Kill Fee

by Owen Laukkanen

  It wasn’t the killing itself that interested Parkerson. In fact, the messiness of murder fairly sickened him: the blood and bile, the shit and piss and decay, the abject and utter filthiness of death—it was enough to turn a man’s stomach. No, what fascinated Parkerson was the machine itself. The money came in. The cars were rented. The weapons procured. The assets mobilized and the targets destroyed. Clean and automatic. An ultramodern mechanism for destruction.

  He’d spent hours in his room as a boy, dismantling things. Radios. Toaster ovens. TV sets. Anything he could scrounge up. He’d grown up alone, the product of parents who fought from the day he was born to the day his mother walked out. His father, a mechanic, had encouraged his son’s curiosity. Parkerson had been a quiet child, not athletic, uninterested in girls. Machines were about the only interest he had in common with his father.

  Later, Parkerson discovered computers. He was instantly enthralled. Where cars and appliances needed grease, and oil, and were prone to mechanical failure, computers were clean and sterile. Fast. Predictable. Reliable. In computers, Parkerson found the perfection that humanity sorely lacked.

  He studied computers, obsessed over them. Devoted his life to working with them. Found a career that rewarded his diligence, an industry that welcomed his particular collection of interests. He’d worked hard and been compensated well. Had built a life for himself that outwardly appeared normal. A family. Friends. A nice house, a wife.

  Inside, though, Parkerson knew it was all just a part of the game. A man needed to do certain things to succeed in the world. He needed a family. He needed to dress well, and tell jokes, and flirt with his secretary. Attributes. Objectives. Life was simple when reduced to its component parts.

  Parkerson had played the game for years. He’d advanced through the company. Made friends. Earned respect. Inside, though, he was stultified. He’d won the game.

  Then Killswitch came along. A new game to play: more challenges, higher stakes. The work was fulfilling, the rewards exhilarating. These days, Parkerson hardly ever got bored.

  34

  Parkerson booked a return airline ticket to Miami in Richard O’Brien’s name, a nice hotel on the beach. And a rental car—Liberty.

  He’d discovered the weakness in Liberty’s reservation software a few weeks after he’d launched the Killswitch database. Rather, an enterprising young hacker had discovered the loophole. That hacker was now dead, and any remnants of his work rested solely with Parkerson, who’d worked hard to scrub the young anarchist’s boasts from the litany of Internet forums he’d frequented. Now, as far as Parkerson knew, the Liberty loophole was secret once more, safe from mischievous teenagers—and from the Liberty IT geeks themselves.

  It was a simple play, really. Parkerson had taught himself over the course of a weekend. Log in to the reservation software, and with a couple keystrokes, swap out the asset’s name for that of another customer. Sometimes Parkerson used Liberty clients. Sometimes he just used names pruned from FAA passenger manifests—another anonymous hacker’s contribution to Killswitch.

  Parkerson had hoped that his computer chicanery would remain an unnecessary precaution, but, judging from the response to the Minnesota job, he’d been smart to implement the protocol when he did. The asset had been careless; the FBI had tailed him and copied down his plates. Now some poor Iowa manure salesman was in federal custody, while the asset skated free with no worries.

  Parkerson scouted the client’s proposed kill spots and settled on a suitable locale. Then he printed a briefing for the asset and reminded himself to overnight a weapon to the asset’s hotel in the morning.

  As with the rental cars, Parkerson found the Internet made securing guns for his assets a simple procedure. Any sucker with a counterfeit ID could fake a purchase permit, and online retailers would happily ship as much ammunition as an army of assets could use. A weapon’s serial numbers could be filed, rendering the gun untraceable, and there were plenty of second-tier courier services willing to ship packages across the country quick and cheap, no questions asked. Running a contract killing operation, Parkerson had found, was almost shockingly easy.

  Parkerson reviewed his plans for inconsistencies. For needless risk. Found nothing unsatisfactory, and shut down his computer, stood, and pulled on his coat. Locked up the office and went home for the night.

