually, Agent, uh, Gadorski,” she read from his badge, “I don’t think I want to proceed in this line of questioning without an attorney.” She sat up straight and lifted her chin.
“Is that so?” Gadorski asked, the corners of his mouth turned upward.
Was he mocking her?
His tone remained even. “Have you heard from Dr. Harris since August fourth? The day he left for his fictitious trip to California?”
