Rattlesnake

by Andy Maslen

  Gabriel’s mind was whirring as he tried to assemble the intelligence Terri-Ann had just provided into a framework he could build on.

  “OK. We have two SAPD detectives investigating his murder. He was found out in the desert. He was coming back from a business trip with his boss. Name of?”

  “Clark. Clark Orton.”

  “Right, well those are my two starting points. The boss and the detectives. There’s something else I need to ask, Terri-Ann. It’s personal, but I’m sure the police already asked you.”

  Terri-Ann plucked the tissue from her sleeve and blew her nose.

  “Our marriage? It was just fine. I loved him like I did the first time I set eyes on him. He was walking across an army base, Fort Sam Houston, and he looked good enough to eat. He was eighteen, I was sixteen and I said to myself, well doesn’t he move nicely? I think I made up my mind to marry him that very moment.”

  “You both came from military families; that’s right, isn’t it?”

  “Uh-huh. Daddy was a two-star general with the Fifth Army. Vinnie’s dad was in the Marine Corps. It was like a family thing with the Calders. Dad, grandfather, couple of uncles and Vinnie himself. If you cut them open, they’d have ‘Semper Fi’ running through them like tree rings.”

  “And when Vinnie transferred to Delta Force, did you ever get any sense he made any enemies there, or left any behind?”

  She shook her head.

  “Only the ones he was paid to kill.”

  Gabriel moved back to his own lounger and retrieved his wine glass. He took a sip and as he rolled it round his mouth, looked at the trees beyond the property line, waving in the breeze that had sprung up. He’d worked alongside cops in the UK and recalled their cynical take on motives for murder. “Nine times out of ten it’s the spouse. The other one it’s the business partner. If it’s drugs-related, ten times out of ten it’s a rival gang. Everything else is just telly-cop bullshit. Does. Not. Happen.” Love, money, power. The holy trinity of motives. So which one was it for Vinnie? Terri-Ann said she loved him. But she hadn’t said if Vinnie loved her back. Money? Maybe. He’d need to find out whether Vinnie owed money. Enough to get him killed as opposed to a politely menacing letter from the bank. Or power. Politics? Business? The military? Those were the usual sources of power in Gabriel’s experience. If all three were involved, you could bank on the bullets flying before long.

  He refocused. Terri-Ann was just tipping the last of her wine into her mouth.

  “I need to speak to the detectives,” he said. “But first I need to speak to Clark.”

  14

  The Man at the Top

  ORTON had proved surprisingly easy to get hold of, and showed no hesitation whatever in accepting Gabriel’s request for a chat about Vinnie. Gabriel’s taxi pulled into Orton Biotech’s carpark at 8.50 a.m. For the meeting, he’d elected to dress up a little, knowing how CEO types liked to assess people instantly on every possible level, from their handshake to their attire. Without the car’s air conditioning to insulate him from the San Antonio heat, he began to sweat immediately. The suit may have been linen, the shirt, white, but the Texan sun took no notice and continued beating down on him with relentless force.

  Once inside the reception area and, mercifully, the cool embrace of its aircon, he strode across the polished stone floor to the desk, a high-tech construction of polished steel and thick, green glass.

  The receptionists, one black, one white, both attractive enough to get work as models if the bottom ever fell out of the biotechnology business, looked up at him. The black woman flashed him a professional smile and spoke.

  “Good morning, sir. Welcome to Orton Biotech. How can I help you?”

  Gabriel smiled and checked her name badge.

  “Hi, Michelle, yes. My name is Gabriel Wolfe. I have an appointment with Mr Orton. It’s not until nine fifteen. I’m afraid I’m a little early.”

  Her plum-coloured lips widened into a genuine smile, revealing large, white teeth. He noticed that his voice had also caught the ear of the other receptionist.

  “That is really no problem at all, Mr Wolfe,” the first woman said. “You just go on and take a seat and I’ll call Janice. She’s Clark’s PA. I’ll tell her you’re here.”

  “Clark? I imagined everyone would call him Mr Orton.”

  She shook her head.

