The Eavesdropper

Home > Other > The Eavesdropper > Page 20
The Eavesdropper Page 20

by Edward Trimnell


  I struggled to throw him off. I arched my back in a vain attempt to brace my palms on the blacktop and gain some leverage. It was no use. Donnie Brady had too much of an advantage over me, in both size and strength.

  "Hold still, damn you!”

  Something cold and hard poked the side of my head. I turned and looked into the barrel of a gun.

  "You try anything else, and I'll shoot you right here and now. I swear I will."

  I had an immediate flashback to that day in North Carolina, when Sid had threatened me with a gun. I had entertained some doubts about Sid’s willingness to use his weapon. Our manager, after all, had much to lose.

  Donnie was something else. He lived on the edge to begin with, and he now felt threatened by Sid, the Russians…and me. He was as desperate as I was, only in a far more dangerous way. He would be capable of anything right now.

  “All right! What do you want?"

  Donnie Brady laughed in a manner that chilled me to my core. Then, without warning, he slammed his pistol into the side of my head.

  “You son of a bitch!” I managed to utter. I was seeing stars now. If Donnie hit me like that again, he would likely knock me unconscious.

  "Still the big talker, aren't you, Frank?" Donnie leaned forward into my back, causing me to cry out in pain. I didn't like giving him the satisfaction, but it was a reflex response.

  "Sid should have taken care of you, but he didn't have the guts."

  That implied something ominous about Donnie’s intentions. I tried to get him to change the subject.

  "Where's Ellen? I mean Ellen Trevor, not Ellen Watson."

  Donnie laughed. “You're so clueless about all this. Do you know that? Ellen Trevor is not the angel you seem to think she is."

  "What do you mean by that? Tell me!”

  But Donnie was in no mood for answering any further questions. He held the gun directly in front of my face, so that I could see into the black hole of the muzzle.

  "You and me, Frank, we're going for a little drive."

  "I'm not going anywhere with you."

  "Then like I said, I'll shoot you right here and now. I swear I will."

  Somehow, I believed him.

  "Okay, Donnie. You win. We’ll go for a drive.”

  “The damn Russians,” I heard Donnie say—more to himself than to me. “Sid should never have gotten them involved.”

  Chapter 77

  I know what you're thinking: why in the world would I agree to go for a drive with Donnie Brady, especially in his current state?

  The first reason was that I realized how fully helpless I was with him sitting atop me. The guy was heavy, and I was no match for the strength that he had acquired from all those hours of weightlifting.

  I had been half hoping for rescue. With all my pounding on Ellen’s front door, I figured that surely I would have roused at least one of the neighbors. Someone would step out of their front door to investigate the bedlam. Any second and I would hear someone shout for Donnie to get off me. I might even hear police sirens.

  That would have been a realistic hope at six o'clock in the evening. But this was roughly 8:45 in the morning on a weekday, and the condominium complex really was deserted. All of Ellen’s neighbors were at work.

  So that was my first reason for agreeing to take a ride with Donnie. I had to get to my feet. I was helpless on the ground.

  The second reason? The second reason was that I believed that he might actually shoot me, if I gave him too much of an argument. I was intent on escape, but I would have to move quickly and decisively; and it was nothing that I could accomplish from a prone position on the ground.

  "You win, Donnie," I repeated. “Just don't shoot me, Okay?"

  Donnie made no such promise. But I did feel his weight lighten.

  He stood up. Now that he was no longer atop me, I could feel a new set of bruises and aches.

  I thought about my recent beating at the hands of one of the “Russians” Donnie had mentioned. I had never led a rough life; I simply wasn't the sort of person who either sought out or attracted physical conflict. In the past two weeks, I had been on the receiving end of what was—for me—more than a lifetime’s worth of violence.

  “Get up slowly,” Donnie commanded.

  I did get up slowly—not so much because Donnie commanded me to do so, but more because I was hurting. First I got my hands underneath me, then one knee. My new injuries cried out as I struggled to my feet.

