by Ken Morris
“You expect me to spell it out, Numbnuts? Person who recently helped pay for this pad? Got it yet?”
“You mean the crash thing? They told me that was it. Arrive at the scene, say she drove too fast . . . you know the rest. I did my job, I got paid.”
“Maybe Mizz Guzman needs more.”
“You tell that blond witch . . .” His jaw clamped shut and his Adam’s apple rode up and down as he swallowed the profane thought.
“Maybe somebody don’t quite believe you—someone’s thinking it wasn’t an accident,” Peter said. “If they figure things out, it ain’t just our asses, dude. Capiche?” Peter hoped to God this didn’t sound as lame as it felt.
“A deal’s a deal. I didn’t come back and ask for more money after.”
“Oh, my. I am so sorry for bothering you. I’m sure Señor Nuñoz will understand.” The change in Ellis’ demeanor confirmed to Peter what Agent Dawson had said: Nuñoz was a man everyone feared. “You don’t mind if I climb this here plexy-wall so’s I don’t gotta shout?”
Peter straddled the three-foot Plexiglass gate and stepped over. He took a couple strides and stood next to Ellis. The ex-cop stood an inch taller and weighed at least fifty pounds more than Peter. The monsterman’s exposed skin glistened and smelled of tanning oil. Peter felt like a gnat ready to get squished.
“This is got Nuñoz involved?” The ex-cop looked upset.
“I’m a nice guy, but Nuñoz, he’s likely to take that stinkin’ Coppertone and squirt it up your ass until it soaks your pea brain. If I was you, I’d talk to me.”
“This sucks . . . don’t tell that cocksucking beaner I said that. Don’t tell him I called him—”
“Relax, Detective. I only wanted to know that you would—” would what? Peter wondered, suddenly tongue-tied. Ellis squinted in the way a man does when he suspects someone is full of it “—that you’ll confirm in a court of law—if necessary—that you witnessed that accident and crash. That you’ll confirm your lie.”
The wild dangerous animal reemerged. Ellis trembled with rage, and his buffed arms blew up into something resembling ham shanks.
“Confirm my lie?” Ellis asked. “What kind of a dipshit way to ask a question is that? You ain’t from Nuñoz. I know when I’m being bullshitted by a bright boy. Who sent you?”
“You dare challenge Nuñoz?” Peter silently said goodbye to his thin cover. “I’ll have to tell him—”
“Yeah? Go ahead,” Ellis said through a sneer. “In fact, dipshit, I’ll call Nuñoz. I’ll take my chances that he don’t give a rat’s ass about me insulting you. Or kicking your ass.” Ellis’ stiff finger jabbed Peter’s chest. The action forced Peter backwards.
Ellis grabbed a cell phone from the table. With his free hand he snatched a 9mm from under a towel, just where Drew had guessed. He held the handset to his ear, the gun to Peter’s forehead. It took a few seconds, but before anybody answered Ellis’ call, Drew hurtled the fence. His right foot landed on the aluminum rail, using it as a launching pad. His shoulder tucked, his body parallel to the patio surface, he hit Ellis just below the neck with a vicious clip. The dense man’s skull snapped back. In the process of crashing, the ex-cop fumbled both items—the gun and the phone.
Ellis’ forehead rebounded from whiplash in time to crush a low table, shattering the glass top. Drew bounced off his victim and landed off to one side, his right hand supporting his weight, keeping him from wiping out.
Peter glanced at Drew and understood that they had arrived at an identical conclusion—the time had come to exercise rules number one and two: run like hell, then drive faster than hell. To anyone observing them leap over a chaise lounge and the low wall, then hit the beach and sprint away, the pair would look like athletes in thieves’ retreat. They retraced the path Peter had taken ten minutes earlier and flung themselves into Drew’s Pinto wagon. A few seconds later, they circled the roundabout and sped off.
“You didn’t like his answers,” Drew said through winded breaths.
“He’s a damn liar. I’m certain Mom was murdered.”
“I’d say it’s time to nail someone.” The screech of tires failing to hug a corner punctuated Drew’s comment.
“You’ve got an eight-month pregnant wife. This is up to me.”
