Lone Hunter: Will Finch Mystery Thriller Series Book 3

by D. F. Bailey

  “So why’d you cross over?”

  He waited a moment, as if he wasn’t sure how to explain his motivation. “Just like you I guess. No future in the SFPD.”

  “Sure, I get that. But what was the trigger?” She studied him in the mirror. “I heard rumors that IAD is investigating you.”

  He ignored this.

  “Maybe when they discovered that you were playing Justin Whitelaw for a piece of GIGcoin. You know the forensics lab found your prints on a brandy snifter in Justin’s walk-up in Claude Lane. Were you there before or after he kidnapped Fiona Paige?”

  When Witowsky didn’t respond Eve decided to keep the pressure on.

  “Or was it when IAD realized you shot Marat in Honolulu — was that it?”

  “That Russian geek? You’re dreaming in three-D.”

  “Am I?” She knew she had him. Now to set the hook with a small white lie. “Did you know a kid from Punahou School filmed the whole thing on his phone? Did you know that?”

  He growled with a low snarl.

  “Let me tell you what happened. The whole thing. When you realized that Justin kidnapped that reporter, you decided to step in. In exchange for getting the second GIGcoin key from his father, you promised to protect Justin from the kidnapping charges. That’s why you stalled the investigation. Why you took a week to interview Will.”

  “Pfff.” He spit into the footwell behind Eve.

  “But when Justin dove in front of the subway train, the game changed completely. You knew there’d be no way to shut down the press. Fiona was standing in front of him when Justin killed himself. And with Justin gone you lost your leverage to get the senator’s key. Suddenly your game plan collapsed.”

  “You are so far out of touch you’ve gone psychotic, Eve.”

  “Am I?” She tightened her grip on the steering wheel and pressed on. “So instead of working your way to the software through Justin, now you had to make an end run and grab the software and keys on your own. When you discovered I was meeting Malinin, you saw your opportunity.”

  Witowsky let out a burp. “You are one cute bitch. You know that?”

  “I still wonder how long it took you to realize that the copy of GIGcoin software on Malinin’s computer was spiked.” She glanced in the rearview mirror to study his face before she continued. “But whenever the truth hit you, it was too late to cross back, wasn’t it? IAD had your number and all you could do was move into the shadows. Then you thought of Toeplitz’s bitcoin wallet.” She paused again. “What makes you think it isn’t spiked, too?”

  “Enough! Not another word, bitch!”

  He smacked the barrel of his pistol into Finch’s ear. Finch yelped as he pulled his left hand away from the garrote and held it to the side of his head.

  “All right!” she screamed. “Lay off!”

  She pulled the Taurus into a parking slot in front of her condo.

  “We’re here for God’s sake. Now let Will go and tell me your next move, Witowsky.”

  ※

  Eve led the way up the staircase from the street landing to her condo. Finch followed, his neck still cinched in the garrote which Witowsky held by the dowel in his fist. In his right hand he carried his SIG Sauer P228. He kept the gun pointed at Eve’s back, and when she slipped the key into the door lock, Witowsky stepped past Finch and held the gun to her throat.

  “Slowly, now. I’d hate to trip and have this thing go off by mistake.”

  As she eased the door open it squeaked with the familiar whine that had set her nerves on edge for months. She glanced at the open window. The curtain fluttered in the on-shore breeze.

  In the big armchair next to the bookcase sat Alexei Malinin. His face rose from an open book as if he might have been sitting here for hours, distracting himself with a crime novel while he waited for Eve to arrive. He held a pistol in his lap and when he heard the murmuring behind Eve, he raised the gun and pointed it in her direction without taking precise aim.

  Witowsky pushed into the room behind her and tugged Finch along by the arm. “Who the hell are you?”

  “An invited guest. Which I think is more than I can say for you.”

  Witowsky narrowed his eyes as he glanced at Eve. “Is this some kind of setup?”

  When no one replied, he pushed Finch a step forward and wrapped the fingers of his left hand around the dowel. He leveled his gun at Malinin. He studied the Russian for a moment, then a shock of recognition passed over his face. “Alexei Malinin. A lot of people are looking for you.”