  35

  Windermere played a hunch and let Alex Kent walk. “Had to do it,” she told Davis. “We don’t have enough to hold him, anyway.”

  “Accessory to murder?” said Davis. “He rented a car for a killer.”

  Windermere shook her head. “Identity theft. Kent doesn’t know a damn thing about any murders.”

  “Your case,” Davis said, shrugging. “Hope it doesn’t come back to bite you.”

  Me, too, Windermere thought. “Don’t make me an asshole,” she told Kent as she dropped him outside his house. “Stick around. We might need to bring you back in for more questioning. Got it?”

  The guy practically tore the door off the car. “Thank you,” he told Windermere, scrambling out to the sidewalk. “No problem. Thank you.”

  To his credit, Davis didn’t suggest any more tours of Chicago—or anything else, for that matter. He drove Windermere and Mathers back to O’Hare in silence, and it was only as he dropped them at the United terminal that he spoke.

  “You’re making a mistake,” he said. “That guy was a suspect. You should have charged him with something and let him stew on it.”

  “He’s a history teacher, Davis,” said Windermere. “Anyway, soon as he called a lawyer he’d have been gone. There’s something else going on here. Something bigger than Kent.”

  Davis shook his head. “Good to see you again, Agent. Next time maybe we’ll actually do something.”

  “Look forward to it.” Windermere slammed the door closed. Mathers climbed out to the sidewalk beside her.

  “So what happens next, Supercop?” he asked her.

  Windermere watched Davis’s big SUV pull away from the curb. “The hell if I know,” she said, sighing. “I guess we go home.”

  IT WAS LONG AFTER DARK by the time the agents’ flight landed at Minneapolis–Saint Paul. Windermere followed Mathers off the small plane, and they walked together out to the parking garage. Windermere’s car was closer, her daddy’s prize Chevelle, and Mathers lingered beside it as she unlocked the door. “Grab a bite somewhere?”

  Windermere stiffened. She looked back at Mathers, who watched her, a grin on his face. She felt something inside her like panic. “What’d you say?”

  The junior agent shrugged. “Just asked if you were hungry,” he said. “We could get eats. Talk this thing over.”

  Windermere stared at him over the car. He was cute, definitely. Tall and slender and handsome, and there was a pleasing hint of muscle beneath his baby blue shirt. It had been more than two years since Mark had walked out, and Windermere had caught herself eyeing Mathers across the office a couple of times. She wasn’t averse to the idea. Still, something made her hesitate, and she was pretty sure she knew what it was.

  Stevens. She didn’t even like Stevens that way—she’d better not, anyway, not with Nancy around—but they’d always had chemistry. Never acted on it, either of them, but it still somehow felt weird to Windermere, picking up with somebody new. Another cop, especially, after all the bullshit she and Stevens had been through.

  It felt, she realized, a little bit like cheating.

  Absurd. Still, she shook her head. Gave Mathers an apologetic smile. “I’m pretty beat, partner,” she said. “I’d better just go home.”

  Mathers’s smile didn’t waver. “No problem,” he said. “Guess I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  He shot her a wave and ambled off across the parking garage. Windermere watched him go, and when he was gone, she opened the Chevelle’s door and slid in behind the wheel. She sighed and sat th
ere, unmoving, for a minute or two, examining her reflection in the mirror. What’s wrong with you? she thought. The kid’s harmless. It’s just dinner.

  She let the question hang there for a moment. Then she started the engine. Nothing’s wrong. You’re just tired. She backed out of the parking stall and peeled out of the garage.

  36

  Stevens met Windermere and Mathers at the FBI office the next morning. He’d driven back from Fergus Falls the night before, arriving home in Saint Paul well after dark, dinner already cleared from the table and the kids in bed. He’d reheated some meat loaf and watched TV with Nancy, though they’d both been too tired to say much more than good night.

  He’d mulled Paige Pyatt’s words all two hundred miles home. Still couldn’t decide what he thought of it all. Eli Cody had loved her; that much was certain. Somewhere, deep inside, she’d felt something in return. She’d kept all his letters; hell, it could have been love.