“What’s my wife got to do with this?”
“Everything, Drew. They’ll go after your family if they have to. You hang back. Relay messages.”
“No—”
“Yes. I’ve got a plan,” Peter lied. “It doesn’t require your direct help.” Peter sensed that Drew somehow understood the danger, not to himself, but to his wife and unborn child.
“You better keep me in the loop, White Bread.”
“I will,” Peter said, lying for the second time in less than twenty seconds.
Half an hour later, again on his own, Peter phoned for messages. When he got Kate’s urgent directive to meet for dinner, he checked his watch. He had four hours to kill. Fifteen minutes later, he accessed and withdrew cash from an automatic teller machine. With four hundred of those dollars, he purchased a twenty-one speed, all-surface bike. Peter decided he didn’t dare rent or borrow a car. For the time being, he figured he’d be much tougher to locate on a bike or on foot.
Peter rode the new bike into Del Mar to wait for Kate. He sat in a corner of a bar, ordered a beer, and watched the front door as nonchalantly as he could manage. At half past five, he checked for messages on his home answering machine and in Drew’s mailbox.
He never returned to his table.
Howard Muller couldn’t be happier. All he needed was for Neil to pick up his messages, phone for instructions, and get his ass to the office. It was nearly perfect. Neil confronting ex-Detective Ellis had everybody paranoid. That Neil alluded to Sarah Guzman and mentioned Carlos Nuñoz by name had sealed his fate.
While Guzman and Nuñoz operated in the background on their own complex plans, Muller had made the unilateral decision to take matters into his own hands. He didn’t need Nuñoz’ help. He didn’t even need to consult with the sub-intelligent wetback. He had figured out a way to solve several problems at once. He’d get those damning papers back, not because he cared about Nuñoz or Guzman—on the contrary, he’d just as soon see their bodies in a state of decomposition—but because his name was attached to nearly every illegal Stenman transaction in the last five years. Even those idiot bureaucrats at the SEC would be able to trace his involvement. In some ways, even more satisfying than settling that matter would be scaring the shit out of Neil. Maybe, as payback, even break him. And once the documents were safe, Neil’s life expectancy would be days if he was nimble, hours if he wasn’t. Muller laughed. This felt better than watching a company he was short declare bankruptcy.
Muller looked around the room and approved. He had chosen his office as the place of confrontation for a simple reason: he owned every person on these premises. If the unforeseen happened and a problem arose—which he didn’t think could happen since he controlled all the information—then he had the ability to erase everything. Stenman’s crews were all former government agents, and they knew how to clean up a mess and make it disappear. And they would do anything for the right kind of money, and Stenman Partners had more than enough of that particular commodity.
Muller had only a small fear that Neil might not take the bait. Failing to check for messages in time would puncture his plan. He kept his fingers crossed that Neil didn’t screw this up for him.
Near six p.m., Muller’s phone rang. He hit speaker.
“You son of a bitch!” Peter’s voice sounded like an attack-dog’s bark.
Good, Muller thought. He’s primed. “Get your ass moving,” Muller ordered, having a hard time working the words through a ridiculous grin. “The guards’ll wave you through.”
“Where is she?”
“I’ll look forward to explaining.” Muller hung up.
He rose from his desk and went to the file cabinet. He opened the drawer and took
out a thin, two-inch by three-inch metal box. He depressed a red button located next to a small antenna. The process made him feel warm inside.
Sliding the metal box across his desk as if it were an attacking queen, he said, through an exultant laugh, “Checkmate, Mr. Neil. Check and mate.”
Peter hung up and reached into his pocket for additional change. He silently cursed himself for having left his cell phone at home. The sloppiness did nothing for his already waning confidence.
Before pedaling the last quarter mile and confronting Muller, Peter phoned Drew at home. Drew picked up on the first ring.
“Any word from Monica?” Peter asked.
“No. Where are you, Bread?”
“I’m checking things out. Don’t leave the house unless you hear from her. I’ll call you as soon as I find out anything.”
Peter hung up, jumped on his bike, and began pedaling through the dark.
