by J C Williams
Sam stood with his arms still above his head. “But I–I couldn’t,” he stammered. “You told me to open the door straight away. And… and I’ve not wiped yet.”
The two men could see that he wasn’t a threat, and they allowed him to return to the toilet to sort himself out.
“You’re American?” asked Sam tentatively after re-emerging, the paperwork on this last job of his having been satisfactorily completed. “Are you working for Mr Justus, then?”
The two men were dressed immaculately in dark suits with black overcoats, which, in a seaside town made them standout. Sam breathed a little easier when the gun held in one of the men’s hand disappeared from view, retracting back behind his coat.
“Do me a favour?” said the chiseled-looking man on the right.
“Yes?” said Sam cautiously.
“Can you close the bathroom door? It’s not a good smell.”
“Of course, sorry.” Sam complied with the request. The last thing he wanted was to anger these fellows and see that gun drawn back out.
“You know this woman?” asked the man on the left, thrusting a printout in Sam’s face.
He stared for a moment, unsure whether to plead ignorant, but not knowing who they were and the fact they were armed, he reasoned this wasn’t the best option.
“I might,” he offered. “But, believe me, I’m starting to wish I didn’t. That’s Emma Hopkins?”
“Well, that’s one of her names. I’m Agent Tanner and this is Agent Weiss. FBI,” said the fellow with the chiselled face authoritatively, as if this should explain everything.
Sam started to laugh. “Piiisss off!” he said.
The two agents looked at each other in confusion. This wasn’t the typical reaction to which they were accustomed.
“We’re being serious,” one said.
“Very serious,” said the other.
“Piss off,” said Sam once again. “You think I’m that daft? Who sent you couple of halfwits, anyway? Did Abby put you up to this? Or what about cock-eyed John in the pub? Was it him? It was him, wasn’t it?”
The two men looked at each, temporarily at a loss as to how to proceed.
“Do you lot honestly expect me to believe that the FBI have sent two agents all the way over to our little Island?” said Sam, his confidence regained.
“Now you listen—” one of the men began.
Sam stupidly went on the offensive. “Where did you get your guns? Toys R Us? Let’s have a look,” he said, reaching towards the closest man’s coat.
This was precisely and incontrovertibly the wrong thing to do. Before he’d touched fabric, Sam felt like he’d been attacked by a revolving door. He lay face down with his nose pressed into the cream floor tiles, with so many parts of his body in pain he couldn’t isolate the different bits. He was a sea of pain in a world of hurt.
“We are agents of the FBI,” repeated one of the agents, his knee pressed firmly against Sam’s spine, in a manner which suggested that there were no two ways about it. “This is not a joke, and I urge you to take this very seriously for the sake of your own welfare. Are we clear?”
“Y–yes,” Sam managed through shallow breaths, as, at present, he could not breathe especially well.
They allowed Sam to lift his head by two inches — just high enough to inspect their badges.
“Sir, I’m going to let you up now, but do not reach for our guns again. Ever.”
They helped Sam to his feet.
“Sorry about that, guys.” Sam gasped, trying to refill his lungs with air. “I thought… I thought it was a windup. We don’t exactly get many FBI agents in these parts, as you can well imagine.”
“What’s your relationship with this woman and where can we find her?” asked one of the agents less than sympathetically, all business.
“Can I sit down, my legs are a little bit wobbly?” Sam asked.
After taking a seat, he continued, “Look, I don’t know where this woman is, and, as for my relationship, there isn’t one. As you will have deduced from the sign outside, I’m a private investigator.”
“You’re a PI?” one of them interjected. “Seriously? I thought you were the receptionist or something.”
“I thought you were the cleaning guy,” said the other.
“I’m a private investigator,” insisted Sam, offended. “Do I look like a—?”
“So who are you working for?” interrupted one of the agents.
Sam shrugged. “I’m actually a bit in the dark on that one myself.”
The agents were getting impatient and annoyed. “Well, who’s paying your bill?”
