Third Strike: A Charlie Fox Mystery

by Zoe Sharp

  Sean pulled a face. “Our clients are Parker’s clients,” he said. “And if they’re in Parker’s system, Collingwood will have accessed their details by now.”

  “So, what do you suggest?” my father asked, a little of the old bite back in his voice. “That we keep driving round until we simply run out of petrol?”

  “We can’t run for long,” Sean said, ignoring the tone, if not the question. “Not in this vehicle. And unless we nick one, we can’t get another.”

  “We need Parker,” I said. “Or unhindered access to him, at least.”

  Sean flashed me a tired smile. “Collingwood’s got him sewn up tight,” he said. “Clients, colleagues, friends—ours and Parker’s. Collingwood will have them all under surveillance.”

  “Ah,” I said as a sudden thought struck me. “But what about someone who isn’t a friend?”

  His eyes flicked sideways. “You’ve thought of someone.”

  “I might have,” I said, and told him who I had in mind.

  Sean laughed, a short bark of sound, and cocked a cynical brow in my direction. “You really think you can talk him into helping us?”

  “It’s worth a try.”

  Still smiling, he shook his head. “Never let anyone tell you that you haven’t got balls, Charlie.”

  “Well,” I said, “you should know … .”

  CHAPTER 25

  We found a big shopping mall with four main department stores at its center and a rake of smaller shops scattered in between. The best thing was that one of the big stores had underground parking as well as the sprawling acres of asphalt up top. Sean drove the pickup into a corner of the second level underground and we left it there, nose to the wall. It left the plate on view, but we reckoned the bullet holes in the front windscreen would attract much more attention. And if the cops came checking plates on every red Ford F-350 they could find, we were likely screwed anyway.

  The phone call was not one I was looking forward to making, but there was nobody else I could nominate. Determined to get it over with as fast as possible, I left Sean and my parents in the truck and took the nearest elevator up into the mall itself, pausing only to check the location of the payphones.

  They turned out to be in the bustling Food Court, a recessed area at the far end of the mall. Restaurants lined three sides of a central square filled with tables and chairs like a school canteen. It seemed odd to find ladies in power suits, their feet surrounded by high-class carrier bags, lunching together in such a setting.

  The mingling smells of fast food—stir-fry Chinese as well as the usual pizza, burgers, pretzels, and frosted doughnuts—hit my stomach hard and, though it quavered a little, I found I was actually hungry. It seemed a long time since breakfast, despite the fact that my watch told me lunch wasn’t yet strictly overdue.

  Nevertheless, my stride faltered. Whoever said an army marches on its stomach knew their human nature. And, besides, who knew when we’d get the chance to eat again? I fingered the diminished fold of dollar bills in my pocket.

  Let’s see what happens in the next ten minutes before we go blowing the funds, shall we?

  The phones were halfway down the painted block corridor that led to the rest rooms, so there was a constant stream of people passing by, but nobody lingered as if to catch me making my illicit call, and there were no obvious surveillance teams at work. I shook myself for this creeping paranoia. Did Collingwood really have the manpower—not to mention the clout—to cover every payphone in the area, at this notice, just in case?

  Get a grip, Fox!

  I reached the phones and dialed the number quickly, before I had a chance to back out. The phone seemed to ring out for a long time before anyone picked up but, when they did, it was the guy I’d been hoping for.

  I listened while he went through his ritual greeting, welcoming the caller to the facility and identifying himself by name.

  “Hi, Nick,” I said, trying for casual and not quite bringing it off. “You know who this is. Please—don’t hang up.”

  I had no idea if Collingwood might be using some kind of recognition software to monitor phone calls made to anywhere connected to Parker or to me and Sean. If so, that would naturally include the gym a few blocks away from the office, where I’d so recently had my dramatic run-in with my personal trainer. Was it enough of a link that Parker’s company had a group membership there? One way to find out.

  I’d rarely had cause to speak to Nick on the phone and I wasn’t sure if he’d recognize my voice without a name attached to it. His sharply indrawn breath told me that he did.

