Fatal Exchange (Fatal Series Book 1)

by Russell Blake

  She followed him into the little lunchroom now serving as a mini-interview room, fearful of what she suspected would be the topic of discussion.

  “Is Loca okay? What’s this all about?” Tess asked.

  “Why don’t we start at the beginning? Let me ask a few questions?” Ron looked her over. She was a beautiful woman. No makeup, but a stunning face and a rock-hard body—she hadn’t put her T-shirt on yet, and the tank top and shorts left little to the imagination. What the hell was she doing working as a bike messenger?

  “Okay. But answer mine about Loca. Is she hurt? Dead?” Tess demanded.

  “Why would you think she was dead?”

  “Gee, I don’t know. A detective is here before seven, when most cops are still asleep, setting up to interview the messengers about Loca.” Tess looked straight at him with emerald eyes, slightly slanted, flecks of gold in the irises. “This isn’t about a stolen bike or a few joints. Why don’t we cut to the chase so I can answer any questions you have? She’s dead, isn’t she?”

  “Loca—Angelina—was found dead last week. I’m sorry.” Ron watched her reaction: her eyes filled with tears like a valve had ruptured. Why did he have an overwhelming desire to hug her, tell her it was all going to be all right?

  “How did it happen? Did she get hit by a car?” Tess was trying to process. Loca dead. So young, so funny, so much ahead of her.

  “Look, I’m sorry about your friend, but I really have to ask you some questions. I told you what you wanted to know. How about helping me out here?” Ron appealed.

  “All right. Shoot.” Tess blotted her eyes.

  “Did she have anyone she was afraid of? Anyone who’d threatened her?” Ron asked.

  “Loca? No way. Everyone loved her. She was funny, and she’d be the first one to help if you were in a jam. She never mentioned anyone she was afraid of,” Tess responded.

  “What about boyfriends? Was she seeing anyone in particular?”

  “Loca didn’t really talk about that kind of thing. She wasn’t seeing anyone seriously, I know that. She was young, having fun in the city, you know? Didn’t want a steady.”

  “Was she seeing anyone from here?”

  “I think she had dated a few of the guys, but I’m not really clear about that. Again, she didn’t talk about it.”

  The questions went on, predictably: about Loca’s apartment, who she knew, what her interests were, why she might have been in Spanish Harlem late on a Tuesday night. After twenty minutes, Ron wasn’t getting anything unexpected, so decided to wrap things up. Tess was still visibly upset. He could probably have spent all day talking to her—but that wasn’t part of the job. He’d already said more than he should have.

  “How did she die, Detective?” Tess asked, her voice quiet.

  “Let’s just say painlessly, but she was mutilated afterwards. We saw another like her on Friday, at a club near the Village. You might have seen a blurb in the paper this morning.” Ron explained.

  “What club?”

  “Avalon. It’s down on—” Ron started.

  “I know where it is,” Tess blurted. “We were all down there Friday night. Practically everyone was there.”

  Holy shit. Now wasn’t that a cute coincidence? All the messengers at the same club as the new killing, on the same night. There was a link. Had to be.

  “Who else do you remember seeing there? Exactly?” Ron asked.

  Tess’ brow furrowed. “Let’s see. I know Pug was there with Sin City, Candy, Tab, Skid and Dirter, Paco, Tiny, Duff, Turbo, Snake, Angel, Luis… I think. That’s all I remember. There were probably a lot more, but I don’t really know most of the newbies.”

  “Will all of these nicknames mean something to the dispatchers?” Ron had written them down, but they were gibberish to him.

  “Yeah, ask for real names.”

  “Any of the Red Cap group seem suspicious or dangerous?”

  “Ha. That’s a good one. Half the crew’s high, or living day-to-day. In case you didn’t notice, the messenger gig doesn’t attract the highest-end cross-section of humanity. I’d say most are dangerous at some level.” She looked at him again, eyes still moist. “That’s one of the things I like about it.”

  He let that go.

  “What about you? Why are you here? You seem smart, capable… Why the messenger thing?” He was genuinely curious.

