DAYBREAK: a gripping thriller full of suspense (Titan Trilogy Book 3)

by T. J. Brearton

  The young woman, who said her name was Jimena, blushed and stalled for a moment, glancing around the empty foyer before launching into what sounded like a well-rehearsed speech, something she’d recited when interviewing for her front-desk position.

  “Well,” she began, “Sixty Hudson has long been a major communications hub. The building was completed in 1930. It started off as the headquarters of Western Union.”

  “Wow,” said Staryles.

  “Yeah. It was Western Union until . . .” she turned to look at the guard, who was a distance away, by the two elevators. “Randy, when was Western Union out of here?”

  “Seventy-six,” said Randy in a monotone. His dark skin contrasted with the whites of his eyes, which were locked on Staryles.

  “Seventy-six, right, yup, that’s it.” Jimena smiled prettily. “But, all during the time Western Union was here, the building’s facilities grew and adapted, you know, keeping up with the pace of technology. First there were pneumatic tubes, then the telegraph cable. At one point this building had seventy million feet of copper wire, if you can picture that.”

  “Hard to imagine.” Staryles almost winked at the girl, but forced himself to keep a straight face.

  “Yup,” she chirped, “Then telephones, and then, now, you know, fiber-optic cable.”

  She finished up and her expression changed a bit, like someone who had just inadvertently strayed onto a dicey subject and wished they hadn’t. He wondered what they’d told her — how much she knew about what was up there, on the ninth floor, and its significance.

  Jimena glanced at Randy, and Staryles looked at him, too. Randy knew what was up there. At least, old, minimum-wage, rent-a-cop Randy knew that it was important, incredibly important, more than a few MacBook Pros and office supplies to protect. And yet his job was largely for appearance — just a run-of-the-mill friendly neighborhood security guard here, not even armed, perfunctory.

  The real security was upstairs. There would be half a dozen of them, maybe more, on the ninth floor. They would be specially trained, armed, some plainclothes, meant to blend in with the other hipsters who would be bustling about.

  Sensing the awkwardness, Staryles jumped back into the conversation. “Sure, fiber optics. That’s the new way of things, right?” He sounded like a shmuck with no clue about technology.

  Jimena nodded eagerly, but still, the initial bit of flirtation and carefree conversation seemed to have gone. More than that — the way she acted reminded him of time-lapse footage he’d seen somewhere of flowers closing down at the end of a season; vibrant, full bulbs one moment, withering and furling as the sun plummets in the sky. It made him angry, when he got these reactions. He didn’t understand them. What was it with women? All smiles and batting of the eyelashes when you first met, appraising your wardrobe, your chiseled face, your wavy hair. They looked into your blue eyes and then shyly glanced down and you had them.

  But then it happened. Suddenly they switched off, like they’d smelled something bad in the room.

  It didn’t happen with all women, he reminded himself. Just last night he’d been with a beautiful Ecuadorian with cheekbones as sharp as scythes, small upright breasts, full lips, long legs. This Jimena, she had no idea what he could do to her.

  “Yup,” she said again, and nodded. “The way of the future. Everything is digital.” She kept nodding, and now she avoided eye contact, and he realized something. His problem was that he just lingered too long. And it only seemed to happen stateside. His timing was fine in Yemen or Afghanistan. There he would pull away from a job before the body hit the ground. He’d disappear into the night before the family — what was left of them — awoke inside the dusty, stucco rooms. As if back here he was making up for lost time. Taking things more slowly, trying to get somewhere with people, trying to remember how to be human. He hated himself for it. Their conversation had ended, and he needed to walk away.

  “Well, thanks for the little history lesson,” he said, and ripped open a huge smile.

  “Oh, sure . . .” She looked puzzled. Fine, he thought, let her wonder. Without another word, he turned and strutted across the space to Randy, who watched him come over with the kind of wariness reserved for Jehovah’s Witnesses at the door.

  Forgoing the small talk now, Staryles strode up to Randy and said, “Ninth floor.”

