by Mark Dawson
Milton detached the magazine and thumbed seven into the slot.
He slid the Desert Eagle into his jeans, his belt pressing it against his skin. The golden barrel was icy cold, the frame flat against his coccyx. He filled his pockets with the rest of the bullets. He dropped the Smith & Wesson 9mm into the go bag and slung it over his shoulder.
He shut and locked the crate.
He wouldn’t be coming back again.
Things were already too hot for him in San Francisco. He hadn’t been named in any of the newspaper reports that he had read about the missing girls but that was probably just a matter of time. It was a little irrelevant, too; his name would have been recorded by the police and Control would sniff that out soon enough. They could be here tomorrow or next week; there was no way of knowing when, except that they were coming. Under normal circumstances, he would have moved on already, but he didn’t feel able to leave until he had tried a little harder to find Madison. Trip would have no chance without him and, besides, he had a lead now. He would find out what he could and then disappear beneath the surface again.
The Explorer was parked close to the entrance of the facility.
He nodded to the attendant and made his way out to his car.
A SHORT DETOUR FIRST. Manny Martinez ran his operation out of a grocery shop in the Mission District, not far from Milton’s place. Milton had called ahead to make an appointment and, when he arrived, he was ushered all the way to the back of the store. There was a small office with a desk and a computer. A clock on the wall. Ramirez was a big man, wearing an old pair of cargo pants and a muscle top that showed off impressively muscled biceps and sleeves of tattoos on both arms. His head was shaved to a furze of rough hair and he had a tattoo of a tear beneath his right eye. Prison ink. Milton checked the office: his eye fell on the cudgel with a leather strap that was hanging from a hook on the wall.
“You Smith?”
“That’s right. Thank you for seeing me.”
“How much you want?”
“I don’t want anything.”
“You said––”
“Yes, I know––and I’m sorry about that. It’s something else.”
He sat up, flexing his big shoulders. “That right?”
“One of your customers––Richie Grimes?”
“Yeah,” he said. “I know Richie. Fucking reprobate. Drunk.”
“How much does he owe you?”
“What’s it got to do with you?”
“I’d like to buy his debt.”
“Just like that?”
“Just like that.”
“What if I don’t wanna sell?”
“Let me make you an offer––if you don’t want to sell after that, that’s fair enough.”
Ramirez swivelled the chair so that he was facing the computer and clicked through a series of files until he found the one he wanted. “He’s in the hole for fifty-eight hundred. He wanted four and the vig was ten per cent.”
“How’d you get to fifty-eight from there?”
“Compound interest, buddy. Interest on top of interest.”
“Hardly ethical.”
“Ethical? These are the streets, buddy. Ethics don’t get much play here.”
“I’ll give you five.”
Ramirez shook his head. “No.”
“Debt’s only worth what someone’ll pay for it.”
“What are you? An economist?”
“Five. That’s a grand clear profit.”
“I can get seven.”
“Not from him.”
“Don’t have to be from him, does it?”
The second hand on the clock swept around the dial. Milton opened his bag and reached into the stolen drug money inside. He would put it to good use. He took out the five bundles, each secured by an elastic band around twenty fifties, and put them on the desk.
“Five thousand. Come on, Mr. Ramirez––it’s right there.”
Ramirez looked up at him with an amused cast to his face. “I said no.”
“What’s the point in dragging this out? He’s got nothing.”
“He told you that? Guy’s an addict, like I said. You can’t believe a thing they say.”
“I believe him,” Milton said. “He can’t pay.”
“Then he’s got a problem.”
“Is that your final word?”
“That’s right.”
Milton nodded. He picked up the money and put it back into his bag.
“Come back with seven, maybe we can talk.”
Milton looked at him, then the cudgel. He was a big man but he was lounging back in his chair. He was relaxed. He didn’t see Milton as a threat but Milton could have killed him, right there and then. He could have done it before the second hand on the clock had skirted another semi-circle between the nine and twelve. Fifteen seconds. He thought about it for a moment but that wouldn’t solve Richie’s problems. The debts would be taken over by someone else, and that person might be worse. There would have to be another way.
“See you around,” Martinez said. A gold tooth in his mouth glittered as he grinned at him.
“You will,” Milton said.
MILTON CALLED Beau Baxter as he drove to the airport.
“Morning, English. What can I do for you?”
“Did you get a name for me?”
“I did. You got a pen and paper?”
“Go on.”
“You want to speak to Jarad Efron. You know who that is?”
“I’ve heard it before.”
“Not surprising. He’s a big noise on the tech scene.”
“Thanks. I’ll find him.”
“Goes without saying that you need to leave the Italians out of this.”
“Of course. Thanks, Beau. I appreciate it.”
“Anything else?”
