But the worst seemed to be over. And on a relatively mild day like today, Don thanked whatever higher power might have existed for that.
He was getting old and could feel the frost in his bones. If he had saved his money better, he might already have been on his way to retirement in the legendary “Sixth Borough” of New York City, the one known as Miami, Florida.
Sadly, he couldn’t keep the car running. It made a noise and generated perfectly visible smoke. That would have been counterproductive, to put it mildly.
Granted, his car wasn’t all that well hidden there. Parked as he was beyond a fence and a half-wall with a miniature billboard-style sign to block most of the vehicle, it was not as though he were in plain sight from the warehouse, at least.
Still, a cursory examination by anyone who noticed a car parked across the lot would not pass muster.
But if that were the case, he could simply claim to be lost and in need of some time to himself, besides. Past sixty, haggard, unkempt, and poorly dressed, he knew he was a man who could easily pass for a borderline derelict, a barely functional old alcoholic who slept in his car more often than in his wife’s bed. In fact, the kind of person one would expect to hang out in an abandoned lot for no identifiable reason.
Sometimes, there were advantages to looking like a crusty douchebag. No one ever assumed he was a journalist. He scratched his greying beard stubble and reached for his binoculars.
Today was Day Three of his stakeout. One of his sources had tipped him off that he ought to keep an eye on anyone coming and going from a particular seemingly boring and useless warehouse in northern Queens.
Of course, he had not watched the place at the same time of day each time. On the first day, he’d been there for a few hours in the afternoon. On the second day, he had borrowed a friend’s car and staked out the lot in the morning.
And today, he had his own vehicle and had waited until after dark to arrive. In all three cases, he’d noticed guests coming and going.
There was a story there, and he would find it.
Once, he had been something of a rising star at the New England Inquirer. Sure, it was usually dismissed as a cheap, paranoid, gossipy type of publication and they’d never hit the big leagues.
But that wasn’t the point. He’d broken his share of stories which had caught the attention of the so-called respectable press, which had gone on to commit their own, greater resources to further investigations. In a couple of cases, he’d even been cited and credited. Thanks to him, the Inquirer had gotten its day in the sun.
That day could come again.
He looked through the binoculars. A nearby streetlamp cast a cone of pale yellowish light on the walkway before the warehouse’s entrance, and thanks to it, he’d noticed when two men had arrived about half an hour before. Their backs had been turned and he couldn’t identify them.
The first one had already left. The second ought to be along at any moment now.
For another three or four minutes, he waited. Finally, the door opened and a short, rotund man in early middle age slipped out. When he crossed to the street, he waddled through the light.
“Oh ho.” The reporter chuckled, the sound faint and raspy. “That gentleman looks familiar, doesn’t he? I’ll be damned if it isn’t US Representative Abel Dusek, in the flesh. Now, what could a politician of his caliber possibly be doing waltzing—alone—into an old warehouse like this? It’s almost like he’s meeting someone.”
Don glanced at the pad of paper in his lap, picked his pencil up, and jotted the congressman’s name, the location, the time, and the date.
All this information came at the end of a short list—that now spanned about two of the pad’s pages—of other names and places and times he’d recorded over the last three days. The entry above it was simply Unidentified US Army Officer—Colonel?
And above that one were others, not as juicy but still rather interesting. A veritable cornucopia of people had visited this inconspicuous locale recently, most of them people he did not recognize.
But some seemed connected to certain others, on whom he had already collected dirt in the past.
Something was definitely going on. Quite possibly something big. He didn’t really know anything yet. But despite his advancing age, he still had his instincts, his intuition, and his “reporter sense” that tingled when a conspiracy seemed to form before his eyes.
The Inquirer had—perhaps due to all the weird stuff happening lately—increased its circulation and its profits but not by much. It was still a small paper with a small staff. They had only five full-time reporters. Don Gannon got along well with all of them but one.
Unfortunately, that one was Jenny Ocren, who also happened to be their most popular and prolific writer, mainly because she was insane.
He knew that some people thought the Inquirer and its audience were as loopy as hell, but he also knew there were strange things in the world that needed to be investigated. For his part, he had always tried to strike a balance between probing the unknown and staying mostly within the realm of common sense.
Ms Ocren, however, seemed to actively court the loonies. As the old sayings went, birds of a feather flocked together or like attracts like and so forth.
Increasingly, Ocren’s stories were the ones driving the uptick in sales. And Don, although nearing the age at which he ought to simply retire and be done with it, still had his pride. He’d be damned if he let the newspaper he’d worked for all these years go completely down the drain, increased sales or no.
He aimed to combat the decline the only way he knew how—by chasing the best scoops, uncovering the strangest and most attention-grabbing stuff, but coming to conclusions that weren’t paranoid LSD trips in print form.
Besides, he knew a thing or two about LSD trips, anyway, although that was long in the past.
The aging man looked around him and double-checked with his binoculars to ensure that no one was watching him, coming toward him, or preparing to follow him. The lot and street were as quiet as a tomb—by New York standards, anyway.