  “And you are?”

  “Damian Witowsky,” Eve announced and took a step to one side.

  “Ah, yes.” Malinin let out a long sigh. “I believe some people are seeking you, too.” A frown turned his mouth in a grimace. “With regards to my nephew.”

  Witowsky glanced around the room as if he were being pranked. “Who?”

  “My brother’s son. Marat Malinin.”

  Eve took another step toward the bathroom door. She glanced inside and saw a shadow move in the darkness. An arm slipped forward. A hand poised in the air. Was it Kirill?

  “I should shoot you now,” Witowsky hissed at Malinin.

  “If you did, you’d regret it,” he said with equanimity. “Kirill, please.”

  The big Russian stepped out of the bathroom past Eve, a forty-four caliber Magnum stuck in his fist and pointed at Witowsky’s head.

  The cop glanced at Kirill, swung his pistol around and fixed Eve in his sights. “Try anything and the girl goes. Then you never get the software.”

  For the first time Malinin hesitated. Witowsky’s gambit seemed to have some merit. “That would be a shame,” he conceded, “but at least Marat would be avenged.”

  Dots of perspiration oozed from Witowsky’s forehead. He turned his gun toward Kirill and at the same time he released his hold on Finch. Finch took a step toward Eve, stumbled and collapsed on the floor wheezing as his hands struggled to untie the garrote from the back of his neck.

  Witowsky stood about six feet from Kirill. Both men had their arms raised, the guns poised to fire point-blank at one another. Eve took a step toward Finch, then hesitated. Will finally unknotted the garrote and threw the wire across the carpet with a loud gasp. Malinin, meanwhile, sat in the easy chair, his pistol leveled at Witowsky, the book now closed in his lap. Since he and Kirill had Witowsky aligned in a cross fire, his mood brightened. His face radiated a calm glow.

  “Detective Witowsky. Yes, I’ve done my homework, as you Americans like to say. What still puzzles me, and what I’d like to know, is why you shot Marat. Surely you could have simply put your pistol in his face and stolen his laptop. He would never resist. He was a skinny kid, ill with cirrhosis of the liver. I always told him: ‘Don’t resist. Just give the perps what they want and live another day.’ ”

  Witowsky tightened his grip on his P228 and stared into Kirill’s eyes as if he were trying to solve a problem whose answer lay behind Kirill’s inscrutable gaze.

  “Please enlighten me,” Malinin continued. “What kind of man does this?”

  “Shut the fuck up,” Witowsky whispered. The glow on his face had broken into a dewy sweat. He wiped the back of his free hand over his eyes and blinked.

  “Is he a man or —"

  The room exploded with the crack of both pistols. Kirill slumped backwards against the bathroom door jam, rolled to the side and buckled at Eve’s feet where she could see the clean, surgical perforation through the Russian’s forehead. The shock sent her sideways and she slumped along the wall and fell parallel to Finch. Witowsky, driven backwards by the immense force of the Magnum, flew to the near side of the sofa. He bounced backwards and fell face-up beside Finch’s legs, his pistol dangling from his fingers.

  “Blyad!” Malinin gripped his left hand. The bullet from the Magnum had ricochetted and sliced across his ring finger. He pulled himself up from the chair, tugged a handkerchief from his pocket and wrapped it around the wound. His face winced in pain as he stood
above Witowsky. He studied the gaping gash in Witowsky’s throat and watched his blood pulse onto the floor. Satisfied that the cop was helpless, Malinin kicked Witowsky’s gun away with the toe of his shoe. Then he held his pistol two feet from Witowsky’s head and fired a single bullet through his temple.

  “Now we know what kind of man you are.” He spat on Witowsky’s face. “A dead one.”

  He walked over to Kirill and carefully inspected the circular wound above his left eye. It oozed a trickle of dark blood across his cheek. Malinin shook his head with a look of weary regret.

  “Do svidaniya staryy drug,” he murmured and turned to Eve.

  She pulled herself up from the floor and braced herself against the wall.

