The Holdouts (Buddy Lock Thrillers Book 2)

by James Tucker

  113

  Buddy stepped inside Coffee Club, the high-end coffee bar across from Cromwell Properties. He ordered a large black coffee and found a place by the window. He sat in a hard wooden chair and unzipped his jacket, but he didn’t take it off, because he needed to keep the Glock in his IWB holster hidden from the other customers and the staff. He watched the front door of the Cromwell Properties offices, the very place where Stella Bannon had given her press conference making a human sacrifice of Vance McInnis.

  He checked his burner phone. The clock read 8:34.

  She’s already gone, he thought. Or she’s at a meeting. Or maybe, after the news conference, she left the office and took the evening off. She might have had regrets, after having sentenced Vance McInnis to death.

  But he sipped his coffee and didn’t get up. No, he told himself, she’s there. Doing damage control. Interviews by phone or with a TV camera brought into her office.

  So he waited, watching the door to Cromwell’s offices. He drank his coffee. He ordered a refill. After a while, he took out his burner phone and called Ward. When his brother answered, he said, “Status?”

  Ward’s voice was calm. “Erica Fischer took a cab from her office to the Ritz-Carlton, Battery Park.”

  Buddy thought about the southernmost tip of Manhattan, the view of the Statue of Liberty, the expensive condo and apartment buildings, the Ritz-Carlton Hotel and residences. He pictured Fischer’s highlighted blond hair and generous curves. “Is she meeting someone?” he asked.

  “She lives there. Not in the hotel, but the residences.”

  Buddy thought he might have missed something, something big. He said, “Fischer works at a nonprofit, and she lives at the Ritz-Carlton?”

  “Sure does.”

  Buddy recalled that she wore no wedding ring. He said, “Does she have family money?”

  Ward said, “Her parents were schoolteachers. Want me to stay with her?”

  Buddy considered Erica Fischer and what guilty people did to close deals. “Yeah,” he said. “Give her another hour.”

  Hearing the sound of an engine, Buddy turned and saw a black Mercedes S-Class sedan pull along the curb in front of the Cromwell Properties building. It sat there like a sumptuous coffin, idling silently. Nobody got in, and nobody got out.

  He said “Talk later,” and ended the call. Despite it being night, he put on his sunglasses, got up, threw away his coffee cup, and went outside.

  One glance told him the sleek Mercedes was waiting for Stella Bannon. He hurried to the intersection to the north, crossed the street, and walked back south toward the doors to the Cromwell Properties building. He stood off to the side in the darkness, zipping up his jacket to hide more of his face. He didn’t think he could be seen by anyone coming out the building doors. And besides, he’d never met Stella Bannon in person. She might have seen him on television related to the Death Clock Murders or the case involving Ben’s family, but he hoped that he remained a stranger to her, especially given his new look. He looked left for a cab but saw none.

  The snow was falling harder now, and a moderate wind pushed the mass of white almost horizontal. He narrowed his eyes to keep the snow out as he looked over the Mercedes.

  If Stella Bannon were to climb into it, he’d have a hard time following. He had no Uber app on the burner phone. Even if he did, he couldn’t use Uber, because if anyone were monitoring his accounts, the charge would show he was alive. He thought for a moment, then changed position.

  He walked closer to the Cromwell building doors, passed them, and stood as if looking into a window of one of the ground floor offices. He decided that nobody would buy this ruse because an opaque screen covered the window. So he held up the burner phone and pretended to type out a text. He stood there, unmoving, for several minutes, his bare hands stiffening from the cold. And then, from the corner of his eye, he saw the doors to the Cromwell Properties building open.

  Stella Bannon walked out onto the snowy sidewalk. Wearing a black cashmere overcoat with a thick belt and a hood hanging off the back, she was accompanied by a well-dressed couple in their fifties. Both the man and the woman were taller than Stella Bannon and shared refined features, but next to her they seemed weak. She remained imperious and regal as she stood facing them, in black high heels, her silky black hair setting off her fair complexion. After she’d described the Haddon House project, she promised the couple there would be no delays. Yet only the third-floor unit they’d been discussing remained unsold. All units on the higher floors were under contract.