None of this made sense, he thought as he struggled to focus on the white curb. Muller had called Peter’s home and left a message. “I have a trade in mind,” he had said. “Someone’s welfare for some papers—I’m certain you know what documents I’m referring to. Check with your friend Drew Franklin. He’s missing something valuable.”
Peter had called Drew. “Monica’s gone,” Drew had told him. “Left no message. This isn’t like her, and I’m worried.”
“I’m sure she’s fine,” Peter said, not at all sure.
Now, approaching the guarded gate, Peter couldn’t figure out why Muller was so mindless as to leave an incriminating message on an answering machine. If the fool had kidnapped Monica and planned to use her as leverage to get those registered letters returned, why leave such a blatant trail? It didn’t add up, but Peter didn’t have the time to deliberate.
As promised, the guards waved him through Stenman’s main entrance. He downshifted and coasted down the hill leading to the front doors, not dismounting his bike until he reached the steps. Ignoring the watchman’s gaze, he dropped the bike on the lawn at the base of the stairs, used his pass card to enter, and signed in at the front desk. As he stepped inside the elevator, he saw the downstairs guard make a call.
On the third floor, Peter stepped into the half-lit hallway. Past experience suggested that the only people in on a Saturday evening were research analysts on the second floor and weekend cleaning crews. No cleaning crews on the third floor, though. A mop stood upright, its cloth tendrils soaking in an aluminum pail—obviously left behind by someone told to leave in a hurry.
Reaching the keypad outside of trading, Peter heard the lock disengage before he could enter the password. He opened and stepped into the room, completely darkened except where a crack of light leaked from between Muller’s drawn curtains. The main door retracted at Peter’s back and self-locked. Feeling his way along the desks, he took care not to trip over trashcans or electrical cords. Disinfectant now masked the predominant weekday aroma—fried food. The silence unnerved him. The place no longer felt familiar.
Peter mentally reviewed what he knew about Muller’s office. Stuart had mentioned large amounts of cash behind one panel. Muller kept his desk key in a card file in a far corner, and had Civil War crap mounted behind glass cabinets—probably wired to an alarm in the event of theft. The interior office walls were see-through, like glass, but soundproof. With the drapes drawn, that meant that whatever went on inside would remain private, even if somebody stumbled into the trading room.
What else? He racked his brain. Peter recalled a fire alarm and numerous overhead sprinklers. Also, the locks on his office door were sophisticated. Muller changed the code weekly, Stuart had said.
Before Peter knocked, the door swung open. Looking self-satisfied, Howard Muller sat perched behind his desk with a smart-ass grin pasted ear-to-ear. “I realize you are in a bit of a rush, so please step in,” he said.
Peter complied. This door also self-shut and locked. “Where’s Monica Franklin?” he snapped.
Muller, a bundle of explosive energy, looked like he enjoyed the confrontation with Peter. “You have something I want: those documents. You tell me, I tell you.”
Peter stepped forward. As he did, Muller picked up a metal box and held it outstretched—as a magician might hold a deck of cards for his audience to see.
“Stop right there, Neil. I anticipated your non-cooperation.” Muller’s fingers folded over the box. Peter fixated on the thumb as it depressed a red button.
Peter looked around the room, moving only his eyes.
The immense skull shook. “Here’s what’s happening: this is a detonator, tied to a room wired with explosives. In that room, several miles away, is a very pregnant black woman.”
“You’re insane. What’s wrong with you?” Peter needn’t have asked the question. Muller’s eyes were chutes that led straight to hell and thoroughly billboarded his problems. The man was vile, and his evil was joyous, enraptured, and at the core of his being. It’s what made him so good at what he did for a living: lying, breaking the law, unnecessarily destroying people, and amassing fortunes at the expense of others. And for Muller, this current drama was about more than simply retrieving those damning papers. It was about hatred. And sport. About obliterating his most despised opponent.
