The Consultant

by Claude Bouchard

  “And risk a complaint to Employment Standards,” he snorted, returning to the dining room. “Not a chance, lady.”

  “What a relief,” Sandy sighed as he handed her a cup of coffee. “Thanks. Now sit down and I'll give you my report.”

  “Great. What did you find?”

  “Three of the top boys at Quality seem to be doing extremely well financially,” she proudly started, referring to a computer printout she had brought down with her. “Wayne, the operations guy, has been buying real estate for a couple of years now. Mostly apartment blocks, commercial buildings, that kind of thing. Places that generate income. He owns well over twenty million in rental properties, in addition to several extremely expensive homes which are either occupied by members of his family or used for recreation. He currently has no mortgages or loans outstanding.”

  “Maybe he’s just a sound financial planner,” kidded Chris. “What else?”

  “Greg, your Director of Finance, lives pretty conservatively. One house, nice, based on the price, but not extravagant; his real money’s into investments; stocks, bonds, mutual funds. He’s also worth a lot more than what he gets paid at Quality; many millions more.”

  “Who’s the third?” asked Chris, not surprised about the first two.

  “Bryan Downey,” replied Sandy, “Director of Sales.”

  “I’ve only met him once, briefly,” admitted Chris, “On my first day when Peterson introduced me to everybody.”

  Sandy continued. “He seems to be a flashy one; a number of properties, all apparently for his personal use. One is his main residence in Laval-sur-le-Lac. He also has condos in Vancouver, Palm Beach and Santa Barbara and villas in Oahu, Phuket and Maracaibo. He seems to like big toys because he currently owns nine expensive cars, three boats including a sixty foot yacht, not to mention a helicopter.”

  “Jesus, I’ve got to get myself a full-time job at this place," exclaimed Chris with a playful air. “Anybody else?”

  “The supervisor of the receiving department earns $36,000 a year and is living in a quarter million dollar home and driving a sixty thousand dollar car. The two lead hands in receiving both have comfortable properties, fully paid for. One also has a second residence in St-Sauveur while the other has an eighty thousand dollar yacht parked at the Oka Marina. These guys earn $26,000 a year so I guess they must do a lot of overtime.”

  “Anybody else seem shady?” Chris enquired.

  “Not from what I could dig up. If anyone else is involved, they’re not getting paid much or they’re doing a much better job at hiding the extra cash. You’ve got addresses, makes of cars, names of boats, everything in here.”

  She slid the computer report across the table to him.

  “Well, I must say Ms Taylor, you’ve done some excellent work,” commended Chris, standing and reaching for his wife. “I don’t know how I’ll ever repay you.”

  “Think a little,” Sandy replied as she removed her oversized sweatshirt, revealing her firm naked body underneath. “I’m sure something will come up.”

  * * * *

  After a memorable morning with Sandy, Chris had reluctantly switched his mind back to the task at hand and headed to his warehouse behind Quality Imports. Before leaving, he had made a few last minute adjustments to some of the hardware he would be using and he was anxious for a final test.

  Although Tony Bradley had assured him that nobody went into the rented warehouses, Chris had changed the locks on both the shipping dock and walk-in doors and had also installed door alarms for good measure. He did not want anybody nosing around.

  His observation camera was now in place in the second floor office window from where one had an excellent view of the shipping doors at Quality Imports where he had seen Wayne and company the previous Wednesday. It was time to see if the whole thing worked.

  He pulled his cell phone from his pocket and retrieved a number from memory. The ‘record’ light on the video cam came on but the usual whirring of the tape could not be heard; so far, so good. He punched another number on the phone and listened to the ringing while waiting for a reply.

  “Hi, gorgeous,” answered Sandy back at home.

  “Hey there. So, you got your breath back?” he enquired teasingly, referring to their morning together.

  “Just barely,” she laughed. “But I should be in shape for another round when you get back.”

  “Whoa, sweetheart. Gimme a break,” he groaned. “Don’t forget, I’m a retiree.”