  Now I was standing again, at least. Donnie was also standing, facing me with the pistol in his hand, pointed directly at me.

  According to my hastily conceived strategy, this was to be the moment at which I was going to rush him, take him by surprise. But Donnie was fully alert, and he was the one holding the gun. If I attempted to rush him, to knock or wrestle the gun from his hand, he would simply shoot me.

  “What are you looking at, Frank?”

  “Nothing,” I said, feeling utterly defeated. Maybe I should have taken my chances on the ground.

  Then I had another idea. If I could get behind the wheel of my car, maybe I could turn things to my advantage. He would be less likely to shoot me if I was driving, I reasoned. If he shot me while I was driving, the car would crash with both of us. Donnie would be able to reason that much out. Donnie might be unbalanced, but I didn't believe he was insane enough to commit a willful act of self-destruction.

  “All right, Donnie. We can go in my car,” I suggested.

  Donnie snorted. “What, do you think we’re planning a buddies’ road trip? No, we aren't going to go in your car. We’ll go in my car.”

  “Whatever you say, Donnie,” I said. Another sinking feeling.

  “Walk,” he said, directing me with the barrel of the gun.

  Donnie’s car was parked just a few spaces down from mine: It was an old red Jeep Wrangler, spattered with mud and fringed with rust.

  “Get in,” he said. “The door’s unlocked.”

  I opened the door and slid into the front passenger seat. I stared out the windshield, trying to think of my next move. Did I even have a next move?

  “Look at me,” Donnie said.

  I turned to look at Donnie and he slugged me. Pain, then shockwaves of dizziness and disorientation.

  When my head stopped spinning, Donnie was wrapping my hands with masking tape. He had thought things out better than I’d anticipated.

  Then Donnie was behind the wheel. He started the engine and backed out of the parking space. He drove with one hand, holding the gun in his left hand, where he could easily aim it, but I couldn't lunge for it.

  “Where are we going?”

  “Shut up.”

  Once again I was reminded of my ride through North Carolina with Sid. This was much worse, actually.

  Donnie drove through Beechwood, in the direction of Thomas-Smithfield.

  Donnie is taking me back to the office, I thought.

  Then he made a turn off the main road, onto a secondary road, and I understood. We were going to Donnie’s apartment. He lived only a mile or so from the company, I knew. I had been to his apartment, after all.

  He parked the Jeep in a parking space near his front door. He took a moment to look around in all directions. Like Ellen’s condominium complex, the apartment complex in which Donnie lived was a ghost town at this hour of a workday.

  Donnie pointed the gun at me.

  “Inside?” I asked.

  “See, I knew you were a smart guy.”

  Donnie motioned for me to get out of the jeep. Once again, I followed his direction. The parking lot, empty of people, taunted me. This would have been an opportune time for one of Donnie's neighbors to come wandering outside for a mid-morning walk, or, even better, for a Beechwood Police Department patrol car to happen by.

  But there was to be no rescue from any third party. I might have run, but where, exactly, was I going to run to? My hands were bound with masking tape. Donnie discreetly pocketed the pistol for our walk to h
is apartment, but he would have been easily capable of manhandling me with brute physical force.

  My only consolation was the thought that surely Donnie would not be foolish enough to murder me in his own apartment. His choice of location might mean that I still had a bit more time.

  The inside of his apartment smelled of old food and sweat. He shoved me down onto a couch that had seen better days, and removed his cell phone from his pocket. He sat down in a brown recliner opposite me. It was a position from which he could easily intercept me, but from where I had no chance of succeeding with any surprise move. He laid the pistol in his lap and began pushing buttons on his cell phone.

  The first call Donnie made was to Bethany.

  "Bethany? Hey, you need to get over here. To my place. Yeah, I know you're at work. You need to leave. I've got a little visitor. Yeah, I did it. Just like I said I would… I don't care what Sid says. We need to take care of our Frank problem."

