Fatal Exchange (Fatal Series Book 1)

by Russell Blake

  “I gotta get to the bank, Dad,” she announced.

  “You want company?” Nick asked from behind the counter. They both looked at Robert.

  “Go on, get out of here. Hurry up. Maybe bring me back a cup of coffee?” Robert requested.

  “Vente, two sweeteners, nonfat milk. Got it, Mr. G.” Nick called out as they walked through the door.

  “Bye, Daddy,” Tess waved over her shoulder.

  “Bye, sweetheart,” he called out behind her.

  Too late; the door had closed.

  ~ ~ ~

  Detective Stanford was sick of bike messengers. He’d seen every possible piercing and tattoo, and had been sneered at and glared at by most, if not all, of the fine Red Cap crew. Half probably had sheets as long as their arms.

  The big one, Duff, looked ganged up; the last one, Turbo, was jittery and high on something, probably meth.

  None of the men seemed to want to spend time getting to know Ron on a personal basis, which bothered him not one iota. The women were, to a person, upset when he told them the news. One of their own had been claimed by the city’s dark side, and suddenly the “we’re the invincible samurais of the streets” shtick didn’t wear as well. The girls looked shocked and scared, but not much information was forthcoming. Apparently Loca kept to herself.

  The men fell into three broad categories: dope-fiend losers who were quite possibly crazy and violent, poorly-educated survivors with no options, and starving artists working as messengers because of the flexible hours. The latter two groups made up forty percent, leaving sixty percent possible bad guys. He got weird vibes from a few of them and took notes for follow-up: his pad had six names with stars next to them, signifying background checks were in order. Potentially promising, presuming they didn’t bolt in the interim.

  He thought about Tess again. What the hell was she doing hanging out with this bunch? Obviously had some authority issues she was working through, and the rebellious attitude of the crew resonated with her, but she was one of the few who didn’t need the job. She was here because she liked it.

  He didn’t get it.

  He still had a few more of the merry band to visit with, so he rubbed his eyes, poured more vile coffee, banished thoughts of Tess from his fragile psyche, and called into the hallway to the next candidate for killer of the year.

  “Stinger? Is there a Stinger out here?”

  Where did they get these names?

  Chapter 11

  The two Asian men had been watching the street for an hour, window shopping, stopping in at the café in the middle of the block and drinking tea. The shorter one finished his sixth cigarette of the day, stamped it out on the pavement, and nodded to his partner. They strolled across the street toward Robert’s shop, glancing in both directions to avoid traffic as well as to make a final sweep before going in.

  Robert looked up as the door buzzer sounded and greeted the two men as they entered the store.

  “Welcome to Gideon Watch Gallery. Feel free to look around, or is there something specific I can help you find?”

  The taller man bowed from the waist and replied in heavily-accented English.

  “Sank you. You Mistuh Gideon?”

  “Yes, the one and only. What can I do for you?”

  “Ehhh, you expert on watch, Patek Philippe, yes?”

  “Yes, I am, depending on the vintage. I specialize in the more complicated and rare Pateks. What can I help you with?”

  “You help me, look this?” The man approached and removed his watch. From a distance it looked like an older moon phase Patek, worth well over a hundred grand, depending upon the model and complications. The man placed it carefully on the glass display case.

  “That’s a beauty. A 3448,” Robert said. “From the early sixties by the look of it. It’s an extremely rare and valuable piece—I just sold one for a quarter million dollars.”

  The smaller man stood at the case by Jerome, looking at the Rolexes. He stared at one, and then pulled a business card and pen out of his pocket—a Mont Blanc, by the look of it. He held the pen up and shook it, apparently attempting to tell whether it was out of ink, then turned to Jerome and twisted the end cap. It made a muffled spitting sound, like a small CO2-powered BB gun going off.

  A tiny dart lodged squarely in Jerome’s meaty neck.

  Developed for clandestine wet work, the dart was coated with a deadly toxin that induced immediate neuro-muscular paralysis and reliably shut down respiratory function within seconds.

