by Rob Ashman
‘When was this?’ Moran asked.
‘April 27. Time stamp 1.15pm.’
Moran swallowed hard. That was the same day the police officer was shot dead.
Her instincts were in overdrive and it didn’t feel good. This was all wrong.
She kept Mills chatting a little longer and congratulated him on finding the footage. Every muscle in her body screamed to get back to her desk while the image was fresh in her mind. She gave Mills a ‘well done’ pat on the shoulder and left.
Opening the file, Moran flicked through the interview notes and SOCO reports. She pulled the grainy photocopy of the rental agreement from the wad of papers and stared at the picture. Sure enough, staring back was the face of the beggar woman at the scene of Ramirez’s murder.
Moran went back to join Mills to be certain. By now a small gathering of early risers were crammed around the monitor with Mills stabbing his finger into the man’s face on the screen.
‘I know that scumbag,’ said one of the onlookers. ‘His name is Jerome Wilson, he works for Bonelli.’
‘Okay, guys, let’s get to it. We got the car and we got a face, bring them in.’ Mills was up and running.
Moran stared at the image on the screen. The hijab was different and her complexion was a little darker but it was her. The same question hurtled around her head: Why would a woman who could pay a month’s rent in cash be begging on the street? This was wrong, very wrong.
Mills had seen what he wanted to see, and the alternative interpretation for Moran made her feel ill. She sat at her desk nursing her third coffee of the morning. She excelled in joining the dots and looking for patterns, and whichever way she joined them up, Moran reached a terrifying conclusion.
Ramirez had his throat ripped open in broad daylight having moments earlier been face to face with Nassra Shamon. The same day a police officer was shot through the head while conducting house-to-house enquiries at the apartment of – guess who? – Nassra Shamon.
This is a 44-year-old woman from Oman visiting on a short-term visa. She appears out of nowhere, pays a month’s rent in cash, begs for money on the street, features in two murders and then disappears the same day.
Moran ran the what-if scenarios in her head.
What if the goons in the car didn’t kill Ramirez? What if Nassra Shamon slit his throat? The two guys returning to the car panicked and Ramirez ended up on the sidewalk. What if there was no burglary at Shamon’s apartment? What if it was staged to look like one? The police officer turns up at the place and accidently stumbles onto the secret world of Nassra Shamon. And she kills him in order to do her disappearing act.
Her head was spinning. There were more dots to join up.
Ramirez was travelling in a car with two of Bonelli’s men. Now who has a penchant for killing Bonelli’s guys? The answer to that is Mechanic. Who has the skills necessary to slit the throat of a hardened mercenary on a crowded street in the middle of the day? The answer to that is Mechanic. And who has the ability to simply disappear into thin air? The answer to all three questions was Mechanic.
‘Shit.’ Moran slopped coffee into her lap. This was getting worse.
If Nassra Shamon was Mechanic, then this latest turn of events brought her back in play. It was only a matter of time. Moran coughed as the taste of bile filled her mouth.
She got up from her desk and walked to the water fountain. The physical act of moving stopped her from shaking, and she needed to get rid of the taste of panic. She tried to maintain her composure, when in truth she was falling apart in full view of the office. The mail arrived, which gave her something to do other than prop up the water dispenser.
She busied herself allocating letters to people. A plain brown envelope addressed to her stood out from the rest of the corporate junk. Moran ripped it open. Inside was a set of black and white photographs.
One showed her standing outside her car, the second showed her with Lucas, and the third was of her, Lucas and Harper deep in conversation. All three were taken in what looked like a car park. The date stamp at the top said Christchurch Mall, 8th floor, camera 3, 28 April, 05.13am.
Scrawled across one of the images in red marker pen was written, ‘Want to explain these to your boss?’
Moran managed to make it back to her desk before her legs gave way.
6
Moran struggled to breathe. The pain in her chest felt as if she was having a heart attack and the thumping in her head was deafening. She tried to suck air into her burning lungs. She gripped the photos in disbelief. Panic tore through her body.
Who the fuck sent these? It was external mail but the postmark was illegible. She stuffed them back into the envelope and rammed them into her desk drawer.
Mills burst into the office barking instructions.
‘Okay, listen up. I got new work orders. I want Jerome Wilson picked up. Get out there and bring him in. I want this car found.’ He waved a wad of magnified screen shots from the CCTV in the air and slapped them down on the desk. ‘And I want the name of the driver. Let’s hustle people.’
Moran took one and spent the rest of the morning touring the streets looking for Wilson and the car. But her thoughts were a million miles away, wrestling with the implications of the mailed pictures. After her third near traffic collision of the day, she thought it best to abandon her search and return to the station. Her head was a mess. The office was empty and she sat at her desk, the car park screen grabs in her hand.
The phone rang.
‘Detective Moran.’ She cleared her throat.
‘I assume the mail has arrived by now.’ It was Harper.
‘I’ll tell you what I told Lucas. Fuck off.’
‘Do you really want to play that game?’
‘It’s not a game, Harper. I’m not interested in getting dragged into this.’
