by Tim Tigner
46
Remote Control
FELIX WAS ON THE SHOOTING RANGE when his watch began to vibrate, alerting him to a call from his special phone. The phone itself was right next to his pile of empty brass, which jumped and jingled as the phone buzzed. For a second, he considered ignoring it, but he knew it would nag him. The caller couldn’t leave a message, so he’d wonder.
Before answering, he promised himself that no matter what, he’d go through both boxes of 115-grain Winchester hollow points before leaving. Draw, double-tap, reholster. Draw, double-tap, reholster. Fifty cycles. He was out of practice, and this was no time to be slow on the draw.
On the way back from Seven Star, he had resolved to keep his Beretta PX4 Compact at his side, day and night, until the threat was identified and eliminated. Since July in South Florida wasn’t the best weather for a shoulder-holster concealed carry, he had switched to Hawaiian shirts and started wearing the Beretta on his belt.
He pulled off his ear protection and picked up the phone. “Felix.”
“It’s Aria. Did you hear?”
He clenched the Beretta. “No.”
“Allison’s dead. She died in a car crash. Apparently she fell asleep at the wheel and—” Aria paused.
Felix waited.
“You know that star pendant she always wore.”
“Her good luck charm?”
“It ended up in her neck. That’s not what killed her. The police estimate she was going eighty when she hit a lamp post. But it’s still kinda creepy.”
“Didn’t her airbag work?”
“Apparently she still had one of the faulty Takata bags.”
“Where did you get your info?”
“From Tory. He just called me. I have him providing me daily updates on my delayed replacement. And that’s why I’m calling.”
Felix pointed downrange and pulled the trigger, sending a slug of copper-jacketed lead through the six ring on his paper target.
“What was that?”
“The sound of frustration leaving my body.”
“Well, then I should be making that sound too. I want to die, but my replacement has been delayed. I’m calling to ask you to put pressure on Tory to get it done. He screwed up. He’s the one who has to fix it. Heaven knows we’re paying him enough.”
“Hold on a minute. What do you mean you want to die?”
“I want the killer to think I’m dead.”
Felix hadn’t considered that approach.
“As Jacques Eiffel’s widow, my death will be reported. I’m planning to fake an accident overseas. I’m thinking Nepal. A Mount Everest climb. But before I fly off to the ever after, I need to know which dear, dear friend to put in my will.”
“Which is why you need to know your replacement.”
“Exactly. So please, put pressure on Tory.”
“They say pressure is the first ingredient for making mistakes. Be careful what you wish for.”
“I never heard them say that.”
“I kinda just made it up, but that doesn’t mean it’s not true. Look, Aria, you’re in great shape. Better than any of us. You’re literally on an island where you can see anybody coming. Did you get those security measures implemented?”
“I did. It’s amazing how quickly you can get things done if you throw enough cash at contractors. I’ve got radar, sonar, guys with guns, and a panic room as posh as any apartment on Fifth Avenue.”
“Then quit worrying about the Grim Reaper. I hear worrying ages you.”
“Very funny.”
“Seriously. You’ve got to live your life. Just don’t pursue any adrenaline rushes while doing so. No hang gliding or parasailing. Tory will come through before you know it. Meanwhile, stay on your island, stock up on food, kick off everyone you don’t trust, and don’t let anyone visit.”
“That sounds like good advice. Thank you, Felix.”
“You’re welcome.”
Felix had not lied to Aria. He did believe she was safe on her island. He did believe that Tory would come through. But he also thought her idea of disappearing had merit.
His own replacement was set to take place any day now. First Tory would dispose of the original owner. Then there would be a cooling-off period to make sure no alarm bells sounded. No missing-persons filings. No suspicious activity reports. Then he’d swoop into Seattle, tie up any loose ends, and document an exit to someplace far from Washington State. He had been targeting the north shore of Oahu, but Aria had him thinking it might be better to charter a yacht in a fictitious name and head off the grid.
