by Mike Knowles
The insurance company and the security service reps were not happy about their having to meet with Jonathan instead of Andrew, but the food poisoning excuse held. Jonathan, Dickens’ number two, had been texting questions and updates to his boss all morning. He peppered the messages with diplomatically phrased questions about when Dickens would be getting there to help deal with all of the issues. It was clear he was treading water out there all by himself and starting to cramp. When I turned on the office lights and told Miles to text him and tell him to come up to Dickens’ office, the reply was close to instantaneous. Jonathan was on his way.
“No,” Dickens said. “You don’t need him. You have me. Leave him out of this.”
“Surprising amount of backbone for someone who just pissed in the closet fifteen minutes ago,” Miles said.
Dickens shut his mouth and five minutes later an exasperated Jonathan entered the office. He was a handsome man in a blue suit who kept the currently fashionable amount of stubble on his face. I guessed it took him at least an hour a day to give himself the I-just-rolled-out-of-bed-and-don’t-give-a-shit look. He walked with a graceful, confident stride that gave him the air of a dancer, but just the air — Jonathan had too much ass to be a dancer.
He stopped short of the desk when he saw the two of us with Andrew and said, “Oh, I’m sorry, Andrew, I didn’t know you had guests in your office.”
“Jonathan, I — I —”
I pointed a gun that Ilir’s American Albanian connection had procured at Jonathan’s centre mass. “Please step inside and shut the door behind you.”
Jonathan cracked half a smile. “Is this some kind of joke? Because I don’t get it.”
“It’s some kind of robbery,” Miles said. “Now, be a good boy and do as you’re told.”
Around his neck, Jonathan wore a lanyard with a card that provided his credentials along with photo ID. Miles took the lanyard off Jonathan and lay it on the desk. On his way he picked up the backpack he had brought with him. Miles pulled a case out of the bag and set it on the desk along with the card.
“Can you make it work?” I asked.
“Shouldn’t be an issue,” Miles said as he opened the case. He looked back and forth from the case to the card. “Ah-ha. Lucky number two.”
“Andrew, what is going on?”
“I’m sorry, Jonathan. I had no choice.”
“No choice? What do these men want?”
Miles lifted his eyes from the contents of the case and I expected a comment. I was wrong. “I need three minutes.”
“Three minutes for what?” Jonathan asked.
“Three minutes and quiet,” Miles said.
There was something different in Miles’ voice and Dickens heard it. “It will be okay, Jonathan. Please just do as they say.”
“Empty your pockets,” I said.
Jonathan didn’t pose any more questions. He just stepped to the desk and began pulling items from his pants. When he was done, I pointed to a chair — Jonathan sat. I looked through the assortment of things on the desk. “This is all of it?”
Jonathan nodded vigorously.
“Who is in charge down there when you are up here?”
“No one really. Everyone is working in their sections. I just coordinate where needed.”
“Nuh unh,” I said. “There is always a pecking order.”
“There really isn’t.”
I pulled back the hammer on the revolver and put the gun against the handsome man’s temple. “Think harder.”
“Tim! Tim does a lot down there.”
The name was new to me. “Who is Tim?”
“He runs maintenance,” Dickens said.
I picked up the cell phone that had just come from Jonathan’s pocket. “Call him.”
“I can’t.”
I put more pressure on his temple with the barrel of the gun. “Call him.”
“He doesn’t have a phone.”
“He’s right,” Dickens said. “Tim is in his sixties. He thought pagers were too futuristic.”
“What is your cell number?” Miles asked Jonathan.
Jonathan rattled off the digits so fast that we had to make him do it two more times before we were comfortable that we got it.
For a few moments Miles said nothing else as he hovered over the case on the desk. He finally lifted a card up to the light of the lamp on Dickens’ desk and peered at it. He pulled the card away from the light and brought it close to his lips. He blew on the ID gently and nodded his head as though confirming something with himself. I held out my hand and Miles passed me the card. I had described the lanyard Dickens had worn when I first saw him and Miles had estimated the size of the picture on the card and made ten prints of varying sizes at a local photo shop. Up close to the lamplight, the surface of the new photo was a bit shinier than the rest of the card. Downstairs, in dimmer light, it would easily hold up to a casual inspection.
I passed the card back and Miles put the ID into the interior pocket of his suit jacket. He smoothed the lines of the suit and went over to the case one more time. He took another ID badge out. This one was attached to a clip instead of a lanyard. Miles attached the second ID to the front pocket of the jacket and stepped over to the door so that he could look at himself in the reflection of the glass. Satisfied, he went over to the desk, put the case back in the backpack, and zipped it closed.
“Well,” he said. “Let me go introduce myself to Tim.” The con man went out the door, leaving me with Dickens and Jonathan.
I took the cell phone from my pocket and called the first stored number. Carl picked up on the first ring.
“Yeah?”
“You ready?”
“Yeah.” The driver was so cool he sounded bored.
“Five minutes,” I said to Carl.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
It was five minutes until the phone on the desk began to march like an army ant across the shiny oak surface. I picked up the phone and heard Miles speaking far from the receiver.
