[2013] Flash

by Tim Tigner

  He timed his approach up the cobbled walk to hold the front door open for a housewife exiting with her dog. He gave her a friendly nod as she passed, and then stepped into the empty foyer. Certain that there were no security cameras inside, he removed his sunglasses but not his Kangol cap. Along with the beard, it would remain in place until he left the island.

  He put his duffel bag down on the clay-tiled floor and set to work on the locks of the mailboxes for units 2A, 2B, and 2C. They were typical five-pin cylinder locks. Each presented not more than a few seconds’ challenge for the tension wrench and pick held in his smooth, practiced fingers. Having warmed up on the first two, he even got the third plug to turn with nothing but the initial rake of the tumblers. Oh, that the rest of the day would go so smoothly, he mused.

  Thanks to what must be the world’s most ambitious postman, Farkas found letters in each of the first two boxes along with advertising flyers. The third had already been cleared out. He picked the three most personalized letters from the first two, returned the rest, and closed the boxes.

  So far, so good.

  He took the stairs to the second floor and then spent a minute listening at the doors of all three apartments. He heard a child crying in 2B, the unit that had already collected its mail, and ruled it out. Either 2A or 2C would have to do.

  His knock on 2A was answered in short order by a woman whom he took to be the maid. “Mrs. Rocha?” he inquired, not sure if he should be pronouncing it with an h or a k.

  “No,” she said without further explanation. “What do you want?”

  Farkas spotted a yellow banana peel in the bag of trash beside the door and decided that this was not just a monthly maintenance cleaning. Someone would be coming home this evening. “This letter was placed in my box by mistake. I’m new to the building so I thought I would take the opportunity to meet my neighbors.”

  “Do you not think that tactic would work better in the evening, when people tend to be home?” she asked, accepting the envelope.

  Farkas’s desire to fade quickly from memory overruled the impulse to crush her larynx, so he simply said, “Yes, I suppose you’re right. Sorry to disturb you.”

  He turned and headed up the stairs, making enough noise that she could not help but hear. He waited on the third floor landing for ten seconds after hearing her door close and then walked quietly back down to 2C.

  “May I help you?” asked the withered woman who opened to his knock. Before he could respond, an equally gaunt gentleman joined her. Mr. Wooten was naturally much taller than his wife, but osteoporosis had bent his spine into a question mark, so he peered out through the crack at shoulder level.

  “Good morning. You must be Mrs. Wooten. I’m Warren Christopher.” Farkas repeated his previous spiel and then proffered the letters with an expectant smile. With his peripheral vision he spotted a little cart for wheeling groceries propped off to the side of the entrance hall—evidence that they got by without outside assistance. Excellent.

  “You get Jamison’s old place?” Mr. Wooten asked, his voice crackling but friendly.

  “I believe so.”

  “He was a good man, Jamison. Why there was a time—”

  “How about a cup of tea?” Mrs. Wooten interrupted, opening the door wide.

  “Why, thank you. That would be lovely.” Farkas lifted his duffel bag up from behind the doorframe and entered. “Is it just the two of you living here?” he asked, setting the bag down inside before turning to bolt the door.

  “For forty-two years now,” Mr. Wooten said, obviously pleased to have the opportunity to take the lead in the conversation while his wife studied the bulky bag.

  Forty-two years, Farkas repeated to himself. The teakettle wasn’t even on the stove, and he had already learned everything he needed to know. “I’m afraid I have some bad news for you …”

  Chapter 13

  Charles

  FOUR HOURS AFTER their mad dash from the police and sniper at the Seagull’s Nest, Troy and Emmy were looking at what he suspected was the finest hotel on Grand Cayman: The Imperial. A taxi had just disgorged an elderly couple dressed to the nines, indicating the arrival of the morning’s first flight. As The Imperial’s bellhop busied himself loading the extravagant vacationers’ seven bags onto a trolley, the valet waited patiently by the curb, no doubt hoping that the next guests would arrive by rental car. Troy sympathized.

  He rose from the park bench where they were seated, smoothed the front of his shirt, and said, “I trust you’ll think of something clever if this goes wrong.”