  Randy blinked. “You have to be in the book. What’s your name?”

  “My name is Jeremy Staryles,” he said, already pulling out his credentials. He held up the wallet with the ID inside the plastic window. He tapped it with a manicured fingernail. “Five Star Securities.”

  Randy glanced at the ID. His gaze dropped to the book sitting on the podium in front of him. He dragged a finger down the page. “Yeah, okay, I got you here. I’ll phone up.”

  “That’s very good, Randy.”

  Randy’s eyes flashed. “Excuse me?”

  “I think you’re a helluva guy, Randy.”

  They held each other’s gaze for a moment before Randy looked away, scowling, and picked up the phone at his small, high desk. As he called, Staryles took the opportunity to think about how nice it would be to kill Randy. Then he glanced over his shoulder at Jimena. Maybe he would have her watch.

  CHAPTER SEVEN / WEDNESDAY, 3:21 PM

  Jennifer looked around at the gray walls of the small room. There was a dance of light along the edge of her vision she could only chase by turning her head. She stopped and closed her eyes for a moment. Then she opened them to stare at Brendan.

  “Look; what we’re working with is that Nonsystem is ramping something up. Doherty claims there’s enough to get them on what happened to me last year. That’s why they’ve had me keep a distance. Get some of them to cooperate, turn in the others, in return for leniency. But they’re holding off, because they want to fry them for what they’re planning now. Catch them in the act.”

  Brendan sat up a little straighter. He studied her. “Who’s lead prosecutor? Are you?”

  The question struck a deep cord with her, made her feel hollow. Her muscles recalled the effects of the poison, twisting them into gristle, liquefying her organs. Over the ensuing months, she’d gotten the feeling her superiors and colleagues considered her a permanent wreck. They thought her integrity was compromised.

  They thought: Thank you for playing, but thallus sulfate poisoning deprives you of further privileges within the Department. We’ll be managing your career until further notice.

  No, she was not lead prosecutor.

  So what was the FBI really doing by coming to her like this? Were they freeing her, or was it just more of the same, more close-watch, more shackles? Sometimes it felt like she was still trapped in that room, high up in the city. Not much different from Brendan, sitting there, chained.

  “John Rascher is prosecuting. What the prevailing thought is, you know, the FBI do what they do best. They draw Nonsystem out. They get them talking, supply them with what they need, learn their full intentions.”

  Brendan was quiet, perhaps considering this.

  “I’ve spoken with the US Attorney General,” she went on. “Everyone is in agreement. They’ve got me taking a point position on this.”

  “But they’re limiting your information.” He raised an eyebrow.

  “That’s how it has to work some times.”

  “So how am I supposed to help you?”

  “We believe there is crossover between what’s happening now, and the XList investigation. And since you were the one to really bring XList out in the open with your case, I thought we could pick each other’s brains.”

  “Ok,” Brendan said, relenting. “Fair enough. Let’s do this: tell me how you got into XList in the first place.”

  “Well, now we’re going way back.” She winked at him, and then felt foolish for it. She took a drink of water. “Okay, let’s start with Wyn Weston. Weston was one of the first Justice Department investigators to look into the Rebecca Heilshorn murder during the trial of Oliv
ia Jane. Reason being, county prosecutors alluded to a criminal enterprise surrounding Rebecca’s death. It grabbed the attention of the HTPU. Weston obtained the data from the case, including the financials on Alexander Heilshorn.”

  “Which were relevant because of Rudy Colinas,” Brendan added.

  She looked closely at him. “Because of you and Colinas. You had good instincts on that case.”

  She saw the blood rise in his cheeks. He seemed tempted to look away, self-consciously, but he maintained eye contact and said, “If you say so.”

  “You’re welcome. Then Weston left the case.”

  “Why?”

  She leaned back and lifted her shoulders. Her neck and back felt stiff. “We don’t know. Weston has been MIA for almost a year. He’s officially a missing person. As is a medical examiner from Westchester County. One who initially did the postmortem on Seamus Argon’s body.”

