by Rob Ashman
After a few minutes the phone rang.
‘Hi,’ he said.
‘I can talk now.’ It was Moran. ‘Where’s your attack dog today?’
‘I’m sorry about that, I had no idea.’
‘You two come as a pair, so excuse me if I don’t believe you.’
‘I didn’t, I swear. I found out about the photographs a couple of days ago.’
‘It came as a shock. I didn’t expect anything different from a dinosaur like Harper, but you, Lucas, I thought we had a connection.’
‘Is that why you told me to fuck off when I needed your help?’
She went quiet.
‘I haven’t told you that today. What do you want?’
‘The good news is we’ve located Vickers.’
‘That was fast. What I gave you was sketchy at best.’
‘The bad news is Gerry Vickers turns out to be a ghost. He’s a cover for a man called Mark Jameson, he’s the one behind Sheldon Chemicals and Helix Holdings.’
‘That’s impressive work, shame you retired.’
Lucas delivered his punch line. ‘We believe he’s also the one who supplied Mechanic with the equipment to kill my wife.’
‘Shit. How did you—’
Lucas interrupted. ‘That doesn’t matter. What matters is we need to move fast.’
Moran thought for a minute.
‘You sure it’s him?’
‘As sure as we can be without a positive I.D. We could do with more background on Mark Jameson and a recent mug shot. He lives here in San Diego at 102 Waterfront Place, Imperial Beach.’
‘Just a minute.’ Moran scrabbled for a pen and paper. ‘I’ll see what comes up and fax it to your new number. What else?’
‘Jameson has a direct line to Mechanic, and the plan is to use him to draw her out into the open. She trusts him and the likelihood is the hit on Darlene wasn’t the first time they worked together. It’s vital that Jameson remains untouched. He’s no good to us if the cops start sniffing around. You have to lose the Shamon account transactions.’
‘You gotta be kidding. Do you have any idea how much shit is flying around here? I’m already stretching it as far as I can, and I’m not sure how much longer I can hold out. You got maybe twelve hours at most.’
‘That account information could cost us the only link we have to Mechanic.’
‘I can’t, Lucas. The guy running the investigation is sweet on me and I’m pushing my luck as far as it will go. You know how much scrutiny is applied in a murder investigation. If I turn up a blank it’s bound to come out somewhere else.’
‘Don’t you want her dead?’ This stopped Moran in her tracks. ‘Don’t you want to be the one who finally takes down Mechanic?’
‘I do. I mean I did. But that was a long time ago and we got burned. I got burned.’
‘You’re at risk of getting torched again. If they arrest Jameson, the next stop is Mechanic and then they get you too.’
Moran went quiet.
Lucas continued, ‘We need Jameson in the clear for this to work. All I can ask is you think about it.’
‘Okay, okay. I’ll get the details to you as fast as I can.’
‘Oh, Moran, there’s one more thing.’
‘This has to be the last, I gotta go.’
‘Can you think of someone in Mechanic’s recent past that crossed her? Someone she would hold a grudge against?’
Lucas could hear the sound of a pen tapping rhythmically on a table.
‘There’s one that jumps out of the pack straightaway.’
Lucas replaced the receiver and pulled a small dog-eared book from his jacket pocket. He thumbed through the handwritten pages. He lifted the receiver again, dialled the numbers, and waited for it to connect.
‘Hi, is that Fabiano Bassano? … Yes, hi, this is Ed Lucas … I’m fine thank you … I want to take you up on that offer.’
Moran fed the printout into the fax machine and hit send. It cranked and whirred as the sheets spooled through the rollers. Mark Jameson, or Captain Mark Jameson to give him his correct title, was an interesting guy. Not from what the records said about him, rather what they didn’t say. It said his date of birth, it said he was well educated, it said he owned and drove a car and lived in San Diego. It said he joined the navy at the age of twenty-one, and then it said absolutely nothing.