“Ah,” said Sam. “Don’t tell my boss, but I don’t think there is a bill to settle. See, originally, we were employed to find her. And when we did… well, when we did, we were then employed by her to find out who’d employed us to find her. Do you follow me?”
“Not—” one agent began.
“Yes, we follow you,” said the agent with the face chiselled from granite. “Who employed you to follow her and why? And you mentioned a Mr Justice. Who is this Mr Justice? Is that some kind of codename?”
Sam was about to correct the agent but then, with self-preservation foremost in his mind, thought better of it. “That’s the name we were given,” he simply said. “We were originally employed by this person — who we’ve never met — to find that woman,” he explained, pointing to the picture in the agent’s hand. “We were told that she was cheating on her husband and asked to get proof. Presumably, for the divorce hearing. That woman eventually told us there were several people following her, and she tried to hire us to find out who.”
“Yes, yes, we get that,” said Agent Tanner. “Will you get to the point!” His fingers were twitching because they weren’t wrapped around his gun at the moment, and that made him very anxious.
“Okay, okay,” replied Sam, rather offended that he was being rushed along and not allowed to tell his story at his own pace. “Right. So. Mr Justus told us — over the phone — that the reason he wanted to find her was because she’d stolen a painting from him.”
“Interesting,” commented Agent Tanner, his stone face betraying no emotion. “And where is she now?”
“How would I know?” Sam said, shrugging.
“You’re a private investigator?” Agent Weiss suggested.
“So, why would the FBI be involved in the theft of a painting?” asked Sam. “She must have done something else? Something more nefarious?”
“That information is on a need-to-know basis only,” said Agent Weiss.
“And you don’t need to know,” added Agent Tanner. “But you can be assured that we haven’t travelled thousands of miles to appreciate the sunset,” he said, with a wave of his hand, in reference to the warm glow behind Peel Castle.
These fellows had a flair for the dramatic, Sam thought to himself. He’d certainly give them that. And he only wished Abby were present as she would surely appreciate it.
“We need to speak with her,” said Agent Weiss. “If you see her, you need to phone us right away,” he added, handing Sam a business card.
Sam looked in awe at the embossed business card. “So… technically, I’m on a special assignment with the FBI?” he said. “Sam Levy is working with the FBI?”
Agent Tanner stepped forward and thrust a meaty finger in Sam’s face. “If you tell anybody we’re here, you’ll be visiting Davy Jones’ locker. Don’t forget to phone us if you know where she is.”
“I need to tell my partner Abby,” insisted Sam.
“You’re telling nobody!” came the response.
“But I’ll have to,” Sam explained. “I work with her every day. She’ll be onto me in seconds if I don’t.”
The two agents huddled for a moment. Agent Weiss emerged. “Okay. Just her. And tell her that this remains strictly between us.”
“Can I also tell my mum? You know, about me working for the FBI?” Sam asked, emboldened by the concession.
T
he hard look on Agent Tanner’ face, now at the door, told Sam everything he needed to know. Once they were gone, he turned the key in the latch. He fell back on the door and took several deep breaths.
“Sweet Baby Jesus,” he said, staring at the business card. “Sam Levy is working with the FBI.” A giddy smile crept across his face. “Abby’s going to be impressed with this!”
Chapter Five
The Del Monte Man
T he arrival of an Embraer Phenom 100 jet at Ronaldsway Airport went pretty much unnoticed on an island so involved in the finance sector. It eased gracefully into the executive jet centre, where an immaculate black BMW sat with its engine idling.
When the ground crew gave the signal, a short, stout man with slicked-back receding black hair appeared on the top step, giving a cautionary glance. He took his aviator sunglasses from his jacket pocket before taking one final look around.
He nodded to his colleague — who was still onboard — and they made their way to the foot of the stairs like they were forming a guard of honour. First to deplane would be a slim brunette, dressed simply but smartly in denim jeans and a fitted white t-shirt. She was, however, not rising from her seat. She squinted as the sunlight reflected through the windows, lighting up her face. For someone travelling in such an opulent manner, she didn’t appear to be too appreciative.
