by Mike Nappa
“What’s that got to do with me?”
“I’d like to hire your detective agency to investigate Mr. Roman. To do the most thorough background check possible on him.”
“And why would you want me to do that? Seems counterintuitive to your goal of making Max Roman the next mayor of Atlanta.”
“Right now, other private detectives and political operatives are doing the same thing. They’re trying to find anything and everything that a political action committee might drum up to use against my employer. If you investigate Max, you’ll be able to alert us to anything they might try. Knowing what your enemy plans is the first step to defeating him in the general election.”
“Or her.”
“Of course. Or her. But regardless of who ends up being his biggest challenger, we want Mr. Roman to prevail. And we believe a thorough background investigation by a Max Roman skeptic such as yourself will yield benefits both to Mr. Roman’s campaign and to the people of Atlanta as a whole.”
Trudi pursed her lips. The reasoning made sense when she thought about it. If you’re a politician with dirty laundry, it’d probably be best to figure out what your enemy’s investigators could find out about you. Then you could either work to hide the potential controversies or preemptively strike and bring them out into the open under your own terms before your enemy could do it. If you could define the public conversation about your shortcomings, you could shape the way they were viewed in the eyes of voters and make those shortcomings irrelevant.
“There are a hundred detective agencies that can do that for you. And probably a few dozen that are already in the business of digging up dirt on politicians.”
“True. And I’m going to be honest, we’ve already hired two. But they’re political insiders, and they think like political insiders. You, on the other hand, offer the perspective of an outsider. And, if I’m an accurate judge of character, you are now one who distrusts Max Roman because of his association with me. You’ll work harder to find things others might overlook, just because you want me to be some kind of bad guy. You’re perfect.”
Trudi didn’t know what to say. Viktor took that as consent to take the next step. He took a pen from his pocket and wrote a number on a napkin.
“The election is in October, but your work would only last four months, until mid-July. We’d ask to be your exclusive client until then. After that, you’ll be free to return to your normal clientele. In return for your services, we’ll pay you a base salary plus expenses. This is the base salary we are offering.”
He passed the napkin to her, and Trudi tried not to let her eyes go wide. It was three times the annual income of her agency at present.
Mistake, she thought. He’s misjudged me. He thinks he can buy me with a big chunk of money, but he overbid.
“That’s a significant sum of money for only four months’ work,” she said, testing him.
“Mr. Roman values his employees,” he said. “And I believe you are worth every penny.”
Test failed, she thought. He should have countered by asking what I thought the job was worth, then explaining in specifics why he came in at a higher figure. He doesn’t really want my services. He wants my silence. Paying me a large chunk of money links me to Max Roman in a way that reeks of corruption. It gives him a means to discredit me as an extortionist if I were to try and go public with my knowledge of their beating of The Raven.
“No. Thank you. Good night, Mr. Kostiuk.”
A look of surprise registered briefly on Viktor’s face, then his dark eyes went flat and a quick narrowing of the eyebrows betrayed a flash of anger that was almost animal in nature.
That, Trudi thought, was a look that could kill.
Just as quickly as it had appeared, the anger was gone from his face, smoothed over by pretense and a placid calm.
“Well, our loss, then,” he said. He retrieved the napkin, crumpled it in his fist, and stuffed it in his coat pocket. He started to rise, then paused. “Max Roman is a good man, Ms. Coffey,” he said quietly. “The people of Atlanta deserve to have him as their mayor. They deserve his jobs initiative, his tax reform, his education programs, and his crackdown on crime. He will make your city a better place.”
“So you’re a believer, then. Good for you. I’m not convinced.”
“How about this?” he said. “On April 14, Mr. Roman is going to be the keynote speaker at a combination fundraiser and charity auction sponsored by the Atlanta Society for Literary Arts.”
“Let me guess, Max is a patron of the arts.”
“The Roman family has supported ASLA for many years, yes, and in return they sometimes assist Mr. Roman’s campaign efforts. It’s a one-thousand-dollar-a-plate dinner, invitation only. There’ll be gourmet food, live entertainment, and a charity auction to raise money for ASLA.”
“Sounds divine. So what?”
“I’d like to invite you, and a guest of course, to attend the function. Courtesy of Mr. Roman. No strings attached.”
He reached inside his coat pocket and pulled out an envelope. Trudi got a clear look at the handgun holstered inside his jacket. A reminder of the kind of man I’m dealing with, she told herself. Of course, I could just as easily be carrying a gun right now too. He removed two tickets from the envelope and placed them on the table.
She read the lettering that detailed the time and place of the event. “At the Ritz-Carlton.” She nodded. “Fancy.”
“Come to the dinner. Listen to Mr. Roman’s vision for your town,” he said, and Trudi saw his left eye twitch again, almost imperceptibly, like a salesman lost in a passionate pitch. “If you still don’t want to get involved in his campaign after that, then I won’t bother you again. Is that fair enough?”
“Mr. Kostiuk—”
He put out his palms and stopped her from completing that thought. “At the very least, you and a friend will have a free, elegant meal and maybe walk away with some literary collectible from the auction to boot. I understand someone has donated a first-edition copy of the New York Evening Mirror magazine from January 1845.”
