Ten Grand

by Seamus Heffernan

  Charlie was in the hall, just outside, apparently waiting her turn. I almost walked into her.

  “Hey,” she said. “All right?”

  I nodded.

  “How is she holding up?”

  “Says she’s fine. She’s a diesel, that’s for sure.”

  "I just swung by to check in,” she said. In her hand was a copy of The New Yorker and a giant Toblerone.

  “She’ll be glad to see you coming,” I said, nodding to the loot. “She needs better reading material.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Look, I gotta go, sorry,” I said. “Cops are going to be expecting me. I gotta give a follow-up statement.”

  “Oh yeah? Didn't they get everything at the scene?”

  “Something new has come to light,” I said. “I gotta check it out first.”

  “OK, well, uh…” she rooted in her pocket and pulled something loose. “Here.”

  She unfolded it. It was a cheque.

  “And I suppose that’s made out to me for ten thousand pounds?” I asked.

  She nodded.

  “I know you said you weren’t interested, but this is serious,” she said.

  “I’m not taking your guy’s money,” I said. “This is non-negotiable.”

  “It’s not his money,” she said. “It’s mine. It’s from my savings. You can pay me back whenever. Just take it. You’re going to get mullered by those maniacs.”

  I shook my head.

  “Thank you, but no,” I said. “I appreciate the offer, but I’m serious when I say this: I’m not taking your money.”

  I turned away.

  “You’re being childish,” she said. “You’re still mad that I quit, right? Is that it?”

  I turned back.

  “You think pretty highly of yourself,” I said.

  “Defense mechanism. It’s to balance out how little you clearly think of me.”

  “Look, I don’t have time for this.” I glanced at my watch. “I’m running late as it is.”

  “Then just take the money,” she said. “Stop wasting both our efforts and time.”

  “How’s this for saving time?” I asked, turning away. “Good bye.”

  I headed to the elevator. She followed me to the door as I hit the button.

  “Is this because of something else?” she pushed.

  I sighed, resisting the urge to repeatedly stab the button in an attempt to summon the car sooner.

  “Something else like what?” I asked.

  “You know,” she said. She wasn’t nervous. She was almost defiant. “You and me. Last Christmas.”

  I faced her.

  “No,” I said. “No, it’s not about last Christmas or any stupid, misplaced pass I may have made. Thank you, though, for bringing that minor humiliation up for discussion.” I tuned back away, content to start at the elevator doors, waiting for it to arrive. My phone buzzed.

  “Then why? Just tell me. Your stubbornness here is really something, and I've seen you pretty peevish before.”

  “It’s not about the money,” I said, checking my texts. “It’s not about last Christmas. It’s not even about you quitting as soon as you met this Mr. Right."

  I paused—then plowed on.

  "You were my friend, Charlie. You were probably my best friend. I thought we were building something together, this business, this thing you asked me to be a part of. Remember that? I thought we were in it together. And you jumped ship the first chance you got."

  The elevator pinged, doors now opening. I stepped inside, turning to face her.

  “I thought you were my partner, Charlie. You thought you were still just a temp."

  I waited for her to say something as the doors closed. She didn’t. In the years we worked together, I had never seen her without something to say, some wry observation or snappy comeback.

  Finally speechless, then. I had never expected to enjoy it so much. It was a cheap thrill, but I took what I could get.

  38

  I was in a hurry, owing to a quick stop I needed to make before figuring out my next move with Dunsmore and the cops. It was almost 5 o'clock, and so I knew where my next meeting would be. As he had no idea I was coming, I was hoping he wasn't going to break habit.

  I shouldn’t have worried. Entering the pub, I spotted Worster and his Savile Row-swaddled ass, already propping up the same stool from when we first met.

  "Ginger ale, Phillip," I said, sliding in next to him. The young barman nodded.

  "Well, well," he said. "You're changing it up."

  "Oh, you know. Important to keep people guessing."

