Dead End Deal

by Allen Wyler

  The smiling officer points to a chair next to his desk. “Well, then, have a seat.”

  “Feist. A word with you in my office.” Nigel follows the officer into the sparse room. “Close the door.” They stand facing each other. “Son, your aptitude test scores are outstanding. I know your goal is to become a naval officer, but have you ever considered intelligence analysis?”

  Stunned, Nigel stares at him, his mind flashing through the James Bond movies he loves to watch.

  “Well?” the officer asks.

  “Are you serious?”

  “Would I joke about such a thing? Right, I’m absolutely serious. I’m offering the chance to be an analyst for our Defense Intelligence Agency.”

  Unaware of the difference between analyst and operative, he immediately says, “I accept.”

  First day on the job, it takes Nigel only eight hours of plowing through intercepts to realize how mind-numbing this end of the intelligence business is. By day two, he hates the job. But a contract is a contract and he is a man of his word, so he puts in his time. Not, however, without making the most of it. His position allows him to befriend three field operatives. They, in turn, teach him the tradecraft of intelligence gathering. Fuck analysis. Information gathering rules!

  Feist checked his watch again. Time to call.

  Now several feet closer to the rumble of the grain elevators, he faced the harbor, minimizing any possibility of capturing his words with a parabolic microphone. Paranoid? Perhaps, but attention to detail was the only way to survive this game. He punched speed dial and listened to the connection being made.

  “OHHH, JESUS, AGAIN?” Nikki Shepherd moaned.

  Richard Stillman’s lips brushed her navel as his tongue licked salty sweat. “Mmmmmm . . .” Her hands were enveloping his shaved scalp when Snoop Dogg’s Vato began thumping from the black iPhone on the nightstand. Stillman hated Snoop Dogg. Hated rap and hip hop, but relished the up-fromthe-ghetto, bad-ass, nigga gangsta image he so meticulously cultivated. He loved to spin bullshit tales about childhood struggles against huge sociological handicaps, of growing up dirt poor and black in the projects, sharing a one-bedroom apartment with a sister and grandmother while his unwed teenage mother and vagrant father spent time in the county lockup for dealing crack. That the stories were complete fabrications didn’t matter. They were a hell of a lot more exciting than the truth of being the only child of a stay-at-home mom and a Silicon Valley software engineer in middle class suburbia. The truth was boring. With a capital B. The gangster image enhanced his reputation for being dangerous.

  Snoop Dogg continued to rap.

  He was expecting a call from Feist, so as enticing as Nikki’s body might be, he probably ought to check caller ID. He said, “Hold that thought,” and rolled over to check. Sure enough, Feist.

  He muttered to Nikki, “I need to take this,” rolled out of bed and headed toward the balcony, one eye glued to her reflection on the sliding glass door. Loved that body. Too bad she wouldn’t divorce that pig of a husband. Not that he had any intention of marrying her if she did, but it’d make these trysts easier to set up. Jesus, if that bitch Schwartz found out he was boning the CFO, she’d need major psychotherapy. Cupping the phone so Nikki couldn’t hear, he whispered, “How’d it go?”

  “Turned into colossal clusterfuck, mate. Your cobber killed a witness.”

  “What!” Naked, Stillman faced the sliding glass door to a balcony. The drapes and slider wide open, giving him a magnificent mosaic of office buildings and condominiums and the traffic twenty-one floors below, leaving him totally exposed to anyone interested in watching him. Like the weirdo who lived directly across the street. His erection pointed straight toward at the voyeur’s brightly lit living room with the Mariners game on a large plasma-screen TV. The voyeur—a dumpy middle-aged guy with a crew cut—stood at the darkened bedroom window, binoculars glued to them. Dumb shit thought no one noticed, but Stillman usually saw the reflection of streetlight off the lenses. Initially, Nikki had been embarrassed when he watched, but with a bit of coaxing and the passage of time, it morphed into sexual titillation, a major turn on for her.

  “That’s right. Fucking twit shot a witness,” Feist said.

