Chapter 16
“THE COFFEE’S NOT TOO BAD IN HERE,” said Brad Kaminski, sliding into the red booth seat in the window at Curly’s.
Floyd Crouten, easing into the worn-out seat on the opposite side of the vinyl-topped table, picked up the menu. “What’s the food like?”
“Never tried it.”
The waitress came over with a jug of filter coffee, turned over two of the mugs on the table, and filled them up. “You ready to order?” she asked, as though everyone who came into Curly’s knew its menu by heart.
Crouten raced down the menu. Standard diner fare. “I’ll have the Curly Classic.”
Kaminski held up his right hand. “Coffee’s fine with me.”
“Are you sure, honey?”
“Really, I’m not hungry.”
“There’s no limit on refills,” the waitress said as she walked away.
Crouten had a confused look on his face when he stared at Kaminski. “You not hungry?”
“No. I had breakfast.” He glanced at his watch. “It’s only eleven fifteen. Too early for lunch. Least it is for me.”
“One thing you learn on this job is to grab food when you can.”
Kaminski looked at Crouten as if to say: “I can see that.” He turned his head to the window and peered across Cedar Street at the Grannis office building directly opposite.
Crouten continued reading the menu. “Next time, I’ll try one of their omelets.”
Kaminski kept his eyes glued to the window. “I’m not sure we’re ever going to see him again.”
“How many times have you been here since that first sighting?”
“Four, maybe five times. I’d need to check the log. It seems to me he would have been back by now if he was coming.”
“The thing about surveillance is you have to learn how to deal with the tedium. Most of the work is like this. It can be a long and patient game.” Crouten folded the sticky menu and placed it into the plastic holder at the edge of the table. “We’re a bit like chameleons, see. They spend most of their time sitting around, merging into the background, and then bam, a fly comes out of nowhere and out shoots the tongue.”
“So we’re catching flies now?”
Crouten emptied his mug. “You’re right; the coffee’s not bad here.”
The waitress brought over a large plate, piled high with bacon, fried eggs, hash browns, and a jumbo bagel. She placed it in front of Crouten with the pride of someone who’d just cooked it all herself, rather than having just picked it up at the counter in front of the kitchen. “Can I get you gentlemen anything else?”
“Another coffee,” Crouten said, raising the empty plastic container from the middle of the table. “Do you have any more Sweet’N Low?”
“Sure.” She leaned across, grabbed the full container from the next table, and handed it to him. “I’ll be back with the coffee.”
“Wouldn’t we be better off watching Towers at Dudek’s?” asked Kaminski as Crouten finished pouring half a bottle of ketchup over his breakfast.
Crouten now had a mouth full of food. “We could do that, but every time he went out, we’d need to follow him. Most of the time, he’d be heading somewhere else.” He stopped talking long enough to swallow. “A lot of wasted effort. Just relax. We’re much better off here.”
“I guess I’ll have to learn to be more patient.”
While Crouten devoured his food, Kaminski continued to watch the Grannis building. Across the street, a few people came and went, but none of them looked anything like Towers. By the time they’d finished their third coffee refill, Curly’s lunchtime trade was picking up. As a line started to form, a couple of hungry customers came over and asked them if they were about to leave. Crouten told them to go away.
Kaminski waved over the waitress. “I’ll order something to eat so people don’t keep thinking we’re about to go.” He asked for a tuna melt and a small portion of Curly’s fries.
Crouten pointed to the large glass container on the edge of the counter. “Is that apple pie?”
“Apple and blueberry,” the waitress said. “It’s our most popular dessert.”
“I’ll have a slice.” Crouten stood up. “Where are the restrooms?”
She pointed to the back of the restaurant, beyond the kitchen, and then went to fetch their order.
When Crouten returned, a giant slice of pie was waiting for him. Kaminski was still staring out of the window and hadn’t touched his tuna melt.
