The Death File

by J. A. Kerley

  The light snapped on, Novarro sat up. She too was facing a wicked-looking and suppressed machine pistol. We knew the two men by sight …

  Escheverría’s gangster puppets.

  “You will be so kind as rise and dress,” one said, killer eyes defying the curling grin. “Be fast. And be sure that if you make one wrong move, it is not only the last for you, but for baby boy in the other room.”

  As if on cue, a moan from down the hall: Ben’s room. The third member of the crew was in there. Novarro’s eyes flashed. “If you hurt him I will fucking—”

  “Again,” the cholo said into the air. Another moan. “If you speak again, I will hurt him again.”

  “What do you want?” I said.

  “It’s simple. You will rise and dress and we will go out the back as quiet as ratóns, no? Do not think to call for the ones out front or you will all be dead and we will be gone.”

  I knew that Novarro, like me, had already considered that as an option. Give the firepower in the crew’s hands, it would be slaughter.

  “Where?” I asked, already knowing the answer.

  “You have a meeting scheduled, hombre. Hurry, El Gila does not like guests who are tardy.”

  There was no choice. My weapon was whisked away, and we dressed with the grinning gangbangers making what I assumed were foul comments in Spanish as we pulled on yesterday’s clothes: tan chinos and a wrinkled blue dress shirt for me, blue jeans and a pink blouse for Novarro. Eyes blazing at our captors, she began stepping into her shoes.

  “No,” the one I knew as Pablo said, waving us to the door with the muzzle of his gun. “You will not need los zapatos. You will not be going far.”

  Ben was in the hall, the third thug holding a knife to his throat.

  “Have him put away the blade,” Novarro said. “We’re going quietly.”

  Pablo nodded to the blade man, who let the knife drop a couple inches from Ben’s throat and spun him toward the kitchen. The door was open wide.

  They herded us into the backyard, Pablo tapping the door frame. “It was a very good lock, chica. But we have a specialist for such occasions. He’s very expensive, but I am assured you are worth it.”

  A locksmith, I figured, pushed past the lime tree. Escheverría would have someone like that on the payroll.

  And then we were in the alley, the cholos working a dark and practiced choreography, binding our wrists and ankles with cable ties and lifting us into the back of a step van. Two sat up front, the third sat in back, keeping a flashlight beam and Glock 9 trained on us as we moved out and onto the highway.

  48

  The morning sun sifted through the veil of curtains. The woman who called herself Catherine Maruyama dressed in a demure blue skirt with a ruffly white blouse and dark hose ending in simple cobalt pumps. Adam Kubiac was in the shower; he’d been in the shower for twenty minutes, standing motionless under the water.

  “Adam!” she called over the spray. “The reading of the will is in a half hour. Come on.”

  After five minutes Kubiac slumped into the room, wet hair hanging to his cheeks, but wearing a fitted gray suit and blue Oxford shirt.

  “You need a tie, Adam. We brought back a tie. Go grab your tie.”

  “You sound like my father,” he pouted.

  “Get the fucking tie.”

  He slumped into the bedroom, back seconds later with a blue tie, handing it to Maruyama. She threaded it through the collar, knotted it, then combed his hair.

  “This isn’t going to work,” he whispered. “It’s a set-up.”

  Maruyama put her hands on Adam’s shoulder and pulled him closer. “Study my eyes, Adam. Do you trust me that all will work out, Adam?”

  “I think … Yes, Cat. I trust you.”

  They drove to Government District in downtown Phoenix, pulling into a subterranean parking lot and riding an elevator to ground level. The pair emerged into the sunlight and rush of traffic on Washington Street. Car horns blasted, buses rumbled, motorcycles roared. A woman in a blue dress and huge sunglasses walked past. Adam turned to watch her retreating back, thinking he’d seen her somewhere before.

  They continued down the street. Maruyama was walking three paces ahead and checking her watch when she heard a gasp and turned to find Kubiac leaning against a lamp post, clutching his chest, his face so pale it looked blue.

  She jumped at his side. “Adam? What’s wrong?”

  “A cop car just went by. I c-can’t, I can’t breathe … A heart attack, can’t—”

  “Get over here and sit,” Maruyama commanded, pulling him toward a shaded bus-stop kiosk.