Felix still had no idea who was behind the murder of his friends. But he was growing increasingly confident that the leak was coming from Tory’s end. Not Tory himself, and certainly not intentionally, but Aria was right. The presence of one leak did predict others.
Tory would have to go, of course. It would have been much more convenient to have the man who handled the replacement process also manage the monitoring, but that was too risky now. Tory had effectively died the day he reported the Zachary Chase problem. Even if Felix hadn’t acknowledged it to himself at the time—a wise tactical move given the operative’s elevated ability to sense deception—he had known deep down that offering to double the annual maintenance payment was a diversion.
Speaking of deception, Felix had to figure out how to lure Tory into a trap—once the last three replacements were completed. Preferably a trap he could spring remotely, say from a yacht in the South Pacific. What to do? What to do?
47
The Little Things
TORY FOUND HIMSELF SCANNING the road for tailing motorcycles as he exited Interstate 5 onto Fairview and headed north toward the Eastlake area of Seattle. It wasn’t rational, he knew, if for no other reason than that the offending motorcycle was rusting away at the bottom of a ravine. But ever since Zachary Chase had foiled the Aria operation, Tory found himself on the lookout for helmeted surveillance.
He told himself there was no way Chase could be here. Seattle was a fresh con, not a repeat performance. Tory himself was a ghost. Born in Finland, he’d come of age completely off the American grid. By the time social media emerged, he knew to keep clear of it. And when he immigrated to the United States, it was for a major private security corporation. Triple Canopy put the C in clandestine. Therefore, to the best of his expert knowledge, not one single picture of him had ever appeared on the internet.
Tory also knew that he had left no fingerprints at the Williamsburg Inn. For decades now he had maintained the habit of mentally cataloging everything he touched and wiping it down before leaving a room. That was why housekeeping always found a dry washcloth just inside his hotel room doors. He’d repeated that procedure at the mortuary before fleeing the scene of the crime, although the handkerchief had gone back into his pocket.
Despite his confidence that Chase had nothing to go on, Tory couldn’t slip the annoying, nagging feeling. He knew it was a once-bitten, twice-shy response to having been surprised in that Virginia crematory. But knowing the cause wasn’t the same thing as finding the cure.
He surveyed vehicles and scanned faces as he pulled into the Residence Inn’s parking lot. Satisfied that he was surveillance-free, he backed into a visitor spot near a side door.
Despite the name, this Marriott was eight stories of anonymity. Little chance the innkeeper would remember his guests, much less their visitors. That was why he’d selected it. That and the corporate hotel feel.
Tory walked straight through the lobby and into the dining room. He found John Maxwell drinking his morning coffee and looking excited. Exactly as expected. Precisely as instructed.
John rose as Tory approached his table, extending a hand. “Good morning.”
Dry palm, Tory noted as they shook. “You ready for the first day of the rest of your life?”
“Yes, sir.”
John had been born and raised on the distant outskirts of Louisville, Kentucky. Horse country he called it, even though as ne
ar as Tory could determine, his mark couldn’t tell a colt from a stallion, or a bridle from a halter. John watched whatever sport the Cardinals were playing, and drank whatever beer was cold.
He had worked for UPS ever since graduation, moving as required. For the last five months, home had been Columbus, Ohio. His first shift manager position. The pay was good, very good, but the job was getting boring.
Then one fine day in July, Amazon had come calling. “As you might have heard, we’re rapidly expanding.”
If there’s one important thing you learn at UPS, it’s fast and flawless action. John had shown his stripes to the corporate recruiter. Interview offered. Interview completed. Offer extended. OMG! Offer accepted.
“If we pay off your apartment lease, can you pack the pickup and be in Seattle Monday morning?”
“Four days, twenty-four hundred miles. No problem.”
And here he was: contract signed, fate sealed, body delivered. “Welcome aboard,” Tory said, smiling with self-satisfaction.