“You weren’t waiting for me, were you?” Crouten said, sliding back into the booth. “Is it me, or do they make these seats a tight fit?” He picked up one of Kaminski’s fries and threw it into his mouth before grabbing his dessert fork.
Kaminski ignored the question, keeping his eyes locked onto the Grannis building. “There’s something familiar about that guy,” he said, nodding toward the other side of the street. “Do you recognize him?”
Crouten threw him a disappointed look when he wasn’t able to dive right into the pie and then narrowed his eyes to focus on the man who’d captured Kaminski’s attention. He was dressed in a smart suit and twice walked by the entrance to the Grannis building before standing outside the Indian restaurant next door, where he played with his cell phone.
Crouten almost wet himself. “You see. It pays to play the long game. It’s exactly this kind of discovery that makes a chameleon’s career.”
Kaminski turned to Crouten. “I’m certain I’ve seen that face before. Is he our fly?”
Across the street, the man moved away from the restaurant, opened the entrance door to number twenty-six, looked over his shoulder, and then disappeared inside.
Crouten rested the fork on the side of his plate and stood up. “Wait here. Don’t let anyone touch my pie.” He rushed out of the diner and ran across the road.
Chapter 17
MICHAEL SCRIBBLED SOMETHING DELIBERATELY ILLEGIBLE in the visitors’ book at the security desk inside the foyer of 26 Cedar Street then took the elevator to the twenty-first floor. He went straight to the men’s room outside suite 60 and locked himself into one of the cubicles. His guts couldn’t decide whether he needed the toilet or was about to throw up—maybe both. This was it: the moment of no return; the moment he’d been dreading for days. By now, he’d analyzed his situation to death, and he knew he had no choice. But it still felt wrong and a betrayal of everything he believed in. Leaning with his back against the door, he grabbed a few sheets of toilet paper and used them to dry his forehead while trying to control his breathing.
You can do this, Michael.
When he walked out of the restroom, a chubby man in a loose-fitting, cheap suit looked at him. He appeared to be waiting for the elevator, but there was something strange about the way he was staring. Maybe he was one of Rondell’s cronies, but he didn’t look the sort. Michael turned away and entered the offices of the Grannis Hedge Fund, where the same pretty receptionist was seated behind the reception counter. She looked up and smiled at him. For her, this was just another day at the office. She probably had no idea her employer was a crook.
The receptionist stood up. “Mr. Hoffman, Mr. Grannis is expecting you. I can take you right in.”
Michael looked at the clock on the glass wall behind her. He was almost twenty minutes late, having spent the best part of half an hour pacing Cedar Street, wondering if he could go through with this.
She led him to Rondell’s corner office, knocked on the door, and took him through. Rondell came over and shook his hand. When the receptionist left, Rondell’s broad smile went with her.
“I thought you weren’t coming,” Rondell said, returning to his seat while Michael sat across the desk from him. “We agreed twelve thirty.”
“I’m here now.” Michael was in no mood to explain himself.
“Okay. What do you have for me?” Rondell stood up and walked over to cabinet near the window. “I’m sorry. I almost forgot my manners,” he said, picking up a tray of sandwiches, which he brou
ght back to the desk. “After all, I did invite you for lunch.” He pointed at the tray. “Help yourself.”
“I’m not hungry. I want to get this over with and get out of here.”
“Come on, Danny Boy. Why make this difficult?” Rondell picked up a sandwich and placed it on a side plate. “These are my favorite—turkey and cranberry jelly. Do you remember my mom used to make these for us when you came around? She knew you weren’t fed properly at home.”
Michael threw him an acidic stare. “Stop the pretense. We both know this is not a social meeting. I’m only here because I have no choice. We’re not friends, or anything like it, so don’t try to pretend otherwise.”
Rondell showed no emotion. He bit into his sandwich and looked straight at Michael. “I’m waiting,” he said when he finished chewing.
Michael swallowed then cleared his throat. “I have a deal for you.”
Rondell stretched out his right hand. “Hand it over. Let me take a look at it while you’re here.”