  The next call, I could tell from the tone and the context, was to Sid. Donnie was simultaneously shrill and deferential, both hesitant and defiant. I sat there on Donnie's sofa while he informed Sid of my unwilling presence in his apartment. There was a brief argument between them. The obvious cause was Sid's harsh rebuke of Donnie's bold but reckless move. I was now certain that Donnie had acted independently in abducting me. He had gone rogue, even within this band of rogues.

  Donnie put his phone away and sat there, facing me. It was obvious from his two phone calls that we would not be alone much longer, that both Sid and Bethany would be here.

  I wanted to engage him in conversation, to ask him what he had in mind for me. I wanted to know what he knew about Ellen Trevor. (Clearly, I had taken too much for granted where Ellen Trevor was concerned.)

  But I also knew that I would receive no straight answers from Donnie Brady. Any attempt to engage him would be met with more violence.

  Moreover, it would be a waste of valuable time. I figured that more drastic changes were coming—and soon. I had, perhaps, ten or twenty minutes to think before Sid and Bethany arrived. I therefore had to try to anticipate what the rest of the morning might bring, and how I could possibly save myself.

  Chapter 78

  There was a knock at the front door of Donnie’s apartment. Donnie stood up and called out, “Who's there?"

  Sid's terse reply was not long in coming.

  "Come on, quit screwing around! Open the damn door!”

  Donnie walked over to the front door and flung it open. From where I was sitting I could see Sid and Bethany standing in the doorway just outside the apartment. They had arrived simultaneously, more or less.

  "I wasn't screwing around. I had to make sure who it was."

  Sid walked through the front door, roughly shoving Donny aside. Bethany followed him in.

  "That's why you have a peephole, idiot,” Sid said.

  Donnie’s face turned red, and for a moment I wondered if the two of them were going to come to blows again. Sid had certainly humbled Donnie that day in the woods. But on the other hand, Bethany was here now. It is one thing to be beaten and humiliated by another man in private. It is another thing to be humiliated and roughed up by that same man in front of your girlfriend.

  And then, of course, there was the fact that Sid was sleeping with Bethany. I wondered if Donnie had figured that out yet.

  Bethany looked at me on the couch, as if I were some disgusting object that had turned up on the sole of her shoe.

  “We don’t have room to sit down while we talk this out,” she said.

  Without warning, Donnie yanked me off the sofa and threw me onto the floor. First there was the impact, and then the burn from the threadbare carpet. Since my hands were bound, I could do little to break the fall. I came down like the proverbial sack of potatoes.

  "Now you have a place to sit down," Donnie said. He roughly shoved me aside with his foot and gestured for Sid and Bethany to occupy the space from which I had just been vacated.

  Donnie had the gun out now. He didn't point it at Sid or directly threaten him with it; but I could tell that he wanted Sid to see it. There would be no repeat of the incident in the woods, Sid roughing up Donnie and leaving him to pick himself up.

  “Donnie,” Sid said slowly. “You have no idea what you’re doing.”

  “The hell I don’t,” Donnie said. “He knows too much. Not to mention the other one.”

  This was an obvious reference to Ellen Trevor. Had Donnie abducted Ellen last night? Was he moving methodically down the list of those who were liabilities to the conspirators?

  “Yeah, well, he does now,” Sid said.

  Bethany interjected. “Sid, I know how you feel. I know that you and Donnie don’t agree on this.”

  “Bethany, this isn't some trivial matter at Thomas-Smithfield we’re talking about. This is serious. This is for real.”

  Donnie hoisted the gun—again, not aiming it at Sid, but making sure that everyone in the room saw it. “I know this is for real,” Donnie said, as if the gun somehow demonstrated that. Perhaps, in a way, it did.

  “Donnie, put that damn thing down before it goes off and shoots someone. That’s all we need.”

  “Up yours, Sid, I—”

  “Put it down,” Bethany said. “At least put it down.”

  Nodding silently, Donnie laid the pistol on the armrest of the recliner in which he was sitting. It was still within easy reach.

  “Anyway, Sid,” Bethany said. “However much you may disagree with Donnie—disagree with me, for that matter—you can’t deny that now, at this point, Frank really does know too much.”

