by Rob Ashman
Listening.
Heavy footsteps pounded around the labyrinth in her head, the unmistakeable sound of voices echoing off the walls. Doors banging and slamming.
‘No!’ she cried seizing the hair either side of her head.
The silver-coated metal turned carbon black in the heat. Mechanic tore off her top, wound a dishcloth around her hand and grabbed the skewer.
She could smell the hot metal.
The skewer hovered just above her stomach. Tiny hairs on her skin singed under the heat. A dozen old scars were slashed white across her flesh where the pigment had been burned away.
Mechanic held her breath, listening.
Her whole body shook causing the tip of the metal to kiss her skin. It hissed, sending cotton wisps of smoke into the air. Mechanic winced, the sweet smell of scorched flesh filled her senses.
Mechanic tensed every muscle to control what had to happen next. The skewer wavered above her skin.
As quickly as they had appeared, the voices subsided and the footsteps stopped.
She tossed the skewer into the sink. It sizzled against the wet stainless steel. Mechanic slumped forward, drew her knees to her chest and put her head in her hands. Her shoulders rocked back and forth as she sobbed.
Daddy was back.
8
Lucas boarded the early morning flight bound for Newark Liberty International where he planned to rent a car and drive the fifty-nine miles to Darian, Connecticut. There a tree-lined remembrance garden overlooking the expensive Noroton Heights district was to be the final resting place of Chris Bassano.
Lucas had a knot of nervous tension in his stomach the size of Ellis Island and was dreading the day. Not just because his friend was being cremated, but he was nervous as hell about meeting his parents.
He had met them several times in the past and they had got on well, their son liked Lucas, so they did too. But when Bassano was attacked by Mechanic and had to leave the force, their attitude towards him changed. The atmosphere was decidedly hostile. Lucas had tried to contact Bassano when they took him back to the family home to recuperate, but the parents kept him at a distance. They needed someone to blame and held Lucas responsible. It was an absurd assertion, but Lucas allowed them to hate him. After all, their actions confirmed his own feelings of guilt.
The Bassano family were well off. His father was a partner in a law firm in Manhattan and could never understand why his son was drawn to the dirty and less well-paid end of the business. Chris was one of five brothers, and to their father’s permanent annoyance, not one of them had chosen to follow in his footsteps.
Lucas drove away from New York heading for the Hutchinson River Parkway and I-95 north to Darien. The funeral was being held at Oakland Cemetery in Fairfield, one hundred acres of the most beautifully landscaped grounds and manicured lawns. He rolled through the front gates and up the driveway. The keen wind was cold enough to blow right through your coat and the grey sky was threatening rain. Ideal weather for a funeral.
Lucas stepped out of the car and fumbled around in his jacket pocket. He produced a black tie and swept it around his neck. The last time he wore this suit and tie combination, he was committing his wife to the ground. He could see his reflection in the driver’s window and his hands were shaking.
After several attempts he straightened the knot, flattened down the collar, and walked across the granite paving to the chapel. Lucas saw a cluster of people milling around outside and in the centre was the minister dressed in black robes with purple edging. Lucas stood on the periphery of the group and surveyed the faces. He knew no one.
Without anyone giving a noticeable signal, they filed in through the dark oak doors to take their seats. The chapel was large with plain white walls and a high vaulted ceiling. Rows of wooden chairs lined both sides of the wide central aisle. A red ribbon of carpet ran the entire length of the building and flowers adorned the sandstone altar at the front. Pamphlets had been placed on each seat giving the order of service, and on the front cover the smiling face of Chris Bassano beamed up at the congregation. Lucas felt a lump rise in his throat as he picked it up and took a seat. He choked it down.
He gazed at the floor and his eyes stung with tears, as the memories of burying his wife shuddered through him. The indistinct strains of soft music washed through the chapel, along with the sound of muted conversation.
The family entered and people rose to their feet, craning their heads to get a look. The minister led the way with his head bowed, followed by the father and mother. He had his arm wound tight around her waist, as if to steady them both, and she had her hands out in front clutching a small posy of flowers. Both wore dark glasses. The coffin came next, carried high on the shoulders of the brothers, four strapping guys each one the image of Chris, each one with watery eyes. Two men from the funeral directors followed the cortege in their sombre suits and with sombre faces. It was a heartrending scene.
Lucas continued to stare at the floor as they passed. The coffin was slid on to a staging at the front of the chapel and the family helped each other into the first few rows, sitting amongst their wives, girlfriends and children.
The service was mercifully short, a couple of hymns plus a few prayers, and a eulogy given by one of the brothers which had everyone dabbing away the tears. There is something catastrophically sad about saying goodbye to someone taken too soon.
At the end the minister said a prayer, as a curtain drew around the coffin obscuring it from view. The front pews emptied out first, followed by the rest of the congregation filing past the shrouded casket into a walled courtyard.
The family lined up to shake hands with the mourners, who in turn cried on their shoulders in a show of mutual grief. Lucas hung back. Bassano’s father had spotted him in the crowd and turned away. Lucas was determined to pay his respects so kept his place in the thinning crowd.