“Excuse me, miss, can you point me in Tim’s direction?”
I couldn’t hear the woman’s reply, but Miles thanked her profusely.
Miles put the phone to his mouth and said, “Put the phone on speaker and have Jonathan ready to play ball.”
I touched the button for speakerphone and put the phone down on the desk. Jonathan was watching me with his phone. I could read the look on his face; he wasn’t cowed as easily as his boss had been. His mind was racing to find a way out of the situation. I motioned him over with the gun to remind him that there was only one way out of the office and it wasn’t with Tim’s help.
“Walk over to the desk on your knees.”
Jonathan slid out of the chair to his knees and did as he was told. I moved behind him and put the revolver to the back of his head. I pushed against the handsome man’s scalp until his chin was resting on the desk and his throat was against the edge.
“You give him whatever he wants and keep your words short and to the point. Answer when you’re spoken to and don’t even think about colouring outside the lines.”
“A — Alright,” he said.
A minute later, we heard Miles. “Tim? My name is William Bishop. I represent David Lind. He is playing the benefit tonight.”
“I know who he is,” a gruff voice answered.
“Of course. Of course. Anyway, I’m sure you heard about the little issue with the toilets.”
“What issue with the toilets?”
“Seems they were overflowing onto the floor in the dressing room.”
“No one told me a thing about that.”
“Yes, well, nevertheless, it happened and Mr. Lind found the accommodations unacceptable. Not to worry, though, we have a plumber en route.”
“Plumber? I’ll have it taken care of right now.
”
Miles laughed. “I know you have people for that.”
“It’s not that —”
“I also know that there are union issues, but I am sorry, Mr. Lind is world renowned and his decision to play here was made because he was promised certain things. When they were not delivered, Mr. Lind made it clear that he was no longer obligated to play the benefit tonight. Mr. Dickens and myself have hashed it out and I am happy to say that we came to an understanding. If the toilets are fixed by a reputable company, the show can go on.”
“We got maintenance people for this.”
“I’m sorry to say, Mr. Lind doesn’t trust your people, not after seeing the state of the bathrooms under your care.”
“This is unacceptable.”
“I have Jonathan Lamda on the phone here, and you can confirm this with him if you like.”
There was a rustling as the phone was passed. “Jonathan?”
Jonathan squeaked a greeting. “Hey, Tim. Sorry about the bathroom issue. Andrew has been out all morning and it all fell on my plate. I need you to let the plumbers in the rear entrance. Mr. Bishop will take them over to the room. He needs to oversee the work.” Jonathan was staying on script, but the words left his mouth without a trace of confidence. He didn’t sound like he was behind what he was saying, but he didn’t have to. He was just another guy who had to follow the orders that came down from above.
“You know the unions will have our asses if they find out about this, Jonathan.”
“I know, Tim, I know. But you know,” Jonathan looked at Andrew. “You know how it is. Andrew makes deals without telling the rest of us and then he leaves us holding the bag.”
“Leaves us at three in the afternoon holding the bag,” Tim said.
Jonathan forced himself to chuckle. “Sometimes it’s two thirty.” He found a patch of wall to stare at that was far away from Dickens’ eyes.
“Can we keep this under wraps, Tim?”
“Fine, fine, but any other work goes through me, alright?”
I bent down and whispered in Jonathan’s ear.
“Sure, sure, of course. Listen, while I have you, this Lind guy is a pain in the ass. Like that diva we had last month on steroids. His guy might be down there a lot today. Do me a favour and tell everyone to stay clear of him. I don’t want him bitching at me any more than he has to.”
“You got it.”
“Thanks, Tim.”
The phone was passed back and Miles said, “Thank you so much, Jonathan,” before he hung up the phone.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
It was ten more minutes before Miles was back in the office. “We’re good. How were the children?”
Jonathan, now bound with zip ties and gagged, moaned from his place on the floor. Dickens was in his office chair, both of his hands zip-tied together behind his back.
Miles looked at both men. “Never mind, I see they were naughty.”
“The maintenance guy give you any trouble?”
“At first,” Miles said. “But I took him along to supervise. He’ll be tied up for a while. Get it? Tied up?”
I ignored the bad joke. “The violinist here yet?”
“Yeah,” Miles said. “If you stick your head out the door, you can see him and his manager on the stage. He’s warming up with his own instrument.”
“He mind waiting on the stage instead of in a dressing room?”
“Not when I told him that maintenance reported the toilets overflowing sewage onto the floor. You’d be surprised,” Miles said. “Classical musicians don’t like shit a whole lot.”
The clock on the computer screen across from Dickens told me that we had twenty minutes until the violin was scheduled to show up. I took out the burner and called the first saved number again.
Carl picked up on the first ring. “Yeah?”
“Problems?”
“None. We’re good.”
“There is nothing good about this,” I heard Ilir say.
“Can it, kid.” Carl was all business on the job. He was probably not much fun off the job, but he was absolutely zero on it.
“Be ready,” I said.
