The Wrong Man

by Jason Dean

  And he hadn’t heard a thing the whole time. Not a single sound. He should have listened harder. He had no excuse. None at all. That was one hell of a bitter pill to swallow.

  ‘So how much did you come away with in the end?’ he asked.

  ‘Cash?’ Cortiss shrugged. ‘Just over five million, I think. Minus the two we planted in that fake account of yours.’

  Bishop stared at him. ‘Three million? And that was worth seven lives?’

  Cortiss tilted his head and smiled. ‘’Course not, but that ain’t exactly what we came for, was it?’ Then he laughed hard. ‘That’s what you thought this was all about? A few million Brennan salted away for a rainy day? Oh brother, that’s beautiful. Just beautiful.’

  And it came to Bishop that Jenna might have been closer to the truth than he thought. Maybe the vault had held something other than money. Perhaps something that was priceless in comparison. Bishop thought of Jenna’s comments earlier about J. Edgar Hoover. And of Helen Gandy, a distant relative of Brennan’s. ‘It was a file, wasn’t it? And old FBI file Brennan inherited.’

  Cortiss stopped laughing and Bishop knew he’d hit pay dirt.

  ‘How’d you find out about it?’ Bishop asked. ‘Or did Brennan spill the details the same time he told you about the vault?’

  ‘Sure he told me. Back in the days when he trusted me. Said how some old relative of his who used to work for Hoover had died and willed everything to him. Including this file.’ He grinned and said, ‘Did a little research of my own once he let me go; you know, some corroboration to make sure I wasn’t chasing a rainbow, and I found enough to convince myself he wasn’t just blowing smoke.’

  ‘What kind of corroboration?’

  ‘The kind you get by searching dusty old hospital records nobody remembers any more.’

  The sound of a barking dog suddenly echoed through the apartment and Bishop instinctively swivelled his head towards the noise, seeing Cortiss reaching for his cigarettes as he turned. Then there was the sound of material being torn. When Bishop turned back Cortiss already had a pistol in his right hand.

  Aimed straight at Bishop’s head.

  FORTY-FOUR

  Your life can change in a second.

  That simple fact had been drilled into Bishop so many times in basic training he’d lost count. Let your guard down for just one second and it could be your last, they’d said, so expect everything. If a ten-ton weight falls out of the sky you’ll see its shadow first, so move out of the way before you look up to see what it is.

  Looked like his memory had finally let him down.

  Bishop stared at the barrel and didn’t move a visible muscle. The Beretta on his lap wasn’t even pointing in the right direction any more, and the Colt in his jacket pocket might as well have been in the next door apartment. His right arm was still on the counter, though. Just out of Cortiss’s view, thanks to the support pillar in the way. That was something, at least.

  Cortiss’s own right arm was outstretched with the gun pointing directly at Bishop’s head. Unmoving and steady as a waxwork.

  Bishop had no doubt he’d shoot at the slightest twitch.

  It was a revolver. From this position it looked like a snub-nosed .357 but he wasn’t about to lean over for a better view. He could see the chamber was full. Bishop swivelled just his eyes to the left arm of the sofa and silently cursed himself. The tearing sound had been Cortiss punching through his custom-made hole in the arm of the couch where he’d hidden the gun. He must have used a weak sealant to put it back together, as Bishop had seen no sign of a join in the material. Smart. The man had planned for every contingency.

  The weird doorbell sounded again. On second hearing it was clear it couldn’t be anything but an electronic effect. The barking was too regular. Then came three hard knocks on the door. A voice yelled, ‘You in there, Joe? Got a Fedex package here I signed for while you were out.’

  Cortiss just looked at Bishop with a smile on his face and pressed a finger to his lips. But he didn’t have to. Neither man wanted to advertise his presence. Cortiss would want the guy to go away thinking the apartment was still empty. Bishop didn’t want an innocent bystander getting killed if he could help it. And he knew Cortiss would waste them both in a second if it meant his own survival.