Moran fed the printout into the shredder and returned to work.
Earlier that morning her meeting at the Wells Fargo bank had gone well. Moran had shared with the bank official her concerns that the account records had been corrupted, and the bank official had confirmed that wasn’t the case. Moran thanked her for the clarification and left. Easy and straightforward.
The important point for Moran was the meeting had taken place. The bank official had a record in her calendar and would no doubt be able to recall discussing the account of Nassra Shamon. For anyone who cared to check, that was all that mattered, and the precise content of the discussion was irrelevant.
It would buy her enough time to get through to the briefing tomorrow when she would be forced to declare the transfer of money to Helix Holdings. Then the whole investigative apparatus would descend and the race for who got to Jameson first would be in full flight.
Moran was seated at her desk when Mills appeared.
‘Hey, how did you get on at—’
She interrupted him fast. ‘What are you doing when you get off work tonight?’
Mills looked around at the empty office and shrugged his shoulders.
‘Dunno, got nothing planned. Why, what were you thinking?’
‘I thought we might grab a beer.’ She put her head to one side and smiled.
‘Yeah, that would be great. I’m not staying late, so how about six o’clock. Maybe catch a bite to eat?’
‘Can’t do food but a beer would be good.’
‘See you at six.’
He sauntered out of the office as if he’d just found a hundred dollar bill in the pocket of an old suit.
Moran shuffled paper around trying to look busy. She didn’t want a beer and she wanted one even less sitting across from Mills spouting his schoolboy chat. But most of all she didn’t want him to finish his question and ask her how she got on at the bank.
Moran lay in bed waiting for the alarm to go off. It was 5.57am and she’d been awake since three. What little sleep she’d had was filled with the prospect of what lay ahead of her today. She had tossed and turned, rehearsing in her head what she was going to say at the morning meeting with Mills. Each time she said it, she died a little inside. But saying it was her only option.
The after-work drink with Mills had been as bad as ever. He had once more played the gallant suitor and made a big song and dance about buying the beers, but Moran had insisted. She managed to buy one round but that was it. He’d taken her to the same bar as before and fortunately they were showing the ball game, which kept Mills pleasantly diverted.
To his credit, he had avoided the topic of work, which should have been a welcome change compared to the majority of dates she’d been on. But by the time they left at eight o’clock she almost wished he had talked over the murder investigation. At least that would have given her an adrenaline rush rather than the dead space she felt inside.
The alarm went off. The local radio station gave the six o’clock time check and cut to the news. Moran was a news addict and would watch, listen and read about it whenever the opportunity arose. This morning she wasn’t interested and shuffled off to the shower to contemplate her day under jets of hot water.
She dressed in her signature black uniform and decided she needed to eat. She never ate breakfast and looked expectantly in the fridge. It was empty, apart from a two-week old carton of milk, a slice of pizza and an almost full bottle of wine with the cork stuffed back in the neck. She ignored the wine, despite the fact it was by far the best option, and picked up the pizza. She peeled away the plastic wrap and inspected the thin crust, salami topped
, something or another. She couldn’t recall the last time she ate pizza at home, so threw it in the trash. The cupboard proved more fruitful and she gathered up her car keys and banged her front door shut with four cookies in her hand.
The journey into work passed by in a blur. She sat at her desk with an empty cup of coffee that she could not remember buying and for some reason seemed to be covered in crumbs. Moran unpacked her files and pulled out the one marked Nassra Shamon. She opened it and retrieved the printout showing the account transactions. Circled in fat blue ink were the three money transfers to Helix Holdings, and beneath it was a line entry saying Account Closed.
Moran played with the cardboard cup in front of her, spinning it on its base. Her hand shook slightly. She checked her watch, forty minutes to go to the morning briefing.
Mills breezed in.
‘Morning,’ he said in a voice too cheerful even for a breakfast TV presenter. He marched up to her desk, hunched over her and whispered, ‘How are you today?’