  “Christ almighty! Please don’t tell me it was Ritter.” Stillman watched a jaywalker dodging traffic as he cut diagonally across the street.

  “Right-right, not Ritter. Some old geezer comes out the fucking tunnel whiles we was having our discussion. Asshole said he had no choice. So then I had to bang your boy up a bit.”

  “Like?”

  “Knock him out.”

  Damn! That could mean anything from concussion to major head injury. Last thing he needed was for Ritter to be brain damaged. “Goddamnit! Thought I said do not hurt him.”

  “Couldn’t be helped. Things went tits up fast.” Feist paused. “We was doing just fucking lovely until the geezer pops out the tunnel. Ritter starts yelling for him to run and call the coppers. Thompson shot him.” Just like that.

  Stillman could feel his erection wither, his mind now too distracted for sex. “This witness . . . we’re not talking about Dobbs, are we?”

  “Naw, I said geezer, not fag.”

  “And Ritter, he’ll be okay?”

  “Can’t know for certain, now can I? But I suppose so.”

  Nervously, he palmed his shaved scalp. Wouldn’t do to have Ritter badly damaged. Not yet, at least. But murdering a witness . . . that complicated things, brought more attention to any investigation. “Back to Raymore . . . where is he?”

  “Fuck if I know. Soon as Ritter goes down, bloke panics. Runs for the car and takes off. Barely got out of there meself before the coppers start showing up. I mean . . .” He paused. “I thought maybe you’d know where he was. Didn’t call you, did he?”

  “Haven’t heard a word.” Stillman smiled. Feist, that lying sonofabitch. He could pretty much guess what actually happened. By now the greasy little punk was probably decomposing in the Cascade foothills. This was even better than he’d hoped for when he demanded Feist take him along. Change that raggedy-ass name from Raymore to No-more.

  Neither man spoke for several seconds, each waiting for the other to comment.

  Feist finally said, “Right. Job’s done, then. I expect to find the balance in my account when I hang up. I’ll be on me way, then.”

  Stillman heard water tattooing her body from the needlelike jets in the shower. Typical Nikki. Fed up waiting, this was her way of ending the evening. After all, how could a phone call possibly trump sex with her? Even if it was important business. High maintenance, that girl. But he had to admit the sex made it worthwhile. She’d get over it.

  Stillman said, “It’s been taken care of. But don’t leave town just yet.”

  “Oh? Why’s that?”

  “I want to make sure Ritter has been persuaded before you take off.”

  “Had me heart set on vacation, I did.”

  Jesus, talk about high maintenance. Feist. Another piece of work. But he couldn’t afford to piss him off. “Once this job’s done, you can take vacation any time you damn well please. Look at it this way: if you did your job tonight, you’re done. If not . . . we’ll just have to try again. More money for you. That’s all I’m saying. Besides, I should know the outcome within a week. At the outside.”

  “Not if it involves another Raymore, I won’t. That wasn’t part of the initial agreement.”

  “Not an issue this time.” And we both know that.

  “All right then, but me fee’s double. And that’s not negotiable. What’s more, change up on me again and I fucking walk. We clear?”

  “Agreed. Now, are you clear on what’s expected of you?”

  “That’s another thing, mate . . . keep up with that fucking superior tone and you can look for someone else.” Feist hung up.

  Stillman regretted pissing him off. The last thing he needed was for Feist to walk. Then again, for what he was getting paid, he doubted he would. Stillma
n dumped the phone into the charger and listened to water spatter against marble. She’d probably stay in there for another ten minutes, the way she loved long hot showers. He considered joining her, maybe resuming where they’d left off. But the mood was gone and when she was like this it wasn’t worth the effort to coax it back. Instead, he detoured to the kitchen for the remainder of the cabernet.

  Glass in hand, he returned to the open slider but with his back to the view, admiring this magnificent condo. Only twenty-six hundred square feet. Relatively small for a penthouse. Tastefully decorated. A stunning understatement of contemporary design fused with the simplicity of stark Asian lines. Muted bold tones, masculine, yet not heavy. Like all of his varied accomplishments, it made a bold statement of excellence.