  Jerome dropped his book, but other than that appeared fine, even as he suffocated in silence. Completely aware, but dying nonetheless.

  Robert was examining the watch with considerable concentration; he glanced over at Jerome at the sound of the paperback hitting the floor, but returned to the watch when he saw that Jerome had just dropped his book.

  The little man was still studying the Rolexes with interest.

  “A most unusual piece indeed; almost exactly like the one I sold,” Robert said. “What an extraordinary coincidence. It’s in beautiful shape. You’re very brave to wear it on the street, it’s worth a fortune…” Robert noticed a small imperfection, a faint scratch near where the leather band joined the watch. He looked up at the man.

  “This…this is the same watch.”

  “Where is it?” The man asked softly.

  “Where’s what? I don’t understand the question.” Robert was puzzled by the man’s interrogative. Where is it? What’s “it?”

  The taller man nodded at his partner, who walked to the front door and turned the deadbolt.

  “Where money?”

  “What money? What are you talking about?” Robert was alarmed. Was this a robbery? He looked over at Jerome, who was sitting motionless, allowing these thugs to rob the shop.

  “Money Kiu give you. For watches. Need money back.” The man walked around the counter and grabbed Robert’s wheelchair handles. Robert was too far away from the panic button that would bring the police; he couldn’t understand Jerome’s inaction. What was happening?

  “The money? It’s already at the bank. You think I keep it in the shop?” Robert was terrified but also furious at his helplessness. The Asian was pushing him toward the back room.

  “We look in safe, we talk, you tell truth, yes?”

  “No. Let me go at once. Stop this. The money’s at the bank.” They were now in his back room by the safe. The Asian grabbed a pair of pliers lying on the workbench, and casually swung them and hit Robert in the face, opening a gash on his cheekbone.

  “You quiet. Shut up! Open safe. Now.”

  Robert was in agony, blood freely streaming down his cheek, his head on fire. He was shaking as he leaned over and turned the dial, fumbled with the lever, opened the safe. The Asian pushed him aside, causing him to fall out of the chair, and stared at the watches and cash. Twenties, hundreds, all well used.

  He turned to Robert on the floor, kicked him in the head, and screamed at him.

  “Where money?” Kicked him a third time.

  “It’s…it’s…there’s a…safe deposit box…at my bank…”

  “Where bank?”

  “…Chase…fiftieth…” Robert was hurting.

  “How you get in?” Another kick.

  “They…my hand…they scan…” Robert held up his hand.

  “Where key?”

  Robert grimaced. “Not here.” The man retrieved the pliers from where he’d dropped them.

  “Where key?” He waived them menacingly in Robert’s face.

  “It’s not here. At my apartment,” Robert gasped. The Asian considered him; he was a professional, and knew when he was being lied to, even in a foreign language.

  He stuck the pliers up Robert’s nose and ripped. A lance of white-hot pain shot through Robert’s skull, while a different throbbing pain began in his chest and shot down his arm and along his jaw. He fought for breath but couldn’t seem to catch it. Blood filled his nasal cavity, and then the pain receded as
his vision blurred and dimmed.

  The last things Robert saw were his treasured Patek Philippes, lined up in his safe, gleaming, like little soldiers waiting for battle.

  The smaller man entered and knelt next to Robert; he looked up at his partner and said something terse in Burmese. The partner swore. He scanned the room, grabbed the cash and watches out of the safe, and handed them to the shorter man before systematically dismantling the back office looking for either a key or the cash. It took him five minutes to find neither.

  The smaller man walked over to the ancient VCR that housed the security tape and hit the eject button; he’d seen the camera when they’d entered. He slipped the cassette into his I Love New York windbreaker, newly purchased in Times Square.

  They cautiously approached the front door, and the smaller man pulled the tiny dart out of Jerome’s neck, dropped it into his wallet, and flipped the deadbolt open. They exited onto the sidewalk and the taller man waved into the store, bowing slightly.

  “Sank you. Sank you very much.”