“There is, actually. One other thing.”
“Shoot.”
“Do our friends have an interest in the lending business?”
“They have interests in lots of things.”
“So I’ll assume that they do. There’s a loan shark in the Mission District. A friend of mine owes him money. I just made him a very generous offer to buy the debt.”
“And he turned you down?
“Thinks he can get more.”
“And how could our friends help?”
“I get the impression that this guy’s out there all on his own. A lone operator. I wondered, if that’s something they’re involved in, whether the competition is something they’d be happy about. You think you could look into it for me?”
“What’s this dude’s name?”
“Manny Martinez.”
“Never heard of him. I can ask around, see what gives. I’ll let you know.”
Milton thanked him and said goodbye, ended the call and parked the Explorer. He took his go bag and went into the terminal building. He found the Hertz desk and hired a Dodge Charger, using one of the false passports and paying the three hundred bucks in cash. He drove it into the long-stay car park, put the go bag in the trunk, locked it, and then found his way back to the Explorer.
He felt better for the preparation. If he needed to get out of town on short notice, he could.
He put the car into gear and drove away.
There was someone he wanted to see.
32
THE MAN WAS in his early forties, in decent shape, just a little under six foot tall and with the kind of naturally lean frame that has gone a little soft with the onset of middle age. He had dark hair with flecks of grey throughout it and the expensive glasses he wore were borne a little uncomfortably. His clothes were neat and tidy––a crisp polo shirt, chinos and deck shoes––the whole ensemble marking him out as a little vain. Milton had parked in the lot for thirty minutes, the angle good enough for him to see the place side on, and to see all the comings and goings. It was more like a campus than an office. It looked like a busy place. The lot was full and there had been a steady stream of people going in to
start their working day. He had been waiting for one man in particular and, now, here he was. Milton eyed him as he opened the passenger door of his red Ferrari Enzo and took out a rucksack.
Milton looked at the scrap of paper that he had stuck to the windshield of the Explorer.
It was a picture.
The man in the Ferrari and the man in the picture were the same.
Jarad Efron.
Milton got out of his car, locked the door and followed the man as he exited the parking lot and started towards the office. The campus was out in the hills outside Palo Alto, surrounded by a lush forest bisected by streams, hiking paths and mountain bike trails. The wildness of the landscape had been transplanted here, too, with grasses and wildflowers allowed to grow naturally; purple heather clustered around the paths and coneflowers, evening primroses and asters sprouted from natural rock gardens. Milton quickened his pace so that he caught up with Efron and then overtook him. He gave him a quick sidelong glance: he had white iPhone earbuds pressed into his ears, something upbeat playing; his skin was tanned; his forehead was suspiciously plump and firm; there was good muscle tone on his arms. He was gym fit.
Milton slowed a little and followed into the lobby just behind him.
After he had spoken with Beau yesterday morning he had spent the afternoon doing research. Three hours at the local library. They had free internet and cheap coffee there and he had had plenty of things that he wanted to check.
Jarad Efron was familiar to him from the news and a quick Google search filled in the details: the man was CEO of StrongBox, one of the survivors of the first dotcom bubble that had since staked a claim in the cloud storage market. He was a pioneer. The company owned a couple of massive data farms in South Carolina, acres of deserted farmland rammed full of servers that they rented out to consumers, and, increasingly, to big tech companies who didn’t want to build facilities of their own. They offered space to Netflix and Amazon, among others. The company was listed on the NASDAQ with a price of $54 per share. Another search revealed that Efron had recently divested himself of five per cent of the company, pocketing thirty million bucks. He still owned another 2,000,000 shares.
A paper fortune of $108,000,000.
Efron was born and raised in Serbia, buying his first computer at the age of ten. He taught himself how to program, and, when he was twelve, he sold his first piece of software: a game he created called Battlestation Alpha. At the age of seventeen, he moved to Canada to attend Queen’s College, but he left to study business and physics at the University of Pennsylvania. He graduated with an undergraduate degree in economics and stayed for a second bachelor’s degree in physics. After leaving Penn, he moved to Stanford to pursue a PhD in energy physics. The move was perfectly timed with the first Internet boom, and he dropped out after just two days to become a part of it, launching his first company. He sold that for $100 million and set up StrongBox with the proceeds.
Milton looked around quickly, taking everything in. The lobby was furnished sparsely, minimally, but every piece of furniture––the leather sofas, the coffee table––looked exceedingly expensive. Two security guards in light blue uniforms and well shined shoes, big boys with a stiff posture. They both had holstered .45s hanging from their belts. The staff behind the reception desk looked like models from a high-end catalogue, with glossy, air-brushed skin and preternaturally bright eyes. Milton knew he only had one opportunity at this and, straightening his back and squaring off his shoulders, he followed right alongside Efron as the man beamed a bright smile of greeting to the girls and headed for the elevators. One of the girls looked past him at Milton, a moment of confusion breaking across her immaculate face, but Milton anticipated it and shone out a smile that matched Efron’s for brightness and confidence. Her concern faded and, even if it was with a little uncertainty, she smiled right back at him.