  “I got nothing to say to you, lady,” he said, aggressive and sulky both at the same time. In the background I could hear the clank of fixed-weight machines being worked through innumerable sets of reps, the beat of music from the aerobics studio next door. “You nearly got me fired!”

  “Then just listen,” I said. “This is serious, Nick. We need your help.”

  “Huh!” The dismissive sound came out explosively loud in my ear. It clearly turned some heads at his end, too, because he suddenly lowered his voice to a savage whisper. “Why should I lift a goddamn finger to help you, Charlie? You damn near broke my freakin’ arm, lady!” And, less angry, more plaintive: “Made me look like a fool.”

  I shut my eyes a moment. Acting in anger never worked out well for me. I should have learned that by now.

  Two thickset men in jeans and work shirts were approaching along the narrow corridor, walking slightly spread out, not speaking, their gaze seemingly directed right at me. I shifted my weight slightly, just in case, but they kept on moving past, disappearing into the men’s room doorway.

  “I’m sorry, Nick,” I said carefully, brain racing ahead. What did I know about Nick? What had Parker said about him? Vain. Ambitious. A wanna-be. I was suddenly aware of how hard I’d been gripping the phone. I forced my hand to relax a little. “But this is a matter of life and death. We need a guy we can trust. A guy who’s coolheaded and tough, and the first person we thought of was you. But, if you’re still too sore because I hurt your pride, I understand. Shame, though. Parker would have been so grateful, but—”

  “Hey, wait up,” he said, fast and anxious now. “I didn’t say I wouldn’t do it. If Mr. Armstrong’s in trouble, I’m your guy!”

  “No, I’m sorry, Nick—this was a mistake,” I said, glad he couldn’t see me smiling. “Look, it could be dangerous. I would hate to—”

  “Tell me!” He almost squawked it out, then dropped his voice again, conspiratorial. “I can do it, Charlie. Just give me the chance to prove it to Mr. Armstrong, okay?”

  “Okay,” I said, aiming for reluctant admiration. “I need you to call Parker at his office and get him down to the gym as soon as you can. How you do it is up to you, but you’ve got to be casual, so anybody listening in doesn’t suspect you’re acting as an agent for us.”

  I used the word agent deliberately, knowing it would go straight to his ego like a tequila slammer to an empty stomach. I fed more coins into the phone and waited.

  “Sure, no problem,” he said, excited as a kid. “Er, what do I tell him?”

  I held back a sigh. “I don’t know, Nick,” I said, reining in my impatience. It was a reasonable question. “Tell him you need to go over the results of the last fitness assessment you did for him—but whatever you do, for God’s sake don’t mention me by name. Or Sean. We’ve got some very bad people after us.”

  Some very official people. But I didn’t tell him that.

  “Tell Parker you think he’d want to know if he was going to put operatives into the field who might get themselves into trouble because they weren’t fit. How’s that? I’m sure you’ll think of a way to dress it up so it sounds just right.” I checked my watch. “I’ll call back every hour until you get him there.”

  “Should I take your number, then he can call you?’ Nick asked.

  “No, it’s not safe.”

  He bridled at that. “I ain’t afraid of a l
ittle trouble.”

  “I didn’t think for a moment that you would be, Nick,” I said, keeping my voice as straight as my face. To be afraid, first you have to fully appreciate the dangers involved. “But nobody can hold out under interrogation forever. The less you know, the safer everybody is—you included. Standard operating procedure.”

  “Okay, okay. I get that,” he said, more subdued. There was a pause like he was writing something down. “Supposing Mr. Armstrong, he doesn’t go for it?”

  “He will,” I said, projecting more confidence than I felt. I waited for a woman to wheel a puce-faced, wailing toddler in a buggy past me and out into the Food Court. “Parker’s a smart guy.”

  And I hoped to hell that I was right.

  CHAPTER 26

  We met up with Parker in a rest area on I-95, just south of Boston. It was six hours since my initial phone call to Nick. Five hours since Nick had managed to get a sneaky message through to Parker, and my boss had given his watchdogs the slip and hotfooted it down to the gym to be waiting by the phone when I called back. And four hours since I’d called again, by which time he’d arranged a substantial float and instructions for a rendezvous.