  “Have I ever let you down?” Emmy asked, also rising.

  “Not that I remember.”

  They both stood in silence for a moment, digesting the new meaning of that everyday remark. Then Troy rolled his thick shoulders, turned and made a beeline for The Imperial’s valet as the bellboy followed his patrons inside.

  Noting his purposeful approach, the valet came out from behind his gazebo. Troy realized his mistake a second too late. To the locals this was paradise, not a combat zone. He needed to act relaxed, to take the snap out of his stride. Of course, this time around the cat was already out of the bag. He had about a second and a half to find another way to keep the valet close enough to the wall that no one could spot them from the lobby. Recalling another trick from his youth, he held up his left hand in a vague gesture.

  The bellboy paused, his face crinkled in confusion.

  Once Troy had narrowed the gap to three steps he looked up at his hand, waving and flaring it like a magician making something disappear. As the valet followed the movement with his eyes, Troy closed the final step between them and put a crushing right uppercut under his jaw. The valet’s head crashed back and his legs went limp. Troy caught Charles beneath the armpits as he fell and dragged him back behind the podium.

  Troy quickly stripped off his own tired rags and donned the valet’s pressed white clothes. He was halfway there. Now he just needed a rental car to arrive before the bellboy returned.

  Looking across the street from behind the valet stand, he caught Emmy’s eye. As she gave him the thumbs up from the park bench, his plan hit another snag. Two cars arrived at the same time.

  Both guests drove rental Toyota Camries, one white, the other gold. Thinking fast, Troy went first to one passenger door and then to the other. White was in front, and it contained another elderly couple, well dressed and fit. Gold contained a couple much closer in age to himself and Emmy but with waistlines two to three times their girth. Troy then went around to the driver’s side of each car. He smiled and handed each man a ticket stub while repeating the same phrase: “Welcome to The Imperial, Grand Cayman’s finest resort. Please proceed to reception. I’ll see to your car and have your bags in your room before you’ve stopped soaking in the view.”

  To Troy’s relief, neither sleepy-eyed gentleman gave him a second glance. They just pressed ten-dollar bills into his hands and grabbed their wives by the arms. Since the security camera looked in on cars exiting the circular drive, Troy hopped into the gold car and backed out.

  “Well done,” Emmy said seconds later as they pulled out onto the A1. “Now what?”

  Troy accelerated, eager as always to put distance between them and their last stop. “You tell me. Find us a map.”

  She did. “The island is shaped kind of like an elf’s shoe. We’re on the long curlicue toe now, also known as Seven Mile Beach. West Bay is north at the tip of the toe and George Town is south at the base. Savannah is on the ball of the foot and Bodden Town and Breakers are both on the arch off to the east. Looks like West Bay is the biggest town after George Town. And it’s not far. Let’s turn around and head there, get off the road.” She tilted the map in his direction and pointed.

  “No good,” he said with barely a glance. “The toe is a dead end. Besides, we’ll be okay for at least another fifteen minutes. Let’s use them to buy fifteen miles. We’ll go there.” He pointed to Bodden Town. “Major roads to the east and west,
minor ones to the north, and a port to the south.”

  “Okay. I’m guessing it will take us about thirty minutes. Perhaps while we drive you can finally tell me why you think it’s great news that there’s a sniper after us?”

  Troy looked over at Emmy and studied her face for a minute before answering. The sun was up now and it added a sparkle to her pale skin, giving him the impression that it really was made of alabaster. She met his gaze with her sprightly green eyes. “Two reasons,” he said. “First of all, it means that we didn’t kill the cop.”

  “How so?” she asked with dubious intonation.

  “Because it confirms that a third party is involved—a third party with a gun.”

  Emmy pressed the tips of all ten fingers together and stared into space through the tent they formed. After a minute she said, “You’re making a lot of assumptions.”

  “That’s unavoidable. But I’m also applying Occam’s Razor, going with the simplest, most obvious explanation.”

  “That’s why you were so quiet these past few hours,” Emmy said. “You were working all this out.”

  “I gave it my best shot.”

