Ratio: A Leopold Blake Thriller (A Private Investigator Series of Crime and Suspense Thrillers)

by Nick Stephenson

  “We won’t have a second chance at this.”

  Mariel folded her arms. “You mean I won’t have a second chance. I’m the one putting my life on the line, not you.”

  “Where do you get that idea? It’s my uncle that’s paying us to do this. And I’m the one that thought up this plan, not you. If they find me out, I go to prison for the rest of my life.” He took a deep swig of beer. “Or worse. You’d only get a slap on the wrist, if they even figure out you’re a part of this.”

  She shook her head. “Slap on the wrist? You’re such a dick! If something goes wrong and they discover I put these pillows on those beds, I’m the one that gets burned. And if something really goes wrong, I’m the one that gets blown up by these things.”

  “Pretty unlikely, as long as we both follow the plan. And think of the payday.”

  “Yeah, yeah. You get to play gangster, I get my green card.”

  “And enough money to buy a nice place somewhere quiet,” Jonny said.

  “Yeah, great.” Mariel sighed. “Like I said, it’s not like I have much of a choice, is it? I can’t go back home. You know that.”

  “Just do as I tell you and America is your new home. A new identity, a new life. No more running.” He downed the rest of the beer and tossed the bottle into the trash. “All you need to do is wait until the guests have checked in, finished their security sweeps, then swap out the pillows. Think you can manage that?”

  “I’ve worked there long enough. People trust me to get on with my job,” she replied. “One of the benefits of working on staff, people don’t notice you moving around the place. Should be a piece of cake.”

  “And make sure you swap out all the pillows. No way of knowing where either of them will be sleeping. Need to cover all the bases.”

  “Yeah, yeah, I’m not stupid. Just make sure you don’t mess up the wiring.”

  Jonny smirked. “Let me worry about that. Just make sure not to crimp any of the pillows when you lay them out. Putting them on the bed is safe enough, but just don’t step on them or bend them too much.”

  “Or what?” she asked.

  He grinned at her. “Or you go boom instead of June Kato.”

  Chapter 11

  TREVOR’S STOMACH GROWLED, the sound echoing noisily in the narrow crawl space. He resisted the urge to swear out loud, and tried to think about something else. He flicked on his flashlight, trying to locate his satchel of supplies. The light bounced off the metal surfaces, coming to a rest on one of the fake panels he had installed the day before. Sure enough, even to Trevor, the effect was indistinguishable from the original walls. The layers of insulation should also do a good job of hiding his heat signature.

  The perfect hiding place.

  He knew he had limited time to move about in his self-imposed solitary confinement. Gustafson, the idiot, had let on that a security team would arrive later today for their inspection of the Seventh Floor, and to make their own arrangements. Between now and then was the last chance to move around or make any noise whatsoever. He checked the alarm on his watch, made sure it was set to vibrate, and began searching for something to eat.

  This is where all the beers bought for military veterans paid off. He had prepared well, learning how to arrange his gear in order of use, from soonest to last. Laying his blanket in one corner, stowing his pistol next to it, he reached for his breakfast. Nearby, the plastic tote with a stash of non-perishable food in plastic ziplock baggies, a row of water bottles along the wall. He found the first of several baggies of granola bars, pulling one out and unwrapping it as silently as he could. He bit off one end of the bar, chewing slowly, trying not to spike his blood sugar too high.

  He finished the first, then picked up another, and then another. He drank half the first bottle of water, and immediately felt the urge to piss. At the far end of the narrow space, a collapsible bucket and a bag of cat litter to use as a latrine. It wasn’t going to be pretty in there for the next twenty-four hours, but he had novels, flashlights, batteries, and caffeinated drinks to keep him occupied during the long dark.

  He had learned from the soldiers in the late-night bars that one of the hardest things for snipers was keeping themselves alert for long periods of time. If possible, they would sleep only during the dark, and stuff sharp pebbles under their bodies to keep them uncomfortable, keep them dozing lightly. The last thing a sniper wanted was to get caught sleeping.