By the time Lucas reached them the family had dispersed, talking with relatives, doing their best to console each other. Bassano’s father stepped out of nowhere and offered his hand.
‘Thank you for coming,’ he said.
Lucas shook it and placed his other hand on his shoulder.
‘I’m so sorry for your loss.’
Fabiano Bassano nodded as though any words he said could never express what he felt. He held onto Lucas’s hand and pulled him in close.
‘Did she do it?’
Lucas was stunned by the question.
‘I’m sorry, who?’
‘Did she kill Chris? That fucking maniac bitch who took his arm. Did she do it?’
‘I haven’t worked the case, but from what I know, there is no evidence to indicate who did it.’
‘Yes, I know, that’s what the police told us. But I’m asking you, did she do it?’
Bassano’s stare pierced through Lucas, his eyes welling with grief and pain.
‘Yeah, I believe she did.’
Fabiano Bassano released Lucas’s hand and hugged him tight.
‘Can you do me a massive favour?’ he whispered through clenched teeth.
‘I’ll try, what is it?’ Lucas tried to move away from the forced embrace, but he was clamped solid.
‘Can you track her down and kill the murdering bitch. And then call me when it’s done. I have money and there is nothing better I want to spend it on. All you need to do is ask.’
He released Lucas from his bear hug and gripped his shoulders with both hands.
‘Can you do that for me?’
Lucas nodded his head.
‘It will be my pleasure, Mr Bassano.’
The fight was on.
9
Lucas was finishing breakfast in the kitchen when he heard the familiar sound of alloy wheels striking concrete. It was 9am. and Lucas always knew when Harper had come to visit. Harper had swung his car around in the road and clattered into the kerb. It happened every time.
Lucas had got back late from the funeral and was waiting for his third cup of coffee of the
morning to blow away his muzzy head. Harper had left him an excited message on his answer machine, something about the information Moran had turned up and what they had to do today. At least that’s what Lucas thought he said, it was difficult to tell as Harper was both excited and drunk. At least arriving home late last night had brought with it one advantage. Lucas didn’t have a hangover.
Harper waited in the car and Lucas dumped his weary frame into the passenger seat. ‘How was it?’ he asked.
‘It was shit.’
‘How were his folks?’
‘They were shit.’
‘You okay?’
‘I feel like shit.’
‘Shit all round then, eh?’ Harper said, impressed by his friend’s descriptive powers.
They set off, heading for town. Neither one felt like talking until Lucas broke the silence.
‘His father offered me money to kill Mechanic.’
‘Did you tell him we’re gonna do it for free?’
‘No, but I told him it would be my pleasure.’
That broke the verbal dam. Harper babbled on about the information provided by Moran. He talked about Jessica Hudson and how that had proved a dead end. He talked about Nassra Shamon and how Moran believed this was Mechanic using a fake ID. He talked about the money transfers from Shamon’s bank account and banged on about Helix Holdings.
‘Where are we going?’ Lucas interrupted Harper’s flow.
‘To the public records office.’
American companies are registered at state level and must provide four principal officers. Typically, these are a president, a vice president, a secretary and a treasurer, although one person can fill multiple roles. Helix Holdings just happened to be registered in Florida, so Harper had told Moran he would take the information and see what he could dig up. Moran was relieved he was leaving her out of it but she feared that would not last long.
They arrived at the imposing stone-fronted public building and went inside. It was like a vast library with company records held on five floors, each with its own silent study area and a set of IBM computers. Harper strolled up to reception and spoke to the woman behind the desk.
‘We’d like to trace a company which is registered here in Florida.’
‘Certainly, sir, all records are stored alphabetically starting with A at the top left of the building.’
‘The company is Helix Holdings.’
‘That’s on the fourth floor. Come out of the elevator and turn right.’
‘Thank you.’
The coffee had finally kicked in and Lucas felt quietly positive. Harper was on a high, behaving like a crazed bloodhound.
Turning right out of the elevator they were confronted by an enormous room stacked to the ceiling with row upon row of files and bound documents. A young man with glasses approached them as they stared at the lines of shelving disappearing into the distance.
‘Anything out of reach, guys, you only have to holler and I’ll get it down for you.’ He breezed past into the opposite hall.
‘Cheeky little shit,’ Harper said.
‘He’s just being helpful.’
‘He’s just being a cheeky little shit, that’s what he’s being.’
‘Come on, old man.’ Lucas went inside.
It was truly needle-in-an-alphabetical-haystack time. They split up, each one looking for ‘H’– if only it was that easy. After forty minutes Lucas strode over to Harper, who was halfway up a ladder busy proving a point to the cheeky shit in the glasses.
‘I have good news and bad news.’
He was holding a fat buff-coloured file in one hand and a thick book in the other.
‘Fantastic.’ Harper climbed down and they both headed for the soft-seated area. ‘So what’s the good news?’
‘I found it,’ Lucas said handing Harper the overflowing file. ‘Helix Holdings, the president is a man named John Stringer.’