  Yes, he’d done well in life. Last year an article in Forbes chronicled his meteoric career, dubbing him the Wunderkind of Startups. Stillman loved that phrase. Such a concise summarization of his record of shepherding a consecutive series of startups from incubator phase through initial public offerings. After the IPO he typically bowed out in search of the next great idea. A Barrons article, titled “The Man With The Midas Touch,” debated whether his success was due to on an uncanny ability to pick winners or such excellent management skills that he could turn even bad concepts into gold. He was the man who made the difficult look easy.

  Until now.

  To say Trophozyme was a mistake wasn’t accurate. He still had a chance to be proven right. After all, the company had two major strengths: excellent people and a valid founding concept. No one could dispute the huge market an effective Alzheimer’s treatment would generate. Their lack of success resulted from only one bad choice, and that could be rectified. Culturing stem cells was a finicky process. Culturing stem cells in sufficient quantity to support a commercial therapy simply compounded issues. The solution was stunningly simple: wrench the correct method from the one man who owned it: Jon Ritter. That arrogant prick.

  Ritter, like every self-aggrandizing academic asshole he knew, viewed himself superior to the low-lives in industry as if industry were a dirty word. An attitude that continued to infuriate Stillman. Ritter had never said anything directly to his face, but he didn’t need to. Stillman read all the subtle cues in Ritter’ tone and attitude.

  Just the thought of Ritter caused Stillman’s temples to pound. Not good. He knew his reaction just raised his blood pressure and clogged his consciousness with counter-productive negative thoughts. He chose a spot in the room—a hand-made Japanese ceramic sake set—and concentrated on it, channeling all the negative energy into those simple yet elegant lines, just like the therapist taught him, Harmony . . . Form . . . Harmony . . . Form. . . .

  5

  THROBBING PAIN GNAWED at Jon’s left temple as he surfaced from a colorless void into vague awareness. Now he was blindingly aware that both temples were pounding and a railroad spike was being driven into the center of his skull. Where am I? What’s happening?

  In excruciating bright light, he squinted out the form of a woman in sky blue scrubs leaning over him, pressing an icecold stethoscope to his chest.

  “Good morning, Doctor Ritter. Take a deep breath,” she said, with a perky flip of her dishwater blond ponytail. “Welcome to intensive care. Another breath, please.” Her brow wrinkled in concentration as he breathed before sliding the stethoscope further down. “And one more.”

  Gabe’s murder . . . vivid nightmare or harsh reality? Wasn’t sure. Wasn’t sure of anything but the throbbing pain boring into his head. Deep throbbing gnawing pain. Another flash: Gabriel Lippmann sprawled dead on cement.

  Without conscious intent, his fingers explored a bulky dressing covering his left eye and temple. Had he been shot too, like Gabe? His index finger gently probed under the edge of the bandage, found a wound with stitches, where even the slightest pressure triggered more pain. He groaned and realized his mouth tasted like dried bat shit. “Water,” he croaked.

  “That’s good!” She held up a sweating green plastic water pitcher with a white straw with an accordion bend. She held the straw to his lips, said, “Only a few sips at first. You know the drill. We want to see how you handle clear liquids before allowing you too much.”

  He sucked on the straw, got only a mouth full of air, pondered that a moment before realizing his lips were too dry to seal it. He pressed them tighter to the straw, tried again, and was rewarded with delicious ice-cold wetness. How many times had he noticed those sweating plastic bedside pitchers on rounds without the slightest appreciation for the relief they could give?

  She withdrew the straw. “Hey, easy does it. Not so fast. You need to pace yourself. At least at first.”

  He let the second dose soak the lining of his mouth before swallowing. “More.”

  She permitted another sip.

  He took this one less aggressively, gasped, “Thank you.” Paused to swallow before asking, “Dr. Lippmann . . . where is he?”

  “Dr. Lippmann?” She said with awkward surprise. “If he’s been around today, I haven’t seen him.”