  “Okay, I’ll wait until tonight,” she conceded with a chuckle. “By the way, the VCR started just before you called. What I can see is the back of a warehouse with an occasional car driving by on the highway in front. I presume that’s what you wanted?”

  “Yes. Great,” Chris replied. “I’m just about done here. I’ll see you in a little while.”

  “Be careful,” Sandy responded. “Bye.”

  He had been bothered with having the tape in the video cam. First of all, it limited the recording time to eight hours which would have meant having to show up at the warehouse much more frequently to change the tape, therefore increasing the risk of being seen. Secondly, if somebody did get into this place, they could easily grab a possibly valuable tape.

  To overcome these problems, he had installed a receiver on the VCR at home, hoping that the image would transmit properly via the cell phone network. It worked. Basically, his system was simple. He had set a switch and transmitter in the video cam which was activated by phone. One frequency started the camera and transmitted the signal to the receiver installed in the VCR. Another frequency also sent the image to the screen of his Sony Watchman. A third simply turned off the whole network. Ingenious. He could now track the questionable activities of some of his new co-workers in relative safety.

  He’d look into the possibility of setting up another camera inside the Quality warehouse but recognized that that would be risky. He wouldn’t want anybody to spot it and he certainly wasn’t interested in having anybody walk in on him during the installation. He would have to think about that one carefully.

  Pleased with his accomplishments thus far, he left his warehouse, locking the door securely behind him and arming the alarm system with a remote control he produced from his jacket pocket. He quickly crossed the paved yard and moved onto the property of his temporary employer, towards the second leg of his journey.

  Satisfied that he was alone after having walked the perimeter of the building, he entered by his usual side door, pausing only long enough to enter his security code into the alarm control pad. As he started his tour of the premises, he turned on his cell phone and pressed the appropriate keys, activating his surveillance camera. His Watchman came to life, displaying the empty yard by the shipping doors.

  Within fifteen minutes, he had completed his visit of the front section of the building, having concentrated his attention on the offices of Wayne, Greg and Bryan. He moved on to the warehouse area, waiting a moment for his eyes to adjust to the low illumination. Not quite certain of what he was looking for, he started to wander slowly through the aisles, keeping his eyes open for anything of interest.

  As the minutes went by, he became engrossed in his search, poking into boxes and crates, amazed by the variety of merchandise stored in the place. He sauntered into another aisle where he noticed a number of familiar looking wooden cases. Maybe he’d get to find out what had been in the ones he had seen on Wednesday night.

  Examining the first crate, he noted that it was securely nailed shut. He went back to a wrapping station he had passed two aisles earlier and returned with a small crowbar. As he got to work on the case, the warehouse was suddenly flooded with light.

  “Holy shit,” Chris muttered under his breath, pulling the Watchman from his jacket pocket and staring at the screen while he fumbled for his cell phone.

  A black Maxima was parked below the shipping dock. He pressed the appropriate keys and the screen went dark. He’d have to be less stupid in the future. For no
w though, he had a problem to solve and he had no idea where his problem was or if he was alone. He couldn’t hear any conversation which he hoped meant he was dealing with one person only.

  He concentrated for a moment, thinking back to Sandy’s computer report which he had scanned before leaving; Black Maxima. One of the receiving lead hands, Rick something. That might come in handy if he came face to face with the guy.

  He considered his options and decided that, if at all possible, he preferred to just get the hell out for now. It was too early in the game to get caught snooping around.

  He started backing up slowly towards the side aisle, listening for any sound which might indicate the visitor’s whereabouts. He felt something against the back of his leg and realized, too late, what it was. The crowbar clattered to the concrete floor, its metallic jangle, without a doubt, the loudest noise that Chris had ever heard.

  Footsteps rapidly approached along the central aisle and Chris started towards them, crowbar in hand.

  “Who’s there?” he demanded in a loud, firm voice as he rounded the corner.

  Rick, some fifteen feet away, stopped in his tracks as this somewhat familiar looking man appeared before him wielding a crowbar.