  "Occupational hazard?" he asked.

  "Necessity," I corrected, pulling my drink in, twirling the straw a bit.

  He took a deep pull from his own pint, and by the droop of his eyes and the ruddiness of his cheeks it was not his first.

  "Nasty bit of business about Yannick," he muttered.

  "Yeah. It was pretty rough."

  We sat in silence for a moment.

  "You hear anything about the boy?" he asked. His voice was a bit shaky.

  "Yeah, I did actually," I said. "Turns out Yannick was fastidious to the point of paranoia. He had a big life insurance policy."

  "On himself?" He gave his head a short, sharp shake. "No. How's that going to work, with him getting himself killed during the commission of a crime."

  "It wasn't on himself," I said, sipping the Canada Dry. "It was on Annie. Big pay out, Massive, actually. That kid is going to be well taken care of."

  Worster's pint was empty. He raised his arm, but I reached out and gently pulled it back down towards the bar.

  He looked at me sidelong, not willing or able to meet my eyes.

  I pulled out the folder. The blood stood out quite a bit against the pale blue windowpane check of his suit's wool.

  "Jesus," he said. "What is that?"

  "Homework," I said. "Yannick gave it to me. Right before he died. Took me a day or so to figure it out, but there it was."

  He started to stand. I put my hand on his shoulder, gentle but firm.

  "Why don't you let me get you that drink?" I asked, giving Phillip a wave.

  The red was long gone from his cheeks when he settled back down.

  "Now I'm no expert," I said, opening the folder. "But even to me, it's clear a lot of the stuff that Yannick was doing here over the last few years at your place of employ was pretty intricate. But turns out you guys still had systems in place to track transactions. Banking security programs, basically, so anything over a certain amount or going to flagged countries sets off the alarms."

  Two fresh drinks arrived. I took my time twisting my lemon into it.

  "So, to get by some of those precautions, someone had to sign off on suspending those programs. In essence, cancelling the service—meaning it's now a free-for-all, at least in terms of money movement." I pulled out a printed e-mail and slid it over.

  "That your signature there, Dan, bottom of the scanned document?"

  He drank deeply from the still-settling pint. And nodded.

  "So I'm guessing you were in on this the whole time, getting a piece. And nobody knew. And because you guys were just so good at your job you were able to hide this little bit of software gamesmanship from any of your masters."

  He rubbed his cheeks.

  "Nobody even knew we turned it off," he said. "Turns out people thinking it was in place was enough. So we were able to run our stuff on the side."

  "So what happened?"

  He took another deep sip. "Would've thought you'd have some ideas about that," he said. "Isn't this the part you're actually an expert in?"

  My lips twitched. The thinnest of smiles.

  "Glad you asked. I think Duclos disappeared without telling you, likely to protect you. You start freaking out—the proverbial golden goose is gone, and suddenly the cash flow starts drying up. First night we met, you said you were rich, just not that rich."

  He was finally able to meet my
eyes. They were dull and bloodshot, but you could see the hate maybe starting to pool around the edges a bit. I held my smile.

  "Well, maybe you wanted to be that rich. You said so yourself. And now your chance at it has pulled a runner. So you confront Annie Duclos. You guys were friends, so she would've let you in. You lay it out for her, she threatens to blow the whistle on the whole shebang."

  I drank some more ginger ale.

  "How am I doing so far?"

  "Pretty good, I'll admit," he said.

  "So you shoot her. Maybe you panic. Hell, maybe you just want to protect yourself and don’t want her running to the cops."

  Here he blanched, just a bit more.

  "Or maybe you're just like everyone else—you really only want one or two things out of life, and you'll do anything you possibly can to make sure those things happen. People are easy, Worster. Once you understand what they really want, you understand them. And what I understand about you is, no one was going to take your toys away."

  He took a deep breath through his nose, letting it come out his mouth. He was trying to slow his heart rate.