  “It’s a long story. I got tired of software engineering and wanted a change, something physically challenging. This is where I wound up. It’s temporary,” Tess explained, sounding a little unconvinced herself.

  “Says on your file you’ve been here over two years. That’s a lot of temporary.”

  “I got burned out. This is fun most of the time. I can always write code. I’m working on figuring out my next move.” Tess looked at him. “What does this have to do with Loca?”

  “Nothing. I was just wondering,” Ron answered.

  Tess was overwhelmed by the news of Loca’s death, but also a little interested in the good Detective. He was one of the only men who’d ever asked her in a forthright manner what she was doing, and why. She felt a buzz of excitement, which was strange; maybe her hormones were going haywire from the shock. Still, for the first time since she’d been with Nick, she found herself wondering what another man might be like.

  What the hell was wrong with her?

  Ron questioned Tess some more, but there wasn’t much she could add. He sensed something strange about their interview, and wondered if he was reading it wrong—he could have sworn she was sizing him up as a man, not as a cop. Wishful thinking, he was sure.

  The questions finished, he gave her his card, told her to call if she thought of anything more.

  “I will, Detective.”

  “Ron. You can call me Ron. What’s your nickname, anyway, for the record?”

  “Mega. As in mega-fast. I get around town faster than anyone else, usually deliver more packages. I got it my first month here.” She was still obviously shaken but managed a wan smile.

  “Thanks for helping out. Sorry about your friend.”

  “Yeah. Me too.”

  ~ ~ ~

  Tess told Frank she was going to take the day off after her morning runs. She had from 9:45 until 12:00 blocked out to see her father, and she was upset about Loca and didn’t feel motivated to bike all over the city. Frank was understanding, although he was already inconvenienced because of the detective’s requirement to question all the messengers. Monday would be a money loser for Red Cap, thanks to the NYPD.

  Stu handed her the morning’s delivery schedule, and she did a quick scan. Six packages for the a.m. already in, and possibly more en route if she hustled. She wasn’t in a hustling mood. She saw Turbo approaching, talking to Duff; Duff seemed agitated.

  Which was weird.

  Duff was never disturbed by anything. If you’d taken six nine-millimeter rounds in the back and were walking around to tell the story, you developed a different perspective. She was still amazed whenever she caught a glimpse of his torso when he changed his shirt.

  She waved at them and they nonchalantly waved back.

  It was going to be blazing out again. Tess strode into the restroom, rinsed her face, and stared at herself in the cracked mirror. Loca was dead. Mutilated. A mystery as to who did it. Another girl killed at the Avalon, on the same night they’d all been there. She knew what the cop was wondering: what’s the connection? Good question. Did he think it was one of the messengers?

  She considered all the misfits working there and tried to imagine any of them being killers. Paco? No way. Duff? Impossible. Luis? He was a little weird, always talking to himself in Spanish… maybe schizophrenic? Turbo? He was redneck white trash, liked his methamphetamines, and the rumor was that he dealt on the side—but a killer? And Tiny, the pseudo-Jamaican big boy? He never seemed angry, but he did have a strange look in his eyes. Probably all the ganja. Or something else?

  So many messengers were transitory, there was a nev
er-ending supply of dangerous, drugged, misfit loners and street kids coming and going at Red Cap. It was a flake’s job, and her circle was just the more dependable of the flakes. They were all outlaws who played by their own rules—at least that’s how many of them saw themselves.

  Could one of them have crossed some line in his head and started thrill-killing? None of it made sense. She couldn’t make the picture work.

  Tess slung her bag over her shoulder with the first two deliveries in it and dropped her shades into place, and then secured her helmet and double-checked to confirm her water bottle was snug. She’d calculated she could be at her first target in seven minutes. She swung her leg over her bike, a Trek hybrid that was light and fast, and propelled herself down the street.

  The killer watched her go and decided she’d have to be one of his pretties, eventually. Or maybe not; he already had a brunette. But two couldn’t hurt.

  Something to consider.