  ~ ~ ~

  Tess and Nick walked to the Exxon building on Seventh, the temperature already close to a hundred degrees. Once inside the bank, Nick waited for her in the lobby while she entered the vault. She slid the safe deposit box from its slot, carried it to a small adjacent room with a steel table, and pulled the requested bills out of the bag, enjoying the air-conditioned respite from the street.

  Tess was surprised by the amount of cash in the sack, but her dad had been in the business for a long time and knew what he was doing. She also noticed a few watch boxes, some insurance papers, a folder with some documentation in it, and a small black velvet box wedged in the far corner. She reached in and opened it.

  Her mother’s engagement ring.

  Beautiful, a flawless one-and-a-half-carat emerald cut in a Tiffany platinum setting. A lump formed in her throat. It was so unfair her Mom had died so young. She still remembered when she had been told Mom had a serious illness; she’d been in her snotty teen years, when a broken nail was a week’s worth of drama. Reality hadn’t registered until the physical degradation had progressed.

  Then her dad had been hit by the car. A drunk driver, wasted by 10:00 a.m., had blown through a red light and put him in a wheelchair for life—the driver’s third drunk-driving offense in five years. He was a security guard who decided he wasn’t hurting anyone by driving after a few eye openers. Live and let live.

  Guess again.

  It was absolutely no consolation to her that he’d committed suicide while serving a prison sentence. If he’d made that wise choice the day before knocking back half a bottle of JD and going for a morning joy ride, her father would still be ambulatory.

  Tess closed the ring case and returned the safe deposit box into its cavity, locking it. She exited the secure area and met up with Nick, and together they braved the steamy streets again.

  ~ ~ ~

  Detective Stanford got a call from Amy about the nightclub corpse. He was about done at Red Cap, and was packing up to leave.

  He’d just finished with Frank and Stu, both of whom seemed out of their minds, but in very different ways. Frank was old and a little slow, and seemed inured to the dis-functionality of the employees he interacted with. He was probably in denial just to make it through the day—which Ron couldn’t blame him for; hell, he’d be the same way if he’d had to work there.

  Stu was intelligent but quirky in a nerdy way, and seemed like he probably had a drinking or drug problem. He seemed a tad absent during the interview, like he was thinking about something else.

  So far the most suspicious of the group were Luis, Turbo, Snake, Dirter, Rock and Tiny. All of them seemed like hardcore substance abusers, all were very nervous throughout the interrogation, and all were the right age for a serial. Turbo bugged him—seemed very skittish, couldn’t seem to control his gaze, and had the stink of fear about him. Ron also liked Tiny for it; he didn’t know why, just something wrong there.

  His pocket vibrated. He fished out his phone, looked at the screen, and answered.

  “Hey, Amy.”

  “Hi, Ron. We got something on the nightclub girl. Name’s Tabitha Kittridge, age 27, single, secretary, lived in Soho, alone. Blood alcohol was .17 and there was ecstasy in her system, as well as Klonopin. Unfortunately none of that killed her. Tox screen again came back with no chemical cause of death,” Amy notified him.

  “Well, that’s great. What did she die of?”

  “As far as we can tell, her heart just stopped. It’s hard to tell due to the condition of the corpse, but her BP might have spiked before she went down for good. I’m checking on agents that could cause that. Problem is nothing’s showing up, so it’s all theoretical at this point.” Amy was very good at what she did, and Ron could tell it frustrated her that she wasn’t getting a handle on how the victims were meeting their end.

  “Any evidence of an injection? A puncture in the arm or neck?”

  “Negative, Ron. We looked over what was left of her with a fine-toothed comb. Nothing jumped out.”

  “Okay then. I’m done with the freak show at Red Cap. What a collection. Any of them could be good for it.”

  “Ron, if he’s on a cycle, tonight’s the third night.”

  “I know, Amy. But maybe he’s staggering them, or has some different pattern we don’t know about yet. I guess we’ll find out in the next few days.”