  "It's a good theory," he said. He was keeping calm, trying to find an angle here, something he could grab on to. "But it does make more sense that Yannick simply left the bunker and killed Annie. I mean, he had mental health problems. And didn't I read somewhere that in cases like this it's usually a loved one involved?"

  "Yeah, you're right," I said. "It almost always is, especially when guns are involved. But here's the problem with that theory: The camera in Yannick's bunker will show if he left or not.”

  He took another breath. Deeper, even.

  "So I'll guess we'll see which theory holds up," I said, laying a tenner on the bar and giving Phillip a farewell nod. “Have a Friday.”

  39

  I got off the Tube at Finsbury Park, the wind carrying the keening prayers from the nearby mosque through the darkening sky. I had left Dunsmore a voicemail—I was pretty sure she was still angry, so I made sure that my message was short and to the point. Considering what I had said, I had little doubt she’d call back.

  In my flat, I laid down on the couch, TV on mute, happy to let the flickering images keep me company as I tried to grab a nap. My Irish friend was nowhere to be seen outside, but tomorrow was the reckoning. Despite Dunsmore, I debated turning my phone off. I wasn’t interested in talking to anyone else, nor enduring the temptation to call anyone for help. Charlie had also messaged a couple of times—both texts remained unanswered. I was tired but too restless, so the sleep wasn’t coming. My celling wasn’t getting any more interesting, so I sat back up and picked at some of the fried chicken takeaway I snagged on the walk home. My door intercom squawked.

  “Yes?” I asked into the speaker.

  “It’s Copta,” was all he said. A man not used to hearing no or being kept waiting, I assumed. I buzzed him in.

  Copta looked tired, but he was standing straighter, at least. He surveyed my place with only the polite amount of disdain after I waved him inside. He was alone.

  “Where’s your shadow?” I asked.

  “Magnus has the night off,” he said. “He and the wife are going out. Something about celebrating their love, I imagine.”

  “Must be nice.”

  “I’m sure it is. But it’s telling that you and I spending this of all nights alone, isn’t it?”

  I said nothing, only nodding to the worn easy chair across from my couch.

  “Right,” I said. “What’s up?”

  “I understand the matter of Yannick Duclos has been… resolved.”

  “That’s a helluva phrasing, but yeah. The investigation is over.”

  “And you found him.”

  I nodded. “It’s likely there’s a bit more to come, but I can’t say much. Besides, you’re a resourceful guy— I’m sure you can get the details before it’s in the press.”

  “You’re a resourceful man, too, Grayle. Clever, too.”

  “For all the good it’s done me, yes.”

  “I meant what I said when we first met. I had heard of you before.”

  “Yeah? And in which of your endeavours would that be? Real estate or heroin?”

  He crossed his legs.

  “Does it matter? I hear things,” he said. “Some of those things recently have been about you. I also know you’re in trouble.”

  “It doesn’t matter, I suppose. But if you came here to flatter me or impress me, you should know I don’t get flush too easily. So: what’s up?”

  He smoothed out the collar of his sweater, a chunky black cable knit, then reached down beside him. He produced a garish gift bag, bright red and covered with sparkly hearts. He handed it over.

  “What’s this?” I asked.

  “Sorry about the packaging,” he said. “Only thing they had when I asked for it to be wrapped.”

  I opened it, clearing away pink tissue paper before pulling loose a heavy wooden box, cherry black with a gleaming silver clasp. I opened it to find a watch—white face, gold bezel, brown leather strap. I looked over the box to find Copta looking at me expectantly.

  “Um,” I said. “Thank you?”

  He smiled patiently.

  “That’s a Patek Phillipe,” he said. “I thought you liked watches?”

  “Yeah, but I’m no expert.”

  “Then I’m happy to educate you,” he said. “Swiss made, of course, and world-renowned. Worn by everyone from Queen Elizabeth II to Duke Ellington.”

