The Consultant

by Claude Bouchard

  “Now what?” Matt mouthed soundlessly.

  Bob pulled a revolver from his jacket pocket while thinking of an action plan. Finally, deciding that indicating their presence might be interpreted as a wish to avoid confrontation, he called out softly.

  “Hello. Is anybody home? Rick, are you here? It’s Bob and Matt. We were worried about you.”

  They listened for any sounds of movement, anything which might indicate somebody else’s presence, but heard nothing.

  Bob motioned Matt forward, barely whispering, “Slowly.”

  They crept silently ahead, searching frantically for any sign of activity. As they moved past the wall which separated the living room from the vestibule, Bob turned his head and gasped. Sprawled on a couch was Rick’s dead body, a syringe still protruding from his arm.

  “Oh, fuck, man,” mumbled Matt. “I’m gonna be sick.”

  True to his word, he made a serious mess on the thick pile carpet.

  “Get a hold of yourself,” hissed Bob. “Come on. Let’s check the rest of the house. There may still be someone here.”

  They continued their painstakingly slow search, which was interrupted on two occasions by Matt’s additional bouts of nausea, but found the house to be void of other occupants. Their search complete, they went into the kitchen, both badly in need of a drink. After draining a first beer, Bob picked up the phone to call Wayne.

  “Yeah, it’s me,” he grimly announced as he popped open his second beer. “We found him. The asshole overdosed. He’s still got a needle stuck in his arm. Yeah, at his place. Car’s in the driveway, the front door was unlocked. Nope, we didn’t find it yet. We’ll look a bit more to see if it’s around or if there’s a bundle of cash stashed somewhere but I ain’t promising anything. Yeah, I figured that’s what you’d want us to do. We’ll get rid of him. I don’t know where but I’ll make sure nobody finds him for a while. Don’t expect us back today.”

  He hung up the phone and looked at Matt who was sitting at the kitchen table, still in a daze.

  “Finish your beer and get your act together, boy,” Bob said with a smirk. “We’ve got ourselves a body to make disappear.”

  * * * *

  Chris lay sprawled comfortably on a couch in the den watching the T.V. screen with an amused smile. He heard the shower stop upstairs and a moment later, smelled her light soapy perfume as she entered the room behind him.

  “Don’t try anything you might regret,” he playfully warned. “I know you’re there.”

  “Well, with the line of work you’ve chosen, Mister,” she replied sternly. “You sure as hell better.”

  She leaned over him from behind the couch and with his assistance, slowly crawled over its back, all while delivering a rather passionate kiss.

  “What are you watching? A cop show?” she asked as she snuggled up against him, clad only in a large towel.

  “Something like that,” he responded, his attention now equally divided between the screen and her inviting body beneath her scanty attire. “It’s my surveillance tape from this morning. Their morning started with a ‘Where the hell is Rick?’ discussion, followed by my bullshit story to Wayne. You see those two? That’s Bob, the receiving supervisor on the left. The other guy is Matt, the second lead hand. They were on their way to find Rick.”

  “How do you know all this?” asked Sandy, knowing that her husband would have an intelligent explanation.

  “While I visited Quality on Saturday, I happened to plant a few mikes in Wayne’s, Greg’s and Bryan’s offices. Secondly, since the phone system is linked to the mainframe, it was pretty easy to set up a recording and monitoring system this morning. Let me zap this a bit. Okay, here we go. There’s one of Bryan’s toys, as you put it; a Mercedes 42D SEL. That’s him getting out of the car. Now, you see that box he’s carrying? That, my dear, is 6.6 pounds of high quality heroin which he’s going to deliver to the Aces of Death.”

  “My God,” Sandy cried in alarm. “Chris, do you really think you should mess with these guys? I mean, Jonathan did tell you that you were on your own.”

  “No, no, no,” Chris soothingly disagreed. “All Jonathan said was that if I got caught doing something illegal, he couldn’t vouch for me. If I need some help, I can call him and he’ll send another consultant.”

