by Nick James
“Oh, what’s this? How sweet,” she said opening the bag and glancing at the two bottles of Bombay gin. You didn’t have to do that.” She pulled one of the blue bottles halfway out of the bag and her eyes gleamed.
“And you shouldn’t have to deal with those harassing phone calls. Enjoy a couple of relaxing beverages, you might as well take another day or two off.”
She looked down into the bag again and grinned. “Hang on just a minute and I’ll get the deposit for you.” She closed the door, but didn’t lock it and left him standing in the hallway. She was back just a moment later and handed him an envelope. It wasn't as thick as the one from the day before.
“Another light day?” he asked.
“Oh, umm, yeah, you know it just happens sometimes. Hopefully better tomorrow,” she said, shrugged and then just stood there, waiting.
“Probably be much better tomorrow.”
“You find anything out on that creep who was calling? I was just thinking maybe I should get another phone and drop that number altogether.”
“I’ve got someone checking it out trying to trace the calls,” he lied. “But a new phone is probably a good idea. I’ll continue to try and get a handle on that guy, I don’t want some idiot out there causing us problem’s down the road. Might as well go ahead and grab a new one. Everything else going okay?”
She nodded and flashed a quick smile.
“Okay, guess I’ll see you tomorrow,” he said and began to walk back down the hall as she closed the door. He quietly returned just in time to hear ice cubes being tossed in a glass and then more conversational hum that he couldn’t make out.
Back in the car Miguel asked, “So?”
“More of the same, she’s ripping us off.”
“You going to do anything?”
“I think I already have, we might want to give a little assistance later tonight, once she goes to bed.”
“You’re not thinking of breaking in there, are you?”
“Not exactly, maybe just making it a little easier for our friend.”
* * *
Miguel and Bobby were parked out on the street just after ten that evening. A little before eleven the lights went off up in Mira’s apartment. “Let’s give them a half hour and then you can go up there,” Bobby said.
“You think he’ll come?”
“Josh? I don’t think he has any other option. He’s going to lose his home in another week. He strikes me as the type of guy who told his wife not to worry, even though he doesn’t have a clue how to solve the problem. Let’s just say the option I gave him pulled his feet from the fire. I think he’ll show.”
Forty minutes later Miguel pulled on a pair of latex gloves and climbed out from behind the wheel. “I’ll be right back.”
He wasn’t kidding. He slid back into the front seat less than five minutes later.
“Any problems?” Bobby asked.
“No, just unlocked the door and cut the deadbolt chain. I’d say they’re both out, cold. Someone was snoring their ass off.”
“So now we just wait and see.” Bobby said then stretched out across the back seat and faced the building.
It was after three and in an effort to stay awake they were trading stories of sexual feats. Bobby wondered if Miguel had stretched the truth as much as he had. He was in the process of embellishing a story with the addition of a can of Reddi Whip.
“You see that, down there,” Miguel suddenly interrupted.
“No, what?” Bobby asked then leaned forward toward the front seat and yawned.
“Some sort of vehicle parked down the street, the head lights just went off.”
“Maybe it’s someone in one of those other buildings?”
“Maybe, but at this hour there are open spaces closer to all the buildings.”
“Probably nothing,” Bobby said a minute or two later, then whispered, “Wait a minute.”
A distant figure faded into view, hurried up the sidewalk then quickly crossed the street and walked toward the door to Mira’s building. He kept glancing left and right as he hurried across the street. He wore dark jeans, a dark shirt and a baseball cap. As he moved he seemed to lean forward and limp slightly on his right leg.
“There he is,” Bobby said.
“Good call, man. I didn’t think he had the cojones.”
“Bastard is desperate. Now we’ll just see how he does.”
Josh quickly opened the security door and slipped inside. Miguel and Bobby directed their attention six floors up and over to the windows of Mira’s apartment. It seemed like an eternity, but just four minutes later a light came on in the unit.
“I think that’s the living room,” Bobby said. A moment later another light flashed on and Bobby said. “Oh shit, the bedroom. Here we go.”
Maybe ten minutes later Josh opened the security door, glanced around frantically then hurried across the lawn to the street. Once on the street he took a couple of steps then began to run, fading back into the darkness. Eventually, far down the street a pair of headlights flashed on. A vehicle made a quick ‘U’ turn and sped away, the taillights quickly disappearing. They couldn’t see the vehicle, but the distant noise suggested an older model Ford Ranger with rusted wheel wells.
They both glanced up at the sixth floor apartment where the lights were still on. “That’s gotta be the living room and her bedroom.”
“Maybe they slept through it?” Miguel said.
“No.”
“Think maybe they went out, never went to bed?”
“You heard them snoring, right?”
“Oh, yeah.”
“Let’s just wait and see if any cops show up.”
After an hour Miguel said, “Okay.”
“Let me go with you.”
“You don’t have to, I can deal with this.”
“No, I need to. Come on,” he said and slid across the back seat and opened the door.
“Put these on,” Miguel said. He opened a plastic bag and handed Bobby a pair of disposable blue nitrile gloves.