“Do I look stupid? I’m not giving you any paperwork.”
Rondell broke into a slight smile. “Smart. Okay, talk me through it. I’ll make a few notes.”
Michael kept wringing his hands. “It’s an acquisition I’m working on for Corton Zander.”
Rondell raised his eyebrows. “You do move in elevated circles.”
“One of their clients is about to acquire a public company.”
“Are we going to have to play a guessing game, Danny Boy? Which client, and what are they buying?”
Michael paused. So far, he’d not broken the law; he’d shared no inside information. He could walk out of here now with a clean conscience. But his next sentence would make him a criminal.
“It’s a…” He stood up and grabbed a plastic bottle of water from the top of the cabinet. He returned to his seat and gulped some of it down. “It’s a telecoms company.” Some more water. “Called Spar Cellular.” He watched Rondell write down the name of the company on a legal pad, and it made his skin crawl. Michael had crossed the threshold.
“Must be one of their biggest clients. Who are they buying?” The whole thing seemed so normal for Rondell, something he’d done many times before.
This next step would complete the crime. The most valuable piece of information was the name of the target. With that name, Rondell’s fund could buy stock in the company at today’s price and then sell it at the much higher bid price once the deal was announced in a few days’ time. The Grannis Hedge Fund would make millions out of it, and so would Rondell’s criminal backers once he passed on the information to them.
“They’re buying another cellular company.”
“Yeah, I guessed that, but who?”
Michael’s throat tightened. After another drink of water, he managed to squeeze out, “Collar Telecom.”
“Wow!” Rondell wrote it down. “That’s huge.”
Michael looked down at the floor. He’d done it; he’d just broken the law and breached the confidence of his biggest client. Amanda Etling’s face flashed into his mind. A surge of guilt ran through him, followed by a strange sense of relief.
“When’s it happening?” Rondell asked, barely containing his excitement.
“A couple of weeks. The due diligence is taking place right now, but it’s a done deal.”
Rondell pointed to his pad. “This is just the sort of thing I wanted, Danny Boy. High-quality information like this.” He rubbed his palms together. “Don’t forget, we’re going to cut you in. There’ll be a good profit on this one. Plenty to go around.”
Michael bolted upright. “I don’t want any of it. That’s not why I’m doing this.” He wanted to spit. Did this lunatic really think he was in this for the money?
“Something this good will be a real earner for us. You sure you don’t want a slice?”
The relief soon disappeared. Rondell’s greed was bound to blow the whole thing. If this mad man went in too heavily and took a huge bet on Collar Telecom’s stock, that would bring investigators crawling all over the deal.
“You can’t get greedy on this. If you do, the SEC will spot your pre-announcement trades from a mile off. They’ll be onto you.”
Rondell treated him to a knowing grin. “You don’t think this is the first time we’ve done this, do you?”
“I guess not.”
“We know how this works. The trick is not to get too greedy on any one deal so it doesn’t stand out. Don’t worry; I’m not going to blow things by screwing up on our first one. There’ll be plenty of others.”
Michael’s veins froze. “What do you mean, others?”
“There’ll be more deals as we work together. This is just the start of our relationship.”
Michael grimaced. “We’re not working together. There is no relationship. The Spar deal is all you’re getting from me. Once this one’s out of the way, we’re finished.”
Rondell shook his head. “You don’t get it, do you?” He pointed to his scribbled notes. “This deal will do for starters, but you’re going to have to keep feeding us transactions. I thought that much was obvious.”
“Are you crazy? This has to stop.”
“It’ll stop when I decide, Danny Boy. Not you.”
“The authorities are bound to find out if I keep showing you my deals. They’re not stupid.”
Rondell leaned forward onto his desk. “Then we’ll just have to be careful.”
“We’ll be found out. This can’t—”
Rondell slapped his palm flat on the top of the desk. “If you want our little secret kept from Caroline, you’ll do what I tell you.”