‘Feeling a bit off,’ Moran said conscious that she might not be looking her best.
‘Maybe you didn’t drink enough.’
‘Maybe.’
Mills turned on his heels and breezed out.
The office filled with people pulling folders and notepads out of filing cabinets and drawers. This was not the way days started. Where was the usual dribble of half-asleep bodies drifting to their desks in search of tea and coffee.
‘Right. Shall we make a start?’ Mills bellowed from across the corridor.
Everyone trooped off to the incident room.
A man leaned over Moran as he passed and said, ‘He called it half an hour early today. Didn’t you get the memo?’
She had been so preoccupied over what to do with the Shamon evidence it had completely passed her by. She scrabbled her files together dropping paperwork onto the floor, and trooped on behind.
‘Let’s go around the table. What do we have?’ Mills said with his usual opener.
The man next to Moran piped up. He reported on the latest discussions with immigration and homeland security, and concluded there was nothing new to tell. Shamon had not left the country.
His report was over far too quickly.
Moran was conscious of the room falling silent. She looked up at Mills who was staring straight at her.
‘Moran, what do you have?’
Shit, it was her turn.
Moran opened her file, consulted her notes and closed it again. She felt hot. Her face was burning up. Her stomach dropped to somewhere near her shoes. She clasped her hands together and they were clammy.
‘You okay?’ asked Mills.
‘Er, yes. I just ...’ The acrid taste of bile rose in her mouth, she swallowed it down.
Mills felt the need to prompt her. ‘The Shamon money, you had a meeting with the bank?’
Moran looked at him and then panned around the table at twelve gawping faces all fixed on her. Her heart was thumping, pushing a torrent of blood around her head and it felt like a tourniquet was being wound tight across her chest. She leaned forward and placed both hands on top of the closed file.
Breathe, breathe.
‘Yes, sorry. I went to the bank yesterday to clear up the erroneous data which had corrupted the account transactions. They sorted it out and nothing looked out place. Shamon lived a cash-only lifestyle, which is not uncommon for people visiting on a short-term visa. The month’s down payment on the apartment was the largest sum of money and that was confirmed by the real-estate agency. Other than that, she made a series of cash withdrawals none of which raise any alarms.’
‘Okay, so nothing to go on?’
‘No, nothing.’
‘Okay, what about the passenger manifests for flights leaving that day?’ Mills was onto the next item on the check sheet.
Moran sat rigid with her eyes fixed on the file.
What the fuck was that? The words tumbled around in her head.
The room was spinning, the acrid taste of bile coated the inside of her mouth.
Moran bolted for the door.
‘I’m sorry, please excuse me.’
She dashed from the room and down the corridor to the restrooms. She just made it to the cubicle as the vomit hit the toilet. The remnants of her breakfast splashed into the bowl. Moran coughed and gagged as the last of her cookies and coffee covered the porcelain. She recoiled, gasping for breath and reeled off a yard of toilet roll, holding it to her mouth. Her stomach knotted again and she retched clear liquid.
Moran steadied herself with one hand on the cubicle wall and the other on the seat, still clutching the toilet paper. She dabbed her mouth again, spitting into the water.
She sank on her heels and hit the flush. Backing out of the stall she ran cold water into the sink, leaned forward and splashed it onto her face. She straightened up and caught her reflection in the mirror. Her eyes were bloodshot and her skin looked thin and grey. She rested her hands against the sink and leaned forward with her head bowed. The deep breaths made her feel better and she raised her head.
‘You lying bitch,’ Moran said to no one.
She bumped her forehead against the mirror.
The restroom door opened. A woman who had been at the briefing came in.
‘Are you okay?’
‘Yes, it must be something I’ve eaten.’
‘I put your file back on your desk. Can I get you anything?’
‘No, I’ll be fine. Thanks.’
Moran pulled a handful of paper towel from the dispenser. She patted her face and dried her hands.