  The man said, “Ms. Bannon, we’re ready to commit, but we’d like to be sure of the view facing west.”

  Stella Bannon pointed at the Mercedes. “Here’s my car. Why don’t we take a look, and you can commit now if the view meets with your requirements?”

  The couple glanced at each other and nodded.

  Stella Bannon moved toward the car, and the driver—an older Caucasian man who was gaunt with white hair—emerged from the driver’s seat and opened the rear doors. As they climbed in, she told him, “We’re going to the Nanjing building, please.”

  When the older man had returned to the driver’s seat, he maneuvered the sleek sedan away from the curb and into the sparse traffic heading uptown on the one-way.

  Buddy didn’t watch the car. He was already jogging south, trying to find a cab.

  114

  “Stop here,” Buddy told the cab driver.

  They had just turned from Elizabeth onto Hester Street and were headed west. He’d been lucky and found a cab one minute after beginning his search outside the Cromwell Properties building. Now he handed the fare through the Plexiglas divider to the front seat and climbed out of the cab. Thirty yards farther on the left, he saw Stella Bannon’s black Mercedes idling by the front steps of the Nanjing building.

  But it couldn’t wait there. One lane of traffic had been fenced off for demolition, so there was no lane in which to park. After suffering the horns of cars behind it, the driver of the Mercedes accelerated, merged into traffic, passed through the intersection with Mott Street, and continued up to Mulberry Street, where it turned right and disappeared.

  Buddy jogged forward. The Nanjing building’s exterior lights shone down over the steps up to the front door. Pale white lights filled the lobby with a ghostly luminescence. From the sidewalk, he couldn’t see Stella Bannon or her potential buyers. He knew that if he got into the lobby, and Bannon and her clients came down the interior staircase, he’d have nowhere to go but out the front door. And the driver of the Mercedes would soon return, probably in a minute or two.

  Not enough time.

  Reversing course, he jogged through a break in the traffic to the other side of Hester. He stood in front of a dark shop window in his hat and sunglasses and waited.

  Very soon, the black Mercedes passed by and approached the steps to the Nanjing building. The large luxury car slowed but once again, due to traffic, couldn’t stop. Instead, it kept going, passing the empty steps.

  Buddy dashed back across the street, was nearly hit by a car, rushed up the steps, stood at the door, and tried the handle.

  It was unlocked.

  He pushed it open and entered the lobby. He stood there in the silence, listening, hearing nothing.

  Once again, he noticed the sign on the elevator: “Out of Order.”

  The adjacent staircase was poorly lit.

  He knew the Mercedes would soon return, and he’d be spotted. Either retreat now, or press on.

  He removed his sunglasses, tucked them in the side pocket of his jacket, and began climbing the stairs.

  115

  A woman in her home office heard the chime of her phone. She was sitting at her desk. Still dressed in her work clothes, she was sipping a glass of sauvignon blanc.

  She set down her pen, slid the phone closer, and peered through her reading glasses at the green text window. It read: They want to meet. Come now. Nanjing building. Chinatown.

  T
hat was all. Immediately, she pushed back her chair and stood. Through a crack in the curtains, she could see the heavily falling snow and an expanse of dark water. She didn’t want to go out, not tonight, not in a storm.

  But she would. They needed to meet. And the text had been from the person she trusted most.

  116

  Ward checked his watch and said, “See anything?”

  Ward thought that in the snow, the verdigris-colored Statue of Liberty in the harbor looked grand and resolute. As he swung his gaze right to the large Ritz-Carlton Hotel and residence building, with the profile of a thick-maned lion attached to the side of the glass and granite, he thought that structure, too, appeared grand and immovable. But perhaps a little quiet. A few people had emerged, and several more had gone into the hotel. Yet there had been no sign of Erica Fischer.

  “Yeah, man. I do.” Brick pointed at the entrance.