‘But you’re already in it, Detective, right up to your neck.’
‘No, Harper, it’s over.’
‘It’s over when I say it is. And what you’ve been looking at this morning proves you’re still very much engaged. I have hundreds of pictures of you, me and Lucas at that multi-storey at five in the morning, and I’m dying to send them to your boss. I’m not sure what he’ll make of them, but it does take one hell of a lot of explaining.’
‘Listen, you piece of shit. I’m not doing this.’
‘Never play hard ball with a man who has nothing to lose, especially when you have everything to lose.’
Moran tilted her head back, tears of frustration in her eyes.
The silence of a hundred years passed between them.
Moran eventually broke.
‘What do you want?’
‘I want you to be more cooperative. And you were rude to my friend, which was mighty discourteous of you.’ Harper was determined to make the most out of having the upper hand.
‘How did you get the photos?’
‘I bought them from a guy who knows a guy who works as part of mall security. I wanted us to have a record of killing Mechanic, you know something to tell the grandkids about, but that wasn’t to be. I kept them anyway as a kind of insurance policy if things took a turn for the worse.’
‘What do you want?’
‘I told you, I want you to play nice.’
‘Cut the crap. What specifically do you want?’
‘Mechanic killed Bassano which would suggest me or Lucas is next, and not surprisingly we want her dead before that happens.’
‘I’m sorry about Bassano but I don’t see how I can help.’ Moran was still trying to sound defiant, even though she knew her position was hopeless.
‘You have access to information and we want you to get it for us.’
‘Go on.’ Moran reached for a pen and paper.
‘The hit on Lucas’s wife was a professional job.’
‘You mean Mechanic contracted it out?’
‘No, she did it alright, but the equipment she used was military grade. This wasn’t something you find at
the local gun club, it was state-of-the-art weaponry.’
‘So how do I come into this?’
‘Gear like that doesn’t come cheap, it would cost a ton of money. When in Vegas, Mechanic used the name Jessica Hudson. We need you to look for sizeable money transactions from her account, anything out of the ordinary. It’s a long shot but it’s a start.’
‘Follow the money to find the supplier?’
‘That’s it.’
‘Then target the supplier to find Mechanic.’
‘There you go. See, you are a clever detective.’
Moran bristled.
‘Leave it with me.’
‘Oh, and one more thing, don’t think about screwing with me. Remember, I have nothing to lose and I will burn you.’
Harper replaced the receiver and walked back to his regular table. Lucas sat there ignoring his coffee.
‘That was Moran,’ Harper said.
‘No point talking to her, she cut me dead the last time we spoke. Told me to fuck off.’
‘It looks like she’s had a change of heart.’
Moran pulled Jessica Hudson’s financial records from the file. She remembered running them through the system before and nothing unusual had jumped out. There was rent, utility bills, gas and grocery shopping. The incomings were slugs of money consistent with her working personal security. The transactions were normal everyday items and nothing on the list said ‘One day’s rental for a sniper rifle’.
Then the image of Nassra Shamon barged its way into Moran’s head. She fed the details into the system and ran a bank search. Sure enough, her name came up and it was a very different story.
Shamon had no credit card transactions just a series of large cash deposits made into a recently opened account. Moran recognised the outgoing amount for the apartment rental, and there were numerous small withdrawals. The financial picture was totally in keeping with someone living a cash-only lifestyle.
However, three transactions stood out like the balls on a bulldog. They were bank transfers of two thousand dollars each made to Helix Holdings. The last instalment was made on April 27, then the remaining money was withdrawn and the account closed.
April 27 was the day before Lucas’s wife was murdered.
7
Mechanic lived in the fashionable Gaslamp Quarter of San Diego. Located in the top corner of a restored factory building, the large furnished apartment was an open-plan space on two levels with wood flooring throughout and modern appliances. The sun poured through the wrap around windows showcasing the stunning views of the historic heart of the city.
The money from her work with Silverton had set her up comfortably, even discounting the cash she gave the Huxtons. She didn’t begrudge them the overpayment, they had looked after her sister well, and Mechanic considered it a thank-you bonus.
After the hit on Darlene Lucas, Mechanic thought it best to disappear for a while. The advantage of San Diego was that it was a big city within driving distance of Vegas and with excellent flight routes in and out of the international airport.
There was another reason to choose San Diego. When they were young, her father was stationed there and moved the family to Canyon View naval complex. This was where it all went wrong for the young Mechanic. Moving back was an attempt to exorcise the demons that had haunted her and to draw a line under that painful chapter in her life. After all, she only had herself to consider now – her sister was dead, her whore of a mother was thankfully dead, and her father was probably living in drunken squalor somewhere. She could finally concentrate on herself, and where better than the beautiful city of San Diego.
Mechanic didn’t attend her sister’s funeral, she didn’t even know when it was. It would have been too dangerous to show her face in Vegas. She had to assume the Nassra Shamon cover was compromised and she only had one false ID left. So, with the cops looking for her and Bonelli’s men wanting to slice her into tiny pieces, the sensible option was to stay away, however much that hurt. Jo would have understood.