Milton dropped back again and let Efron summon an elevator. There were six doors: one of the middle ones opened with a pleasant chime and he went inside.
Milton stepped forwards sharply and entered the car as the doors were starting to close.
“Which floor?” Efron asked him absently.
Milton looked: ten floors, and Efron had hit the button for the tenth.
“Five, please.”
Efron pressed the button and stood back against the wall, leaving plenty of space between them.
The doors closed quietly and the elevator began to ascend.
Milton waited until they were between the second and third floors and hit the emergency stop.
The elevator shuddered and came to a halt.
“What are you doing?” Efron protested.
“I’ve got a few questions. Answer them honestly.”
“Who are you?”
Efron’s arm came up and made a sudden stab towards the button for the intercom. Milton anticipated it, blocked his hand away with his right and then, in the same circular motion, jackhammered his elbow backwards into Efron’s gut. It was a direct hit, just at the right spot to punch out all the air in his lungs, and he staggered back against the wall of the car with his hands clasped impotently to his sternum, gasping for breath. Milton grabbed the lapels of his jacket, knotted his fists into the fabric and heaved him backwards and up, slamming him into the wall so that his feet were momentarily off the ground. Then he dropped him.
“Hello?” said a voice through the intercom speakers.
Efron landed on his behind, gasping. Milton lowered himself to the same height, barred his forearm across the man’s throat and pressed, gently.
“It’s in your best interests to talk to me.”
“They’ll call … the police.”
“Probably better for you if they didn’t. The police are going to want to talk to you soon anyway, but you’ll do better with a little time to prepare. If they show up now, they’ll ask me what I was doing here. And I’m going to tell them all about the party you had in Pine Shore.”
“What party?”
“I was there, Mr. Efron. I drove Madison Clarke. You remember––the missing girl? I went inside. I saw it all. The people. I recognised some of them. The drugs. I have an eye for detail, Mr. Efron, and I have a very good memory. You want the police to know that? The press? I know a man like you, in your position, you definitely don’t want this in the papers. Bad publicity. It’d be a scandal, wouldn’t it? So we can speak to them if you want––go right ahead. I’ll wait.”
Milton could see him working out the angles, a frown settling over his handsome face. “Fuck,” he cursed angrily, but it was from frustration, backed by resignation; there was no fight there.
“Better sort that out.” Milton indicated the intercom. “You hit the button by mistake. Tell them it’s alright.”
He stood aside.
Efron’s breath was still a little ragged. He pushed the button to speak. “It’s Jarad,” he said. “I pressed the wrong button. Sorry. Can you reset it, please?”
“Yes, sir,” the girl said.
The elevator started to rise again.
It reached the fifth floor. The doors opened, no-one got on, the doors closed and the car continued upwards.
“Is your office on the tenth?”
“Yes.”
“We’ll go inside and shut the door. Don’t do anything stupid and I’ll be gone in five minutes.”
They reached the tenth floor and the doors opened again. Efron stepped out first and Milton followed. The floor must have been reserved for StrongBox’s executive team. Milton looked around. The big lobby was bright, daylight streaming in through huge floor to ceiling windows. One of the windows was open, leading out to a terrace area. The room was airy and fresh, very clean, the furniture and décor obviously chosen with great care and a generous budget. Efron led the way to a office with a wide picture window that framed the gorgeous landscape beyond: the deep green of the vegetation, the brown flanks of the distant mountains, infinite blue sky, crisp white clouds. There was a leather sofa and Milton
indicated that Efron should sit. He did as he was told. Milton shut the office door and sat on the edge of the desk.
“Don’t get too comfortable,” Efron said. “You’re not staying.”
“You better hope so. Tell me what I want to know and I’ll be on my way.”
“What’s your name?”
“You can call me Smith.”
“So what do you want, Mr. Smith?”
“Just to find the girl.”
“What girl?”
“The girl who went missing after the party.”
“I really have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Playing dumb is just going to mean this takes longer, Mr. Efron. And I’m not the most patient man in the world.”
“What’s her name?”
“Madison Clarke.”
His shrug didn’t quite mask a flicker of disquiet. “I don’t know anyone by that name.”
“But you own a house in Pine Shore.”
“No, I don’t. The company owns it. We’re expanding. Hiring a lot of new talent. Time to time, we have new executives stay there while they’re looking for places of their own. It’s not mine.”