  Sid paused for a few moments, pondering this. At length he nodded and said, “I suppose you’re right.”

  “So let’s do it,” Donnie said, lifting the pistol again. “What are we waiting for?”

  There was no question in my mind what “it” referred to. They were openly planning my murder now.

  “Donnie,” Sid countered. “Have you ever done that before? It leaves evidence. Have you ever cleaned up afterward, disposed of—” Sid briefly glanced at me, as if wanting to spare me the unpleasant but necessary details—“have you ever disposed of a body? It’s a little more complicated than taking out your trash, unless you want to get caught immediately after you do it.”

  “Okay, it’s ‘complicated’. So what do you have in mind, hotshot?”

  “I need to call Sokolov and Kuznetsov. They won't be happy, but they'll help. Never mind: I'll deal with it. What choice do I have?”

  “So call them,” Donnie said.

  “I will.” Sid stood up. Clearly, he was preparing to leave.

  “And where the hell are you going? We’re all in this together, ‘boss’. It’s not like you can’t call them in front of Bethany and me.”

  “That isn't it,” Sid said, as if doing his best to be diplomatic. I don’t keep their numbers on my phone.”

  “Bullshit. What are you talking about?”

  “Take a minute to think about it, Donnie. I’m a manager at Thomas-Smithfield. I travel all the time, which means that my phone could always be lost in an airport, or mistakenly grabbed by someone else at a meeting. My main personal phone is issued by the company. Thomas-Smithfield legally owns the device. And though I don't have reason to believe that they actively spy on me, it isn't beyond possibility that the company’s IT department could have access to the data on the phone. Now, do you think I want to have the numbers of two Russian gangsters on my speed-dial?”

  “So where do you keep the numbers?” Bethany asked.

  Sid smiled, as if imparting his wisdom as an experienced manager to a group of green, callow subordinates. Which—from a certain perspective—he arguably was.

  “I don’t keep the numbers in any electronic database,” he explained. “They’re stored in coded format, among my personal paperwork, in my desk at Thomas-Smithfield.”

  “Isn’t that just as dangerous?” Bethany asked.

  “That’s actually t
he safest place to keep them,” Sid explained, with a superficial air of the patient teacher. “It’s called hiding in plain sight—but not quite plain sight. Imagine, for example—and this is only an example—that the number is in my paper-based Rolodex, apparently assigned to a pizza delivery shop or a dentist’s office, only in code, with each digit increased by a factor of one.”

  Donnie grunted in exasperation. This was more complexity than he wanted to deal with. He would have preferred to do something with the gun on his chair’s armrest. Coded telephone numbers were of no interest to him.

  “Whatever,” he said. “All right, Sid. You go back to the office and make the call. Bethany and I will stay here with our buddy, Frank.”

  Sid nodded. “I thought you’d see it my way.”

  Bethany seemed a bit more nervous about the new arrangement. “Hurry, Sid, okay?”

  I, of course, did not want Sid to hurry. But I was marginally grateful that he had added in this additional layer of complication. Anything that would give me more time to think—and act.

  I briefly wondered: Was he being truthful with his co-conspirators? Sid had a point, of course, about hiding the gangsters’ contact information in plain sight, and not in an electronic form. But I suspected there was something more behind his tactics.

  Sid would also want to be sure that when the Russian gangsters showed up at Donnie’s apartment, he would be far removed from the scene. If his presence at Thomas-Smithfield could be subsequently verified, Sid would give himself a measure of plausible deniability.

  And he wouldn't stop there: The call to Sokolov or Kuznetsov would be made on a disposable cell phone, which would be quickly disposed of as soon as the arrangements were made. There were many dumpsters at Thomas-Smithfield. Quite a few of them contained various types of electronic and mechanical waste. A disposable cell phone tossed into a dumpsterful of such junk would catch no one’s attention. All Sid would have to do is deposit the phone into one of those garbage receptacles, and within a few hours his burner phone would be on its way to the incinerator.

 

‹ Prev