  He hated that they didn’t know more. What was the connection? Why was the killer doing this, why cutting them in this specific way; what were the trophies all about, how did he go about selecting them? Was it random? What was he trying to accomplish? This didn’t seem like a thrill serial to him. There was method here, ritual, planning—but also risk-taking, foolhardiness. He needed more time to digest it.

  But for some young lady tonight, it was likely too late.

  Chapter 12

  Tess and Nick approached the shop, discussing the events surrounding the murder at the nightclub and the possibility of a murderer at Red Cap. They pushed the door open and Tess immediately sensed something was wrong. Nick almost ran her down when she stopped dead in her tracks a few feet into the store, the stark and complete silence spooking her.

  “Dad?” she called out. In the periphery of her vision she registered Jerome silent in his usual spot behind the entryway. She spun and screamed. Nick dropped the coffee they’d bought, spilling scalding liquid across the floor.

  Jerome sat atop his perch, eyes unblinking, cyanosis coloring his lips and lending a bluish cast to his skin. Tess screamed again.

  “Dad!!! Dad?” She yelled at the back of the store.

  Nick grabbed the baton out of Jerome’s belt and put his finger to his lips, warning Tess to silence and motioning for her to stay by the front door. He approached the back room, walking as though on live snakes. Tensing, Nick threw the door open. He dropped the baton, catching his weight against his knees with his hands, and vomited. He staggered back a few steps and bumped one of the cases, then leaned against it, catching his breath.

  “Call 911,” he managed.

  “Why, Nick? What’s back there? What happened? Where’s Dad?”

  “Just call the police, Tess. Now. Quick,” he snarled. Nick had never snarled at her in his life.

  She handed him her cell with a trembling hand.

  “911, what is your emergency?” the operator answered.

  “I need to report two murders on West 47th street. Gideon Watch Gallery.” Nick gave her the address.

  “Who’s on the line?”

  “Nick Bigley. I work at the store. Get someone here quick.” Nick’s voice was shaky. Tess was making her way to the back of the shop. “Tess, stay here. Please. Don’t go back there.”

  “Sir? Sir? Stay on the line. I’m dispatching a unit to your location right now.”

  Nick locked the deadbolt on the front door; he knew from looking in the back that they were alone.

  Tess screamed from the rear office. He
ran to her and grabbed her by the shoulders, and forced her, struggling, to the front of the shop.

  “I…I told you not to go back there. God, I’m sorry, baby. I’m so sorry…” He rocked her, both of them sitting on the ground; hugging her from behind. She was crying, and shrieking whenever she could get enough breath. The police operator was still on the phone.

  “Sir? Uh, Nick? Keep this line active, and don’t touch anything, understand? Don’t touch anything.”

  ~ ~ ~

  The police arrived within six minutes, and Nick unlocked the door for two uniformed officers. One examined Jerome while the other walked into the back room. He came out, shaking his head and talking into his radio, requesting backup and a forensics team. The first officer asked Nick a series of questions establishing who he was, who Tess was, and when they’d discovered the bodies.

  Tess sat on the floor leaning against one of the cases, crying and shaking, saying “no, no, no,” over and over. It wasn’t fair—why did somebody do this, why did it have to be her father—he’d never hurt anyone—what kind of animal would kill a poor old crippled man?

  First Loca, now Jerome and her father dead. She’d seen him with his face ruined, lying in a pool of blood and vomit; it was just too much. She couldn’t handle it, couldn’t deal with it.

  She loved him so powerfully, and someone had torn the life out of him, destroying any chance they would ever spend time with each other again, have a meal together, talk with each other. He’d never see a grandchild, never watch her get married, never be there to celebrate her triumphs or share her sorrow. It wasn’t fair. First her mother, and now her father.

  Nick was stunned, and his gaze kept drifting over to where Jerome still sat, motionless, eyes staring. He answered more of the cop’s questions as he gazed blankly around the shop. Eventually his gaze landed on the watch still on the counter. He walked away from the officer in mid-sentence, staring at the watch while the cop followed him.