  “Now dear girl, I believe you have something I want.” He clamped his wounded finger in the ball of his fist to ease the pain.

  Unable to speak, she nodded. She glanced at Finch, hoping he might still be conscious.

  “Let’s be smart, Miss Noon. There’s no need for any more of this.” He waved his pistol at the two corpses on the floor behind him. “I want the original software from Toeplitz, the one which Sochi did not spike. And I want the key which you acquired from Whitelaw.”

  “The key from Whitelaw?”

  “Do not toy with me, girl. I am an old hunter. You would not have set up this elaborate trap without sufficient bait.” He pointed the gun at her and clenched his jaw.

  She nodded. What was it Malinin had told Marat? Do not resist. Live for another day.

  “In the heat of battle it’s easy to become impetuous,” he continued. “But the battle is now over. Simply give me the software and the second key and I will depart. In one minute this will be over.”

  Eve drew a hand over her face and nodded again. “I have the second key here.” She pulled the SD card from her pocket.

  “And the other?”

  She stumbled to the far side of the living room, to the air vent on the floor and swung her hand toward the metal grill. “The flash drive is in a box.”

  He tightened the bloodstained handkerchief on his injured hand. “Good. A good place for it. Now pass them to me.”

  Eve gave him the SD card and then knelt at the vent and pried at one edge with her fingers. She remembered the tight fit, the metal-on-metal friction. “I need a knife from the drawer.” She tipped her head toward the kitchen.

  Malinin shook his head doubtfully. “A small one.”

  She considered her odds and didn’t like them at all. Do not resist. She selected a butter knife and returned to the vent.

  As she crossed the floor she saw Finch blink. His eyes followed her. His head turned. His hand flexed.

  A moment later Eve pulled the small box from the vent. Squatting on the floor, she looked up at Malinin. For the first time he revealed something that might resemble an emotion. Anticipation.

  “Open it and give the flash drive to me.” He made a sideways gesture with his gun.

  Behind Malinin, Finch stirred. His hand crept over Witowsky’s flight jacket, patted the blood-soaked leather with his hand.

  Eve passed the thumb drive to Malinin.

  When the Russian held the card and the flash drive together in his palm, he let out a light gasp of surprise. Perhaps he felt some long-cherished goal was now at hand and the victory was more pleasant than he’d ever imagined.

  “I think, Miss Noon, that you have no idea what this is.” As he held the drive between his thumb and index finger a dot of blood escaped from the handkerchief. With a light moan he carefully set the SD card and flash drive into his jacket pocket.

  She knelt below him. Something told her not to stand up. Not to distract him. Better if he would just turn around and disappear down the stairs. A rabbit down the rabbit hole.

  He closed, then opened his eyes, a slow-motion gesture of regret. “I’m sorry that this isn’t as simple as I suggested.”

  She shrugged. “What?”

  “No witnesses.” He leveled his pistol at her forehead.

  A shot rang out, then another. Malinin crashed against the window and pulled the curtain away from the wall as he fell to the floor. Finch hoisted himself up to his knees and fired a third shot into Malinin’s back. Then he stood and staggered over to the Russian. Malinin’s eyes fluttered. He gazed at Finch standing above him and his face registered a look of shock. Finch fired the pistol again and then once more. Two shots through the heart. The Russian choked with a loud gasp and set his eyes on the far wall. He didn’t move again.

  Eve stood up and peeled her gun from Finch’s fingers. She realized that somehow he’d dug her .38 from Witowsky’s pocket, the pistol he’d confiscated in the Taurus when the first step of their simple plan had gone so wrong.

  Finch managed to walk over to the sofa and set himself onto the cushions with a loud gasp. His fingers clutched at his throat as if the garrote had finally choked him into complete submission.

  “Eve,” he whispered, but his larynx was so badly scarred that he couldn’t utter another word.

  ※ — EIGHTEEN — ※

  TWO WEEKS LATER Will sat in his condo at the dining room table staring into the blank screen of his laptop. He was completely lost and he knew it. Rarely did he fail to answer the single question that precedes every story: where to begin? He massaged the tender scar that encircled his neck and then rubbed the clipped tip of his earlobe. The story had taken a piece of him, but at least he was still around to tell the tale. As Wally said, “Get over it. You’re bent, not broken.”