Eventually, the woman had no choice but to make her way to the exit. The two men both extended an arm to help her down, but she didn’t proceed, rather, shifting furtively, as if looking for some other option.
“Come, my dear,” said a voice behind her. “Mr Swan, are we ready to leave?”
She had nowhere to manoeuvre, reluctantly taking the hands offered to her as she walked down the steps and then towards the open door of the waiting BMW.
Her polite escort smiled. “So. This is the Isle of Wight?”
“Isle of Man, Mr Esposito,” replied his corpulent assistant, cautious about offering the correction.
“Whatever it may be called, I do not intend to be here longer than necessary.”
His white linen suit was remarkably wrinkle-free considering the long flight. As he joined them in the car, he replaced his cream fedora hat, completing an ensemble which, one might assume, must have been loosely inspired by the Del Monte man.
“I like this,” said Mr Esposito, as the car sped from the airport. “I always love the countryside. And what about you, Marilyn?”
“It’s Madeline,” the woman said in frustration. “I’ve told you that three times. Why did you have to bring me with you?”
“And I have told you, my dear,” he repeated in a thick Italian-American accent. “You are my insurance policy. If I have you with me, then your little sister will not be inclined to do anything, shall we say, foolish.”
She shifted impatiently on the plush leather seat. “Honestly, I’d rather you’d cut my fingers off and posted them to her. Like any self-respecting kidnapper would have done. At least, then, I wouldn’t have had to put up with you lot for the last two days.”
“Trust me, beautiful,” said Mr Swan, sat next to her. “If your sister doesn’t play ball, it won’t be your fingers I’ll be cutting off.”
Madeline groaned like a child who’d been told to clean their room. “Please, can you start with my ears? Then at least I won’t have to listen to you any longer, you odious cretin.”
Mr Esposito laughed. “I think she is quite fond of you, Mr Swan. Tell me, Mr Swan,” he continued. “Has our man on the ground made contact with Ms Hopkins, or is she still remaining… elusive?”
“No sign, Mr Esposito. The sale of the Viking cross went through, and we’ve got people monitoring the airport and the ferry terminal. We know she’s on the island, and there’s no way she’s going to get off it without our knowledge.”
“Very good,” said Mr Esposito. “We can then enjoy the charms of this enchanting island until we meet up with her. And the sale of the cross went as expected?”
“One-point-six million pounds, Mr Esposito.”
“Excellent news, Mr Swan. Can we double our efforts to find Ms Hopkins? It would be a shame if we were to have come all this way with her sister and not be able to arrange a family reunion. Madeline, you would be appreciative of a family reunion, would you not?” asked Mr Esposito, getting her name right this time, and pronouncing the last syllable of it with the long vowel sound, like ‘brine’.
Madeline tried to free her arm, which was being gripped tightly. “Drop dead, asshole!” she said with venom.
“Say the word, Mr Esposito, and I’ll I throw her out the car.”
Mr Esposito raised his hand. “No need, Mr Swan, but thank you. You see, Madeline, Mr Swan is what I would consider to be a loyal employee, someone I would trust with my life and often have. If my employees are good with me, then I am exceptionally good with them. Would you agree, Mr Swan?”
“I agree, Mr Esposito. Exceptionally good.”
“Good god,” said Madeline. “I think I just threw up a little in my mouth. Why don’t you two get a room?”
“No need, Mr Swan, thank you,” Mr Esposito said, raising his hand once more. “Madeline, I do not take betrayal too kindly. One of my problems, and I do have them, is that people see the cheerful face…” He motioned towards his face with a flourish of his hand. “… polite speech, and friendly disposition, and they mistake this for weakness. Do you think I am a weak person, Madeline, someone who is easily taken advantage of?”
She was brave but she wasn’t stupid, choosing, this time, to remain silent.