  The easy answer, the answer that Stevens kept circling back to, would have been obvious if Cody himself hadn’t been murdered. The hitch in Paige Pyatt’s voice when she’d talked of Cody’s hate for her husband—it didn’t take much to jump to conclusions. Cody was a recluse with a hateful obsession. Not a huge stretch to picture him a killer. But why now? Why wait so long?

  You don’t have the whole puzzle, Stevens thought as he stepped off the elevator into CID. Maybe Windermere has a few more pieces.

  But Windermere didn’t have much. She sat Stevens down and told him all about her day with Alex Kent—“And Agent Davis, remember him?”—and when she came to the end, she had less than Stevens, just some history teacher with a stolen identity.

  “So I let him go,” said Windermere. “Davis didn’t like it, but whatever. Kent isn’t going anywhere.”

  “Means Salazar’s probably clean, too.”

  Windermere shrugged. “Yeah,” she said. “I mean, yeah. He doesn’t know anything. Has a decent alibi and he sure as hell didn’t look guilty. Anyway, our guy murdered Cody with Salazar behind bars. There’s no connection between Salazar and Kent. How many accomplices could our shooter have?”

  “So our shooter’s stealing identities,” said Stevens. “Using them for the killings and then disappearing again.”

  “That’s what I’m thinking.”

  “Still doesn’t explain why he’s killing people,” said Mathers.

  Windermere rolled her eyes. “Ask Stevens what I think about motive.”

  “Mathers has a point,” said Stevens. “Paige Pyatt said Cody had loved her for years. Said he was jealous of Spenser Pyatt. Hated him. Perfect motive, except—”

  “Cody’s dead, too,” said Windermere. “And by the same hand as killed Pyatt, assuming the Liberty agent in Duluth gave a good description. Doesn’t really fit the spurned-lover scenario.” She paused. “Any other connections between Cody and Pyatt? Anything concrete?”

  “Money,” said Mathers.

  Stevens shook his head. “Cody was nearly broke. Nobody stood to gain from his death.”

  “Family,” said Windermere. “You said Mickey Pyatt is afraid someone’s targeting his relatives.”

  “He is,” said Stevens. “I had Fergus Falls Police post a guard outside the Pyatt’s lake house. I’ll talk to Mickey Pyatt and find out if there are any other family members we should watch.”

  “Good. What else?”

  “Spenser Pyatt was one of the richest men in the country and he was straight-up assassinated,” said Mathers. “There’s gotta be a lead somewhere.”

  Stevens nodded. “Do we know what he was doing at the hotel that day?”

  “Meeting friends for lunch,” said Windermere. “Guess it was a weekly tradition, the good old boys’ club. Pyatt’s death seemed to shock the lot of them. No obvious connection to the murder there, either, but we’re running full backgrounds on everybody at the table anyway.”

  “I’ll take a closer look at Cody’s situation, too,” Stevens said. “Just to round things out. Maybe I’ll ask Duluth PD to snoop around his place a little more, see what else they can dig up.”

  “You’re from there, right?” said Windermere. “Call in some favors.” She clapped her hands. “Okay,” she said. “Let’s get back to work.”

  37

  Stevens called Duluth PD and left word for Donna McNaughton. McNaughton called back a half hour later. “What’s up, Kirk?”

  “I need Eli Cody’s last will and testament,” Stevens told her. “His finances, too. If you can find a willing judge, I’ll fax through the paperwork.”

  “I know a guy,” said McNaughton. “But what’s the point?”

  “Chasing our tails down here. Kind of hoping Cody’s hiding something that’ll spark some inspiration. Speaking of which, you mind combing through the old house one more time?”

  “You gonna tell me what I’m looking for?”

  “Anything that looks suspicious, Donna. Anything at all. Personal correspondence. Receipts. Maybe Cody was less of a recluse than we thought.”

  “I don’t get it, Kirk. He’s the victim.”

  “More to the point, he was a target,” said Stevens. “And people don’t just become targets without a reason. I want to know who wanted him dead.”

