The Swap

by Nancy Boyarsky

  At last the elevator arrived, and all three of them crowded into its narrow constraints. Although Nicole had a certain amount of faith in her disguise, she didn’t want to risk allowing Brad a close look at her face. So she stationed herself in the rear of the car, staring intently at her shoes.

  Under the thick coat of makeup, she’d begun to sweat, and it seemed an eternity before the elevator stopped on the second floor. When Brad and the other man filed out, Nicole punched the button for the next floor. She figured it would be prudent to ride up the extra floor, then reverse the elevator and come back. In such a small building, it wouldn’t be hard to figure out where Brad had gone.

  When the door opened on three, she could see the floor was unoccupied. The windows were covered with tattered brown paper that admitted little light. The hallway was clogged with debris — old packing boxes, wads of paper, and a thick layer of dust littered with nails, paper clips, and wood shavings. Panes in the doors of nearby offices were dark.

  She took all this in before pushing the button for the second floor. The door remained open, but the humming of the elevator stopped. She stabbed the button again and again to no avail. She reached out and tried to pull the door shut, but it wouldn’t budge. Finally she decided to find the stairs and walk down.

  In the hallway, she pulled off the dark glasses and, after sticking them in her pocket, began to maneuver her way through the clutter, jumping over cartons and dismantled light fixtures. She’d worked her way almost to the rear of the building, where the corridor turned at a right angle, when she heard a noise and looked around. Behind her, the door of the elevator had shut. The mechanism began to hum, and the floor indicator shivered into movement as the car started down.

  She stumbled back through the debris and punched the button to summon it back. After a moment or so, the asthmatic rattle of the elevator stopped; there was a loud thud, then silence. According to the indicator, the car was stuck between the first and second floor.

  The place was unimaginably hot; rivulets of sweat trickled down her face. She gave the call button another stab. Was it broken? Disabled by a power outage? She hit the button again and waited. Nothing.

  At last, she turned and gingerly began working her way along the hallway again. Just as she turned the corner at the rear of the passage, she heard movement up ahead and something that sounded like a small animal skittering away. In a panic, she wheeled around and bolted back to the elevator.

  She’d just reached it and was about to try the button again when the door flew open. She got in and punched the button for her floor. The car slowly lumbered downward. When the door opened on the well-lit hallway of the second floor, she could hear the reassuring sound of voices and the distant ringing of a phone.

  The first office door bore the sign, APEX JEWELRY. She kept walking. Another company, Levinson & Levinson, occupied two suites but gave no clue to the nature of its business. Around the corner was a door that said SITVACK HOME MORTGAGES.

  The lettering on the next door read, FINANCIAL VENTURES NETWORK. After studying the name, Nicole tuned in on a low murmur of conversation, in which she could distinguish Brad’s voice. He and several others seemed to be discussing a system crash. This was the place, all right.

  She forced herself to pause just long enough to note down the name of the company and the suite number. Outside the building, she stopped and wrote down the address. This done, she quickly walked a few blocks, stepped into a doorway, and pulled out her cell. She searched the web for the company and found the phone number.

  “I’m calling from ABC Credit Company,” she told the man who answered the phone. “I need some programming done, and I’d like to have your company bid on the job.”

  “Sorry, miss,” the man said. “We don’t do programming.”

  “Oh,” Nicole said. “What do you do?”

  “That’s a bit difficult to explain. We work in electronic trading of — uh — equities. But we don’t work for other companies.”

  “Are you a subsidiary of SoftPac?”

  “Never heard of it.” He sounded puzzled.

  “It’s a software firm owned by an American named Bill Cooper.”

  “Sorry,” he said. “Never heard of him either.”

  “Who does own your company?” As she said this, she could hear Brad’s voice in the background. “Who is it?” he was saying. “Here, give me the phone.”

  She hung up. As she made her way back to the tube, she thought about the tiny bit of information the man had revealed. He’d confirmed at least part of Brad’s story: This business dealt in electronic trading. But if Bill Cooper wasn’t involved, did that mean Brad was the sole proprietor? Where had he found the money?