  “Oh, he insists everyone calls him by his first name. It’s kind of a company policy.” She turned to her colleague. “What does he say, Deanna?”

  “Call me Clark. It makes me feel like Superman.”

  They chuckled, although Gabriel thought he detected just a glimmer of satire behind the loyal laughter.

  “In that case, do you want to frisk me? I might be carrying Kryptonite,” Gabriel deadpanned.

  Now the laughter seemed genuine.

  “With that accent, I would consider it a pleasure,” Deanna said. Then she blushed as her colleague gaped. “Oh my goodness, I am so sorry. That just popped out.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” Gabriel said with a smile. “I won’t tell if you won’t.”

  To give her a chance to recover, he walked away and took a seat in a group of white leather chairs arranged around a low steel-and-glass table that matched the reception desk. He’d planned to arrive in plenty of time and relaxed into the chair’s padding, letting the cool air evaporate the sweat from his forehead.

  Fifteen minutes later, Michelle left her post to come over to him, her high heels clicking on the floor.

  “Mr Wolfe, Janice just rang down. Clark’s ready for you now. Just take the elevator to the third floor and turn right when you get out.”

  Gabriel knocked at the cherrywood door and entered without waiting, calculating that Janice would have her own office, an anteroom to her boss’s. And if not, well it wouldn’t matter, not for a man who insisted his staff call him by his first name.

  A woman who was clearly Janice rose from her desk to greet him, extending her hand.

  “Good morning! Clark’s expecting you.”

  She was midforties, dressed in an emerald-green trouser suit and a cream blouse. Her auburn hair was swept back from her high forehead and arranged on the top of her head in a sculptural swirl that looked to Gabriel as if it would take many hours to prepare.

  After shaking hands, she gestured to a second door in the same, richly figured wood. No hierarchy even when it comes to building materials, Gabriel thought.

  He turned the brushed steel knob and entered Orton’s office.

  The man waiting for him was perched on the front edge of his desk, legs crossed at the ankles. The pose and the business-casual outfit of beige chinos and chambray button-down shirt looked too studied to Gabriel, but he smiled anyway and took the proffered hand. Orton appeared to be in his late fifties or early sixties. But he wore the years lightly. He was trim, no surplus fat softening the jawline or midriff. And although it was silver, his hair was thick and cut into a soft style.

  “Welcome,” Orton said. “And before we go any further, please call me Clark. It makes me feel like Superman.”

  Gabriel smiled dutifully at the punchline.

  “Thanks for making the time to see me, Clark. I’m sure you’re a very busy man.”

  Orton pointed at another pair of white leather armchairs.

  “Let’s get comfortable. As for being busy, Vinnie was like family. If you can’t make time for family, well,” he smiled, “friends of family, at least, then what’s the point?”

  Gabriel twitched the knees of his suit as he sat to stop them bagging, and noticed Orton noticing the tiny gesture. The man was watchful despite the relaxed body language and casual style.

  “What can you tell me about Vinnie?” Gabriel asked.

  Orton spread his hands wide and furrowed his brow.

  “What do you want to know?”

  “How did he seem to you on your trip?”

  Orton looked up and to the left.

  “Oh, you know, he was missin
g Terri-Ann. I swear to God, those two were like teenaged kids, always texting each other and leaving gooey voicemails. But no, he was happy, you know? Focused on his work, like always.”

  “So he didn’t seem, I don’t know, stressed in any way? Distracted?”

  Orton shook his head.

  “Nope. Vinnie was always one hundred percent in the zone. You have to be to do that job.”

  “He was your Head of Security.”

  “Yup. Since 2011. He was one of my first hires. You know, maybe in Britain you can relax about terrorism. But over here, even ten years after Nine-Eleven, it still felt pretty raw.”

  “Did you lose someone?”

  Orton passed a hand across his face.

  “My sister. She was a stockbroker. Had an office on the hundred and second floor of One World Trade Center. Those bastards …”

  Gabriel watched as Orton’s face contorted. He tried to retrieve the situation.

  “I’m sorry for your loss. I didn’t mean to pry into personal stuff. I just wanted to get a better picture of Vinnie’s last days.”