  Brendan seemed to drift off for a moment. No doubt he was thinking of Argon. Brendan had been locked-up the day of Argon’s funeral. His focus came back, sharp.

  “Argon’s death was staged.”

  She swallowed, feeling a lump in her throat. “Well, the assessment is nowhere to be found.”

  “I don’t think Argon died in that collision as intended. I think Staryles had to finish him off. Then adapt the body postmortem to appear more consistent with the plan.”

  “But, why?” She was getting slightly frustrated. It seemed like he kept trying to lead her somewhere, but then would back away. Of course, to be fair, she’d been explicit with him about not dwelling on anything unsubstantiated. “Why take these other people and toss them into the abyss, never to be found, but kill Argon? Let the funeral happen, risk interfering with his body, involve a second medical examiner, all of this?”

  “Maybe too many missing shows a pattern. Maybe you’ve got to mix it up,” Brendan said, looking closely at her. Then his gaze wandered over her shoulder. “But as far as those missing go, I don’t think they’re alive. I think they’re missing because they’re dead and buried somewhere.”

  She thought maybe part of her agreed, which worried her. She steered the conversation back to Wyn Weston. “When I made the call to the Justice Office to get the files on the Heilshorn case and the financials on Alexander, it took about two weeks. They arrived where I was staying in White Plains. The next morning, I was kidnapped.”

  It still felt strange to hear, strange to say.

  “The files stayed behind.”

  “I didn’t take them jogging.”

  Brendan smiled. She thought it was the first time she’d seen him smile since she’d gotten to Rikers. The smile faded as he stared at the table between them, at the switched-off audio recorder. Then he lifted his head and looked into her eyes. “The copies I had were still in the apartment where I was staying, yes. The people who abducted me didn’t bother going after copies. They knew the originals were kept safe somewhere. And now the FBI has them.”

  “Heilshorn’s personal bookkeeping only? Or was there Titan information in there, too?”

  “Both. Yes.”

  “Alright, then tell me what you remember.”

  She clasped her hands together on the table. “Heilshorn was a founding partner of Titan. Titan is one of the world’s largest private equity firms. A huge investor in leveraged buyout transactions over the past five years.”

  “I’m sorry . . . English, please.”

  She smirked. “We’re talking about mergers and acquisitions. Titan often serves as a financial sponsor acquiring a company. In some cases, like when they acquired a large, but struggling construction company called G. Hanson Construction, they renamed it Titan Construction.”

  “What about Titan Med Tech?”

  “Same thing. I forget the original name, but it was acquired and rebuilt, with a huge R&D department added in. These transactions, partially funded by borrowing, usually occur with private companies. But, they can occur as a public to private transaction.”

  “So, Titan can acquire a public company, buy it out, and take it private. Are there solid examples?”

  “A few,” she said, running a hand over her hair. “Most of which we already know; there was a money trail leading to Titan from companies which did not generate sufficient cash flows to service their debt. Which means the equity owners swap control of the company to the debt providers.”

  “The banks.”

  She dropped her hand to the table. “Yes.”

  “This happen a lot?”

  “A lot. The companies are bought, over-leveraged to insolvency, then turned over to the banks. But the banks aren’t all Titan was feeding.”

  “Money going to something else,” Brendan said. “And from something else. From the debt-to-equity swaps, and subsequent liquidations, but also from the black markets. From XList. And then following the same pattern. Funneling into . . . what?”

  Jennifer took a beat. She was familiar with Brendan’s hypothesis that Titan was behind XList; she’d seen his case files on Rebecca. She had even used the theory when interviewing Olivia Jane, hoping to bait the murderer into revealing something she never had. Alexander Heilshorn had first mentioned Titan in a phone call with Brendan. Heilshorn of course denied any involvement with XList, displayed shock and fear over his daughter’s involvement, but stayed transparent about his relationship to the large firm. She decided to let it lie.