  Startled, Ward looked and saw Erica Fischer walking down the steps toward a waiting shiny black Cadillac Escalade. The lights allowed him to confirm her identity and to see that she wore a long black coat and a dark hat over her blond hair. The driver held open the right rear door, and she ducked into the SUV. The driver jogged around the back of the car and jumped into the driver’s seat. A second later, the Escalade jerked forward, maneuvered east on Battery Place, and accelerated rapidly.

  Brick put the Range Rover in gear and turned to Ward.

  Ward said, “Don’t lose her.”

  In response, Brick pulled the car forward, increasing speed so quickly the Rover fishtailed before he regained control, and they shot forward.

  Where’s she going in such a hurry? Ward thought. In a snowstorm?

  To their right, the river was black as the sky. To their left, the buildings of the Battery Park neighborhood, residential towers made of stone, steel, and glass, their higher floors with views of Governor’s Island and, in the distance, Staten Island.

  The Escalade swerved north onto the FDR. Brick followed, and they found only sparse traffic on the expressway lining the eastern edge of Manhattan. They sped up as they got closer to Chinatown.

  The heavy snow made the going slower than usual, even if it was after nine o’clock and well after rush hour. Brick, an excellent driver, struggled to keep the Rover in the paths through the snow made by the cars ahead of them. Ward ignored Brick’s struggles, instead staring intently at the Escalade’s red taillights.

  As the large vehicle approached the Brooklyn Bridge, it slowed.

  Ward squinted as the large black SUV seemed to hover in mid-decision. He sat forward, hands on his knees. He stared as the Escalade slipped off the FDR and soon turned west toward Chinatown. They passed a Toyota Camry and accelerated wildly, nearly spinning out of control before regaining traction.

  Brick stomped on the accelerator, and the Rover sped forward, pushing Ward back into his seat. Ward grabbed the door handle and slid forward on the seat.

  He said, “Close the gap, Brick. Close it.”

  “Roger.”

  Ward broke his stare with the Escalade, switched on the reading lamp over his head, and pulled out the Beretta M9. He checked the magazine and the slide. As he put the M9 in the shoulder holster under his Brioni suit, he swallowed and noticed the metallic taste in his mouth. It wasn’t blood that caused this taste, but foreboding. Buddy was in Chinatown by himself, and God knew what awaited him there.

  117

  Buddy stood at the top of the stairs on the first level of the Nanjing building, listening. Because he couldn’t see more than twenty feet in front of him. Other than in the lobby and above the internal staircase, the lights in the building had been shut off. He gazed out into darkness, even the red exit signs having been disconnected.

  Making up for his blindness, he listened.

  He heard no sounds from the floors above. No sign of occupancy. He kept his jacket zipped. Any water in the radiators had gone cold and still or been drained away. He’d have expected this silence if the building were vacant, but he knew it wasn’t. He’d seen Stella Bannon’s Mercedes idling at the curb after she and the potential buyers had gone inside. He hadn’t seen anyone else enter the building, but there might also be others who’d arrived earlier. Squatters. Homeless who’d somehow gotten inside to avoid the fierce winter storm.

  Others, he thought, and pulled the Glock from his waist holster.

  There were no sounds from the street outside. He thought that nearly all vehicles must be off the roads, avoiding the storm. He heard no whispers of car tires, no truck engines, no beeping of plows. It was like being sealed in a tomb.

  Yet the quiet didn’t lead to relaxation and calm but to anticipation, anxiety, and adrenaline. He moved the Glock to his left hand and wiped his perspiring right hand on the thighs of his pants. Then he transferred the gun back to his dominant hand. His heartbeat sped up as he climbed the stairs.

  Aware only of the sounds of his own breathing and the press of his rubber-soled shoes on the terrazzo staircase, he reached the landing. For ten seconds he halted. Hearing nothing, he began climbing up to the second floor.

  Above him, a single bulb covered in translucent plastic cast a feeble glow over the steps. He went slowly, making sure not to slip, not to make a noise. When he reached the second floor, he stopped, held his breath, and listened.

  But he heard nothing.

  Standing at the perimeter of the stairs, he looked upward, aimed the Glock, and curled around the wall like a snake as he climbed to the third floor. Nearing the top few steps, he heard voices.

