by Dan Ames
“What do you like about it?”
“Well, it’s so flexible,” Mr. Ricks said. “Refund is quite abrupt. I say if a job isn’t completed to everyone’s satisfaction, the service provider should be given an extension to finish the job right. Everyone wins.”
The Spook let that thought hang in the air for a moment.
“That only makes sense if the original task wasn’t completed,” he finally said.
A man and woman walked in and went straight to the bar where the bartender greeted them by name.
Mr. Ricks nodded. The Spook waited while the man across the table from him weighed his words carefully.
“The situation is ongoing,” Mr. Ricks said. “It has not been completed.”
“I would point out that the original contract has been permanently completed. A parallel development has arisen. That is the only situation that is ongoing. And if a service provider is tasked with an ongoing project, the funding should be ongoing as well.”
The Spook could spew this kind of corporate bullshit all day long. The CIA had nearly bored him to death with it. His beer was empty and he had no desire for a second.
“I certainly understand your position,” Mr. Ricks said. He rattled the ice cubes in his glass. “However, I don’t necessarily agree with it.”
The great thing about being a freelancer, the Spook thought, was freedom. The liberty to walk out of a meeting whenever you wanted to. When you worked for a company you didn’t have that option. But now, he could see that this discussion was over. That the matter had been decided.
“It was a pleasure discussing sound business practices with you Mr. Ricks,” he said. “Please give me a call if you need any more clarification.”
The Spook slid from the booth and walked outside. There was a blues bar a few blocks over he’d gone to many times but it was closed now. Its windows were boarded up and all of its signs taken down. Weeds grew over the sidewalk in front.
He walked toward it, then circled around and approached the parking lot to his right. It was easy to spot the Cadillac Escalade backed into the space next to the exit, the engine idling.
The Spook waited a moment, figuring Mr. Ricks was paying the bill inside. A seagull flew overhead, away from the river. Probably heading into the city. Plenty of garbage to pick through.
It only took a few minutes for Mr. Ricks to appear. He approached the big SUV on the passenger side, opened the door and climbed inside. The driver, who was no doubt there to provide security for Mr. Ricks, turned his head to say something to his boss. The Spook left his vantage point, walked to the driver’s side of the SUV and drew his automatic with the silencer attached. He shot the driver in the head. Mr. Ricks struggled in his seat, already having drawn his seat belt across his chest, and attempted to draw his weapon. The Spook shot him in the head, too. Twice. One round went directly into his left eye, the other just above it.
“No refunds,” the Spook said.
He left them in their Cadillac, walked a block over to his car, got in and drove away.
15
I was about to pull out of my driveway when a police cruiser pulled in behind me and blocked my way. I shifted the Taurus into Park and shut it off. Ellen was staring at me from behind the wheel of the cruiser, so I pocketed my keys, walked over and got in the front seat.
“Good morning, Officer, is there a problem?” I said.
She was looking at her cell phone and didn’t answer.
“Do you hunt pheasant with this?” I asked, pointing at the shotgun between us.
Ellen lifted a coffee out of the cup holder and set her cell phone in the empty space. She pulled the plastic cap off the coffee and blew on it. The smell of it filled the car.
“Are you always so obnoxious in the morning?” she said. “Never mind. I remember now. You are.”
She took a drink of coffee.
“I’ve got some news,” she said.
“You’re going with a new hair color?”
“A man in Windsor was murdered in his living room,” she said. “His throat was slit. A few hours later, judging by the time the coroner provided, the dead man drove his Buick up to the tunnel, showed his passport, and crossed into the United States. Pretty impressive feat for a dead guy.”
He was still alive.
The man who had killed Benjamin Collins hadn’t died that night on the boat.
“Don’t they photograph everybody that–”
Before I could finish my question, she slid a couple sheets of paper across the seat. I picked them up. The first was a driver’s license photograph of Irv Klapper. The second was a shot of Irv Klapper in a car. I could tell he was waiting in line to go through Customs. It looked like an old, overweight man with thick glasses. At first glance, it looked just like the photo of Mr. Klapper. But after staring at it a little longer, it started not to look like him. But that could have been my imagination. And the first glance was all that was important. The man would have known that.
“Not bad,” I said. I felt a little sick inside. But I had feared all along that the hit man wasn’t dead. They hadn’t found his body. I’d hoped he was dead, certainly. Sort of prayed for it. But over the years, my relationship with hope had gotten a little strained. It was better to plan for the worst.
And this was the worst.
“Supposedly there was a trailer on Mr. Klapper’s property that had been broken into,” Ellen continued. “They found some bloody sheets inside. The house hadn’t shown signs of forced entry but the dead man was killed with one of the knives from the kitchen. And the bathroom showed a lot of use.”
“Cosmetics? Make-up stuff?”
Ellen nodded.
“Detroit PD found the car an hour ago,” she said. “Up on blocks, stripped. Nothing inside.”
“Of course,” I said. “You realize this is the guy, right?”