Mechanic missed her sister with a sadness that would corrode her to dust if she let it. But she wasn’t going to let it. The responsibility of caring for Jo had been lifted from her shoulders and she could think about what she wanted to do. It’s funny how things turn out, even for psycho serial killers.
Captain Mark Jameson had been so impressed with the way Mechanic carried out the hit on Darlene Lucas that he decided to do a little business diversification and offer a select line in contract killing. This work was far more lucrative than his Mr Fixit assignments and his relationship with Mechanic gave him the perfect partner.
When Jameson had a job, he would contact Mechanic and thrash through the outline operational plans. He would build the necessary intelligence reports and procure the equipment, and Mechanic would supply her skills and expertise. She had carried out three contracts in seven months and each time the bank balance got fatter.
She enjoyed working with Captain Mark Jameson, it was an uncomplicated relationship. He worked in military intelligence and could lay his hands on anything and deliver it direct to your door. He could compile intelligence reports on the movements of your favourite pet if you asked him. The man was a legend.
Mechanic had saved his life when a covert op went wrong, and when an ex-Navy Seal says he owes you, he means for life. He was eye-wateringly expensive and very good. He preferred to be paid up front, but where Mechanic was concerned he always took a part payment transferred directly into his account and the rest to be paid in kind.
He had a liking for having the shit kicked out of him during sex, a service Mechanic was only too pleased to provide. He had pulled out all the stops on the Darlene Lucas hit and she had promised him an extra-special something the next time they met. She told him to invent a cover story and book a few days’ emergency leave. He was going to be in a no fit state to go to work afterwards.
Mechanic enjoyed delivering the penance, it was everything Lucas deserved. But that did not eliminate her need to avenge her sister’s death. All three had to pay the ultimate price. The score stood at one down and two to go, she had two more pounds of flesh to collect.
The chance to kill Bassano came out of the blue. She had instructed James onto compile intel reports on all three of them, and discovered Bassano’s liking for the monthly masked singles night. Mechanic saw the potential immediately and it was too good an opportunity to pass up. She booked her ticket to New York and went hunting.
The hit was straightforward. There were no special requirements, just an invitation, a mask, a sharp blade and a seriously flawed personality. The beauty of it was that if the opportunity didn’t work out all she had to do was walk away. It was a shot to nothing. Mechanic wanted it to be a hands-on kill, which sent a clear message to Harper and Lucas: you’re next.
She had returned from Sorrento several days ago and had spent her time decompressing and keeping in shape. Today was a day for relaxing, nothing to do and all the time to do it in.
It was 10.40am and Mechanic shouldered her way through her front door with two brown paper bags of groceries and dumped them on the worktop. The TV blinked into life at the press of a button and the news channel came on. There had been no mention of the killing at the religious festival on the World Service or any other channel. For some reason it wasn’t newsworthy.
Mechanic never found out what was in the slim package lifted from the man in the church. As instructed, she’d dropped it into a luggage locker at Naples airport and mailed the key to an address in the city. It didn’t occur to her to ask if she was killing a bad guy or a good guy. All Mechanic cared about was the successful completion of the contract and getting paid.
She knocked the top off a bottle of tonic and unloaded the bags, putting items into the refrigerator. The big advantage of having her own place was she could ensure she ate the right foods and stayed healthy. She needed to be in top condition for her line of work.
A door slammed.
Mechanic scanned
the apartment. It had six doors and she could see four of them from where she was standing. All were slightly ajar. She remembered closing the front door with the back of her heel, so it had to be the bathroom door, which was around the corner.
Mechanic reached across and drew the long chef’s knife from the block.
She skirted the centre island in the kitchen and dropped to a crouch. She could see the door reflected in the hall mirror. It was closed.
Mechanic stood up, the knife clenched in her right hand, and made her way across the hall. She could hear the sound of soft murmuring, someone speaking. A gentle voice was whispering something which she could not catch.
Mechanic reached the door and gripped the handle. There was a bang as another door slammed shut. She spun around, thrusting the blade out in front of her.
Mechanic glanced around the rooms. The front door was shut and the others were still open. She turned back to the bathroom. The voice floated around, as she twisted the handle and burst inside, plunging the knife into thin air. It was empty.
Toiletries and folded towels lay in exactly the same place as when she’d left to go to the store. Mechanic spun on her heels and ran to the bedroom. Her shoulder thumped into the wood and she clattered inside. It too was empty. The next bedroom was the same, along with the laundry closet.
Another door slammed.
She whirled around, the blade slicing through the air. All the doors except the front door were open. Mechanic held her breath and listened to the distant whispering. Another door slammed. To her horror Mechanic realised the noises were coming from inside her head.
The razor-sharp point dug into the wood floor as Mechanic let the knife fall from her grasp. She rushed to the kitchen, switched on the gas hob and rummaged through a drawer. She found what she was looking for – a metal barbecue skewer.
The steel crackled in the blue flame. Mechanic sank to the floor, tears running down her face as she held her breath.