  Orton shook his head and sighed.

  “It’s not your fault, Gabriel, really. Ask away.”

  “OK, thanks. So do you think Vinnie had made any enemies through his work for you? Any disgruntled staff you let go on his recommendation, or job applicants who maybe didn’t pass vetting?”

  “You seem to know a remarkable amount about corporate security, Gabriel.” He laughed. “You’re not looking for a job, are you?”

  Gabriel frowned.

  “No, not at all. But I have worked for corporate clients from time to time. I was making an educated guess.”

  “In answer to your question, not that I know of. And most of Vinnie’s work was on the cyber side anyway. We have a very professional HR team who handle the wetware.”

  “The …?”

  “Sorry. Industry jargon. Wetware means people. You know. Software, hardware, wetware!”

  “And you were here when he was killed?”

  “At my desk. All day and a lot later in the evening than I should have been, to be honest. What was worse, I kept my secretary here with me. She was cross because she had to miss her daughter’s school concert. But it was a crucial business deal and I needed her.”

  “Janice, you mean?”

  Orton smiled.

  “Janice is my personal assistant. My secretary’s name is Sophia.”

  Gabriel leant back in his chair and aimed for an apologetic tone.

  “Look, Clark, this is going to sound like I’m playing detective at best and being downright rude at worst, but—”

  “Can you speak to Sophia?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’d love to help, really I would, but she quit.”

  “If you don’t mind my asking, where is she now?”

  Orton shrugged.

  “Search me. I think she said she was going travelling. She came into some money. An inheritance, I think. So,” he said, leaning forwards and rubbing his hands together, “any more questions? Only I’m expecting a call from our lawyers and you know what they’re like.”

  He tapped his watch, a gold Rolex, and adopted what he clearly thought of as a prissy lawyer’s voice. “At six hundred dollars an hour, Clark, that five-minute delay just cost you fifty bucks.”

  Gabriel stood.

  “No more questions. And thanks again. You’ve been really helpful.”

  Driving back to Helotes, Gabriel went over everything Orton had told him. The man’s personality squared with Terri-Ann’s description. He was open, friendly, concerned. Eager to help. And yet, something just didn’t feel right. He muted the radio, cutting off a heavy metal guitarist in mid-solo.

  “What am I missing, Master Zhao?” he asked the silent cabin.

  And floating across the barrier between the living and the dead, his old mentor and friend’s voice seemed to crackle from the silenced stereo.

  “If a snake opens its mouth wide enough, it resembles a smile, Wolfe Cub.”

  15

  Watching the Detectives

  POLICE Captain John Frankland was having a great morning. His drive to work had been free and fast, almost as if an invisible hand had cleared traffic all the way from Via Acuna in China Grove to work. No roadworks. No semis labouring along and forcing cars to bunch up waiting for an opportunity to pass. And a string of green lights in downtown San Antonio that sped him all the way to San Antonio Public Safety Headquarters at 315 South Santa Rosa Avenue.

  He’d made such good time that he’d walked away from the station to his favourite coffee shop, Mi Tierra, to pick up a cappuccino and a couple of pastries to go: a pineapple Danish and a cruller. He bestowed a wide smile on the plump woman sitting at the reception desk on his way to the elevators.

  Now he sat at his desk at eight fifteen, luxuriating in this unexpected oasis of calm before the inevitable tidal wave of bureaucratic BS hit his desk. He took a bite of the Danish and uttered a small mumble of pleasure as the sweet-tart fruit hit his tongue. A mouthful of the excellent coffee washed it down. Then the red light on his desk phone lit up and that was the end of his peace for the day.

  Wiping the sticky crumbs from his lips with a paper napkin, he picked up the handset. The civilian receptionist sounded rattled. Her voice was trembling.

  “Captain, I have a gentleman called Baines Christie on the line. I told him you weren’t in yet, because I saw you had takeout, but, well, he was very insistent. I’m sorry.”

  “It’s fine, Ronda, just put the guy through and let’s see what’s so important he has to interrupt my breakfast.”