  It was true that they had some savings — about $20,000, mostly in mutual funds, plus a somewhat larger amount in Brad’s 401k. But even if he cashed it all in, that wasn’t enough to sustain a business that needed capital to rent an office, pay employees, and buy equipment.

  By the time she arrived home, her growing sense of outrage had strengthened her determination to find out the truth. Never mind about his messing around. Today had revealed a much greater betrayal. He’d been living a lie, leading a double life: as the hard-working, married computer executive and as the smooth operator who picked up beautiful women and managed some kind of dubious financial scheme on the web.

  Seventeen

  Nicole washed her face and changed her clothes. Feeling no better, she went downstairs and turned on the TV. She spent a few minutes browsing channels, flipping from one talking head to the next. They were all reporting the same story; a bomb had exploded that morning at a coffee shop in a quiet residential area of London. “According to authorities,” a woman with a sleek helmet of blonde hair said to the camera, “this incident appears unrelated to the car bombing that took place in Chiswick on Thursday. But many wonder if this recent rash of violence might signal a new wave of terrorism in the U.K.”

  Nicole knew, of course, that the car bombing in Chiswick hadn’t been the work of terrorists. Watching the footage that appeared next, she could see another difference between the two incidents. Today’s explosion had been a direct hit, killing two people, injuring four others, and reducing the cafe to a smoldering heap of ashes. Under ordinary circumstances, it was the kind of story she always felt compelled to follow, riveted by a mixture of horror and fascination. Today, she couldn’t bear to watch.

  She turned off the TV. Opening the sliding glass door, Nicole let herself out into the backyard. There, she began to stroll up and down, taking deep breaths. It wasn’t just the gut-wrenching news that had upset her, but the morning spent following Brad — what it revealed about him. Eventually the cool fresh air of the garden had a soothing effect, as did the tranquility of its rectangle of lawn and neat border of shrubs.

  She was just walking back into the house when she realized that she still hadn’t called Detective Keaton about the attempted kidnapping. She pulled out her phone and put in the number, debating whether to say anything about Alice’s disappearance. Alice herself despised the police and would no doubt be appalled at the idea of enlisting their help. Even so, Nicole was worried enough about her friend to consider asking Keaton’s assistance.

  “I’m sorry, madam,” said the man who came on the line. “Detective Keaton is out. Would you like to leave word?” He had a flat, neutral voice that reflected a polite but resolute disinterest.

  At that moment an insistent tapping made her look around. A young man was standing just outside the kitchen window, knocking on the glass. Nicole let out a little cry and almost dropped the phone.

  “I say, are you there?” said the man at the other end of the line.

  Nicole didn’t answer. She was too busy staring at the stranger at the window. He was dressed in a windbreaker, jeans, and a soft, visored cap; he was carrying a backpack. When she met his eyes, he put his finger to his lips, gesturing for silence. Then he pulled off his cap. A mop of red hair tumbled out, and Nico
le saw that it wasn’t a stranger at all. It was Alice.

  The sight of her, the realization that she was safe and well, gave Nicole a cool rush of relief. Meanwhile, Alice beckoned silently and disappeared from view.

  “Hello? Hello?” the voice on the phone insisted.

  “I have to go,” Nicole said. “Just tell Detective Keaton to call me.”

  She was about to hang up when the man said, “Wait! You haven’t given your name and number.”

  She reeled the information off then had to repeat the number slowly and spell her last name. When she was finally able to get away, she hurried outside.

  At one side of the yard stood a small shed, a prefab structure of light green aluminum. The door was slightly ajar.

  Nicole gave a quick look around at the surrounding houses; the windows were dark and unrevealing. She hesitated only a moment before slipping into the shed. The interior was dark, the air heavy with the damp, moldy smell of potting soil. Nearby, she heard a creak, a popping of knee joints. Then Alice’s voice: “Nicole!”

  The two of them stumbled together and embraced.

  “Oh, Alice,” Nicole said, “Where have you been? I’ve been so worried about you.”