  ~ ~ ~

  The taller Asian munched on an English muffin while they discussed the day’s agenda. It was pleasantly cool in the hotel lobby restaurant, and the pair took their time strategizing. They were in a hostile country where they barely spoke the language, and had no idea what to expect once other businesses opened this morning by the watch shop. They agreed caution was the best approach.

  The smaller one called their driver. He picked up on the second ring.

  “How long will it take to get us?”

  “At least an hour. Traffic into the city is heavy during rush hour.”

  “That’s all right. The shop doesn’t open until ten and we want to spend some time looking around before we go in. Call me when you’re downstairs.” He switched off the little phone.

  “How about taking a quick walk to Times Square? It’s only a few blocks up. I want to buy a camera.”

  ~ ~ ~

  Tess finished her last delivery, soaked with perspiration. She stopped at a corner store and bought a large bottle of Gatorade, chugged a third of it, and refilled her bike container with the remainder.

  She was still deeply troubled, reflecting on how Loca had gone from the funny, sexy, vivacious, tough chick comic to a corpse on a slab; what set of circumstances had led to it? It seemed surreal. Just a week ago they’d been exchanging jokes and mocking their fellow city-dwellers over drinks. Loca had been happy; she’d been asked back after an open mic event, and told that if the crowd reacted well she’d get paid next time.

  That was last Monday, and Tuesday night she’d been murdered. Was that how it really happened? One day you’re here, and the next you’re gone, no fanfare, no one noticing? It just seemed like there should have been more of a stop to everything—that her departure from the planet should have caused more of a reaction. Apparently not. No one cared. Life went on.

  Her watch reminded her she was late for her meeting with her dad, and that got her anxious about what the next few hours would be like. Hopefully he’d lay off on anything critical of her lifestyle; she didn’t need her father throwing her choices in her face, demanding accountability.

  She swallowed the last drops from the bottle and threw it away, and then pulled on her helmet and prepared to enter the stream of traffic. The roads were hellish, in terrible condition, and treacherous for bicycles. Manhole covers, potholes the size of televisions, poorly-spaced metal plates covering construction ruts, pools of oil and grease from collisions and spills—you named it, New York had it, usually all within a few blocks. It was like doing an obstacle course every day, where the hazards were real and usually moving at unsafe speeds in unexpected ways.

  It was exhilarating. This was her town, her turf, and she was confident and strong, ready for anything.

  It was time to see Daddy.

  ~ ~ ~

  Gordon Samuels gazed out his window and considered the shimmering heat rising off the adjacent building. He should be in the Hamptons, not his office slaving away at a terminal.

  He smiled to himself, recalling last night’s adventure with his latest play-pal, a very kinky Victoria’s Secret model from Ecuador he’d been seeing on and off for a month. She was twenty-three, half his age. That just made it better. Their unspoken arrangement was straightforward: she let him violate her in every way he wanted, and he paid for everything. If only all his life was that simple.

  Gordon returned his attention to the screen. He was acquiring the last round of options in the first three companies, and was jockeying the stock a bit to see if he could move the option price down. He’d shorted a million dollars’ worth of stock on an otherwise slow morning, instantly causing his target to drop a few points. There was a latency to the options pricing, so he probably wouldn’t get his lowball bids hit immediately, but he had all day. The overall market was in the toilet and heading lower, and the irony was that he’d likely not only get his options, but would make fifty thousand or so when he covered his short. Dumb luck. He could use more of that just now.

  He was still worried about Myanmar and their faux pas, but hopefully the situation would resolve itself this week. His early warning system was in place at Treasury, so he’d immediately hear if the shit hit the fan. That meant the Asians would have a head start, giving them maneuvering room.

  Gordon put his feet up on his desk and stretched his arms over his head, cracked his neck. It was going to be another dog day in the city. He was glad he was inside.

  Chapter 10

  Inder assisted Robert out of the car and into his wheelchair. He helped him raise the metal grid protecting the storefront, and then watched as Robert opened the shop door. Once Robert had wheeled himself safely inside, Inder drove off.