Wait, why does that sound familiar?
“New York Evening Mirror? From 1845?” she asked.
“Ah, I thought that might tempt you.” He looked pleased. “As I said before, I learned a lot about you this past week, including the fact that you hold a degree in English literature and mythology.”
“And the New York Evening Mirror?”
“Yes, Ms. Coffey, they’re auctioning off a copy of the first publication of Edgar Allan Poe’s famous poem, ‘The Raven.’ Very rare. You might never get a chance to see this in person again.”
“So,” she said, her mind now spinning inside her head, “on April 14, less than a month away, at the Ritz-Carlton Atlanta hotel, the original ‘Nevermore’ artifact is going up for sale. At a political gathering for Max Roman’s campaign. That’s what you’re telling me?” Alarm bells started ringing in Trudi’s ears.
Viktor smiled, nodded, and stood. “Come to the dinner,” he said. “Maybe Mr. Roman’s speech will make you a believer in him too.”
Trudi watched the Ukrainian man walk away, then looked again at the tickets he’d left for her. Nevermore, she thought. Could this be it?
“I need to talk to Samuel,” she whispered to no one. “But how do I interrupt his date?”
Two Weeks Ago . . .
22
Bliss
Atlanta, GA
Little Five Points
Friday, March 31, 12:08 a.m.
14 days to Nevermore
Bliss Monroe heard a mouse scratching against the hardwood floor and cursed the fact that she was such a light sleeper.
She peeked over at the digital clock situated on the desk in her office. It was just a few minutes past midnight, which meant she’d been asleep for barely an hour before the blasted mouse had interrupted her dreamless rest. Should just sleep at home, she told herself, but she knew that was just empty talk. Lately, she’d been going to her house
only long enough to bathe, get fresh clothes, and catch up on the mail. She’d even stopped stocking the refrigerator with anything besides just the essentials, preferring instead to keep her mini-fridge full here at the Secret Stash. At least that way the milk didn’t turn into a slightly jaundiced, curdling monster in its plastic container.
Now that I’m awake, she wondered, how long am I awake? She was tempted to go ahead and climb out of bed, roll over to her desk, and pick up where she’d left off in her work. Her body argued against that, though—particularly her legs, which twitched in little spasms that reminded her of itches on steroids. She exhaled and listened for the mouse to make another move in the dark.
It had been a long day, especially for a Thursday. A long two weeks, really, trying to clean up the mess Max Roman had caused with his dramatic appearance the Friday before last. But things were about back to normal now, and even though her Friday was beginning at an unreasonably early time because of that blamed mouse, Bliss took a little satisfaction in that return to normalcy.
It had been around eleven o’clock when she’d finally decided to call it a night, emptying her pockets onto the top of her desk, making a last visit to the bathroom, putting on her comfy old nightgown and twisting the locks on her office door. Out of habit, she’d paused to kiss the picture of Davis before dropping it back on the desk. Then she’d lain down in her nondescript bed in the bland corner of the office and, as far as she could tell, had gone to sleep before sixty seconds had passed. She’d stayed in that darkened, blissfully black slumber until the scratching had interrupted her solace.
It’s so hard to find peace nowadays, she grumbled. William used to laugh at her when she said things like that. “Life is always hard,” he’d say, “but the alternative is death, so I’ll keep on with this restless little inconvenience for the time being, if it’s all right with you.”
She heard the scritch scritch scritch of tiny claws scraping on metal and felt like murdering a rodent or two. Once she heard a sound like that, she couldn’t not hear it, and it tapped against her eardrums like drops of water falling on her head. She squeezed her eyes tightly shut and tried, unsuccessfully, to ignore it.
I just want a little peace, William. I can’t last forever like this. It’s been too long already.
Scritch, scritch.
Bliss suddenly opened her eyes.
If that mouse is skittering across my wood floor, she wondered, then why are his claws scraping against metal?
Now she was really paying attention. In a few seconds, she was able to locate the origin of the sound. It emanated softly from the door of her office, from the deadbolt lock she’d turned an hour ago, just before drifting off to sleep.
She heard the mechanism shift and listened to the soft tap of the deadbolt being eased into the unlocked position. Next there was temporary scratching at the lock on the door handle. Then silence.
Bliss reached under her pillow and pulled out the Beretta BU9 Nano micro-compact pistol she kept there. The clip held eight nine-millimeter bullets inside the sleek, flat form. She’d never had to use it in here, but she certainly knew how to pull a trigger if she had to. William had made sure of that. She leaned back with her head propped up on the pillow and dropped her right hand down so it rested comfortably by her hips, disguised by the sheet that covered it. She pointed the Nano so the barrel aimed at the doorway. Then she waited.
It was only a minute or two before the knob twisted and someone on the outside gave a gentle shove, causing the door to swing silently inward. Soon there was nothing but empty space between the darkened room and the dimly lit hallway. She saw a figure crouching low but couldn’t make out any features other than that it appeared to be a man and he appeared to be kneeling with his head bowed, almost as if in prayer. At his feet was some kind of power tool. A drill maybe? She couldn’t tell for sure. It could’ve been a gun for all she knew. She made sure she was ready, just in case.