He waited until he saw two cars drive past on the adjacent street. As the sounds of their motors drew closer, he turned the key and allowed his own engine to grind to life, glad that his day’s work was done. He was even more glad to be able to run his heater.
The car might take a little extra abuse from accelerating right after starting it in chilly weather, but he didn’t want to linger there. He pulled out after the second of the two passing cars and merged easily into the avenue.
No one followed him. He hoped that they—whoever they were, exactly—didn’t have a lookout who’d glimpsed his license plate. But if that were the case, he might be screwed anyway.
The drive home proceeded in peace. He switched on the radio, frowned at most of what he heard, and finally settled on a classic rock station. They played the usual roster of songs that everyone had heard six hundred times by now, but he didn’t mind. It was the musical equivalent of comfort food.
Absent-mindedly, he wondered how that Remington boy was doing. He was a recovering addict too, if Don recalled correctly, and had proven to be a fairly good source of tips, leads, and halfway decent hunches. He’d have to call him soon and maybe do coffee again.
Hopefully this time, though, Remy wouldn’t try to roleplay a scene from a goddamn spy movie or stealth shooter game. Even for a young person, he seemed to have a slightly tenuous grasp on reality.
“Kids these days,” he mumbled, and reached for his last stick of gum.
Taylor’s House, Harrison, Westchester County, New York
Remy’s eyes flicked open before his brain was ready to comprehend anything they saw. It was too busy dealing with the horrible sound of his alarm.
“Uhhh.” He drooled while one of his arms flapped outward, compulsively seeking the clock and the magical switch upon it which would make the noise go away. “Fuckin’…ugh. What?”
His fingers brushed the knob and he jabbed it
fiercely. It clicked and the awful blaring returned to the depths of hell from whence it had come.
With an extended groan, he rolled onto his back, spread his arms, and stared at the ceiling. His room was still mostly dark—aside from the comforting glow of his neon beer sign, of course. There was also a slight nimbus of light coming from the windows. It was barely dawn.
He dragged himself forward, hauled his torso up through force of will, and assumed a seated position. Blearily, he rubbed the crusty gunk from his eyes and surveyed the room before him.
Three empty beer bottles stood on the floor instead of two like he had promised himself.
“Goddammit.” He grunted. “At least that means that there are now zero in the fridge. It removes the temptation and shit.”
Deep within him, something cringed and wheedled at the thought. He was left entirely without booze for the weekend. The immediate urge was to buy more as soon as he was done with work later today.
“No,” he said and forced himself to stand. “I think we’ll be perfectly fine for a few days. Sobriety isn’t that bad.”
Besides, he had martial arts lessons tonight. That ought to distract him and might even be inspiring or something. He had to admit he got a slight high from intense exercise.
He walked across the room, scratching himself. “So that’s the deal with Conrad. Wonder Boy is a junkie, after all. Deprive him of exercise and health food for forty-eight hours and he’ll be foaming at the mouth and offering hand jobs in a back alley in no time flat.”
By now, he’d been there long enough for a sense of routine to settle in, so his hand reached out, largely without him having to think about it, and snatched his bathrobe off a hook as he passed it.
Remy stumbled into the bathroom, leaned over the sink, and turned on the hot side of the faucet. The water that emerged was cold at first, so he splashed it in his face and let it run a minute to bring the heated liquid to the upper floor of the house. After cracking his neck, he shut the faucet off and turned the shower on.
Months before, when he finally started to get serious about trying to live like a responsible adult for once, he had discovered that leaping more or less directly from the bed into the shower helped to wake him up more efficiently. It got his blood moving and blasted him out of the daze of half-consciousness more quickly.
Ideally, though, a shower should be followed by coffee. It was a good thing he now had a butler.
He stepped out of the bathroom and descended the stairs. The pale glow of the early-morning sun seeped through the windows and made the house a touch less cavern-like than usual.
A short walk to the kitchen revealed Presley, who seemed to have been awake for a good hour already and who pressed the On button on the coffee pot as Remy entered.
He waved to the old man. “Morning there, Jeeves old boy. May I have some of that coffee? Also, where is Taylor? It’s rapidly approaching Barbecue Hour for members of her species, so I kind of assumed she’d be back by now.”
With a sigh, the butler turned toward him. Somehow, the steaming and burbling of the coffee maker seemed the perfect leitmotif to the old man’s movements, even if, being British and all, he was probably more partial to tea.
“My name, sir,” he observed, “is Presley, not Jeeves. Perhaps I ought to completely ignore you when you persist in behaving as though that were somehow still funny, as I can only assume you want attention.”
Remy blinked. “What? Nonsense. I merely forgot your name, is all. I’m sure it happens all the time. Also, you should answer my other two questions.”
“I will,” Presley retorted, “be having a single cup of coffee myself, if you don’t mind, and you may help yourself to the remainder. As for Miss Steele, she never returned after her early departure last night. I suspect she’s left town.”
“Left town?” he exclaimed. “What the hell for? That’s…odd.”
The old lycanthrope had opened a cupboard and taken out two ceramic mugs to set them on the counter beside the pot. “She did not bother to inform me where she was going or how long she’d be away, I’m afraid. Miss Steele invariably has good reasons behind the things she does.”