  “So call him,” Sandy said with a pleading undertone.

  “I will, if and when I need help. Right now, I’m just setting things up. Anyway, you know I like to work alone.”

  She gave him a scolding stare which initiated a quick comeback.

  “But as soon as I need help,” he promised with a grin, “I’ll call Jonathan.”

  “You’re such an asshole sometimes,” she stated with a pout, bringing her knees under her chin and exposing more than her thighs in the process.

  “Yes I am,” admitted Chris, moving in on the exposure. “But I hope you’ll always love me regardless.”

  “Always,” she moaned as she leaned back and shifted her thoughts to the matter at hand.

  Chapter 15 - Tuesday, January 28, 1997

  Clad in fish-net stockings, leather jacket, mini-skirt and bra-less under her tight sweater, the sexy young blonde strutted up to the main desk of the St-Eustache police station.

  Gazing at her in awe as she approached, Sergeant Robert Savard wondered if he should ask for her hand in marriage, simply invite her over for sex, arrest her for prostitution or offer assistance. After seriously considering his second option, he opted for the last.

  “How can I help you, miss?” he gallantly enquired, staring at this vision of loveliness.

  “My boyfriend’s missing,” she replied a matter-of-factly.

  “I see,” said Sergeant Savard, making a valiant effort to concentrate on the serious nature of the business at hand. “Did you and your boyfriend have a fight, Miss, uh?”

  “Rousseau,” answered the bombshell. “Louise Rousseau. And no, Ricky and I didn’t have a fight. Ricky and I get along really great.”

  ‘I’m sure you do. I know I would,’ thought Savard before asking, “What makes you think he’s missing, Miss Rousseau?”

  “Well, Ricky and I saw each other Friday night and he said he’d call me on Saturday, but he didn’t,” she whined. “He does that sometimes but usually, he calls the next day to explain how he got tied up with some business. But Sunday he didn’t call and yesterday either.”

  “Maybe he’s just been really busy, Miss Rousseau,” Savard replied sympathetically, starting to realize that God might have sacrificed this one’s brains for her heavenly looks.

  “No,” Blondie disagreed. “I called him at work yesterday and again today but they told me he’s not there. I went over to his house but he’s not there either, but his car is. Ricky loves his car. He wouldn’t go anywhere without it and if he did, he’d at least put it in the garage.”

  “When did you last see Ricky, Miss Rousseau,” asked Savard, uncertain if she was just wacky or if her concerns were truly founded.

  “Friday,” she repeated. “When I went to his house, I checked around and all his clothes and stuff are still there. He just disappeared and I’m worried.”

  “Alright,” Savard gave in, figuring her statements at least deserved some looking into. “What’s your boyfriend’s name?”

  “Ricky, Richard Beauchamp.”

  “His address and phone number?”

  “327, Landry. 472-1289.”

  “Age?”

  “I’m not sure,” she giggled. “About twenty-five, I guess.”

  “Can you describe him?”

  “Well, he’s pretty cute,” she replied with a shy smile. “Blonde hair, usually tied in a ponytail. Well built but slim. He’s about five, nine and weighs, I guess, around a hundred sixty pounds.”

  “Okay, we’ll see what we can do,” said Savard, writing a case number in the appropriate box on a witness information card. “Could you complete this for me? If we find anything, or need more information, we’ll be able to get in
touch with you.”

  “Sure,” she responded, flashing a killer smile at the young, handsome cop. “Don’t hesitate to call.”

  ‘At least, if this turns into nothing,’ thought Savard, ‘I’ll have her name and phone number.’

  She completed the card and, after another heart-stopping smile, left with a hip swaying stride that caused heads to turn and kept Savard hypnotized until she was out of sight.

  Once she had gone, he returned to reality and the routine of entering the data he had just collected into the National Police Information Network.

  * * * *

  Greg finished re-reading his entry and, satisfied with what he had written, saved the text on his home PC and logged off from Eazy-Com. He had neglected his journal for the past few days which was something he did not like doing.