“I really appreciate the personal service, Mr. Bronco. UPS would have just had me show up and ask for HR.”
“You did the long haul. It’s my pleasure to take you the last mile. I see you’re packing your car keys and paperwork.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You won’t need them. HR has copies and the realtor will be dropping you off tonight.”
“Realtor?”
Tory spread his arms. “Even with the corporate rate, this place is pricy. It’s in our best interests to help you get settled. Joan Tiefenthaler will be showing you around after lunch. She’s done dozens of relocations for me. Never had a complaint. Sound good?”
“Sure. Thank you.”
“Why don’t you drop your stuff in your room so you’re not stuck lugging it around.”
“Okay. Thanks. It will just take a sec. I’m on the first floor.”
Tory knew as much. He’d requested the first floor when booking. He just needed to know the room number.
“So will I be with HR all morning?” John asked as they walked.
“Afraid so. As a big company, we’ve got a lot of forms and a few mandatory videos. But you’re a UPS guy, you know the drill.”
“That I do.”
John left his belongings behind and Tory led him out the side door. Ten minutes earlier the sky had been clear, but now it was raining. “Some people complain about the rain, but I kinda like it. Makes you enjoy the sunny days all the more if you know what I mean. And there’s nothing more beautiful than a sunny day in the shadow of Mount Rainier.”
“I don’t mind one bit, Mr. Bronco. I’m just thrilled to be near an ocean.”
Tory’s black Camry was a rental, but you’d never know if you didn’t notice the bar code on the lower left corner of the windshield. He wasted no time starting the engine and putting it into gear.
John was still struggling with his seatbelt as Tory pulled back onto Fairview. “Seatbelt’s stuck.”
“Really? It’s never been an issue before. Give it a sec. Maybe you pulled too fast.”
Tory kept driving while John tugged. The chime started. Then the voice kicked in. “Please fasten your seatbelt. Please fasten your seatbelt.” Was there anything more annoying?
“It’s really stuck.”
“You want me to pull over so you can climb in back?”
“Doesn’t matter.”
Tory tuned in 102.5, the classic rock station, and learned that Bono still hadn’t found what he was looking for. They listened to him lament for a mile while the Camry’s chime competed with U2’s guitars and drums.
“This is ridiculous,” Tory said, turning into a self-service car wash. He pulled into one of the wash bays so they’d be out of the rain and put the transmission in park. “Give it one last try.”
When John twisted in his seat to study the feed mechanism, Tory plunged a needle into his thigh.
48
Rat Trap
I GAVE THE MIAMI APARTMENT a 360-degree scan before turning to the realtor with a satisfied smile. “This one feels right.”
“It’s a rare find,” Jeanette confirmed. “You’ve got location, views, and lots of light. It’s a bit smaller than the others, but I think it’s a sensible trade.”
This was the third apartment we’d visited in South Beach, but the first that had the right view. A view that would allow Tory to pinpoint its location.
Lesley had gotten back to me twenty minutes after my affirmative reply to her email. The man who had introduced himself to Skylar as Tom Bronco was really Tory Lago. A Finnish national with an intelligence background who now lived in the United States. She supplied some basic résumé information, but nothing else, and I hadn’t turned up anything additional on my own. Our nemesis was living off the grid.
Skylar and I turned from the high-rise apartment window to address the realtor. “Would you mind giving us a few minutes, Jeanette? I’d like to get a feel for the place.”
“Absolutely. Take your time. I’ll make some calls in the hall.”
Skylar led me to the balcony. I stayed by the sliding glass door while she walked to the rail. The long blonde Jenny Johnson wig gave her a completely different look, especially when paired with the oversized black sunglasses, one arm of which Skylar now bit playfully between plump red lips.
I snapped a few photos from various angles, paying as much attention to the background as the fore. Then we did a few together, propping the phone on a light fixture and triggering it with my watch. Finally, Skylar stripped down to her bathing suit and I took a few boyfriend shots from the bedroom balcony. Between the landmarks and the two angles, Tory would have enough to triangulate the address.