  “Who the fuck are you?” Rick nervously asked, keeping his distance as he pointed the small pistol he held at Chris.

  “Chris Barry. I’m working on the computers until they find a new guy. You’re Rick, right?” Chris asked, relaxing his stance a bit as he lowered the crowbar.

  “Yeah, that’s me,” Rick replied, also relaxing slightly. ‘What are you doing here?”

  “My wife and I got into a fight,” Chris responded, grinning sheepishly. “I figured I’d come in and work a little while she blows off some steam.”

  Rick snickered and seemed more at ease. “What were you snooping around back here for?”

  “I was in my office and I saw a car go by. When I didn’t see it come back, I came to make sure everything was okay.”

  Rick, visibly relaxed now, took a few steps towards Chris. ‘I’m sorry, Mr. Barry. I just wasn’t expecting anybody here. I thought somebody had broken in.”

  “Seems like you would have done fine even if that had been the case,” suggested Chris, gesturing towards the gun.

  “Oh, shit. Sorry, Mr. Barry,” Rick exclaimed, tucking the small weapon into the back of his pants. “We’ve had some problems here before. One of our guys got beat up pretty bad. That ain’t gonna happen to me.”

  “Good for you, Rick. Good for you,” said Chris encouragingly. “Listen, if everything’s under control, I’ll get out of your hair and get back to work. It was nice to meet you.”

  “Sure, Mr. Barry, nice to meet you too.”

  The two men shook hands and headed their separate ways, Chris towards the front offices and Rick to the back of the warehouse.

  Chris hurried to the side door by which he had come in, entered his security code and exited. He moved quickly towards the rear along the east side of the building, activating his camera as he went. The Maxima was still visible on the screen but Rick was nowhere in sight. He rounded the corner, scanning the area to make sure no chance witnesses were present but the place was deserted. As he approached the next corner, he slowed his pace and looked at his screen, smiling as he saw himself.

  He waited for a moment and saw Rick appear with cardboard box in his hands, heading for the Maxima as the trunk popped open. As Rick leaned forward to load the carton into the car, Chris moved in swiftly and silently behind him, the crowbar raised high. He swung it down forcefully, delivering a solid blow to the back of Rick’s skull. He quickly flipped the unconscious man into the open trunk, pausing only to retrieve his victim’s car keys and gun before closing the lid.

  “Sorry, Rick,” Chris murmured softly. “I didn’t want you to tell your friends I was here and, I was curious to find out what you guys have in those boxes. Let me get you somewhere more comfortable so you can sleep. You and I can talk later.”

  Chapter 13 - Sunday, January 26, 1997

  Chris strolled up to the door of his rented warehouse, disarming the alarm with the remote control as he approached. He had parked a couple of blocks away, as he had done the previous day, to avoid having his vehicle spotted. He unlocked the door, wondering how his guest was this morning. He hoped Rick had slept well.

  He had been angry at himself yesterday for his carelessness and had sworn that nothing similar would happen again. But in retrospect, he was happy with how things had turned out and how easy it had been.

  He had driven the Maxima around the block and brought it to his warehouse. The pull-out ramps installed within the loading dock had made stashing the car child’s play. He had pulled Rick's still unconscious form out of the trunk and, with the help of a roll of filament packing tape and a support post in one corner, had ensured that his visitor would be no trouble.

  Rick was awake but still in the position Chris had left him, seated on the floor and securely taped to the post behind him. He glared at Chris as the latter approached to check if his wrists and ankles were still properly bound.

  ‘Good morning, Rick,” Chris cheerfully greeted. “Did you sleep well? Silly me; how can I expect you to answer me with that tape on your mouth?”

  He bent over and, with a swift jerk, ripped off the tape, causing Rick some obvious discomfort.

  “You goddamn motherfucker,” Rick bellowed, trying to rub his painful face on his shoulder.

  “I’m standing here, completely free and mobile,” Chris stated calmly, “While you’re sitting there, totally helpless and vulnerable, taped to a pole. I suggest you be careful how you talk to me, Rick. Understand?”