  So, not only smart but bloody efficient, too.

  We’d hung around at the mall for as long as we reckoned we could get away with it, then headed towards the meeting point, staying as far away from the populated areas as we could manage.

  According to Parker, the story Vondie was putting out—via Collingwood, naturally—was that they’d attempted to flag us down on the road in order to escort us back to New York. At which point we’d opened fire on them in a vicious and unprovoked attack. I’m not sure quite how they explained the obvious signs of a Stinger hit and heavy side impact on the Navigator, but I’m sure the empty brass I’d left behind inside it didn’t help our cause any. Nor did leaving gunshot wounds in two of her team.

  New York to Boston, if Parker kept it legal and didn’t get too badly snarled up in traffic, was a four-hour drive. We timed our own arrival at the rest area to be a couple of minutes after his ETA. The less time we had to hang around in the open in a bullet-ridden—and technically stolen—vehicle, the better.

  I’d told Parker what we were driving and we’d parked up out of the way to wait. Eventually, we spotted him behind the wheel of a nondescript silver five-year-old Toyota Camry. He did a slow circuit of the car park, showing himself to us, before pulling up. Sean restarted the engine and maneuvered the pickup in alongside him.

  Parker had dressed down in jeans and a Tommy Hilfiger stripe shirt, worn with the collar open so it looked natural to have the tails out. As he walked round the back of the car to join us, a Honda Integra on big chrome wheels pulled in about a hundred meters away. Part of me half-expected someone like the young Canadian, Joe McGregor, to be driving the second car. Instead, it was Nick who climbed out and gave us a sketchy, self-conscious wave.

  Sean merely raised an eyebrow at Parker’s unusual choice of traveling companion. Parker gave him a look that said clearly, don’t ask.

  My mother got out of the pickup with her arms out, ready to embrace her savior. Parker ignored her. He was wearing sunglasses, but I could tell that his eyes were everywhere.

  “Get your gear into the trunk of the Camry,” he said. “Do it now.”

  Chastened, my parents began transferring luggage. Despite the size of my mother’s suitcase, it didn’t take long. Sean’s and my squashy bags fitted in round the others, tight but snug.

  When we were loaded, Parker installed my parents in the rear seat, got back into the Camry again and sedately drove it over to join the Integra. Sean and I gave the pickup a quick once-over, wiped down the obvious touch points, locked it up and walked away from it, towards the Camry. We walked away quickly, I noticed, without looking back—as though the Ford were going to start whining like an abandoned dog.

  By the time we’d rejoined him, Parker was back out from behind the wheel and standing by the driver’s window. He stood, I noticed, casually relaxed with his hip turned side on to the car, not obviously using it for cover but using it just the same. He handed over the keys, jerked his head towards the interior.

  “There’s five grand in cash in the glove compartment,” he said. “A couple of boxes of ammo, and two clean pay-as-you-go cell phones. But don’t use them unless you have to—that goes as much for the hollow-points as it does for the Motorolas.”

  “Parker, we’re not exactly virgins at this,” I said mildly.

  He smiled just a little, shrugged. “Better to tell you and risk offense, than not tell you and risk blowing the whole thing to hell and back.”

  “Speaking of which—what’s he doing here?” Sean asked quietly, nodding in the direction of Nick, who was hurrying to join us.

  “He got me the car,” Parker admitted. “Belongs to his sister. She’s out of town for another month—Europe. Besides, the Camry’s the most common car on the road. You couldn’t blend in better if you tried.”

  “My sister’s a real motorhead,” Nick said, enthusiastic. “It’s got the V-six under the hood, in case you need to make a run for the border.” He suddenly realized what he’d said and his face fell comically. “Uh, but I’d appreciate it if you didn’t.”

  I didn’t like to point out that running from someone with Collingwood’s resources was one car chase destined to be over very quickly. Instead, I offered him my hand.