  Taking one step, then another, he could peer down the corridor, his eyes just above the level of the third-floor carpeting. The corridor was empty, but now he had a better read on the location of the voices. They were beyond unit 305, the Sungs’ former home. Leaning forward, straining to hear, he realized the discussion must be emanating from unit 309, two doors down from the Sungs’ condo, where Sloan Richardson had lived.

  He considered waiting but realized he might become trapped between Stella Bannon and her driver on the street outside when she and her clients came down the staircase. Being trapped was something prey did. And this time, he was hunting—hunting outside the law. He ran up the last few steps and along the dark hallway to unit 305.

  The door was open, and as he ran he could see the doors to all the units were propped open with black rubber doorstops. He could make out the spaces as faint light came in through the windows overlooking Mott Street. He rushed into 305 and scanned the interior. All traces of the older couple had been removed. The living room was barren of furniture, paintings, rugs, and plants. Cromwell Properties—or perhaps it had been the Sungs’ eldest son—hadn’t wasted any time in removing all evidence of the older couples’ lives. Their former home would be demolished in the next few days, and little of their time on earth would endure except their children. The building was worse than a graveyard because there were no remains. Its emptiness echoed Buddy’s feeling of abandonment. He began to doubt himself.

  Do I have it wrong? he thought. Is Vance McInnis, the VP of Cromwell, truly guilty? Or was the EDA involved, and I failed to understand how?

  He recalled that Jack Carlson, the EDA’s associate director, had claimed a ski injury, but might have been driving the SUV that had crashed into him.

  Ignore it, he told himself. Stick with what you know. What got you into this mess in the first place: the Sungs, the Nanjing building, real estate development in Chinatown.

  Now he heard Stella Bannon and her potential clients returning along the corridor toward the Sungs’ door. She was praising Antoine Rousseau, the architect for Haddon House, and the future project’s timeless but modern design, the floor-to-ceiling windows in every room, the roof deck, and the fitness center. As the voices grew closer, Buddy backed into the hallway that led to the bedrooms of unit 305.

  Stella Bannon and her clients paused by the door. They talked about the neighborhood and how it was changing for the better, according to all of them, while
retaining its original vibe. The man walked into the Sungs’ condo. His footsteps made the oak floors creak softly under his weight.

  Buddy backed into the master bathroom, putting more distance between himself and the other man. He listened carefully, ready to react and avoid the man if possible.

  Buddy heard the man stroll around the living room, proceed to the windows, stand there a moment, and then retrace his steps to the doorway and the exterior corridor. As Buddy listened to their voices and retreating footsteps, he emerged from the master bathroom and hallway and reentered the living room. He walked slowly, mindful of where he placed his feet on the tired oak floorboards, staying close to the walls to keep the boards’ creaking to a minimum. Bobbing his head into the corridor, he watched Stella Bannon and her clients disappear down the staircase, the voices growing faint and soon inaudible.

  He moved rapidly across the hallway to another vacant condo, walked to the living room window, and looked down.

  He saw the building door open. For a brief moment nobody left. But then he watched as Stella Bannon and the rich couple grasped the metal railing and walked down the snow-covered steps. The older man driving the Mercedes pulled alongside the construction fencing and hurried out of the car, his shoes kicking up the white powdery snow that covered everything. He held open the rear passenger door. The rich couple climbed into the back. Stella Bannon remained by the building steps, waved once as the older man returned to the driver’s seat, and the car drove off.

  What’s Stella Bannon doing? he wondered, but only briefly. Then he was certain. She was meeting someone.

  He let the air out of his lungs and looked around. He saw that like unit 305, this one was vacant of everything. He could see the room clearly, but only because the layer of white on the street and sidewalks outside reflected the streetlights’ illumination up into the room, giving it an ashen hue. In the calm and silence, he tried to make sense of the broken pattern. In contrast to his thoughts a minute ago, he considered the possibility that Stella Bannon was innocent. Unlikely as it seemed, she might be no more than the unwitting beneficiary of someone else’s crimes—maybe those of Vance McInnis.