  “Got it,” said McNaughton. “I’ll head over there now. You owe me for this, though. Especially if I find something.”

  “Dinner’s on me next time I’m in town.” Stevens hung up the phone and found Windermere watching him, one eyebrow raised. “Old friend,” he said.

  Windermere nodded. “Uh-huh.”

  STEVENS SPENT THE DAY putting together the paperwork for Donna McNaughton. Faxed it up to Duluth and went home to Nancy and the kids. Friday morning, he went to see Mickey Pyatt.

  Pyatt was a handsome fifty-something with an easy smile and a firm grip. Stevens warmed to him quickly. Unfortunately, the man had no answers when it came to his father’s murder.

  “I’m afraid I don’t know,” he told Stevens. “My dad had competitors, sure, business rivals. But enemies?” Pyatt shook his head. “He was a good man.”

  “He was rich,” said Stevens. “Could money be the motive?”

  “You mean his estate,” said Pyatt. “Someone in the family. It’s not out of the question—though, like we told the FBI, anyone who would have gained from Dad’s death was already pretty well taken care of. He looked after his loved ones.”

  “What about Eli Cody?”

  Pyatt’s face darkened. “Yeah,” he said. “Kind of weird, huh? He was family, I guess, but just barely. He kept to himself, as I’m sure you’re aware.”

  “He was broke.”

  “He wasn’t in the will, if that’s what you’re asking. He wouldn’t have gained from Dad’s death any more than you would have.”

  “Except he was in love with your mother.”

  Pyatt nodded. “I take it you don’t consider Eli to be merely a victim in this case. Do you think he had some involvement in my father’s death?”

  “I don’t know,” Stevens told him. “Frankly, we don’t know much at this point. Your mother implied that Cody held a long grudge, but I can’t figure any reason he’d have wanted your father dead now in particular.”

  “As opposed to when my father married my mother, say?”

  “Exactly.”

  Pyatt hesitated. “There is one thing.” He glanced at Stevens. “This year—this spring, in fact—would mark fifty years that my father had known my mother. Not their wedding anniversary, but the anniversary of their actual meeting. I only remember because Dad always talked about meeting Mom on the night Wilt Chamberlain scored his hundred points. March second, 1962, remember?”

  “Your mother told me that Cody’d known her first.”

  “Indeed he had,” Pyatt said. “In fact, he was apparently on a date with my mother when my dad stole her away. A p
articularly disastrous date, to hear my mother tell it.”

  “Fifty years,” Stevens said.

  “It’s a long time to hold a grudge,” said Pyatt. “And in any case, Eli Cody is dead. So maybe the whole point is moot.”

  Stevens nodded. “Cody’s death is a strange development, that’s for sure.”

  “The whole situation is strange, Agent Stevens. I’ve seen the sketches of my dad’s killer. He’s nobody I’ve ever seen before, I know that.”

  “I saw him in person,” Stevens said, standing. “You’d remember.”

  STEVENS LEFT PYATT and drove back to Brooklyn Center. Just as he arrived at the FBI building, his cell phone started to ring. Stevens parked the Cherokee quickly and answered it. It was Donna McNaughton.

  “Processing your paperwork now,” the cop told him. “Give it a day on the outside. Took a spin through Cody’s house while I waited, didn’t find much but an old desktop computer. We’re bringing it in for the techs to have a look.”

  “Good thinking. Who knows what Cody had kicking around on that thing.”

  “Yeah, exactly. Anyway, I got something else for you.”

  “Shoot.”

  “Had to make a run out to the airport just now. Pick up my brother and his family. Anyway, while I’m waiting, the Liberty woman flags me down. Said she thought of something that might help us out.”

  Stevens frowned. “Yeah?”

  “Said she was thinking about the guy who’d rented that little blue Kia, how weird it was that he came up on the computer as Alex Kent, since she was pretty damn sure his first name was Richard.”

  “Richard.” Stevens fumbled in his glove box for a pen. “She get a last name?”