‘I didn’t feel right when I got up this morning,’ she said in an attempt to make things look normal.
The woman put her hand on Moran’s shoulder. ‘You sure I can’t get you anything? You don’t look so good.’
‘I’ll be fine now, I just need a couple of minutes.’
‘Okay, take it easy.’ The woman left.
Moran balled the towels up and tossed them in the bin. She ran her fingers through her hair and smoothed down her jacket.
She felt better.
The anxiety was gone. The sickness had gone. And the rushing in her head was silent.
But most of all she felt better because she had made her decision.
19
Jameson was also feeling better. The tablets had kicked in and the salt bath had bathed his wounds clean. He was standing in his kitchen wrapping a length of crepe bandage around his torso and pinning it in place. He needed to keep the blood off his clothes. He also needed additional support for his ribs, which hurt like a bastard every time he coughed, sneezed or even breathed. He certainly felt better but his ribs needed a little more time.
While he ministered to himself he thought about Mechanic. He had received the usual message on his pager saying she was having a great time at the conference, which meant she was at the location and had picked up the gear.
The hit was on.
There was a sharp rap on the front door.
Jameson moved into the living room and parted the curtains. A middle-aged black guy stood outside holding a clipboard. His face looked familiar. Jameson dismissed it, all door-stepping salesmen looked the same. He let the curtains swing back and ignored him.
The man knocked again, this time a little harder. Jameson ignored it.
He knocked again.
Persistent or what? Jameson thought, pulling on his shirt and opening the door.
Lucas stood in the porch.
‘Hello, Captain Jameson.’
‘Do we know each other?’ Jameson was taken aback by Lucas’s personal approach.
‘No, we’ve never met.’
‘Look, buddy. I don’t know what you’re selling, or how you know my name, but I’m not interested.’
‘I’m not selling, I’m buying.’
‘Buying? Can you see a sign anywhere saying Yard Sale? You have me mixed up with someone else.’
‘No, there’s no sign, but I do want to buy fro
m you.’
‘Look, buddy, you’re starting to tick me off. If you don’t mind, I have things to attend to.’ Jameson started to swing the door closed, but Lucas put his hand up to stop it.
Jameson’s eyes went cold. ‘Take your hand from my door before I rip your arm off, old man.’
‘I want to buy your services.’
‘I’m asking you nicely. If you’re not off my property in three seconds, they will be taking you back to wherever you came from in a fucking ambulance.’
Lucas removed his hand but stood his ground.
‘I want to hire the sniper who took out the target on the eighth floor of the Bakerville multi-storey in Tallahassee last year on 28 April at 8am.’
Jameson’s aggression washed away in a heartbeat to be replaced with forced control. He stared at Lucas.
‘I have no idea what you’re talking about. You’ve been watching too many cop shows, old man.’
‘I don’t watch TV and neither does my client. But we do have an extensive network and extremely reliable sources.’
‘You need to leave.’
‘But this is business and you are a businessman. It’s not good to turn away work.’
Jameson shook his head. ‘You are barking up the wrong tree. I’m not a businessman.’ He went to shut the door, and Lucas stopped it again with his hand.
‘Okay, how about a game of word association?’
‘How about I phone that ambulance now?’
‘Gerry Vickers, Helix Holdings, Sheldon Chemicals, apartment forty-six Maple Crescent. How am I doing?’
Jameson’s calm exterior was showing signs of stress.
Lucas continued, ‘Lights on timers, a self-flushing toilet. All very ingenious. Precautions which are a little over the top for a simple captain who claims not to be a businessman. Do I need to go on?’
It was Jameson’s turn to put his hand on the door to steady himself.
Lucas pressed home his advantage. ‘In a little over twenty-four hours you will be raided at three in the morning by a SWAT team. If we can trace you through your business interests, so can they. If we can work out you have your mail redirected to this address, so can they. If I can turn up at your house unannounced, so can they.’