Chapter 18
THE 747 HAD BEEN MAINTAINING ITS HOLDING PATTERN for more than twenty minutes when, finally, the captain announced they were clear for landing. Rondell raised the plastic screen and peered out of the window. The lights of London began to appear beneath the thick layer of low cloud. With a bit of luck, even with this delay, he’d be on the ground at Gatwick by eight a.m., which still meant he’d have an hour and a half to clear immigration and make his connecting flight—tight, as he’d also need to change terminals, but doable. If he missed this connection, he’d have to wait until this afternoon for the next direct flight to Guernsey. And being that late would not go down well with the man in St. Peter Port. He wouldn’t show his irritation, of course; the Brit was far too polite for that. But he’d sure find a way to pay Rondell back for making him wait. Anthony Liquorish, the pompous stuffed shirt who ran the show over there, would take quiet pleasure in his retribution. Why give him another reason to have a go when he already had some explaining to do? The Grannis Hedge Fund results had been slipping for months now—something, no doubt, he’d be reminded of several times later today. And with the people behind Guernsey providing all of Rondell’s capital, he’d have to have some pretty good reasons to justify this mediocre performance.
It was tight, and he only just made it onto the puddle-jumper before the gate closed. The bureaucrat at the immigration desk had given him a hard time about his frequent visits. Was it really that unusual to have American visitors fly in and out via London for Guernsey on a monthly basis? What was the point of the Brits having a tax haven in the Channel Islands if they were going to discourage foreign visitors from using them?
The turbo-prop was on the ground in Guernsey by eleven thirty. After a short cab ride, Rondell arrived at the offices of Skeffington Liquorish Asset Management on St. Julian’s Avenue ten minutes before his scheduled noon appointment. He paid the driver and then looked across at the harbor filled with expensive yachts. This was a pretty little island. He’d thought that ever since his first visit some eight years ago. Maybe one day, when he retired, he’d buy a place here.
He turned to enter the granite and glass building then took the elevator to the third floor.
“Mr. Grannis, how was your flight?” asked the receptionist when Rondell arrived.
“The jumbo was fine, but I’ll never get used to those tur
bo-props.”
She smiled. “You’ve mentioned that before. Mr. Liquorish is ready for you. I can take you right in.”
Anthony Liquorish was a pale man in his early fifties, just over six feet tall, with thick, wavy gray hair and bushy black eyebrows. Rondell had always thought it strange that his host had long black hairs sprouting from the top of his ears, strange because everything else about him was so elegant and well-groomed. Over the years, Rondell had met him many times, and Liquorish had always worn the same thing: bright red suspenders over a crisp, light-blue Jermyn Street shirt and no jacket.
“James, bang on time,” said Liquorish in his clipped English accent as he extended his right hand.
Rondell shook it. “How are you, Anthony?”
“Please—” Liquorish pointed to the comfortable sofas in the corner of his spacious office. “—take a seat.”
The sofas sat at right angles around a large glass coffee table. Rondell took one sofa, while Liquorish took the other and crossed his legs, revealing bright red socks above his shiny, black leather brogues.
Liquorish must have been expecting his visitor to arrive on time, as there was a pot of fresh tea and two porcelain cups waiting on the top of the table. Liquorish picked up the pot and poured them both a drink without asking. “Let’s get right down to business,” he said, adding a splash of milk to his tea. “So far this year, the market’s up eight percent, but you chaps are still showing much less than that.”
Liquorish had not asked a question, but Rondell knew exactly what the man was thinking. This was Rondell’s prompt to do some explaining.
“Yeah.” He forced some tea down his throat. Rondell was a coffee drinker, but he was not about to cause more aggravation by asking for one. “But we’re still in positive territory.”
“By a cat’s whisker, perhaps.”
“We’re up around two and a half percent this year.”
“We can get that by leaving our money on deposit. You chaps should be beating the market by a long chalk.”
Once a Killer Page 10