  “How about cutting to the chase.”

  “All right. I think someone tried to kill us because their attempt to have us locked up failed.”

  Emmy processed his assertion for a moment and then asked, “Why not just shoot us in the first place? Why lock us up instead?”

  “There are lots of potential reasons,” he said, bouncing his head slowly from shoulder to shoulder as he recycled various scenarios through his mind. Picking a favorite, he asked, “Did you ever read the Count of Monte Cristo?”

  “Of course.”

  “Do you remember why Edmond Dantes was imprisoned in Chateau d’If?”

  Emmy thought about that for a minute. “You think someone wanted us locked up on an island to keep a secret?”

  “I don’t know, but that makes more sense to me than anything else I can come up with. Anyhow, this brings me to the second reason I said it was great news.”

  “And what’s that?” she asked.

  “Neither you nor I have any idea how we ended up in that car, or on Grand Cayman, or even what we have been doing for the past six or seven years of our lives. But we do know one thing for certain.”

  “What’s that?”

  “The sniper has those answers.”

  Comprehension dawned on Emmy’s face like a mountain sunrise. “So how do we find him and get him to tell us without dying in the process?”

  Troy shook his head. “I have no idea.”

  Her countenance darkened a shade. “Wonderful.”

  “But I do know where we should start …”

  “Where’s that?” Emmy asked.

  Troy pulled off the motorway onto a scenic overlook and motioned backwards with his head. “In the trunk.”

  Chapter 14

  Kanasis

  OLIVER HORTON waited patiently for the willowy six-foot blonde to situate herself, his newfound appreciation for the simple-things-in-life attitude keeping his hand off the horn. First she stretched and leaned over her teal convertible this way and that, adjusting what must be Versace’s entire fall collection until the shiny black bags lined up just so in the back seat. Then she moved on to set up her diamond-collared poodle with his treats and sippy cup in the passenger seat. Ridiculous displays like Miss Trust Fund’s used to drive Oliver nuts, but now that he was faced with two-to-twenty behind bars, he lapped them up.

  Oliver pulled his rented Mercedes into the parking spot as BRIANA3 pulled out, and then looked up at his destination’s unlikely façade. Wendell had warned him that Kanasis was different. Different in style. Different in technique. Different in results. But aside from implying that Kanasis would charge him a seven-figure fee, Wendell had been uncharacteristically nebulous when pressed for details about the lawyer’s work. It was as though his old Harvard roommate was at once proud and frightened, like a kid who found a loaded gun.

  Dewey, Cheetam & Howe was not plastered high in bold letters as Oliver had imagined while boarding the plane in Vegas. Nor was Kanasis grandiosely displayed like the trademark of a French designer who had found a way to sell thread for more than its weight in gold. This Rodeo Drive address simply had KANASIS chiseled vertically into the black granite pillars that framed the armored glass door. Tasteful. Permanent. Proud.

  Unlike the windows of its neighboring boutiques, which leading designers had painstakingly arranged to draw gazes and pull people in, Kanasis had fronted his office with mirrored glass. Passersby could still see in if the lights were on and they focused their gaze, but most of those who strutted past in their thousand-dollar shoes were no doubt pleased to see only their reflections. Oliver cupped his hands around his eyes and peered in.

  Plants and sculpture occupied the foreground, bestowing a sense of virginal serenity. Not a bad tactic, he mused, given what Kanasis was selling. Beyond the Garden of Eden, Oliver saw legs. Two. Long. The perfectly sculpted flesh drew his eyes like a candle in the dark. His throat went dry as he followed them all the way up into the skirt of a twenty-something angel. She was sitting before a computer monitor typing away, oblivious to his stare. Two more points for Kanasis, Oliver thought. Having seen the reception, he was most eager to step inside.

  He pried his eyes from the glass and took a firm grip on the thick brass cylinder that served as a door handle. His pull yielded no reaction at first, but after a momentary delay the heavy glass plate swung outward as though it weighed but a pound, and he stepped into an entry hall walled in mirrored glass. As a building contractor, Oliver recognized the system as one jewelers often used to inspect and approve their clients. The short, mirrored hallway ended in a second door, identical to the first except that it was hinged on the left. Again, he grabbed the brass cylinder and again the door released after a momentary delay. Another electromagnetic lock.