The young man’s mouth hung open a second. “But she didn’t even tell me.”
He almost winced when he realized how pouty and even hurt he’d sounded. For the moment, though, he couldn’t really help it.
“I mean, I’m actually…you know, important to the stuff she’s been doing lately.” He coughed. “No offense, old boy. We all appreciate you manning the coffee pot and polishing stuff that mostly sits in dust-proof cabinets, anyway.”
Presley sighed as he splashed milk into one of the mugs and added a spoonful of sugar. “Do you come up with these kinds of comments in the shower, sir, and then stash them away for later?”
“No, of course not.” He stretched for the other, empty mug. On general principle, he preferred not to put sugar in coffee and to keep the cream to a minimum. “I merely do what comes naturally.”
Both men poured themselves a cup and stood holding the steaming mugs, waiting a minute for the beverage to cool off enough to drink it.
“Presley,” the younger man added, “sorry about the…shower comments. I stupidly had three beers instead of two. And I’ll try to, you know, use your actual name.”
The butler nodded. “Thank you, sir.”
Remy sorted through his thoughts. Stupid and ridiculous though it was, Taylor running off for God knew how long and not even mentioning it to him made him feel almost…abandoned?
Hey, now, he chastised himself, you specifically told her that she wasn’t your mother, so don’t start acting as though she is. He nodded. That really was good advice.
He took a not quite scalding sip of the coffee. “Well, then. With her gone, at least I don’t have to listen to her telling me to be careful and other such nonsense when she’s also the one who thinks it’s funny to send me after things that resemble sentient toilet clogs. Thanks for the coffee, J—er, Presley. I’ll throw some clothes on and head into the office. There’s shit that needs to get done.”
The butler acknowledged this with a brief raise of his hand.
Remy trotted up the stairs, careful not to spill any coffee, and returned to his room to dress properly. He thought about having breakfast but decided he could always get Alex, the intern, to fetch some after he arrived. The poor bastard lived at the office so it wasn’t as though he had anything better to do.
Once his shirt, tie, slacks. and jacket were back on his body where they belonged, he headed down to the garage. Presley noticed him but did not react. At least, not at first.
“Sir,” the butler called as he stepped through the door at the end of the hallway. “Allow me to remind you that your car is parked outside, not in the garage.”
He tried not to rub his hands together with glee. If by some chance Presley wolfed out and tried to physically stop him, he could always claim that he was merely opening the garage to move his car into it since Taylor was gone and all.
His actual plan, however, was to take one of her cars.
He snatched one of the keyrings off the wall, pressed the remote start button, and checked to see which car’s headlights flashed. One of the myriad black Teslas responded although the lights were almost imperceptible under the heavy cover.
With a quiet chuckle, he strode over to the vehicle, threw the cover back, and was reclining comfortably in the driver’s seat by the time Presley appeared in the doorway.
“Mr. Remington,” he snapped, now visibly irritated, “Miss Steele did not give you any such permission.”
Remy flapped a hand dismissively. “It’s okay. What she doesn’t know won’t hurt her.”
He pulled the door shut, but the butler yelled something, so he rolled the window down. “What?”
“I said,” the old man snapped, “Mr. Warfield hasn’t arrived yet and there are no guarantees that you’ll be able to intercept him. It would be unwise to travel without his pr
otection as per Miss Steele’s instructions.”
“Oh.” He sighed. “Conrad. Right. Well, how much protection do I really need for simply going to the office? It’s not like we’ll go on another vampire hunt. Besides, he worked really hard yesterday, standing there waiting to wipe me clean after I killed that abomination and sweating all over my carpet while wearing disturbingly tight sportswear. Tell him to take the day off if you see him.”
He rolled the window up and pulled out of the garage in time to clear the rising door. The black Tesla cruised down the driveway, down the hill, and out onto the street.
Once he was in the city, he realized that he still felt a little resentful. Somehow, it seemed as though Taylor still didn’t consider him an equal partner. Still, he supposed it wasn’t fair to take it out on Presley.
“Well,” he mumbled, “I’m sure he’s used to it by now.”
For no real reason, he decided to take an alternate and slightly slower route into work. It wasn’t like anyone was around to stop him.
Chapter Five
Moonlight Detective Agency Offices, Bushwick, Brooklyn, New York
Remington arrived at work about ten minutes later than usual. Given that it was a good forty-five-minute drive on a regular day, this meant he’d been on the road longer than he’d have liked. But at least he’d taken the scenic route for once.
“Randalls and Wards Islands. The conjoined islands. It’s almost as if they were a single island. Mm, yup,” he exclaimed as he pulled into the office’s small parking lot. “And…uh, Maspeth, I guess. Such fascinating vistas of sights undreamed of. I wonder if Alex already thought to get donuts?”
He eased the Tesla into his usual place. Judging by the other vehicles present, they had no customers who currently demanded face-to-face service, which was probably just as well. However, both Andrew Volz, their dwarven tech specialist, and Roberta “Bobby” Diaz had already arrived.
Under Pressure (Moonlight Detective Agency Book 4) Page 4