  “Thanks, Nick,” I said with a warmth I didn’t have to fake. “Good job.”

  He grinned at me. Still a big adventure for him, I saw. Wait till the first time you get blood on your hands—either literally or metaphorically. See how much of a game you think it is then.

  Last thing, Parker handed over a scrap of paper. “I’ve set up temporary e-mail addresses for both of us,” he said. “This is yours, and the password. Might be easier sometimes to use that than to phone. Any intel I can dig out for you—on Storax or this O’Loughlin character you mentioned—I’ll send.”

  “Parker, you’re a wonder,” I murmured, studying the random series of numbers and letters that made up the e-mail address. “At the moment, it’s a toss-up whether I want to adopt you or have your children.”

  He lifted an eyebrow, smiled a little and gave me a firm handshake, the same for Sean. “I’d settle for you straightening this mess out and getting back to work,” he said.

  “One more favor,” Sean said. “When Vondie’s crew jumped us, we were on our way back to see Jeremy Lee’s widow, Miranda. We haven’t been able to raise her since. Can you look into it for us? Check she’s okay?”

  Parker nodded, climbed into the passenger seat of Nick’s Integra. “I find out anything, I’ll e-mail.” He slammed the door and dropped the window. “Make sure you get receipts for what you spend,” he warned. “The five grand’s for expenses—it’s not a bonus, okay?”

  We watched them pull out of the parking area and get back onto the highway before we climbed into the Camry, my parents still in the rear seat and Sean behind the wheel. It was clean and remarkably free from clutter inside. Nick’s sister had a vanilla-scented air freshener hanging in front of one of the vents on the dashboard. I unhooked it and dropped it into the ashtray, which was part full of spare change.

  When I checked the glove box, I found the money Parker had promised, in bundles of mixed-denomination used bills, held together with an elastic band. A brand-new-looking road map of America was tucked down the side of my seat. It was nice to work for a man who thought of everything.

  Sean started the motor. The V-6 sounded polite rather than powerful. Parker must have filled up not long before he met us because the needle on the fuel gauge canted well to the right. Sean adjusted the driving position and glanced over his shoulder.

  “So,” he said. “Now we have clean transport, the question is, where do we go—apart from anywhere the hell away from here?”

  “Houston,” my father said, surprising me with the immediacy of his response. “It’s where Sto
rax have their U.S. headquarters and, as they seem to be at the center of this, it’s where I should imagine we’ll find some answers.”

  “Do you have any idea of how far it is to Texas?” Sean asked. “Or how long it will take us to get there?”

  “No,” my father said, unashamed. “Do you?”

  “Roughly two thousand miles,” Sean said without a blink. “That works out to the best part of two days’ solid driving—if we don’t want the luxury of stopping to sleep.”

  My father gave him his most arrogant surgeon’s stare. “We’d best make a start, then, don’t you think?”

  We drove southwest, out of Massachusetts, down through Connecticut and slipped across the corner of New York state bypassing the city itself. A few hours later we were passing Scranton, Pennsylvania. The Camry wasn’t exactly the rocket ship Nick had boasted, but it had cruise and air con and allowed us to make competent, inconspicuous progress.

  We rolled on, mile after mile of undulating freeway, rocked by mammoth trucks that gained on us with relentless ease in the gathering dark, like supertankers crossing the English Channel.

  Just after midnight, we hit Harrisburg and crossed the Susquehanna River. As oncoming headlights raked the interior, I glanced back and found my parents soundly asleep. My father had taken off his jacket and was using it as a blanket for my mother, who had curled up over the center armrest, her lips slightly parted as she slept, face pillowed on her hands like a praying child. My father had draped his arm across her shoulders, his head lolling sideways against the door glass. He was going to wake up with a hell of a stiff neck.

  “They okay?” Sean asked, keeping his voice low.

  “Out of it. How about you?”

  In the dim glow from the instrument panel I saw him smile, little more than a twitch at the corner of his mouth.

  “I’m okay,” he said. He’d discarded his jacket and rolled back the cuffs of his shirt, revealing the lines of muscle definition in his forearms.