  Robert flipped the master switch light flooded the long narrow space, twinkling off the faces of the less expensive watches he kept in the cases. He busied himself with wiping down the glass tops till he heard the bell sound from the front. He spun his chair to face the entrance.

  “Why, good morning, Jerome. Is it hot enough for you?” he asked.

  “It sure is, Mr. G. I can’t recall a summer this warm.” Jerome was dabbing at beads of sweat sprouting on his forehead from the exertion of walking from the subway.

  “Thank God the AC’s working. How was the weekend?”

  “All good, Mr. G, all good. The boy is really getting excited about college this year. I’m awfully proud of him,” Jerome said.

  “You should be, Jerome, you should be.” Robert returned his attention to the cases. He was interrupted by the phone.

  “Gideon Watch Gallery,” Robert answered.

  “Robert, it’s Stan. How hangs it, my friend?”

  “Good, Stan, can’t complain. And you?”

  “Ach… wouldn’t do any good to kvetch. Who’d listen?” Stan observed.

  “Too true, Stan. What’s up?”

  “I talked to Saul, and he agreed to look at the bills for you. You can never be too careful, that’s what he thought. Are we still on for noon?” Stan asked.

  Damn. He’d forgotten all about it. He’d have to get down to the bank. “Absolutely, Stan. Noon’s perfect.”

  “I’ll see you then.” Stan hung up.

  Inder had already left, and the bank was about four blocks away—and of course Nick wasn’t in yet. Then again, he wouldn’t send Nick anyway, not with that kind of money in the box. He trusted him completely, but not that completely. He supposed he’d have to wait for Nick, and then schlep himself the four blocks. What a pain in the ass.

  As he mulled over the logistics, the bell sounded again. He turned his chair and smiled—he’d completely forgotten.

  “Hi, Daddy,” Tess said, beaming at him as she removed her helmet and glasses. “Hi, Jerome. Have you lost weight?”

  Jerome blushed and returned the smile.

  “Hello, honey. I forgot it was our day. Has it already been a week?” Robert rolled toward her with his arms out. She looked so grown up, it surprised him every time he saw her.

  “I don’t know if you want to hug me; I’m kind of ic
ky from the heat,” she warned.

  “Nonsense. Gimme some sugar,” Robert said.

  Tess was always conflicted when she saw her father. She remembered him before the accident, in her teens, when they’d gone for runs through Central Park, and to the beach at Fire Island—done all the things people with working legs took for granted.

  “You’re looking great, sweetie. You get more beautiful every time I see you.” Robert meant it. He got a lump in his throat whenever she came by; she looked so much like her mother it was eerie, but with an untamed attitude. Stubborn as a mule, too, just like Mom.

  “Stop already. So what do you have planned for today—what’s the entertainment agenda for your poor deprived child?” she teased.

  The door buzzer sounded again. Nick made his entrance.

  “Good morning, Mr. G. Hi, honey. Peace, Jerome.”

  “Morning, Nick.” Robert turned back to Tess. “I have a favor to ask you, Tess. Could you run to the bank for me and pull something out of the safe deposit box? I have a friend coming by at noon to pick it up.”

  “No sweat, Dad. It’s 10:15, so I’ve got plenty of time. What is it?” She didn’t tell him about taking the rest of the day off; she’d surprise him and take him to lunch.

  “I need you to go into a paper bag you’ll find in the box, and pull four or five bills out. There’s a lot of money in the bag, big transaction, and I need to verify the cash is real.” She looked at him oddly. “It is, it is, but my friend’s driving me crazy to authenticate it, so I’m humoring him. You remember Stan?” Robert asked.

  “Of course. Uncle Stan. I haven’t seen him in a year or two. How is he?”

  “Same as ever. Here, take the key. It’s box 3970, remember? You’re on the hand scanner.” He removed the key from around his neck, where he kept it on a chain.

  “I remember. How could I forget that whole deal? Very secure, Daddy, like Fort Knox.”

  They chatted for a few minutes, staying away from any loaded topics. She congratulated Jerome on his son, Robert wanted to know how her loft was coming along, she asked how long until she’d get a dinner invitation from him. She glanced at the clock on the wall.