I hung up the phone and walked around to Dickens’ desk. He was sitting in the chair with his hands bound behind his back and his legs bound at the ankles. “Tell me how to bring up the surveillance footage.”
“I don’t — I can’t do that here. We have a special office for that.”
I rolled my eyes at Dickens and looked over at Miles. He was smiling widely from his perch on the edge of the desk.
“Remember a phone call a few days back, Andy? ‘Sir, I know that you have an event coming up and we here at Safety First Surveillance specialize in securing events. How would you like to be able to view every camera in your venue from the comfort of your own office chair?’”
Dickens’ mouth hung open a little bit.
“What was your answer?” Miles asked.
Dickens said nothing.
“Andy, what did you tell me?”
“That — That I could already do that.”
Miles got off the side of the desk and tousled Dickens’ hair. “You need to accept that you are not in control here. Just do what you’re told and you’ll walk out of this with everything you came in with still attached.” Miles looked at me. “I’m going.”
Dickens watched Miles leave. When the door closed, it took him a minute to look up at me.
“I’m sorry. I — I — I was just —”
“I know what you were doing,” I said. “Just like I know what you’re going to do next. You are going to tell me how to call up the camera feeds.”
Dickens guided me through opening the program and I brought a grid of camera feeds up on the screen. Each square could be maximized for a better look with a click of the mouse. I found the camera watching the back door in the far left corner and maximized it. The loading bay was empty, but that would change any minute. Ten, to be precise.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
The armoured car was three minutes ahead of schedule. The driver pulled a sharp U-turn and backed it up to the rear entrance. The two rear doors opened and four men stepped out. One of the men was holding a case. The four men looked around the parking lot until they were satisfied. One man said something and then the four moved as a unit for the door. I minimized the window and found the one with Miles approaching the door. The footage was grainy, so I couldn’t see what I knew was there. Miles had changed the clip-on badge for the lanyard that had Jonathan’s name on it.
On the screen, Miles approached the four men with his right hand outstretched. The man who had spoken shook it and then moved his lips some more. Miles responded and lifted the card on the lanyard up so that the security guard could get a look at it. The look lasted five seconds — enough time for him to read the name. There was no scrutiny. The name on the card was what they expected to find, so it was enough. People are easy to con when they get what they expect to get.
Miles led the four men inside to an elevator and rode up three floors with them. I had already changed cameras when the doors opened and I tracked the men down the hallway. Miles led the security guards right to the dressing room that had been assigned to David Lind. I could see that Miles and the lead guard were conversing as they moved down the hall. The body language of both men told me that the conversation was a comfortable one. Miles stopped at a door and briskly knocked three times. He didn’t wait for a response, he just opened the door and stepped inside. The four guards followed on his heels.
This was it. Nothing to do but wait and watch. Inside the room would be a show all its own. Miles’ unannounced entry brought the whole group in on two men in the middle of a pre-concert warm-up. Both men would be naked, save for the pants around the ankles of the man thrusting against the ass of the other. The rest of the two men’s clothes wou
ld be staged to look as though they had been part of a wardrobe bomb that just went off. There would be clothes on the floor, the couch, even on the blades of the ceiling fan.
Ilir had fought the idea, and then fought the position. He didn’t want to be behind Carl and he didn’t want Carl behind him. In the end, Ilir had no choice but to pretend to be the pitcher. Carl’s moustache was something that would be remembered if it was seen, so it was best for him to be the farthest from the intrusive security detail. After letting everyone get an eyeful, Ilir would scream, “Leave the violin and get out!”
Miles would throw his hands in the air and feign concern for the privacy of his star; he would pull the violin away from the guard at all costs and leave it on the floor while the two men moved into the bathroom to cover up. If the guards didn’t give up the case, Carl would take his face out of the pillow it was buried in and pull the two revolvers stashed underneath. Then it would be the security guards who would end up getting fucked. I stared at the small empty square on the screen for fifteen seconds waiting to see how things would go. Four men spilled out into the hall followed by Miles who backed away from the doorway holding two hands up in front of him in a gesture of apology. He pulled the dressing room door closed and then turned to speak with the four security guards. When the lead guard crossed his arms and shook his head, Miles threw up his arms and went back to the door. This time, he didn’t just walk in. This time he knocked. He rapped on the door three times and then took a big step back as though a lion might burst through the door at any second. A small crack opened in the doorway. Miles tentatively leaned into the space and then the door abruptly closed. A second later the door opened again, this time wider, and a violin case was shoved through the door. The case was the same; the item inside was another story. The case was shoved against Miles’ chest and he threw himself backwards like a silent-era slapstick star. The door slammed closed and Miles passed the case to the head of security. He said something to the group of men and then led them away from the door. They were on their way to the stage — the long way to the stage. Miles would make no secret that he was killing time while Lind and his manager got themselves decent. He would fill the vacant minutes by showing off the theatre to the four men and telling them all of the things he had learned on the internet the day before. When they got to the stage after the lengthy tour, they wouldn’t be surprised to find violinist David Lind and his manager already there. They also would resist eye contact after seeing so much of everything else a few minutes before.