For a long moment, neither one of them moved.
Bliss was a little surprised that she wasn’t afraid. She wasn’t even angry. She was just watching the scene unfold, feeling curious, feeling almost as if it wasn’t even happening to her, but instead was happening to someone who looked like her and who felt like her.
The man raised his head but remained close to the ground. Mama Bliss decided it was time.
“What you want, boy?”
The man stood up quickly but didn’t say anything. She could see that he hadn’t expected to find anyone inside this room when he broke in.
“Let me rephrase the question,” Bliss said. “What you want to say that’s going to keep me from putting a bullet right through you?”
“Please don’t.”
His voice was thin, sad. Scared? She couldn’t tell for sure, but she thought his hands might be trembling at his sides.
“Turn on the light,” she said. He reached over slowly, feeling the wall until he found the switch. A moment later, they were staring at each other, both blinking just a little bit while their eyes adjusted to the sudden brightness.
“You going to run?” she said. If he ran, he was going to get away. Bliss was okay with that. She certainly couldn’t chase him down, and if he’d already gotten past those lazy, no-good security guards in the warehouse once, he’d probably be able to do it again.
“No.”
Bliss didn’t know what to do with that. “Why not?”
“Nowhere to run to,” he said.
She took her finger off the trigger of the Beretta. “How’d you get in here?”
She heard him exhale. “I sneaked in through the warehouse. It was empty. Found my way down the hall until I came to your door.”
“Why you come in that way?”
“I’ve been checking out your store all week long. I saw an alarm system out front, but no electronic security in back. Not even cameras.” He shrugged. “Seemed like the best option.”
No, no alarm system in back, Bliss reminded herself. That’s true. Can’t risk anything unexpected—like Taurus MT-9 G2 submachine guns—getting caught on security cameras back there. No permanent records but my own log, William insisted on that. And I don’t want police snooping around my warehouse in answer to a false alarm back there, either. Don’t want them to accidentally see a shipment of handguns or who knows what else.
“I got three security guards at this place during the night shift,” she said. “What you do with them?”
“Nothing.”
She fingered the trigger again. “Tell the truth, boy. I still haven’t made up my mind whether or not to shoot you dead right here.”
“I didn’t do anything to them. I only saw two guards. There’ve only been two guards all week long. At midnight, every night, one of them takes a walk around the building. A few minutes later, the other one goes outside to smoke. I waited until that last one went outside for a cigarette. He left the warehouse door open behind him.”
Figures.
Had Darrent been trying to cut costs, trimming down her guard personnel without telling her? Maybe. Or maybe he was trying to invite intruders into her locked-up world? But why would he do that? Need to keep a closer eye on Darrent, she told herself. At least for a bit.
The boy exhaled again. “I don’t think he’s the greatest security guard I’ve ever seen.”
Bliss almost laughed at that observation, but she didn’t want to disturb the moment.
“Well, come inside, then, and shut the door behind you. And always remember that I have a gun aimed at your testicles. Understand?”
That should scare him, she thought with wicked glee. William would’ve liked that.
23
Raven
Atlanta, GA
Little Five Points
Friday, March 31, 12:10 a.m.
14 days to Nevermore
“Choices,” my daddy used to say, “make the man. It’s the choices you make that determine how you will handle your past, and what your future will hold.”
; I understand a bit better now what he was talking about. I wish I could go back and talk a little sense into my teenage self, tell me to listen to my dad every once in a while because, even though he was hard to take at times, he usually did know what he was talking about.
Right now, though, I’ve got more pressing matters to deal with.
“What you want to say that’s going to keep me from putting a bullet right through you?” the old woman says. I’m guessing she’s the one they call Mama Bliss, and she’s caught me breaking into her office in the middle of the night. I think she might be the one that finally puts an end to my pathetic life.
“Please don’t.”
What else is there to say?
I feel my hands shaking, but not from fear. I feel like crying, which is kind of stupid. I feel angry, because I know that if I’d had my pinky on my left hand, if it hadn’t been taken away from me by a psychotic Ukrainian, I would’ve picked those two door locks in half the time it took me. Never knew how much I relied on a tiny little finger.
“Turn on the light,” she commands, so I comply.
Mama Bliss is old, that’s obvious by her gray hair and sagging frame. And judging by the wheelchair beside her bed, she has some measure of disability. But she’s certainly not helpless, even wearing that Good Times–style nightshirt of hers. She’s thick, but not as heavy as I’d imagined she would be. Maybe one hundred eighty pounds, maybe a few less. Her face is like burned coffee grinds, dark and grainy, like an African queen from a hundred years ago, unstained by American slavery or pawing from light-skinned slave masters. Her eyes are such a dark brown that they’re almost black, but the spirit in them is alive and flashing gold. I get the feeling she sees everything and misses almost nothing. I get the feeling I made a mistake breaking into this woman’s property while she was resting inside.
“You going to run?” she says to me now.
It’s a good question. One I’ve heard before.