“Good,” said Mr Esposito. “If you thought I was weak, that would have made me very sad. What I find particularly upsetting is when employees betray me. You can imagine how distressed I was when I heard that you and your lovely sister — who I see as partners, mind you, rather than employees — had developed, unexpectedly, a moral compass and had attempted to betray me. You can understand why I would find such a thing especially disappointing, can you not, Madeline?”
Again, she thought discretion was the better part of valour and kept her mouth shut.
The car came to a halt at a level crossing, allowing a steam train to cross the road in front of them. Madeline gave the door handle a furtive glance and considered her chances at making a bolt for it. The grip on her arm had been relaxed, and the occupants of the car captivated by the steam engine. She felt a mixture of amusement and disbelief at the sight of three armed, hardened criminals waving gleefully at the passengers on the train like they were out for nothing more than a pleasant Sunday drive.
They were about to pull away, once the train had passed, and she knew this was the best chance she’d have at escape, but she also knew it was useless. She had no phone, money, purse, or even a passport.
Mr Esposito must have sensed her unease. “Relax, my dear. Your pretty eyes have a frown, and you do not want to get wrinkles. We will soon be on our way home, do not worry. We simply need to have a little chat with your sister. See if we can talk a bit of sense into her. This is all. D'accordo?”
Sam was in to work early. Very early. He hadn’t been able to sleep, and his second coffee of the morning had done little apart from prompting a bowel movement. His knuckles pushed into his cheekbones, supporting his head as he looked vacantly at the energetic joggers taking advantage of the empty promenade. He’d spent the remainder of the previous evening mulling over whether to update Abby or not about his meeting with the FBI. Ordinarily, he would have thought nothing about texting her at stupid o’clock, but this had been different. This time she had been on a date, and likely preoccupied with… well, preoccupied — he didn’t want to think about with what. There were notions he could entertain, of course. But he didn’t want to even let them in, much less entertain them.
“Morning!” announced Abby cheerily as she entered the office, and she said it with an unusual (and disheartening, as far as Sam was concerned) amount of gusto. “You’re in work early, are you not?” she asked, and continued on befo
re he’d even had a chance to respond. She said like a whirlwind dancing across the waves, “I think this office is too big for us now, what do you think, do you reckon the old man will look to move us elsewhere, to a smaller office, Ooh, I don’t think I want to move from here, I mean, look at that beautiful view, I do love that view, I don’t think I’d want to give that up, I’ve always loved—”
“Have you taken something?” Sam interrupted, in reference to the speed at which she was speaking.
“What?” asked Abby, hanging up her jacket. “Taken? No, why do you ask?”
Sam shrugged his shoulders in an attempt to appear disinterested. “You just seem… wired, is all.”
“Oh, are you on your second coffee already?” she asked, swirling around in the pot Sam had made what little remained, and without waiting for his answer. “Today, young Samuel, I am in a really fine mood. The sun is shining, the gulls are calling, and we’re working on an interesting case!”
“Which may not pay us,” said Sam, his words like a cold fog.
“Which may not pay us, correct, but is, at least, interesting!” Abby chimed in, undaunted.
She had her hair in bunches. She always looked cute with her hair that way, Sam thought wistfully. He tried to act as nonchalantly as possible. “Did you have a nice evening?” he asked.
Her face lit up. “Wonderful!” she beamed. “We went to that new little Italian. The food was fantastic, you really must go!”
Sam collapsed deeper into his chair. “Oh, yes, I forgot you were on a date last night,” he said, lying. He was desperate to find out who she was with, of course, though without saying it outright. “Did he… em… dress nice?” he asked, somewhat less-than-cleverly.
“What? Did he dress nice? Since when were you the fashion police? You’re just fishing to see who I was with!”
“Pardon?” said Sam casually (if unconvincingly so). “Sorry, I wasn’t listening, and I wasn’t fishing!” he protested.
“See, you were listening!”
“I just don’t want to see you making stupid mistakes again,” said Sam, more to the truth (if leaving out one important consideration most pertinent to him). “Your choice in men has historically been, let’s just say… questionable.”