She shook her head. “You don’t know that.”
“Of course I know it,” I said. My voice more forceful than intended. “He didn’t die on the boat. He washed up on the Canadian side, found shelter, then killed a guy and stole his car. Now he’s back.” I couldn’t help it, my voice had gotten a little loud. I wasn’t shouting, but still. Ellen was armed, after all.
“Easy, John. Don’t get your panties in an uproar. We’ve got the sketch out there. He’s not going to make a move now. If it’s even him.”
Ellen was referencing the drawing that had come from a sketch artist I’d worked with. It wasn’t the greatest, but at least it would provide something.
“It’s him. I’m telling you.”
Ellen sighed.
“Maybe yes, maybe no.”
“Come on Ellen, you wouldn’t have stopped by and told me all this if you didn’t think it was him, too. I know how your mind works.”
She shifted the cup of coffee to her other hand and keyed the ignition on the cruiser.
“You can get out of my car now.”
I complied with her request, watched her drive away.
The sky was streaked with slashes of red. The morning air had a chill that worked its way through my shirt as I walked back to my car.
16
United Asset Management, or UAM as the gold-plated letters on the office directory proclaimed, was located on the first floor of the Prudential building in Southfield. It was easy to spot because it was directly off of the freeway and it had those fancy gold windows that seemed better off in Vegas than in the suburb just north of the city of Detroit.
I used one of the thirty-minute visitor parking spots near the front doors. I figured it wouldn’t take me that long.
The lobby was impressive with all of its marble floors and sleek, modern seating fitted with black leather over stainless steel frames. There was no shortage of security guards with one stationed at a welcome desk, another at the doors leading into the building and a third by the elevators.
African art was the theme of the lobby area. Mostly paintings but a few abstract sculptures as well.
I decided not to check in with the front desk. Besides, it looked more like an information booth and I didn’t have an appointment. Curiosity had gotten the best of me and since Tripp Collins hadn’t returned my call and I still hadn’t heard back from my friend who worked for the Detroit Lions. I figured I might just see if I could catch Tripp at his office.
Bypassing the guard at the little front desk, I strode purposefully toward the elevators when a voice called out.
“John?”
I turned toward a separate hallway to my right.
Elizabeth Pierce stood with a purse over her shoulder and a leather folio tucked underneath her arm.
In some ways she had changed since I’d seen her last, which was going on several years now. Her hair was shorter, her face more etched. She’d lost some of the youthful vigor I remembered and it was now replaced with a mature elegance. Back when we’d been engaged, I had always known that Elizabeth would only get more beautiful as she aged. That’s why they call it classic beauty. It gets better with age.
“Hi Elizabeth,” I said.
She had a choice and I could see her weighing her options. Walk toward me and continue the conversation, or turn to her left, walk through the doors and leave without a second thought.
It was hard for me to believe that I had ever made love to this woman. It was such a strange thought, but it was true. Some of the scenarios I had relived during long stretches of a stakeout had taken place with someone else. This woman in front of me was a stranger.
In a move that shocked me more than I could have imagined, she bypassed the doors and came directly to me. She stopped and for a moment I thought she was going to hug me.
But she didn’t.
“How are you?” she asked. Physically, she had changed. But her voice remained exactly the same. It took me back and had a far greater effect than I would have imagined.
I quickly shook it off. I couldn’t help but feel the situation was totally ridiculous. I’d imagined bumping into her, thought about what I would say, but nothing came to mind.
“Fine,” I said. “You?”
I glanced down at the leather folio in her hand.
“Busy but good,” she said. “You’re a private investigator now, right?”
She smiled at me, and it was a dazzler. No kidding. It reminded me of a Christmas tree perfectly decorated and totally artificial.
“I am.”
“Is business good?”
“It keeps me busy,” I answered. “What are you up to these days?”
It seemed like a stupid question. She was probably the wealthiest person I knew. I assumed she sat around all day….being rich.
“I run the Foundation now and it’s practically a full-time job.” She was talking about the Pierce Foundation, the giving arm of Pierce Industries that gave away tens of millions of dollars every year.
She glanced at her Cartier watch.
“Speaking of which, I have to get going for a meeting.” She smiled at me again. This one carried less wattage but perhaps just a speck of authenticity.
“You look good, John. Take care.”
This time, she did hug me.
I hugged her back. Smelled her perfume. And honestly, I felt a little weak at the knees.
She left through the doors and I went around the corner, found one of those black leather chairs and sank into it.
I wasn’t sure what had rattled me more.
The sight of Elizabeth.
Or the logo emblazoned across the front of her leather folio.
UAM.
17
He chose an upscale chain hotel in downtown Detroit. His theory being that it would have everything he needed, including high-speed Wi-Fi, without the abundance of cameras that were stationed everywhere inside the luxurious but heavily monitored casino hotels.
The Spook checked in using the Dave Mather identity and credit card. The bill went to an email account that was connected to an online bank. The bill would be paid automatically from the fairly substantial balance.