‘That’s great. We can feed that to Moran and find out where he lives.’ Harper hesitated, ‘You said there was bad news.’
‘Look at the paperwork.’
Harper flicked through the sheaf of official-looking documents and read out some names.
‘Cut Above?’
‘That’s a hairdressing business,’ Lucas said.
‘Crazy Catering?’
‘As the name suggests, it’s a catering business.’
‘Fender Benders?’
‘A panel beating and car repair business.’
‘What the hell are these?’
‘They are all companies.’
‘But we want Helix Holdings not a sandwich maker and a garage.’
‘That’s right, we do. The bad news is they are all Helix Holdings.’
‘I don’t get it.’
‘Neither did I, so I asked the cheeky little shit and he gave me this.’ Lucas held up the book. ‘Helix Holdings is a damn shell company, or holding company, or parent company, or whatever the hell it’s called. There are so many definitions in this book I don’t know which one fits.’ He tossed it to Harper who struggled to catch it. ‘What I do know is, it’s not a single entity, whatever they choose to call it.’
‘You mean all these businesses are part of Helix Holdings?’
‘Yup.’
‘What does that mean to us?’
‘It means, my friend,’ Lucas leaned forward, ‘when Mechanic pays money to Helix Holdings it’s anyone’s guess where it ends up.’
‘But doesn’t it go to this John Stringer character?’
‘Not necessarily. Each company has its own governance and its own board, it could be any of them.’
‘What, any one of these?’ Harper fanned through the pages and raised his eyebrows.
‘I think so.’
‘Shit, man, there’s a ton of businesses named in here.’
‘Yes, it’s a lot, but significantly less than when we started.’
Searching through the complex structure of Helix Holdings was like playing a game of Russian dolls. Every time they located a company, that too owned a company, which owned another, and another, and so it went on. They worked through the morning and into the afternoon, forgetting about lunch. By 4pm they had identified twenty-three separate companies along with the names of sixty-six people who were involved in one role or another.
Lucas tried to structure their findings by mapping out a company tree showing how the businesses linked together. But even that got confusing. By the end he had six pieces of paper taped together, with what looked like a child’s badly done homework scribbled on it.
‘Are we done, I’m starving,’ he said.
‘I guess so, I’ve come to the end of the line and you stopped a while ago to draw a map of the subway, so I figure we are. Copy those names into your sheet, I need to make a call.’ Harper handed Lucas more paper.
Lucas set to work listing the owners and their associated companies.
Harper stood in one of the soundproof phone booths in the lobby.
‘Detective Moran, please.’
‘Moran speaking.’
‘We have the names of people associated with Helix Holdings. It’s not an exhaustive list, but a start.’
‘Okay.’ Moran was in an office full of people.
‘Give me a fax number and I’ll send it over. I want you to run each name and see what comes up.’
‘Give me your phone number and I’ll call you back,’ she said in a light and airy manner.
Harper read off the number and hung up. Two minutes later it rang.
‘I did what you asked, now fuck off.’
Moran was obviously in a place where she could speak more freely.
‘You did, and now you need to do more.’
‘Go to hell.’
‘Don’t be a hero, I have you over a barrel and we both know it. Now stop pissing around and give me the fax number.’
The line went quiet for a minute and then Moran returned. She gave him the number and hung up without waiting for a response.<
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By the time Harper got back, Lucas had completed the list. Harper had the number written on his hand.
‘Just gonna send this off to Moran,’ he said scooping the papers from the desk.
‘Isn’t it great that she’s on board?’
‘Yup, sure is.’
Harper walked off in search of a fax machine.
10
Mechanic watched the first rays of the sun wash a burnt orange glow across the walls of her apartment. She was sitting hunched in the corner with her knees tucked under her chin, her arms hugged around her ankles pulling them in tight. She’d been like this all night.
The attack had taken her by surprise. There had been no warnings, no feelings of uneasiness, nothing. As the night hours ticked by, her head raced, searching for the trigger which had brought it on. The only thing which made sense was moving back to San Diego. Maybe it was a step too far. Instead of exorcising the demons that blighted her, it had brought them back to life.
Mechanic had managed to doze a little but spent the rest of the night wide awake, listening for noises inside her head. Thankfully none came. The skewer was still in the sink, a physical reminder, if she needed it, that it was not a dream.
She was shattered and scared.
Scared that she would once again descend into a world where she had little control of her actions, driven instead by the insane desire to sacrifice lives to satisfy Daddy: the vicious merry-go-round of planning and killing, only to have to plan and kill again. The prospect had frozen her to the spot.
She watched the shadows shift across the floor as the sun rose higher in the sky. The daylight felt better. She got to her feet and stretched out the cramps in her legs, not sure what to do next. Carrying on as normal was her only option, she could hardly keep herself huddled in a corner forever.
The phone rang.
‘Hello.’
‘We got another one.’
It was Jameson.
‘Okay, usual pick-up?’
‘Yup, I sent it yesterday. Get back to me as soon as you can, these guys want to move fast.’