  “Ellington?” I asked, glancing at my stack of old vinyl, rife with swing and jazz. “Seriously?”

  He nodded.

  “Thank you,” I said, more sincerely. “But why are you giving me this?”

  “You worked to help Annie and her family,” he said. “And… you believed me, Mr. Grayle. This is a gesture of appreciation.”

  I turned the watch over in my hands. It was a stunning piece, to be sure, somehow balanced between being sleekly modern yet classic. But its elegance came off a bit fussy, a bit delicate. As much as I might like Duke Ellington, I couldn’t see myself wearing the same watch a queen did.

  “If nothing else,” Copta said, perhaps sensing my hesitation, “It’s an outstanding investment. One of the few pieces with considerable re-sale value.”

  I felt a slight surge in my chest, something like adrenalized anticipation.

  “Oh yeah?” I said. I was happy my voice held steady.

  “Absolutely,” he said, standing. “All the papers are in the box, Grayle. I’m sure a reputable dealer would be happy to take that off your hands for a handsome sum.”

  I nodded, all the while resisting the urge to take a look at how much this set Copta back. Instead, I shook his hand.

  “There might even be the card for one in the bag somewhere,” he added.

  Ah.

  “Thank you,” I said.

  “No bother,” Copta said, giving my place a last glance at the door. “Keep it, sell it, whichever you prefer.” He buttoned his topcoat. “As I’m sure you know, having options is just another way of having peace of mind.”

  40

  Dunsmore had asked me out for coffee the next day, but neither of us was fooled: I was being summoned. We met at St. James’s Park, not far from her work, watching the swans in the water. I brought the beverages. She wordlessly accepted hers as we grabbed a bench.

  “So,” I said. “How’s it goin—”

  “Worster confessed,” she said. “He flipped yesterday. We had him in the room less than ten minutes.”

  “Well, then. Congrats.”

  “The sister is taking in Aiden. He’ll be moving with her shortly.”

  “Spain?”

  She nodded, sipping from her paper takeaway cup. I waited.

  “Hate this time of year,” she muttered. “Grey and miserable. Far from any real holidays.”

  “You might be in the wrong city,” I offered.

  “I’m not in the advice mood,” she said. “Or the joking.”


  “You’re pretty sour for someone who cleared her first homicide.”

  “Except I didn’t,” she said. “You did. Isn’t that right?”

  I leaned forward, clasping my hands in my lap.

  “I was just a few minutes ahead,” I said. “I enjoyed…certain advantages.”

  “Like illegally obtained documents, forensic accounting help from people who didn’t have to worry about warrants, and, oh, I would wager maybe even some threats and blackmail along the way?”

  My turn to sip.

  “The case is over,” I said. “Take the win.”

  She stood, walking away. She threw a glance over her shoulder. I followed.

  “My…colleagues, they’re really enjoying this,” she said. “I’ve been getting all sorts of jokes. Today, someone actually left a toy metal detector at my desk—all the better to find the next bunker, I suppose.”

  “Kids can be cruel,” I said.

  “They weren’t kidding about your mouth, at least,” she countered.

  I stopped.

  “I’m guessing you didn’t get the promotion,” I said.

  She shoved her hands deep into her coat’s pockets, but held her head high.

  “No. I didn’t.”

  “So, what then?” I asked. You got me here to declare war? Tell me you’re seeking revenge?”

  She finished her coffee.

  “No,” she said. “Not exactly.”

  “What then?”

  Dunsmore took out some more nicotine gum, popping a piece. She offered the pack. I shook my head.

  “You smoke?” she asked.

  “I quit,” I said. “Ways back.”

  “Oh, good,” she said around the wad in her mouth. “The only clean-living PI in all the land.”

  “You’ve obviously got something to say,” I said. “And so do I. I took a job, and I worked it. I had a lot on the line, too, and a lot to lose. So you might want to get off whatever high horse you think you’ve earned in our working relationship.”