  Caffeine pills and sporadic anaerobic exercise helped during the daytime, stimulating the body and keeping the blood pumping. However fatiguing or painful the long wait might become, it was critical to remain alert. And that was exactly what Trevor planned for; he had to rely on catnaps during the quiet of night, and remain awake during the day by reading, doing silent push-ups and sit-ups, and taking caffeine pills.

  Ready and steady when the time comes.

  He relieved himself into the bucket, tossed some litter in, and settled back into his corner. Using his flashlight, he unloaded his pistol, and removed the rounds from the magazine. He set each one down in front of him in a tidy row. He turned off the light.

  Plunged into pitch black, he reached forward, found a bullet, and knocked it over. In the dark, his hearing had become acute, and he heard the bullet roll away. He reached forward again, relying on the memory in his muscles to find the next bullet. Finding it, he turned it around and slid it into the magazine in his other hand. One round after another, he played the game of loading his gun. Once fully loaded, he unloaded it again, and repeated the exercise.

  After what felt like hours, he felt himself dozing off. With several hours until the security team was due to show up, Trevor figured a short nap was acceptable. He just needed to relax a little first.

  Fishing out a slim tablet, he read one of his books at the lowest brightness settings until his eyes grew heavy. Finishing the chapter, he stuffed his pockets with marbles and lay down, feeling the glass orbs digging into his legs. Flicking off the tablet, he set it to one side, making sure his pistol was well within reach.

  In the darkness, with only the sounds of the air conditioning systems and his own heartbeat to keep him company, Trevor pretended he was camping on a moonless and starless night before finally dozing off.

  Chapter 12

  THE AMERICAN AIRLINES transcontinental flight landed without incident, touching down at Sea-Tac a few minutes earlier than scheduled. The first class cabin had been a little cramped, but after a few measures of bourbon Leopold had drifted off to sleep within half an hour of takeoff. He woke up with a start as the plane hit the asphalt, the thrust reversers kicking in with a deafening roar.

  After collecting their luggage at baggage claim at the main Seattle airport, Jerome led the way to the automobile rental area in the parking garage. Checking in with the clerk on duty, they waited only moments before two large Cadillac Escalade SUVs were brought around. Both vehicles were styled in metallic black paint, with tinted windows and dark leather seats. Each had been fitted with satellite navigation, wireless connectivity and a GPS tracker.

  Leopold climbed in to the nearest vehicle and fired up the engine. A deep roar from the six-liter V8 filled the cabin, over four hundred horses at its disposal. Checking the rear-view mirror, Leopold watched Jerome climb into the other Escalade, signaling he was ready to move out. Leopold activated the satellite navigation and headed out the parking lot, aiming for the airport exit. Once they hit the freeway, Leopold called Jerome on the wireless system.

  “I want to inspect the rooms at the hotel before we check in,” he said, as Jerome picked up. “In case anyone’s monitoring the reception desk.”

  “Agreed.” The bodyguard’s voice came through loud and clear.

  “I’ll check maintenance records while you do the inspection tour of the seventh floor suites. I guess you know what you’re doing.”

  “This isn’t exactly my first rodeo.”

  “See you there.” Leopold hung up. Drifting into the fast lane, he let the SUVs big eng
ine loose, the tachometer nudging four thousand RPM.

  For all his reluctance, a small part of Leopold welcomed the opportunity to get out of New York for a few days. With the Paris mess still hitting headlines and tax season fast approaching, looking after Melendez and his new girlfriend felt like a vacation. Still, with all eyes on Seattle this weekend, and the President dropping in for a chance to impress the media ahead of the primaries, there was plenty of opportunity for things to go wrong.

  If that weren’t enough, after Melendez’s experience in Santiago, there was always the chance somebody would try to finish what they started. Leopold didn’t relish the idea of getting caught in someone else’s crossfire. He had more than enough experience dealing with his own.