  More knocking. The neighbour sounded like the determined type and that was good. Bishop needed Cortiss to stay where he was until he was ready. If he got up it was over. He’d see what Bishop’s right hand was up to. But Cortiss wouldn’t move until Bishop had tossed his gun. And he wouldn’t order him to throw it until the neighbour gave up and went away.

  ‘Coulda sworn it was your car I saw pull in,’ the neighbour said in a softer voice. Five seconds later Bishop heard someone coughing, but the sound was a lot fainter. The guy had given up. He was going back to his own apartment.

  Bishop spoke first to delay the inevitable by a few more seconds and allow his hand to inch closer to his goal. ‘How much of what you told me was true?’

  Cortiss gave him a look of fake remorse. ‘I took care of Neary myself, but everything else was on the level. A surprise, I know, but in my business you don’t get to share war stories too often. It can be done but then you’ve got to waste the other guy after you’ve finished.’

  ‘Just like the old CIA joke.’

  ‘Yeah. How about you throw your gun? Then we’ll talk some more.’

  Bishop doubted that. He knew Cortiss couldn’t let him leave now. He’d spent years in this new identity and wasn’t about to expose himself by turning him in to the cops. Bishop would talk and while the cops wouldn’t believe him, they’d check anyway. The Joseph Armitage identity wouldn’t hold up under close examination. No. Far easier to kill Bishop. Maybe try to make it look like a suicide. That’s how a smart man would play it.

  ‘Thumb and forefinger,’ Cortiss said. ‘Nice and slow. Toss it in the direction of the windows.’

  Bishop slowly lifted his palm away from the Beretta’s grip as the fingers of his right hand finally made contact with the handle of the kitchen knife he’d noticed earlier. It was lying on a wooden cutting board, close to where the phone was buried.

  With his left hand, he formed a claw with thumb and forefinger and gripped the Beretta by the tip of the barrel. At the same time, his right hand spun the knife around so the blade pointed towards him.

  Cortiss’s outstretched arm remained rock solid, his eyes glued to the Beretta. Bishop mimicked the same exaggerated movements that Cortiss had used earlier to extract his cigarettes. He very slowly picked the gun up. Meanwhile, his right thumb and forefinger clasped the blade and raised it an inch off the counter, still out of Cortiss’s line of vision. It was definitely sharp enough but Bishop couldn’t tell how accurate it would be. Kitchen knives weren’t designed for throwing and the balance was all wrong. Centre of gravity should be where blade meets handle, but the handle on this one was clearly heavier. And using his right hand, too. This wouldn’t be easy.

  It didn’t matter. The time was now.

  He swung his left hand as though demonstrating how to draw a tick and, at the end of the tick, released the Beretta. Instinctively, Cortiss’s eyes followed the pistol’s trajectory and Bishop twisted on the stool in a clockwise motion as he brought his right arm from the counter and pitched the knife towards the centre of Cortiss’s head before the Beretta hit the floor. He kept moving after its release and rolled off the stool, dropping to the floor while reaching into his pocket for the Colt, waiting for the shot that would tell him it was over.

  But there were no shots. No sounds of any kind. Bishop turned with the Colt now gripped in his left hand and saw why.

  Bishop’s aim had been accurate, but the knife had turned in midair so that the butt of the handle made contact with Cortiss’s forehead instead of the point. Judging by the large, ugly dent in his skull, he’d have a month-long headache when he eventually awoke. But he’d be alive. Which was more than he deserved.

  Bishop raised h
imself up and saw that Cortiss’s arm had fallen by his side, gun still clenched in his hand. It was a .357. A shiny Colt Python with a four-inch barrel. He picked up his own Beretta from the floor and then put the other guns in his jacket pockets. He’d drop them in the nearest dumpster once he was finished here.

  The good thing about that one-second rule, he thought as he rifled through Cortiss’s pockets for his car keys, is that it works the other way, too.

  FORTY-FIVE

  Bishop left the Lexus under some trees on a quiet street four blocks from Jenna’s place and walked the rest of the way with his head down and his pace slow. To anyone looking, he was just a relaxed guy taking a stroll.