  “I c-c-can’t breathe … my heart …”

  “You’re hyperventilating,” Maruyama said. “Relax.”

  “I’m g-g-g-gonna duh-die. It’s because I k-ki-killed …”

  “Relax, Adam. Breathe slowly.” They sat in the shade, her hand on the back of his neck. “In …” Maruyama instructed, “now out. Go slow and easy.”

  The color returned to Kubiac’s face. “I-I think I’m better.”

  “It’s going to be fine, Adam. Don’t panic.” She kissed his cheek and tousled his hair. “Trust, remember?”

  “I, uh … sh-sh-sure.”

  Maruyama took his hand and led him step-by-step into the municipal building and upstairs to the probate court offices. She announced him to the receptionist and one minute later the pair were led into the office of retired Judge Elmer Craine, in his late sixties, bald and pink-faced, with small brown eyes behind owlish glasses. Craine was behind a dark wood desk centered by three slim sheaves of papers.

  “This is Mr Adam Kubiac, Judge,” the receptionist said. “He’s here because—”

  “Ah, yes. The former client of Mr Cottrell,” Craine said, pursing slender lips. “And perhaps the less said about that the better, de mortuis nil nisi bonum, and so forth. Pull a couple of those chairs close, folks. We won’t be long.”

  Kubiac and Maruyama sat, Kubiac’s anxious eyes searching the room as if fearful of snipers. Craine studied the pair, his gaze holding on Adam. “Did you know Jefferson Cottrell well, Mr Kubiac?”

  Kubiac swallowed hard and forced a quivering smile to his lips. “He, uh, was my father’s lawyer,” he said, the lines rehearsed. “I saw him a few times is all.”

  Craine shook his head. “Bad business with Cottrell. Sad business. I see Mr Cottrell filed this instrument with this office two weeks ago.”

  “What?” Kubiac said, turning white.

  “Shhh,” Maruyama whispered, discreetly patting Kubiac’s forearm. “Relax.”

  “Pardon?” Craine said.

  Maruyama looked at the jurist. “Sorry. Adam is feeling a bit light-headed.”

  “I need a drink of w-water,” Adam said, standing unsteadily.

  “There’s a fountain right around the corner. Perhaps you should go with your friend, Ms …?”

  “Maruyama, sir. Catherine Maruyama.”

  Craine nodded politely. “You’d best accompany Mr Kubiac to the water fountain, Ms Maruyama. He looks a bit pale.”

  Adam pulled Maruyama to the hall and closed the door. “Cottrell filed the will before he said he changed it,” he hissed between clenched teeth, his face as pale as chalk. “I’m fucked. Let’s go.”

  “Craine’s an old guy, Adam. He’s confused. Or maybe Cottrell somehow backdated the filing. Come on … we’ve come this far.”

  “It’s not going to work,” Kubiac wailed, stepping away, “I’m getting out of here.”

  Maruyama grabbed his sleeve, pulling him toward the office. “Just trust me, Adam. Come on, you can do this. You’re strong.”

  They returned to the office. The judge’s eyes studied Adam Kubiac with a hint of sadness. “I’m sorry about your distress, Mr Kubiac. I was informed yesterday that Mr Cottrell was the executor of your father’s estate, and the news of his … Would you like the courts to secure other representation of the estate before we continue? You have that right.”

  Adam sh
ot a look at Maruyama: What was this? Her head shifted almost imperceptibly. Say no, Adam.

  “I’m f-fine with whu-whatever, Judge.”

  Craine hit a button on his intercom. “Alice, send him in now.”

  “He’s alerted,” the receptionist said.

  “Who’s alerted?” Kubiac said, eyes wide with fear and jumping halfway to his feet before Maruyama’s hand stopped him.

  “Are you sure you’re all right, Mr Kubiac?” Craine asked, honestly interested.

  “Y-Yes,” Adam stuttered as he lowered to the chair with Maruyama’s hand on his wrist. “What … what’s going on?”

  Craine leaned back. “I brought in a special administrator to assure that all details are covered. It’s pro forma, Mr Kubiac, when an executor is deceased without naming a second executor. All protocols must be observed.”