  ***

  Half an hour later, Leopold eased the heavy Escalade off the main road and into the First Hill Suites Hotel loading bay. The security guard checked his computer, finding their clearance, and waved them on through. Once parked, Jerome led the way into the service entrance, heading straight for the operations manager’s office. They found their man slumped over his desk, massaging his temples. He looked up as they passed the window.

  Leopold knocked on the door and stepped through. “Rick Gustafson, I presume?”

  The manager stood up, dusting potato chips off his uniform. Blonde, a little overweight, he looked flustered. “Yeah, that’s me.” He held out a hand. “And you are?”

  “Security detail for Jack Melendez.” He ignored Rick’s outstretched palm. “We need to go through an inspection right now. I’m guessing you’re not too busy to take us up to his floor.”

  “Christ, this is getting ridiculous,” Rick said. “How long is this gonna take?”

  Jerome stepped forward. “It’ll go a lot faster if you cooperate.” He paused. “Who else has been through here?”

  Rick withdrew his hand and stuffed it into a pocket. “We’ve been getting ready for the conference for days. We’ve had teams come through looking at the ventilation systems, ducts, electric systems.”

  “Ducts?”

  “Yeah. Checking for security threats, I guess.”

  Leopold frowned. “We’ll need to do our own sweep.”

  Rick sighed deeply. “Fine. Whatever.” He tossed them a clipboard. “Sign in here. We’ll get your ID badges printed out.” He turned his attention to his computer screen. “I’ll need your names to check our records.”

  “One more thing,” said Leopold. “We’ll be needing our equipment.”

  ***

  The housekeeper, a lithe Filipino woman with jet black hair and dark skin, met them outside Rick’s office and handed them a set of key cards to activate the secure elevator. She introduced herself as Mariel and led them up to the seventh floor. They put their bags in one room toward the end, Suite Three.

  “Will that be all, sir?” the housekeeper asked, standing in the doorway.

  Leopold grabbed a thick manila folder from one of the console tables. He looked up at her. “Mariel Reyes, right?”

  She nodded.

  “How’s the visa application going?”

  Mariel shifted her weight uncomfortably. “You’ve done your research.”

  “Relax. The hotel sent your file over, you’ve got nothing to worry about.”

  “I’ll need your phone, miss,” Jerome said, tossing their luggage onto the sofa in the living room. The cases of surveillance and monitoring equipment had arrived at the hotel as planned and were currently taking up most of the floor space.

  Mariel took half a step back. “Why?”

  “I’ll need to check it for bugs. You can have it back.” Jerome walked toward her, holding out a hand. “I won’t damage it.”

  She made one last quick check for messages before turning her phone off and handing it over.

  “You get the instructions about the supply closet?”

  Mariel nodded. “This way. It’s just down the hall.”

  Jerome checked the broom closet and cleaning supplies first, with Mariel by his side. All of them were labeled properly and none had been opened yet, in accordance with their specifications. Her supplies were new and unused. Checking the Material Safety and Data Sheets for each product, he nodded in approval.

  Next, the linen closet. Jerome removed the stacks of bed sheets and towels, poking and prodding through layers of fabric, knocking on the closet interior walls.

  “You have enough linen here to get through the weekend?” he asked her.

  “Should have enough for bed changes in each room, each day. The same with towels and bathroom supplies.”

  “You enjoy working here?” he asked, putting everything back.

  Mariel shrugged. “It pays the bills. I like it okay.”

  “They treat you well?”

  “The pay is good. I get dental.”

  The four suites came under scrutiny next. Jerome rummaged through drawers and closets, bathroom toiletries, finding nothing suspicious. He performed a few test touch strips to check for stray toxic or combustible chemicals. With a flashlight, he scrutinized cubbies and ventilation grates, finding nothing out of place.

  “I made sure these rooms were swept this morning,” Mariel said. “Everything is ready.”

  “We double-check everything,” said Jerome. “Gustafson said he’d had someone here inspecting the ducts. Show me.”

  The housekeeper led them out into the corridor, stopping beneath a hatchway in the ceiling. She pointed up. “There’s a crawl space up here. Hooks up to the floors ventilation system.”