  He had started writing it four years ago, the very day that Wayne had first proposed the smuggling of drugs along with the company’s legal shipments. At first, Greg had thought Wayne was kidding, but his colleague had quickly demonstrated how serious he really was. Contacts had already been established with drug suppliers as well as with some of the firm’s regular suppliers. Customs brokers and officers interested in some additional cash had been identified and approached. The network had already been established. All that had been required was a little investment of time and cash and their new business was born.

  Greg had never imagined being involved in any kind of illegal activity. He had difficulty jaywalking without troubling his conscience. However, the financial possibilities of Wayne’s proposition had been overwhelming. No legal investment, no matter how lucrative, could generate an equivalent return and, Greg loved money. That was what had drawn him to the field of finance in the first place. He had accepted to go into business with Wayne and had started his secret journal.

  His journal was an insurance policy for him and it was therefore important that he keep it constantly up to date. It contained a complete description of all their activities, down to the smallest detail; dates, names, quantities, amounts; it was all in there. If he ever got busted, he would be certain that everyone went down with him. In fact, Greg sincerely believed that the information in his journal could win him complete immunity and a new identity. Should something ever happen to him, such as an untimely demise, a letter addressed to his lawyer would be found in his safety deposit box. It contained instructions and appropriate passwords allowing access to his journal.

  “Yes,” Greg thought with determination as he watched the main menu reappear on the computer screen. “If anything ever goes wrong, many people are going to pay.”

  * * * *

  From the comfort of his office, Chris watched his computer screen go blank for a fraction of a second, followed by the reappearance of the main menu. He pressed a few keys and the image generated by Greg Pierce’s PC disappeared from the monitor, to be replaced by the lines of code he had been working on earlier.

  “Works like a charm,” he breathed to himself, proud of his programming capabilities.

  All the PCs within the building were linked to the mainframe, thus allowing them to double as terminals. Thanks to this network, tapping into the PCs of any of his suspects was made relatively easy. With a little bit of programming, he had established a monitoring system which recorded the activity taking place on their computers at any given time. As an additional gadget, he had foreseen a flashing icon, which he could turn on or off at whim, which informed him of any such activity. He could then link on to the PC in question, his screen becoming a double of the other computer’s monitor.

  Greg had just been unknowingly kind enough to create the opportunity for Chris to test the system and, it worked. Chris, with growing interest and amusement, had read Greg’s words as they were being produced. The man kept a diary. And Chris could only guess that it would provide some extremely interesting reading.

  He would have to visit Greg’s home computer shortly and he was certain that doing so would prove to be a very easy task. After all, not only did he have the address, he also had the passwords.

  * * * *

  Bryan strolled into Greg’s office to find Wayne, Bob and, of course, Greg, waiting for him.

  “Sorry I’m late,” he apologized as he closed the door. “You know how it is in sales; work, work, work, work.”

  “Yeah, yeah, sit down,” grunted Wayne, not the biggest fan of Bryan’s bubbly, salesman nature. “This shouldn’t take very long. I just want us to get into the habit of having a quick daily chat for the next little while. I don’t like it when things don’t go smoothly and I want us to keep each other informed of what’s going on. Okay?”

  All heads nodded in agreement as he continued.

  “First thing I want to talk about is the Aces of Death. How much do you trust these guys, Bryan?”

  “As much as you can trust a bunch of fucking bikers,” Bryan chortled. “Listen. They’re pushers, pimps and murderers. But they’re also the major channel of distribution for our dope, especially for the volume we’d like to move. We’ve done a couple of deals with them so far and they haven’t tried to screw us. I think they’re comfortable that we can deliver what we said we could and they love the quality of the shit so far. Plus, they’re completely removed from the importing of the stuff which they definitely like. So, to answer your question, I trust them enough to keep on doing business with them and to become filthy rich in the process.”