Skylar had fun with the shoot, posing playfully and giving the photos an authentic vibe. We’d discussed the scenario earlier. How exciting it would be to move into a South Beach apartment and start a new life with someone you loved.
I couldn’t help but notice that Skylar’s thigh muscles were enormous. She had swimmers’ shoulders as well, of course, but neither were glaring if she didn’t flex. Standing there smiling in a bikini that brought out the green ring around her amber eyes, she looked exceptionally healthy.
“Why aren’t you married?” The question circumvented my prefrontal cortex, shooting straight from my lizard brain to my tongue.
Skylar reddened as I kicked myself, but she didn’t seem put out or offended. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”
I quickly changed the subject. “I think we’re good. I mean, I think we have enough photos.”
She pulled her dress back on. White cotton with large daffodils whose stems I now noticed also played off her eyes.
Jeannette hung up her phone as we walked into the hall.
“I don’t think we need to look at any more today,” I said.
“Are you sure? There’s a similar unit a quick two blocks north on Alton.”
So much for this being a rare find.
“We need a bit of time to think,” Skylar said.
“I understand completely. The process can be overwhelming.”
She dropped us at Café Au Lait just after 3 p.m., the start of the slow period between lunch and dinner when chefs did their prep work. The French bistro was almost empty. Just a few late lunchers lingering over croque-madames, steak-frites, and cassoulets. The hostess, an early-twenties knockout who obviously avoided the rich temptations surrounding her, informed me that the kitchen was closed until 6:00.
“We’re here to see Sandy Wallace,” Skylar said, stepping into view. She’d put on a ponytail wig and applied makeup while studying a Facebook photograph.
The hostess did a double take. “You are Sandy Wallace.”
“Tell Sandy her twin is here.”
“Of course,” she said with a pleased appraisal. “If you’d like, you can have a seat.” She motioned to the dining room.
We sat on the side of the booth nearest the kitchen. Sandy appeared a minute later, wearing a white chef’s c
oat but no hat. Skylar stood to greet her.
Skylar and I had discussed at length how best to approach the lookalikes on their recruiting missions. Given the high stakes and low number of targets, we agreed that meeting face-to-face was the way to go. We also figured the dramatic twin entrance would make the strongest impression and soften the lookalikes for the shocking tale to come.
We were about to put that theory to the test.
“Heather wasn’t kidding,” Sandy said, approaching our table. “But I know you’re not really my twin.”
Skylar held out a hand. “My name is Skylar Fawkes. I was recently abducted by a stranger and nearly killed. Mr. Chase saw it happen and helped me escape.”
Sandy brought a hand to her chest. “My goodness. Who was he?”
“We’re not sure, but we think he was a hired professional,” Skylar lied. We’d decided to streamline the story as much as possible, so as not to snag on distracting details. A bit of embellishment further added to the efficiency. “We believe I was targeted because of the way I look. He kept commenting that ‘you look just like her.’ Since I escaped, we think he might go after someone else.”
“Someone who looks like you? Who looks like us?” Sandy clarified.
“Exactly.”
Sandy’s expression morphed into a mixture of skepticism and shock. Nonetheless, she slid into the booth across from me. “How did it happen?
Skylar retook her seat and replied. “I was lured to a quiet location through an elaborate con, drugged, and loaded into a cremation retort. Chase here,” Skylar inclined her head in my direction, “literally pulled me out of the fire.”
Sandy looked at me, then back at Skylar. Slowly. Twice. “How long ago was that?”
“It seems like a year ago, but it was just a few days.”
“Show me the burn marks.”
Skylar rose again and turned her back toward Sandy. She pointed to her calves, then, keeping an eye on the other diners, she discreetly lifted the back hem of her dress to expose the angry lines across her thighs.