His suite was on the top floor with the bedroom separate from the living area. A porter brought up his bags, which now included a brand-new suitcase full of clothes from a department store at a nearby mall. Also among his belongings was a brand-new laptop still in its box, and a Fender guitar and amp. The laptop had been purchased at the Apple store in the mall, and the guitar had come from his favorite guitar store in Detroit.
First, he unpacked his suitcase and hung up his shirts and jackets. Then he unpacked the laptop, connected it to its power source and turned it on. While it ran through its setup process, he opened the latch of the guitar case and pulled out the used Fender Telecaster. It was already strung and tuned, but he ran through the tuning process like any pro would and changed it to an open G. That was the tuning Keith usually played in, so he did, too.
He plugged the jack into the amp and turned it on.
Then he set the guitar down and went back to the computer. It only took him a few minutes to connect to the Internet, download the necessary software from a website set up specifically for him by one of his contractors, and then check his email messages.
There were several, the most notable being a lucrative contract in Minneapolis. He would have to turn that down because it was a rush job. He hated rush jobs even though the pay was usually triple.
He had some things to take care of here in Detroit first. Once and for all.
Unbeknownst to the now deceased Mr. Ricks, the Spook not only knew who Mr. Ricks’ employer was, but he’d communicated directly with him in the past. Men like Mr. Ricks never figured their boss might circumvent them occasionally. It was called having an inflated sense of one’s importance to an organization. Having worked within many groups of people that frequently included alpha males, the Spook had seen this kind of thing all the time.
It never paid to fall into that trap.
Everyone was expendable.
Everyone.
The Spook typed out a short note to Mr. Ricks’s employer and then sent it along.
He closed the laptop and went over to the guitar.
The riffs came unbidden from somewhere deep within himself. He always played the same way. By starting with Keith’s stuff and then segueing into his own. But essentially, hard rock was his thing. With a lot of blues thrown in. But those rock riffs were what it was all about. The kind that shook your soul. Made you forget what you were doing and focus on what you were hearing. Right now.
It had always been that way for him with The Rolling Stones. The first time he heard Satisfaction he knew he would never be the same. And he had been right. It was like a birth, or perhaps a rebirth.
Maybe he had sensed a soul mate in Keith Richards. A mutual hatred of authority. Which is why the few people who knew him back in those days were so surprised when he joined the CIA. Yet somehow, even though it took him quite awhile to find his place in the system, he knew the Agency was the perfect place to be the architect of his very own form of chaos. And he had been so, so good at it.
In some ways, his freelance life was much more structured than the incredibly thrilling days of those darkest times working for the government.
But it was still all about improvising. About stumbling upon a great lick and turning it into a living, breathing, smoking creation.
He always came up with his best, most ruthlessly brilliant ideas with a guitar in his hands.
Eventually, when it was time to go operational, he would replace the guitar in his hands with a gun.
But right now, he let the music free his thoughts.
And they returned to the problem of John Rockne.
18
On the wall across from me, an African tribal mask looked at me. Watched me struggle with the strange emotions sparked by seeing my ex-fiancé. The eyes of the mask appeared white, as they were hollow and showed the wall behind them.
A blank stare.
I know the feeling, buddy.
My cell pho
ne rang in my pocket and I dug it out. Thankful for the interruption.
“I’ve got three names for you.”
It was my pal from the Detroit Lions. He had come through, like I knew he would. After men bond through suburban landscaping efforts, the connection is unbreakable.
“Let me have ‘em,” I said.
“Greg Jenkins, Eddie Starks and Desmond Jamison.”
I hustled over to the information desk, grabbed a pen and wrote down the names and addresses. The security guard didn’t even look up at me. I kept the phone pressed against my ear and walked toward the lobby doors.
“All three of them live in that neighborhood?” I asked. It wasn’t a very big geographic area I had asked him to look into. Really more of an intersection. I was surprised that there were three professional football players living in that tiny section of Grosse Pointe.
“All three.”
“But different houses, right?” I asked.
“Yeah, these guys don’t need roommates with the money they’re making.”
Maybe it wasn’t so crazy, I thought. Sports teams are a fraternity. Perhaps living on the same street was good for them. They could share rides. Keep an eye on each other’s houses.
I didn’t really follow football with any regularity, so the names didn’t mean much to me. I believe I had heard of Eddie Starks. The name seemed familiar. I wanted to say that he was one of the better players. A running back, I believed.
I thanked him and we disconnected after agreeing to meet for beers without the wives attending. Even though we both knew it would never happen. The part about the wives attending, that is.
I made my way back to Grosse Pointe. I had bailed on my idea of crashing the office of UAM to confront Tripp Collins. The fact that Elizabeth appeared to be one of his clients, or maybe the Foundation was, had thrown me for a loop. I wanted to take some time to think about it before I talked to him again. Going in and confronting Tripp Collins now, while being distracted, was a recipe for disaster.