  The door opened and a dark-suited man entered. Though in his eighties, his carriage was erect and, using a simple wooden cane for stability, he moved with slow purpose. His hair was full and gray and echoed eyebrows like tufts of cumulus.

  “This is Judge Harold Jensen,” Craine said. “Judge Jensen previously held this position. He’s sitting in to assure the interests of the estate are maintained.”

  Jensen took a small leather sofa against the wall, and Craine rose to bring him one of the sheaves of paper. Jensen turned his gaze to Adam Kubiac, his water-blue eyes scanning Adam from head to foot. “These are difficult times,” he said, putting half-glasses over a long and aquiline nose. “And all aspects of legality must be observed, especially in something as important as the transfer of an estate. Is that not right, Mr Kubiac?”

  “Uh, y-yes s-s-sir.”

  “That said, the terms are quite, uh, straightforward. You’re sure you’re fine without your own representation, Mr Kubiac? Another legal adviser, perhaps?” The blue eyes bored into Kubiac.

  Kubiac waved the suggestion away with a shaky hand. Jensen opened his file and retrieved the slender sheaf of pages comprising the last will and testament of Elijah Kubiac. He studied the contents briefly, shaking his head. His eyes lifted to Kubiac.

  “Tell me, Mr Kubiac … Did your father ever share with you the contents of this instrument?”

  “If you keep acting like this Adam, I swear I’ll change my will,” Eli Kubiac screamed in Adam’s head. “You’ll get what you’ve contributed to this family … a fucking dollar. I’ll send the rest to institutions that won’t squander it like you’re squandering your life … Think about it, Adam. I could change my will in minutes. Think about the consequences of continuing this kind of behavior, Adam. And then, please, please, please grow up …”

  Kubiac closed his eyes and swallowed hard. “Nossir.”

  “I guess there’s nothing more to say,” Jensen sighed. “I’m going to skip all the wherefores and whereases. That all right, son?”

  “Yessir,” Kubiac said, his words the weight of vapor.

  Jensen stared at Adam Kubiac, then removed his glasses and re-tucked them in his pocket. He stood and walked to Adam, extending his hand.

  “Happy Birthday, Mr Kubiac. You now own monies and properties totalling over twenty million dollars. I hope it helps assuage your grief to know your father put such faith in you.”

  49

  We were in a shadowy warehouse, tires piled against the concrete walls, wooden boxes spread willy-nilly. It smelled of dust and oil. We added the reek of fear. We had been roughly sat on the floor against a wall. Though our hands and feet had been bound, we hadn’t been gagged, which told me we were far from the range of ears. Escheverría appeared in a doorway across the wide room. He wore jeans and a sleeveless tee shirt, his shoulders like beef roasts.

  “What’s going on, Ramon?” I said.

  Escheverría spit on the floor. His gaze moved between the three of us and held on mine. “You can consider that while we wait for the truck that will take you to the desert. You can wonder that while my crew digs your graves. You can guess right up until the moment my bullet splits your forehead.”

  He turned and disappeared through the port. We heard an outer door open and the click of entering shoes crossing the floor. Escheverría laughed, like pleased with something. A throaty chuckle followed. A woman’s voice.

  “The three of them?” the female voice said.

  “Wrapped tight and ready to visit the desert.” Escheverría.

  “The vehicle?”

  “A fruit truck often seen on the roads, but with a double purpose. It should be here in minutes.”

  “There can be no mistakes,” the female voice said, strong and assured. “It must all be over today.”

  Footsteps approached the door and a woman entered the room, tall and striking and wearing a cream pantsuit with quasi-masculine tailoring. She wore a sparkly silk scarf around her long neck.

  Candace Klebbin, the administrative director of DataSĀF. She crossed her arms and smiled at Novarro.

  “How does it feel,” she said, “to have lost?”

  “How does it feel,” Novarro countered, “to be nuts?”

  Klebbin’s eyes were cold brown dots as dead as the lens of a camera. I realized that all Klebbin had presented to us, to everyone around her, was false. She was likely a full-blown sociopath, perhaps brilliant, as dedicated and driven as a typhoon.

  And maybe as unstoppable.

  “The truck’s almost here,” Escheverría called. “Time to boogie.”