  Jerome fetched a monitoring device with a flexible probe from the room, stopping by the storage closet for a stepladder. Carefully, he set the ladder underneath the hatch and pulled it open, extending the probe through into the ducts above. Satisfied, he logged the readings in a pocketbook for future reference, and climbed to the top rung. His head disappeared into the crawl space for a few moments, before he climbed back down to the carpet.

  “Readings came back negative,” he said. “Visual checks out. All the rooms are hooked up to this duct, so it looks like we’re good to go.” He turned to Leopold. “You check the maintenance records?”

  Leopold nodded. “Well, one piece of good news: all records and inspections are up to date. Looks like they had a team in this morning, checking the basement systems.”

  “Doing what, exactly?”

  “Wiring and firmware checks. Warranty, apparently.” He leafed through the manila folder. “A piece of bad news, though. Right now that plant operations manager is filling in for someone else. I got the impression he’s qualified to do basic building maintenance, but not to be in charge of a five-star enterprise.”

  “All the more reason for us to check everything as thoroughly as we can in the hotel,” Jerome said, tucking his notebook into his suit jacket pocket. “Secret Service?”

  “Nothing in the records, as you’d expect,” said Leopold. “But the convention center is state-owned. With the hotel just next door, you can be sure they’ve been sticking their noses in.”

  “We’ll need to check in with whoever’s running the event,” said Jerome, turning to Mariel. “Can you give us some names?”

  She nodded.

  “Good. I think it’s time we paid the Secret Service a little visit.”

  Chapter 13

  A THIN VEIL of misty rain swept over the city as Jonny Yamada hurried inside the doors of Shibuya, a Japanese restaurant just off Belltown, and shook the water from his hair. A perky waitress found him a table, took his order, and brought him a cold bottle of Asahi beer.

  The restaurant was full. The quiet murmurs of lunch time conversations filled the air, mingling with the steamy hisses from the kitchen grills and the quiet clink of tableware, the dull, tuneless melody of some obscure Asian pop band coming through the stereo system.

  Lunch arrived after a few minutes, Osaka-style Okonomiyaki, a savory pancake stuffed with grated nagaimo yams, dashi fish stock, eggs, shredded cabbage, and thinly sliced pork belly. The waitre
ss set the dish down, along with a second beer, and cleared the empty bottle away. Jonny ate quickly. The sticky, salty food helped him drain the second Asahi before finishing his plate. He ordered another.

  Checking his watch, he wolfed down the last of his lunch. He had arrived early, allowing him to keep an eye on the door, as well as fill his stomach, while he waited for his Oguchi family contact to show. His uncle had arranged the meet, but Jonny figured it was more of a formality than anything else.

  The lunchtime rush had peaked, a line of people huddled in the doorway. Or maybe it was the shitty weather. Still, it would be hard to pick out Kanezaki in the crowd of diners, most of whom were Asian. There were a few hakujin scattered around, looking puzzled by the menus, but this place was off the beaten path and tourists rarely dropped by. A fitting place to meet.

  A tall, muscular man approached, dressed in jeans and a leather jacket. Japanese features, his eyes locked on Jonny’s table. The man took a seat opposite without introduction and glanced around. His gaze settled on Jonny, apparently waiting for him to say something.

  “You Kanezaki-san?” Jonny said eventually, sipping his beer.

  The man nodded.

  “You’ll be pleased to know everything’s going as planned. Tomorrow night should go off with a bang.” He smiled.

  Kanezaki eyed Jonny’s drink. “What you drinking that Canadian piss water for?”

  Jonny waved one of the waitresses over and ordered two bottles of Kirin Ichiban import, and picked out several appetizers; yakitori, gyoza, and tsukemono in chili sauce. The waitress nodded and walked away, brought the beer back with her. Jonny made sure his lunch mate’s glass was filled before his own.

  Kanezaki took a long sip of his drink. The end of his little finger was missing, something Jonny recognized as a Yakuza tradition; severing one’s own finger to prove undying loyalty. He had always wondered how painful it was to remove a finger, and how much whisky was involved. He figured a lot.