  After a thorough search of Cortiss’s apartment he’d found only a single additional item that might prove useful: an M84 concussion grenade. Having experienced its effectiveness firsthand on more than one occasion, he decided to take it with him. Then, after emptying the bathroom of all loose or sharp objects, he had secured the unconscious Cortiss to the radiator with the help of a large roll of duct tape he’d found in the kitchen. He’d want a follow-up discussion soon and figured Cortiss would be more amenable once he’d spent a day or two in his own john, nursing a concussion and a migraine the size of Texas.

  When Bishop reached Jenna’s building, he took the elevator to the third floor and knocked on her door. Jenna opened it, wearing the same bathrobe as this morning and smelling of flowers. Violets, this time. Just how many showers did she take a day?

  ‘Hey,’ she said. ‘Cortiss showed up, then?’

  ‘He showed up.’ Bishop walked through the hallway into the living room and sat on an easy chair. Jenna took the couch. As he took off his suit jacket and draped it over the back of the chair he tried not to let his gaze linger on her bare legs and feet, but it was difficult. He’d known women who’d kill for legs like that. Men, too.

  She smiled and said, ‘If I ask what happened, will you get mad at me?’

  ‘No, Jenna,’ he said. ‘I won’t get mad at you.’ He figured the two major breakthroughs she’d given him so far had earned her the truth, at least. Probably a whole lot more.

  Over the next ten minutes he summarized everything Cortiss had given him. When he finished, she said, ‘That poor kid. If I’d been her father, I’d have shot the bastard right there and buried him in the woods.’ She raked her fingers through her hair. ‘Still, at least we know we were on the right track with the Helen Gandy connection, right?’

  ‘You mean you were on the right track. I thought it was simply money they were after.’

  ‘Yeah, well.’ Jenna looked out the window and said, ‘Sometimes it helps to get another point of view in order to see things clearly.’

  ‘I’m beginning to believe that.’ Once again, Bishop found himself looking at her legs and glanced up to see her watching him with a smile on her lips.

  She started to play with the ends of her belt. ‘Almost two days now since you walked through my door. You given any thought to how long you’ll want to stay with me?’

  ‘Yeah, I have,’ he said. More than once in the last hour or so, in fact. On the drive back, it had dawned on him that she was probably helping because she liked him, and it had been a long time since he could say that. She’d proved in a very short time that she could be trusted. A rare quality in Bishop’s experience. And he realized that the core of his feeling for her was respect. ‘Maybe if we see how things develop,’ he said, his throat a little dry, ‘we can take it from there.’

  Her face split into a smile. ‘That sounds like a fine idea.’ She slowly got up from the couch and walked around the coffee table until she was standing directly in front of him. She took his hand and placed it around one end of the belt and just stood there, waiting to see what he’d do next.

  Yesterday Bishop would have made an excuse and let go of it. But that was yesterday. Today, things were different. He kept hold of the belt. Then he slowly pulled until the bow came loose. The robe parted and for a moment he just stared at her smooth brown skin. And the silver, heart-shaped belly button ring an inch from his eyes.

  He rose from the chair and pulled her to him. Jenna wrapped her arms around his waist and locked her mouth against his and for a while Bishop was completely unaware of time passing. It was only when he felt her unbuttoning his shirt that he broke contact. Breathing heavily, he helped her pull the shirt from his body.

  ‘Jeeee-sus,’ Jenna said, staring at his torso with wide eyes. ‘You weren’t kidding, were you?’ She rested her palm on the area where the bruising was darkest and looked up at him. ‘I think you need some special treatment.’

  Bishop watched as she shrugged out of the bathrobe entirely. Then she began walking through the archway and into her bedroom.

  FORTY-SIX

  Jenna sank an elbow into the pillow and rested her head on her palm. She looked down at Bishop and traced her fingers over his nose and lips, down his neck and along his shoulders. He closed his eyes. Her fingers on his skin felt nice. They finally came to a stop at the random series of ancient ridges on his left shoulder muscle. Like he knew they would.

  ‘I’m tempted to ask where you got this,’ she said, ‘but I figure you’ll just brush it off like it was a mosquito bite.’