  Klebbin showed no sign of leaving and I figured it was cat-and-mouse time, a need of many sociopaths when they feel they’ve won. Something within that vast emptiness needs to crow. I countered with a derisive laugh.

  “What?” she said, walking to me and looking down.

  “I’ve been in this business long enough to know you and Ramon are operating mid-range minds in a big-mind world. The problem with mid-range minds is they always think they’re bigger than they are. Whatever you’re doing will fall apart.”

  The one thing all sociopaths share is extreme narcissism, megalomania. Anything or anyone diminishing their claim to total control and genius thinking insults their being. I was challenging her superiority, pushing buttons.

  The eyes tightened. “You’re a worm wriggling on my floor, Ryder. You know nothing.”

  I managed a chuckle. “I know fifteen years of dealing with common crooks. I know how card houses fall apart in a breeze.”

  She lowered to a crouch and held thumb and forefinger a half inch apart. “Really? I know where $20,000,000 is, and I’m this far from getting it.”

  I did perplexed. It could keep her talking. Klebbin needed to wallow in triumph, to explain her genius to the lowly vanquished. “Twenty-million …”

  “American dollars,” she finished. “Ours.”

  “How?”

  “Candace,” Escheverría called from the front. “The truck is pulling in. We must leave.”

  “Momentito, Ramon,” Klebbin called. She turned the eyes to us. “DataSĀF started as three units, one for legal firms, one for business, one for municipal organizations, but there was no reason for specialization: it all goes to the cloud, and DataSĀF is the biggest cloud-storage facility in the Southwest.”

  “Right,” Novarro said. “I read your stinking brochure: a bazillion gigawigs.”

  “We stored information for Dr Meridien. We also stored information for the Phoenix Police Department. It turned out that we even stored information for a lawyer named T. Jefferson Cottrell.”

  “Make sense,” I said, pretending it was all new to us and needing to hear what we’d missed.

  “I’m making excellent sense, Detective Ryder. Maybe your mid-level brain isn’t capable of understanding.”

  “Enlighten poor dumb me.”

  “Until very recently, my daughter, Rosa, was one of Meridien’s patients. I wanted to track Rosa’s progress. Doctor–patient confidentiality kept Meridien from telling me much, so I opened Meridien’s DataSĀF account and looked at Rosa’s records. The subject and detail
were quite interesting, so I read other patient files, including a particularly fascinating one, detailing sessions with a little lost boy with daddy issues and a $20,000,000 inheritance that he often bragged about to Meridien. The amount took my breath away. So I kept track of each of little Adam’s sessions.”

  “Twenty million is a lot of reasons to keep track,” I said.

  “When Daddy died, the money would go to Adam. But Daddy might have lived another twenty or thirty years.”

  Novarro said: “To hurry things up you sent Escheverría.”

  The robotic eyes swiveled to Novarro. “I didn’t know Ramon then. Our partnership was yet to come. This was hands-on.”

  Novarro said: “You were the woman in the motel room with Eli Kubiac.”

  Klebbin clapped her hands in slow applause. “He was a horny old goat. I fucked him senseless while pouring liquor into his slobbering mouth.”

  “Then the H,” I said. “High-powered and mixed with fentanyl.”

  Klebbin laughed. “It was like he’d been hit with a hammer: His eyes rolled back and he became a foam dispenser. I scattered drugs about and retreated, just loudly enough to draw eyes.”

  “Candace!” Escheverría called. “Time to vamos.”

  “Momentito, Ramon!” Klebbin yelled, high on her story, regaling in victory.

  “Back to the kid,” I said.

  “I was prepared to wait until Adam came into the money on his eighteenth birthday, then separate the two. I was thinking of something appealing to greed … an incredible investment opportunity, double his money in a year, that sort of thing.”

  I nodded. “It worked for Bernie Madoff.”

  “Then, three weeks ago, Adam went to Meridien’s howling about how he had been screwed out of his money. How he was only going to get a dollar. Naturally, that caught my attention.”

  “No doubt.”

  “I looked up the lawyer’s name and – surprise! – found Jefferson Cottrell had kept his files with our JuriSĀF division for seven years. But over a third of the law offices in the Southwest use our data-storage services. Still a nice bit of luck.”

  “You found much of interest in Cottrell’s files, I expect.”