“You are a pissant, Neil,” Muller said, using a tone that confirmed all of Peter’s suspicions. “I suggest you listen, carefully.” Muller again grinned, as if reacting to an inner joke. “Think back to that moron, Stanley Drucker. It’ll save us some time . . .” Muller gave an explanation identical to the one Carlos Nuñoz had given to Stanley Drucker. “If you try and remove my thumb,” Muller said, “the Franklin woman will blow up. If you substitute your own hand—assuming you can do that without this button retract-ing—she will blow up. The sensors will recognize only my thumbprint. So as to make certain we reach a resolution expeditiously, this device will send its signal in twenty minutes, no matter what I do. You may thank Sarah Guzman for the idea. And while I don’t much like her personally, she has a formidable mind. Don’t you think?”
Peter took another step, placing himself only a yard away from Muller, then stopped. What to do? He didn’t have an answer.
“You don’t want me to lift my thumb,” Muller said, the calmer halfof his split-personality now speaking.
Peter watched as Muller’s thumb twitched, on purpose, as if a central part of the damn show. “How do I know you won’t kill Monica anyway?” Peter asked, buying time to think.
“Trust.” Muller laughed a mocking belly-laugh. “That’s funny. Almost as funny as you saying I could be a Macy’s Parade float.” With those words, Muller flipped a mental switch and his voice became hard and crazy, worse than before. “What do you say, Neil? A fucking trade? Huh? Come on, wise guy. What do you say? Hit the bid? Take the offer? How’s it feel to be an impotent piece of nothing, you nothing? You have a split-second to decide. Assess your risk-reward. You ready to shit in your pants yet? Sure you are. You’ve been screwing around with the best. Me. Did you really think you had a chance? Get fucking real—” The man sounded like Stuart on drugs. Only Muller mainlined suffering.
Aware of the emptying hourglass, Peter cut the tirade short. “Shut up, Muller! Tell me: do you have a way to disengage that thing?”
As Peter waited for an answer, something nagged his subconscious. He looked at the Civil War trophy case. The safe. Toward the small desk-key hidden in the index card box. Tape. Matches. He considered all of Muller’s words, and then glanced at the man’s hand and arm and body. He imagined noise and chaos. How did all these pieces fit together? Did they fit together?
“Of course I have a way to disengage things,” Muller finally said, not sounding as if he cared whether Peter believed him or not. “I’m here to trade a life for some worthless documents.”
Muller stood, holding the detonator chest high, and a bit too casually, Peter thought.
A powerful shudder suddenly passed through Peter’s body, rattling his spine and clearing his m
ind. In that moment, he convinced himself of the futility of negotiating with Muller. He had the seeds of a plan that was less than brilliant, but seemed better than taking his chances with Muller. A tight knot released from Peter’s belly like a spring, catching Muller in total surprise. Peter reached out and slammed both hands across the extended box, enveloping the CIO’s fat thumb atop the button, making certain he couldn’t relax the pressure he had on the detonator. Muller went from bent to rigid in a fraction of a second. With a leveraged twist, Peter wrenched the imprisoned wrist. Pain spread across the man’s gigantic face faster than the flash of a struck match.
Peter pulled the twisted arm, circled it behind Muller’s back, and lifted. As large as Muller was, he did not match Peter in strength or agility. In a helpless reflex, Muller rose up on his toes, and Peter pinned the wrist and arm against his back in a half-nelson. Muller breathed so heavily that his airborne blasphemies were unintelligible.
Don’t let go of his hand, Peter reminded himself in a steady mantra.
“Where is she?” Peter hissed in Muller’s ear.
“Nowhere.” Tears supplanted sparks as Muller melted. “I wouldn’t have had you come . . .” He coughed, then tried again to speak: “Had you come if—”
“Wrong answer.” Peter pulled on the pinned arm. Muller screamed. “Where is she?” Peter repeated.
“I told you . . .”
Peter tuned him out. Even if Muller revealed where he held Monica, they had too little time to find her and deliver her to safety. Taking another tack, he asked, “How do you disengage this thing?”
“You don’t disengage,” Muller said. It sounded like a plea.
Peter gave up trying to get through to Muller. A wireless signal. Radio waves, traveling through walls. He had earlier formulated an extreme plan and, with all other options tapped out, he decided to go for it. It amounted to a longshot, but at least it was some kind of shot.
Peter did a final inventory of the office contents. “I’m going to tell you to do something,” he said. “If you don’t, I swear to God I’m going to kill you. You understand?”