  “Sorry to run out on you like that, Nicole,” Alice said. “But I hadn’t any choice. I spotted a man watching the restaurant. It was the same one I’d seen earlier, behind me on the train. What was I to think but that he was following me? So I ducked into the loo and left by the rear door.”

  Nicole wondered if it might have been Reinhardt. “What did he look like?” she said.

  Alice was quiet a moment. Then she said in a rush: “He was heavy set with a red face and a bald head—and a wee bit of gray hair showing at the sides. Oh, Nicole , I’ve been wanting to let you know I was safe. But I didn’t have your mobile number, and I couldn’t give you a ring, could I? Not with the house sure to be bugged.”

  “You mean the police have the house bugged?”

  “Shhh,” Alice whispered. “I wasn’t talking about the police. Although you’re more than likely right. The police must have their own bugs.” She let out a sudden whoop of laughter, then clapped a hand over her mouth. “Sweet Jesus,” she whispered. “Will you listen to me, now. It’s the strain — pushin’ me over the edge.” She shook her head as if to clear it. “Alexander Hayes is the one who’d have bugged the house. He’s looking for our friend Freddy. He must think you know where he is.”

  “Who is Alexander Hayes?” Nicole said.

  “Have you not heard of him? He’s a drug trafficker who gets more publicity than the royals. He calls himself the “King of Cannabis”. But the truth is he’s into dealing the hard stuff, too.” Alice paused and patted some sacks of potting soil stacked against the wall. “Here, why don’t we have a seat?”

  As Nicole’s eyes adjusted to the light, she took a closer look at her friend. Somehow, this masculine attire suited Alice better than the femme fatale outfit she’d worn to their last meeting.

  At Alice’s insistence, Nicole went first with an account of what happened after they parted ways at the restaurant. As briefly as she could, she described her encounter with Chazz and Kevin.

  “The bloody bastards,” Alice said. “I wish I’d been there. But it sounds like you taught them a thing or two.” Alice paused and studied Nicole carefully. “So, how is your other problem?” she said. “The husband and his assistant?”

  “Don’t ask,” Nicole said. “But Alice, why would a drug smuggler want to bug the Lowrys’ house?”

  Alice was silent, as if she were sorting out her thoughts. Then she said, “It has to do with what I found out after my brother died. When I was clearing out Sean’s things, I discovered a journal he’d been keeping. That was how I learned he’d been carrying drugs for Freddy.”

  Something clicked in Nicole’s head. This explained everything. “Are you saying Lowry’s a drug dealer?” she said.

  “He is that. Not the kind you’d find on streets, selling little packets of the filthy stuff. He’s a few notches up — the drug ring’s operative in London. The real king pin is Freddy’s governor, Alexander Hayes. Hayes brings drugs into the U.K. by private yacht. Does it through a posh estate he owns on the west coast of Scotland. They’ve got hundreds of miles of lochs and inlets on that coastline. HM customs can’t keep track of all the drug shipments.”

  Alice went on, “My brother wrote it all in his journal. He first ran into Freddy when he came through our little town. He was in Northern Ireland, trying to negotiate a deal. But my brother didn’t know that. He didn’t find out about the drugs ‘til later,” she continued. “At the time, Freddy gave a big story about owning an import-export company. Oh yes, he was looking for cottage crafts — handknit sweaters, crocheted tablecloths and the like — to sell abroad. He tells Sean, ‘Come to London and I’ll give you a job.’

  “Sean jumped at the chance. At first, he rented a room with the Lowrys — the very room I have now. They treated him like one of the family. Soon they have him smoking pot regularly. Then Freddy makes Sean a drugs courier and gives him a big pay rise. So Sean moves to his own digs. The work is easy. He drives up to Hayes’ estate near Oban and brings the drugs back into London.”

  Nicole let out a long breath, and Alice said, “Yes. It’s beginning to make sense now, isn’t it? Imagine how I felt when I read my brother’s journal. That’s when I found out Freddy lured Sean into the drugs trade and killed him.”

  “You’re saying Lowry murdered your brother?” Nicole said.