  “All right,” replied Wayne, unable to disagree with his colleague’s logic. “Let’s just be real careful with these bastards. Rick was supposed to deliver to our friend ‘Diamond Jimmy’ on Saturday. He showed up here with two guys that looked like bikers and the next thing we knew, Ricky was dead and we had lost a bunch of snow. I don’t want that to happen again.”

  “Yeah, we’ll keep our eyes open,” Bryan agreed before turning his attention to Bob. “While we’re on the subject of Rick; what’s the status with our dead little friend?”

  “It’s all been taken care of. Matt and I drove up north, way up, to dump the body. We took him into the woods and buried him. Believe me, it was no easy task. The ground’s goddamn frozen this time of year.”

  “Well, a little sweat won’t kill you,” chided Bryan. “It’s about time you did some of the dirty work.”

  “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” Bob fumed, rising from his seat.

  “Oh, Jesus Christ. Sit down,” ordered Bryan, not the least bit swayed by the other man’s aggressive reaction. “I’m just saying, Bob, that we’ve all done our share of crap; Wayne, Greg, Rick, me, even Matt. We’ve carried enough shit with us to do life if we’d got caught. When did you ever make a delivery, Bob? Never. You got your cushy job inside, away from any danger.”

  “It was never planned that way, Bryan,” said Greg quietly in Bob’s defence. “I’m sure Bob will do more if we need him to.”

  “Well I hope so,” Bryan muttered. “We’ve gotta share the risk is all I’m saying.”

  “And I’m doing my share,” Bob stated defiantly, staring coldly at Bryan for a moment before going on. “Now, about Matt; we’re gonna have to keep an eye on him. He’s pretty fucked up since we found Rick yesterday. I think the events of the last few weeks might be too much for him to handle.”

  “Well, he better learn to handle them!” growled Wayne. “We’re paying that little fuck lots of bucks to handle anything that happens. Keep a close eye on him and if he shows any signs of cracking, let me know. We don’t have time for this kind of crap. Anything else?”

  “One last thing,” Greg spoke up, “About Saturday when Rick was here. Don’t you find it strange that Chris Barry just happened to be here to see him? I’m still not comfortable with having him around.”

  “Peterson hired him to document the systems,” Wayne responded in a slow, strained voice. “That’s what the man is doing. I’ve seen some of the stuff he’s put together so far and frankly, he’s damn good. For the first time in years, I understand how some of our sy
stems work. Stop worrying, Greg. Barry’s just a nice guy doing his job. Leave it alone.”

  * * * *

  In his office, Chris removed the tiny earpiece and returned it to his jacket pocket.

  ‘Wayne, my friend,’ he thought with a smile. ‘I thank you for your kind words and your vote of confidence.’

  He accessed Eazy-Com and linked up with his computer at home. He had to learn more about the Aces of Death and one of their members, Diamond Jimmy. He was certain that he could find some useful information in the data-bases from his recent ‘Vigilante’ days.

  Quickly finding what he was looking for, he read for a few minutes, taking an occasional note when pertinent. Once done, he tapped into Greg Pierce’s home computer to pursue his research and, after forty-five minutes, he felt he had gathered enough knowledge to go ahead with his plan.

  He pulled his cell phone from his jacket pocket and keyed in a number. It was time to set up a meeting with Diamond Jimmy.

  * * * *

  Diamond Jimmy sat at his usual table near the rear exit of ‘Scandale’, his favourite strip joint, when he saw the man come in and slowly make his way towards him. He discreetly signalled a fellow gang member at the bar and unobtrusively felt under his jacket for the gun strapped to his side, releasing the safety.

  Chris reached his table and asked in a low voice, “You Diamond Jimmy?”

  “Who the fuck are you?”

  “I’m Bob,” Chris answered, sitting down, “A friend of Wayne and Bryan. We spoke this morning.”

  “I’ve heard your name before, Bob, but I ain’t never seen you,” explained Diamond Jimmy. “I like to be sure who I’m talking to.”

  “I can show you some I.D. if you want,” Chris offered, reaching for his wallet.