  Frankland waited for the clicks and buzz of the call transferring. He decided a mild power play would re-establish the balance of power with the man who had upset his receptionist.

  “This is Captain Frankland, Mister Christie. I hope you have an excellent reason for calling so early in the day. I have a warm cruller going cold on my desk.”

  “It’s Agent Christie. And it isn’t early for the CIA, Captain. So forgive me if I’m disturbing your chow time.”

  The man’s voice was calm, but Frankland had interviewed enough violent men to recognise the menace buried deep in the tone Christie used now. He sat up straighter and observed a squirming in his gut with interest.

  “No problem. So what’s the reason?”

  “I want to see you. In person. Now.”

  Frankland checked his watch reflexively. He knew it was a pointless thing to do. Some icy dude from the CIA calls you at eight twenty in the morning and asks … correction, tells you he wants to see you, well, you’re taking that meeting. He shucked his shirt cuff down over the watch – a Hamilton, a wedding anniversary present from his wife – and spoke.

  “Sure, why not? It’s not as if being a police captain means I have anything to do. I was just sitting here—”

  “Eating crullers, yeah, you said.”

  The phone disconnected, leaving Frankland grinding his teeth together and wishing he’d opted for a career in landscape gardening, or pizza delivery, where faceless spooks couldn’t ruin his morning.

  Twenty minutes later, his phone rang again. His visitor had arrived.

  “Send the gentleman on up, Ronda.”

  “Will do, Captain,” she replied, and he thought he detected just a hint of a smile behind those three words.

  While he waited for the CIA guy, Frankland looked around his office. A framed photograph of him shaking hands with the mayor, a beaming black man in his early forties with a bushy moustache and a beautifully cut suit. Commendations, including two for bravery during the more active phase of his career in law enforcement. Shelves packed with legal books, procedural manuals and a leatherbound set of William Faulkner. A waxy-leaved pot plant growing happily in a shady corner. Plenty of polished dark wood and gleaming metalwork. Yes. Altogether the workplace of a serious man. A man not to be trifled with. A man—

  The knock at the door rattled the cheap wooden construction in it
s aluminium frame. Frankland’s lips were forming the word “Come!” when the door opened.

  He stood and leant forwards, knuckles on the polished wood of his desk: an alpha male attempting to assert his authority in his own territory.

  The man striding across the official royal-blue carpet either missed the signals or simply didn’t care. Frankland took in his build in a lightning-fast professional glance. Thought, Which football team’s down a man? The CIA guy was a monster. Couple hundred pounds and well over six-three. Close-cropped blond hair over a domed skull that descended without narrowing into a thick neck. Jarheads they called them in the Marines. And the killer feature? The eyes. Like arrow slits in an old-time fortress.

  Sensing that he’d be playing a weak card, the Captain didn’t offer his hand. Instead he sat back in his padded, executive-style leather chair and gestured to the one facing him.

  “Have a seat, Agent Christie.”

  Christie smiled and lowered his immense frame into the guest chair. Still leather, but a single layer of black hide stretched over a chromed steel frame. The chair creaked.

  Frankland was suddenly aware of his pulse. He lifted his chin and jutted it forwards before speaking again.

  “What can the SAPD do for our cousins in the Central Intelligence Agency?”

  Christie paused before speaking. It was a long pause. Frankland reached seven before the big man sitting opposite him spoke.

  “You’re investigating a homicide. Fellow by the name of Vincent Calder. Found in the desert. Gunshot wound to the chest. Nine mil.”

  It was a statement. Not even dressed up as a question. Frankland didn’t bother to ask how the CIA man knew.

  “Correct. And?”

  “And it was suicide. Case closed. Tell the widow. Move on.”

  Frankland gaped.

  “Suicide? Listen, I don’t know what planet y’all are living on up there in Langley, but we have such a thing as the rule of law down here in Texas. One of our own, a decorated Marine and Delta Force veteran, by the way, gets murdered,” he emphasised the word with his voice, “and his body dumped in the desert. That was not a suicide, sir, and no, I will not close it.”