  “As good as. My brother was beaten to death to make sure he didn’t turn informer. I don’t know who did it. But the beating was meant to kill Sean, and Freddy must have arranged it. I was determined to get him. I gave Sean’s journal to the police, but they did nothing. Months went by, and Freddy, that — that filthy murderer, still walking around a free man, dealing his …”

  Alice broke off and stood up. “Wait.” She moved over to the door and peered out. “Shhh.”

  Now Nicole heard it, too — the crunch of footsteps in the gravel by the house. She squeezed in next to Alice and looked through the narrow opening of the door. Less than twenty feet away, Detective Keaton, dressed in a natty black-and-white checked suit, was standing by the kitchen window, peering into the house.

  The two women watched, barely daring to breathe, while the detective tried the back door and, finding it unlocked, disappeared inside.

  “Oh, Nicole,” Alice whispered. “She must have rung the front bell. Nobody answered. So she thinks it’s a license to start snooping around. You’d better go after her or she’ll be looking back here.”

  Nicole hurried toward the house. “Detective!” she called from the back door. Then, on her way through the kitchen, “Hello?”

  By the time she reached the front hall, Keaton was halfway up the stairs. When Nicole called her name, the policewoman turned and looked down at her with a sheepish expression that morphed into her customary smile. “Mrs. Graves!” she said, as she started down the stairs. “Forgive me for walking in like this, but I found your keys in the front door. I rang the bell, and when you didn’t answer, I was afraid something might have happened to you.”

  As Keaton handed the keys to her, Nicole felt herself flush. “My God,” she said. “I can’t believe I did that. I guess I was pretty rattled… ”

  “I heard you were trying to reach me,” Keaton said, with another of her broad smiles. “I was in the neighborhood when I checked my messages. I thought it would be best to drop by. Why don’t you tell me what happened?”

  Nicole let out a long breath. It was clear she’d have to take time to sit down with the detective for a chat, a prospect that made her itch with impatience. Would Alice wait, or would she panic and bolt like she had before?

  When they were settled — Keaton on the couch with Nicole across from her on an overstuffed chair — Keaton pulled out a notebook and pen. “Now, then,” she said. “What’s this all about?”

  Nicole took
a deep breath, trying to gather her thoughts before launching into a description of the incident on the train. She decided not to admit she was on her way to the Docklands. Since it wasn’t exactly a tourist attraction, she couldn’t think of a reason to explain why she’d be going there. Instead, she placed the incident on the Victoria line, explaining that she was headed for the Victoria and Albert Museum. But after she said this, she realized that a line as busy as the Victoria would never be deserted at midday. And while the light rail had doors allowing riders to pass from one car to the next, this didn’t seem to be the case on underground trains, at least not the ones she’d seen.

  As she spoke, Keaton was busy writing in her notebook. If she noticed any inconsistencies, she gave no sign. Nicole hurried on, emphasizing her point that Kevin and Chazz, the pair who’d accosted her on the train, were the same men who’d threatened her and then planted a car bomb set to go off at 6:00 p.m., the time of their deadline. She also mentioned that someone broke into her condo in L.A.

  Then she gave Keaton her theory about Lowry’s disappearance, working in what Alice had just told her about his drug dealing. She presented the information as a theory she’d worked out from something Alice had mentioned earlier. “I think Kevin and Chazz really are after Lowry,” Nicole went on. “According to the Lowrys’ tenant, he owes Hayes a lot of money. Since I’m staying in the house, maybe they mistook me for Mrs. Lowry and thought they could get to Freddy through me.” Now, after hearing Alice’s story, Nicole was beginning to think this might be true. Maybe Brad wasn’t involved with these people at all.

  “It’s an interesting theory,” Keaton said. “But I’d be happier if we had some real proof. Evidence, for example, that Lowry is hiding abroad or of his connection with these men.”

  “Why won’t you listen?” Nicole said hotly. “I’ve been telling you those two men are responsible for the car bombing, and you don’t seem to be trying very hard to find them. You…” She stopped herself. Why keep arguing, prolonging the discussion when her real goal was to get the detective out of the house?