They quickly entered through the security door, then took the stairs up to the sixth floor. As they walked down the hall toward Mira’s apartment all was quiet. Not the least bit of sound came from any of the units they passed. A small shaft of light angled out into the dim hallway from Mira’s apartment. The door was open maybe three or four inches.
Miguel pulled a pistol from his waistband. A silencer, maybe three inches long, was attached to the barrel. He used the barrel to push the door open, stood listening with an ear cocked for a brief moment then stepped inside. Bobby quickly followed behind him. Once inside, Miguel used the barrel to push the door closed then listened again.
The living room seemed in a semblance of order although there was a pizza box upside down on the floor. An almost empty bottle of Bombay gin sat on the coffee table. Bobby turned and glanced into the kitchen. The second bottle of gin lay on it’s side on the kitchen counter, empty.
Miguel was already in the small hallway peering into the bedroom. “Oh shit,” he whispered and stepped into the room. Bobby walked toward the bedroom then stood and peered over Miguel’s shoulder.
Mira lay on her back, naked. Her breasts appeared full and the stretch marks on her stomach and thighs were pink. A corner of the bed sheet looked to have been demurely placed between her legs. He noticed the small bird tattoo on her right hip and remembered photographing her the night she passed out in his apartment. She seemed to be staring up toward the ceiling with a blank look on her face. Her pillow and the sheet around her shoulders were soaked in blood from the gash across her throat. A long splatter of blood had shot across the headboard and wall. What had to be Dennis Hooley hung over the far side of the bed, visible only from the waist down.
Miguel quickly stepped over to the other side, stared for a brief moment then nodded. “Both of them, fast and furious,” he whispered.
Bobby glanced around, and noticed for the first time all sorts of shoes and items of clot
hing scattered across the bedroom floor from the closet, the dresser drawers were yanked open with clothing and bra straps hanging out over the front of the drawers. Bobby left the bedroom and turned on the light in the room that served as her office. The bifold closet door was open and three small burgundy suitcases lay open on the floor. He walked over to the card table that served as her desk and spotted a checkbook from the bank they’d followed Hooley to over the past few days. He pocketed the checkbook then turned out the light and rejoined Miguel.
“Anything you want?” Miguel asked.
Bobby shook his head, then reached into his pocket and dropped Mira’s phone on the floor. “Maybe they can track the blocked number on the phone.”
Miguel nodded, “How much do you think he got?”
“How much?” Bobby chuckled. “There was nothing here to get.”
Bobby noticed a jewelry box on the dresser, opened it, saw what appeared to be two diamond rings and slipped them into his pocket. He turned out the light and went into the living room. He took the Bombay gin bottle off the coffee table, grabbed the empty from the kitchen counter and followed Miguel out the door. Miguel quickly locked the apartment door and they hurried back down the hallway.
They were back in their own apartment twenty minutes later. Bobby placed the gin bottles in a trash bag then carried them down to the dumpster in the underground parking area. Miguel was drinking a Dos Equis at the kitchen counter when he returned.
“Luis has numbered accounts outside the country doesn’t he?”
Miguel nodded, “Panama and Belize. Well, and probably others I know nothing about.”
Bobby took Mira’s checkbook out of his pocket, a check from her personal account and a check from the account he deposited in daily. “There’s over seventy-five grand in these three accounts. Can you find a way to safely transfer the funds into one of those numbered accounts? I’ll share with you.”
“I think that can be done,” Miguel smiled then raised his bottle in a toast.
* * *
It was three days later before they heard a twenty-second morning news report on the radio regarding a ‘suspicious’ death in an apartment on Shepard Road. Miguel had confirmed draining all three accounts and transferring funds out of the country over dinner just the night before. Mortgage Trust had essentially been a license to print money, Bobby thought. But an individual’s greed, Mira’s, had brought the opportunity to a close. Top five in their law class and she couldn’t be bothered to give him the time of day.
The End
Thanks for taking the time to read Corridor Man: Auditor. Bobby has some definite ideas about how things should work, but then if you can’t serve as an example maybe you’ll serve as a warning…
The Corridor Man series should be read in order. For safety’s sake and so I don’t give anything away I’ve attached a sample of the first book in the Corridor Man series. If you’ve already read it, I apologize, but I didn’t want to ruin anything regarding future reads. Don’t miss all my titles in the list just after the Dev Haskell sample, Foiled and don’t miss the offer for a FREE copy of the Dev Haskell novella Bang following my list of titles. Thanks
Nick James
Corridor Man
Chapter One
The cinder block walls were painted a glossy dark grey to a height of about five feet, then painted a lighter grey from there up to the bare concrete ceiling. The only light came from the dusty, flickering fluorescent fixture hanging at an odd angle and about a foot off-center on the ceiling. It was a sunny, spring day outside, not that you’d have any idea sitting in the damp, windowless interrogation room.
The uncomfortable chair Bobby Custer was sitting in was bolted to the floor. The thing positioned just far enough away from the steel-topped table so that you couldn’t quite comfortably rest your elbows on the table top.