  As the second door swung shut behind him, Oliver turned toward the heavenly receptionist. She smiled pleasantly back at him. “Good afternoon, Mr. Horton. I’m Kimber. Are you here to see Mr. Kanasis?”

  Oliver stood there like a deer caught in halogen headlights, partly because Kimber was probably the single most beautiful woman he had ever met in the flesh, but mainly because the goddess knew his name. Apparently, Wendell had warned Kanasis that he might be coming. Kanasis had then passed that information along to Kimber, who had gone online to pull his picture off the Internet so that she would be ready when and if he walked through the door. Now that was the kind of service you expected for seven figures, not to mention a mark of great efficiency. Oliver was already thrice impressed and he had barely stepped past the threshold. This was a promising start. “Ah, yes. Mr. Kanasis. Is he available?”

  “Just a moment and I’ll check. Feel free to have a seat or enjoy the art.” She made a sweeping motion with her long thin arm, forcing Oliver to rip his gaze from the natural beauty to the manmade variety.

  As he was trying to form an opinion as to whether the watercolor in the opposite alcove was an original Renoir or a print, he overheard Kimber say, “I have an Oliver Horton here to see you.”

  He turned back around to find that she was again smiling at him. “May I ask who sent you?”

  “Well, nobody, really. I—”

  Kimber began shaking her head before he could finish. “I’m sorry. What I meant to ask was who referred you?”

  “Oh, ah, Wendell Branson. But Mr. Kanasis obviously knows that.”

  Kimber’s lips curled up as though reacting to an inside joke, but she just said, “Wendell Branson” into her headset. Then she nodded in agreement, giving Oliver the feeling of exclusive acceptance. “You’re in luck,” she said, standing as she addressed him. “Please follow me.”

  Oliver followed, working hard to keep his tongue off the Persian carpets that covered the hardwood floor. Watching Kimber, he was finally beginning to understand why a lawyer would spring for a Rodeo Drive address. Aware that he risk
ed meeting Kanasis in a state of full salute, Oliver gave himself a mental cold shower by diverting his attention to the decor. They passed several more alcoves, each adorned with an Impressionist watercolor, and several stately office doors, each flanked by pedestals supporting arrangements of fresh flowers. At the end of the hall, Kimber stopped before an elevator. She pressed a big brass button and stepped aside as the door opened.

  Oliver thanked Kimber—most sincerely—before stepping inside and pressing the button labeled “K.” The only button. Nothing happened after the door closed, at least as far as Oliver could tell. Either it was one of those incredibly smooth elevators, or it was just sitting there. He looked down at his watch. Fifteen seconds, thirty, a minute. He pressed the button again. Nothing. Two minutes. Three. Paranoia began to take hold. He sniffed the air for gas or smoke but detected nothing. He wanted to pound on the door and shout for help but did not want to appear cowardly to Kimber, so he focused on his breathing. In ... out ... in ... out ... After four minutes he backed into a corner and grabbed the handrails lest the floor should drop out to reveal a shark tank below.

  After four and a half minutes, the doors slid silently open to reveal a palatial office. Feeling somewhat foolish but decidedly relieved, he stepped immediately inside.

  Kanasis’s workspace covered the same footprint as the entire first floor. A big hyacinth macaw greeted him with, “Welcome” from a perch directly across the room beside a granite bar. A floor-to-ceiling slate waterfall gurgled along the wall to his left between two exotic palms. To his right was a fireplace flanked with a suite of black calfskin chairs. Beyond them, beside a window that looked out over some of the world’s most expensive real estate, stood Mr. Kanasis’s enormous oak desk. It was unoccupied. The only person in the room with Oliver and the bird was another impeccably dressed assistant who was busy working the espresso machine behind the bar. This assistant was a good decade older than Kimber, and, alas, torn from the pages of Gentlemen’s Quarterly rather than Harper’s Bazaar.