  “The current belief is that the money was going into Nonsystem.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “No?” she asked, feeling her skin prickle. “Well, again, all we have is conjecture; we don’t have proof. Titan’s money disappears into a black hole. That’s the thing with cleaning money — it’s moved around, disseminated — it gets sheltered in Switzerland or the Caymans. Places like the Ugland House. Where it winds up after that is just a guess.”

  “So, what’s your guess?”

  She glared at him, his unmasked stubbornness getting under her skin. “I don’t guess. What I see is what’s in front of me. You taking the fall for Alexander Heilshorn’s death. And Staryles’ visit when you were first arrested. We want to get the bottom of this? We’ve got to figure out what Staryles is doing right now. That’s my guess.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT / WEDNESDAY, 3:21 PM

  The elevator doors opened on a cool, dark floor. Staryles could immediately sense a change in the environment: the lobby had smelled of new carpet; up here the air reeked of clustered electronics and hot plastic. Like a Best Buy in 100 degree heat, despite the whirring air conditioning circulating in drafty currents.

  There was a high, wide desk dead ahead in front of a glass wall, flanked by two blackened, thermal-paned doors. This time it wasn’t a perky grad student at the desk, but two men, security guards. Both gave Staryles the eyeball, utility belts saddling their waists, semi-autos a thong-strap away from their clutches. Then the door opened to the right of them and another man stepped through, dressed in a suit and tie. He put on a fake smile and approached Staryles. He was in his fifties, gray-haired, his face creased with dignified wrinkles. The suit was silver and shined beneath the overhead lights.

  Time to smile again. Staryles offered his hand and gave the silver-suit a firm, three-pump shake, finding the man’s grip dry and cool. He snuck another glance at the armed guards before giving the suited man his full attention. The greeter looked him up and down.

  “Mr. Staryles?”

  “Yes.”

  “Cal Riggins. Nice to meet you.” Riggins let go of Staryles’ hand and reached up to the rimless glasses perched on his nose. He gave them a push with the tip of his finger while his eyes jerked toward the two security agents. Upon his wordless communication, the two men left the desk and came over. Big boys, one of them at least two hundred pounds of muscle, the other a little flabbier and heavier, built like a linebacker. He was holding a wand that connected to a battery pack clipped to his belt.

  Riggins looked at Staryles with a curl of a smile. “You understa
nd we have to follow procedure.”

  “Absolutely,” Staryles said, raising his arms and biting back the bile that rose in his throat. He needed to play his part, and play it convincingly. And that meant, for the moment, letting himself be molested by security like any other helpless citizen.

  The second security guard went about riffling up and down his pant legs while the linebacker feathered the wand along his arms, across his chest, around his waist. Then they switched positions. It was some kind of awkward, heavyweight ballet. Staryles could smell their sweat, and turned his head to the side to stifle a gag. He could feel Riggins watching the whole thing with a kind of churlish pride.

  When it was finally over, and no knife, no SIG automatic with sound suppressor was discovered, nothing but a wallet with his credentials, the fake picture of his wife and daughter (it was an idea inspired by Brendan Healy), the two meatheads took a step or two back, and Riggins pulled his face into a disturbingly pleased smile.

  “Right this way,” he said.

  * * *

  Inside, the temperature was another five degrees cooler, but even beneath the air conditioning the smell of baking electronic gear was pungent, the white noise louder as aisles upon of aisles of servers all busily whirred away in the darkness. The cavernous space was dimly lit.

  “We keep the lights low; they add heat,” Riggins explained.

  Just inside the room was a warren of offices. Their walls also tinted glass, less opaque so that Staryles was able to peer in. A see-through office on the right contained a woman in an attractive pantsuit pacing with a Bluetooth attached to her ear, her lips moving and her hands gesturing in the air. She didn’t notice Staryles. Next door to her, a younger woman seated in an ergonomic chair behind a handsome desk looked up and tracked Staryles as he passed. He smiled at her. He looked at the offices on the opposite side. One was empty, another featured a conference table with men and women gathered round, some catching his eye, some not. One man watched him while sipping a beverage, then averted his gaze. The last glass wall was occluded, completely screened in and private.