  “Fuck you,” screamed Rick. “You don’t know who you’re dealing with, asshole. You’re a dead man.”

  “Rick, Rick, Rick. You just don’t seem to realize who’s got the big end of the stick here,” Chris muttered, shaking his head. “How can you threaten me? You’re not being logical. Think, man, think.”

  “They're gonna kill you,” Rick insisted. “You’re gonna regret the day you decided to fuck with them.”

  “Who’s gonna kill me, Rick?” enquired Chris, obviously not shaken by his prisoner’s threats.

  “Fuck you, you son of a bitch,” Rick shot back. “You’ll find out soon enough. I ain’t stupid enough to give you a lead.”

  “Are you talking about Wayne and Greg?” Chris suggested. “Or do you mean Bryan? Oh, I know. Maybe you’re talking about Bob, your boss, or Matt, that other little shit that works with you.”

  Rick’s face paled noticeably as the various names were mentioned, drawing a smile from Chris. Barring the verifications that Sandy had made, Chris had nothing specific linking these individuals to any criminal activity. Any one of their comfortable financial positions might have been explained by an inheritance, a lottery or a rich parent. Rick’s initial reaction however, seemed to confirm the involvement of the named parties.

  “So which one should I be worried about, Rick?” Chris continued. “Are they all killers or just some of them? But maybe they’re not into murder. Maybe that’s your job. Maybe you’re the guy who shot George.”

  Rick’s body stiffened and the fear was apparent on his face.

  “Bullshit. I didn’t do it,” he blurted out. “And there’s no way you could prove that I did.”

  “I’d have to disagree with you on that,” Chris smoothly replied. “I’ve got your gun and a boxful of coke. The cops have a dead body. Put everything together and it fits. You’re in for life.”

  “The cops’ll see it ain’t my gun that did it,” Rick argued, doing his best to seem confident.

  “Oh come on, Rick,” Chris snorted in disgust. “How stupid are you? Do you think the cops give a fuck if it’s the right gun? They’ll know you were into some kind of shit. So what, maybe you didn’t kill George. Somebody’s gotta pay. They take your gun and shoot a few rounds into a side of beef. Then they pull out the slugs and replace the ones they had taken
from George’s body. Bingo. Dead body, your gun, your slugs, your murder.”

  “Th-they can’t do that,” Rick cried out. “That’s, that’s wrong.”

  “That’s life, Ricky-boy,” Chris responded with a laugh. “There’s got to be a guilty party.”

  “Well, I don’t buy it,” Rick spat out defiantly, another attempt at courage. “The cops can’t pin George’s murder on me and you’re still in really deep shit. That’s all I got to say.”

  Chris sighed, shaking his head as he pulled up a chair. He sat down and stared at his guest for a moment before speaking.

  “I want you to listen very carefully to what I have to say because it’s important. There are only two people who know where you are right now; you and me. That’s it. There’s also nobody else who knows or even suspects that I had anything to do with your disappearance. So your threats on my life don’t impress me. In fact, they’re starting to really annoy me.”

  He paused for a few seconds, continuing to stare at the younger man with cold, unblinking eyes. He believed he now had Rick’s full attention.

  “Now, you’ve mentioned a few times that I don’t know who I’m dealing with. Well, I’ll let you in on a little secret, my friend. You don’t know who you’re dealing with. You said you didn’t kill George and Rick, I believe you. I don’t think you ever killed anybody because you wouldn’t have the balls to do it. Now me, on the other hand, I’ve killed people; many times. Sometimes I beat them to death with a baseball bat. Other times, I slashed their throats. Once, I had this guy suspended by his wrists and used him for target practice. I must have shot him fifty times with his own guns. Oh, and another time, there was this pusher who sold crack and smack to little kids. I tied him up and injected him with the biggest goddamn overdose you ever saw. So, you see, I have killed before. I know how to do it and I do it well. I could easily do it again.”

  Another short pause allowed his words to clearly sink in.