Bobby glanced at the two federal agents wearing suits who were seated across from him, then glanced down at the file they’d placed on the steel-topped table before looking back up at them.
“Your choice, Bobby. You don’t want to take the offer, that’s fine. You’re more than halfway finished serving your sentence as it is. It’s your life after all, so I’m maybe guessing you’re probably thinking what’s three more years? After all you’re a sharp guy, right?” When he emphasized the word life his partner smiled, like it was a private joke, just between the two federal agents.
“Come on, I never said I didn’t want to take the offer, it’s all just coming at me a little fast. The first I heard of it was when you sat me down in this chair,” he said, then shifted from side to side in an effort to find a more comfortable position.
“That’s right,” the grey-suited agent said. He’d been doing most of the talking, but Bobby couldn’t tell if he was the man in charge or just the messenger.
“Well, so, I mean, you can understand I need a moment or two to collect my thoughts.”
“Sure, go ahead and collect them, but just remember we leave this room without an answer and the deal goes out that door with us. Gone. Forever. We’ll just give it to someone else. I’m thinking there’s a lot of guys who would jump at the chance.”
“But what I don’t understand is how you get them to hire me, to take me on? Denton, Allan, Sawyer and Hinz is a heavy-duty firm. Last time I checked I was still disbarred. The odds of me getting a license back to practice law are just about zero. That is, unless you guys could maybe pull some strings.” He sounded hopeful, then looked from one blank face to the other and all hopeful thought seemed to disappear.
“That’s not gonna happen. Let me make myself clear, again. This would be an entry level position, and it would remain just that, entry level. You are not going to regain your license to practice law. That’s not in our offer. Are we on the same page here?”
“Yeah, okay, I get that, sort of, I mean, yeah. But then, why would they hire me? They’re eventually going to learn all about my past, the disbarment, the conviction and the sentencing sooner or later. Aren’t they?”
“Not only will they find out, we intend to tell them sooner rather than later so there is no question at all. I’m going to say it again, you will not be practicing law.”
“But then….”
“What you will be doing is anything they tell you to do and anything we want you to do. It’s that simple. They want you sweeping floors, emptying wastebaskets, making coffee or putting toilet paper in the rest rooms that’s what you do. And then you report back to us.”
“I don’t know, I....”
“That’s fine,” the pinstriped suit spoke for the first time, then pushed his chair back and stood. He had a deep, gravelly voice and he cleared his throat before he spoke. “You were just one name on a long list. You’ve grown fond of your routine here, fair enough. At the end of the day it’s your choice after all, so enjoy the next three years, Bobby. By the way, that’s one thousand and ninety-five days plus some change. Okay, Stan let’s get the hell out of here,” he said, then pushed his chair in and made for the door.
The grey suit nodded and closed the manila file that had sat open on the table for the past forty minutes. He stood, didn’t bother to push his chair in and looked down at Bobby. “Nice talking, Custer, enjoy your next three years.”
“Now wait, hold on, can you just hold on a minute? Please?”
“We’re out of time, Bobby. It really just comes down to a simple yes or no from you. No pressure.”
“Okay, okay, Jesus yes, I’ll, I’ll do it. How soon can you get me out of here?”
“We can have you in a halfway house tonight, you’ll do sixty days there, just to get you reintroduced to society and make you look legit. Once you’re out of the halfway house you’ll apply for the job, and they’ll hire you. Yes or no?”
“Yes, yes, for God’s sake, of course. Yes.” Even in the damp musty room he could feel a long trickle of sweat suddenly ran down his spine.
The grey suit tossed the manila file back on the table. “Open
it, sign the top page, initial the three lines at the bottom of the next three pages, then sign the last page with today’s date. Not surprisingly, it’s Friday the thirteenth,” he chuckled.
Chapter Two
The neighborhood was made up of 1890’s three-story Victorian homes with large front porches. Dutch elm disease had wiped out the massive boulevard trees some forty years ago and the replacements had finally begun to return character along with some shade to the streets. Once defined by the infamous intersection of Selby and Dale the area had rebounded over the past five decades with an influx of “urban pioneers.” Property taxes increased accordingly and the tonier designation of Cathedral Hill had been gradually adopted by developers.
Despite the institutional blinds on the unwashed windows, the three-story brick structure that served as a halfway house looked deceivingly elegant from the outside. Today was day sixty. Moving day for Bobby, he was all packed and staring out the front window while he waited for his younger brother to pull up.
All his worldly possessions were stuffed in a worn black suitcase and three brown paper grocery bags with handles. Everything neatly lined up out in the hall near the front door of the halfway house.
He had filled out and submitted his paperwork at the end of last month. He’d said his goodbyes almost six hours ago at seven-thirty this morning, at his final group counseling session. Now it was just a matter of his brother, Andrew driving the get-away vehicle to deliver him from this hell-hole of positive thought and naïve intentions. Andrew was four and a half hours late and counting.
Everyone is supposed to learn patience in prison. Bobby learned a number of things. Don’t react. Don’t take offense. Be nice to the correction officers. But as for patience, well three out of four ain’t bad.