  For a while it seemed hard to tell the difference. But when the forensic and ballistic evidence proved that Finch and Eve had acted in self defense, they were released with a warning from the SPFD Chief to give up their “self-righteous vigilantism.” And after they emerged from the rounds of interrogations with Homeland Security and the FBI, the consultations with the corporate lawyers and District Attorney, Finch thought, yeah, definitely bent. Only partially broken.

  A little later, Will sat down with Wally and Fiona for the now-routine debriefing that laid out a plan to tell the separate and combined stories that had gripped them since Finch drove up to Oregon to report on Toeplitz’s death. It seemed like a lifetime ago.

  Only one thing appeared certain. The eXpress would have enough exclusive material to publish right through the summer and into the early fall. Wally abandoned his earlier plan — the A to Z strategy — to flood the market and issue everything at once. His new approach called for a series of single articles that would wrap the Whitelaw chronicles into a coherent whole. Furthermore, the slow-drip approach would keep the nation waiting — “salivating,” he insisted — for the next installment and build their readership into hundreds of millions.

  “The sort of thing Woodward and Bernstein did with the Watergate scandal,” he suggested. “One day at a time. It made their careers.”

  True enough, Finch thought, but Wally’s analogy was imperfect. Woodward and Bernstein reported the daily unravelling of the US Presidency as it ticked forward through the excruciating process of legal inquisition. In Finch’s case, he’d endured something closer to a personal war and the farther back in time he reached to retrieve the details, the more his reporting resembled a memoir. But he wasn’t in the mood for an argument, much less a discussion, so he agreed to Wally’s plan. As did Fiona.

  Over the next three days the two reporters made a series of appearances on the national TV outlets, just enough to whet the public appetite for details.

  “Teasers,” Fiona called them. Now that she was a veteran news hand, everyone allowed her enough slack to handle the interviews any way she saw fit. She never took a false step.

  Despite the fawning attention from the media Will had no idea how to begin his narrative. As he sat at the table considering the possibilities for the tenth — the twentieth — time, the door swung open and Eve tossed her jacket onto the sofa.

  “So. That was not a good meeting.”

  “No?” Finch closed the story file. Maybe
later.

  “No. Fran Bransome did her best, I’ll give her that. But the FBI just confiscated the GIGcoin software and the two keys. The feds did not use the terms ‘borrow,’ ‘share,’ or ‘lease.’ It’s all gone.”

  “The originals — or copies that Sochi cooked up?”

  She sat beside him. “No, the good stuff. And by the way, no more games for me. I’ve decided to live my life without deceit from now on.”

  He laughed. She had a way of kidding herself that almost sounded convincing. “What about the estate? Can Fran prove you’re the rightful owner?”

  “Maybe when I’m dead.” She laughed, too. “Then you can try to claim everything.”

  He turned his head. Had she put him in her will? Bad time to ask. “What about the bitcoin wallet?”

  “That, my darling, is a different story. I still have it.” She took his hand in her fingers and smiled again.

  Apparently her meeting wasn’t all bad, he thought. “You mean nobody’s asked for it?”

  “Not yet. Fran said that we’ll have to conform with section 485 of the California Penal Code. Which means she has to publish notice that the wallet has been found. Anyone has one hundred and twenty days to claim the wallet and its contents — if they can identify the bitcoin value, the time of the transaction when they lost their funds and how many transactions were involved. If they can’t, then according to the grants made in Gianna’s and Toeplitz’s estates, and the rules governing ‘found money’ in section 485 — any unclaimed bitcoins belong to me.”

  Finch chuckled. It all felt like a school yard game. “Which is how much?”

  “Dunno.”

  “I thought you and Fran were going to open the wallet.”

  “Not yet. That’s the next step. So. Go get the password.” She lifted the flash drive in her fingers and slipped it into the USB slot on Finch’s laptop.