  ‘Not me,’ Bishop said. ‘I was in agony for weeks. Basic training, one of the assistant drill instructors threw a live grenade during a class on improvised explosive devices. His aim was lousy.’

  She clucked her tongue and gently massaged the area. ‘Did you like being in the Marines?’

  ‘I guess. For a while, at least. I liked the constant physical challenges, seeing how far I could push myself. Plus I’d always wanted to travel, and I got plenty of that.’

  ‘So what made you leave?’

  ‘Lots of reasons. Mainly, I found myself in too many situations where I’d be thinking why and that’s not a question for a Marine. Or any kind of soldier.’ He shrugged and said, ‘It was just time to move on, that’s all.’

  ‘And not a single tattoo anywhere on your body. I’m impressed.’

  ‘I’m afraid of needles.’

  ‘Sure you are.’

  After a minute’s comfortable silence, Bishop could feel her staring at him. He opened his eyes. ‘What?’

  ‘I’m scared you’ll get mad at me.’

  ‘I thought we were past that. Especially considering our present circumstances.’

  ‘Okay,’ she said and took a deep breath. ‘I found those letters under the cushion.’

  Bishop couldn’t help smiling. Expect people to go against their nature and you’ll come away disappointed every time. ‘And you felt compelled to check things out for yourself, huh?’

  She smiled back and he said, ‘All right, I’m listening. What did you find out?’

  Jenna sat up and crossed her legs. Bishop listened as she described her conversation with Jeffrey Golden about Willow Reeves’ previous identity as Cavendish Hospital, and the current location of their records.

  ‘Tax inspector,’ Bishop said. ‘More of your “social engineering”?’

  ‘Yeah, but those old hospital records Cortiss said he checked? I think it could be this Cavendish Hospital he was talking about.’

  ‘Only because you want it to be.’

  ‘But don’t you think it’s at least possible? Cortiss could easily have gone to the storage warehouse in Brooklyn and checked for himself.’

  He looked at the ceiling and said, ‘Yeah, it’s possible.’ He thought back to what Cortiss had told him, and, more specifically, what he hadn’t. ‘You know, after everything that went down they couldn’t have found what they were after in that vault. Cortiss told me this file was worth a whole lot more than the five million in cash they found, but the guy isn’t exactly living in the lap of luxury. Way I figure it, Brennan must have moved the file after he fired Cortiss.’ Bishop put his arms above his head. The stretch sent a sharp pain through his stomach muscles and he clenched them in response. The pain became a dull ache
. He said, ‘Which means if I can find out what’s in this file, I can use it to bring the man I’m after out into the open.’

  ‘I was hoping you’d say something like that,’ she said and moved off the bed. ‘First place to check has to be the warehouse. I’ll need something business-like if we’re going.’

  ‘You planning on just walking right in?’

  ‘Not exactly,’ she said. ‘But we’ll need to make a stop along the way.’

  FORTY-SEVEN

  Jenna pressed the doorbell and said, ‘You really prefer his late-sixties stuff or were you just leading me on in the park?’

  Bishop smiled. He’d borrowed an old baseball cap from Owen’s box of stuff and had it pulled low over his face. ‘I’m not big on Elvis, but yeah, that ’69 album of his was good. “Wearin’ That Loved On Look” was a catchy tune.’

  She laughed and said, ‘And I’ll raise you with “Trying To Get To You”. You do know that listing old song titles like this is about as original as the apple, don’t you?’

  He shrugged. ‘I’ve been out of circulation for a while.’

  The door opened and Ali’s face appeared. He took in Bishop and quickly checked the street behind them before he said to her, ‘You lose your key?’

  ‘Didn’t want to surprise you.’

  ‘Should have thought of that before you called me earlier,’ he said and let them in.

  Jenna was dressed in a navy-blue skirt suit and white blouse. Bishop had added a tie to Owen’s suit and was wearing his sunglasses. They both looked as though they’d come straight from the office. Except for the baseball cap.

  In the hallway, Ali said to Bishop, ‘You can wait up here. We won’t be long.’