  “No, I mean . . .” He couldn’t bear to ask. He was too afraid he already knew the answer.

  Finally, she broke the uneasy silence. “Feel up to talking with someone?”

  He rolled stiffly onto his right side, hoping a new position might ease the throbbing. Even the overhead lights seemed to hurt. “Can I have something for pain?”

  She checked his IV line. “Codeine’s ordered. I’ll get you one.”

  He nodded, but that only made matters worse. “Make it two.”

  She glanced at the door. “An FBI agent wants to talk to you. He’s been waiting since you came out of surgery.” Then, with a half shrug, “It’s up to you whether you want to talk to him.”

  Surgery? He touched the outside of the dressing again and thought about the stitches. What happened?

  “Well?”

  Right, the FBI. Would he know about Gabe? Again, without thinking, he nodded yes, but immediately regretted it. Gingerly, with both hands, he pressed the scalp above his eyes and began to gently massage his head, hoping to ease the throbbing. Then the thought hit him: why FBI? Why not the Seattle Police? But just the effort of thinking seemed to worsen the pain. “Yes.”

  After introducing himself, Fisher said, “Mind if I sit down?” He stood with a posture indicative of military service at some time, maybe a foot or two from the bed rail, stuffing an ID wallet back into a navy blazer. Tall, angular, blond crew cut, with freckles shotgunned across a complexion that would burn instead of tan.

  “Sorry. I’m not thinking. Please.”

  Fisher pulled an uncomfortable-looking wooden chair next to the bed, slipped off his blazer and hung it on the back of it before settling in, as if this discussion would take more than one or two questions. “I appreciate you talking to me. First, let me say how sorry I am about your injury.”

  “What about Gabe? Is he okay?”

  Fisher dropped his eyes, right hand kneading the back of his neck, searching for words with an awkwardness that made Jon feel sorry for him. He himself had been the bearer of bad news too many times and contrary to popular opinion, it never became easier with experience. Before Jon could say anything, Fisher answered matter-of-factly. “He’s dead.”

  Gabriel’s death was real. No more false hope of a bad dream or that his memory was playing tricks. He wanted to say something, but what could he say? Saying anything would trivialize Gabe’s death. Instead, he stared at the ceiling, tears welling up in both eyes. More than a mentor, Gabe had served as a father figure, his biological father dead three decades ago leaving only sepia-tone memories of fish, diesel oil, and sweat.

  During residency, his relationship with Gabe morphed from mentor/student to genuine friendship. Then, three months before graduation Gabe offered him an assistant professorship. He accepted without a second thought about the low salary or shit tasks the senior faculty would inevitably slough onto him. That, he philosophized, was the price of adm
ission to a prestigious opportunity. Gabe helped him establish a lab, compete for grants, and navigate the petty cutthroat politics of university life.

  Even more importantly, after Emily’s—his fiancée—death, Gabe helped him survive emotionally. Now Gabe’s life had been senselessly snuffed out because of . . . what, exactly? What the hell had happened? Why did it happen?

  Fisher said, “I’m sorry. I didn’t know you were close, otherwise . . . I’m sorry.”

  The throbbing in both temples intensified. “Have they found the bastard?”

  “The killer? No, not yet. That’s the reason I’m here.” Fisher cleared his throat. “Look, I know this isn’t a good time. It never is in a case like this, but I need to ask some questions.”

  Jon nodded. “If it’ll help find those bastards.”

  The nurse returned with a pill, giving him a good opportunity to compose his emotions and soak his mouth again. As she was leaving, Fisher said, “Tell me what you remember.”

  When Jon finished his story, Fisher asked, “You said the one man had an Australian accent. That’s pretty specific and could be extremely important. How sure are you it’s Australian? Lot of accents sound similar; South African, British, Aussie, New Zealand . . .”

  Jon realized he was clenching his jaw, which was making his pain worse. He tried to relax but couldn’t. “No, definitely Australian.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  Jon concentrated on replaying the scene bit by bit, trying to find the reason. Then, it dawned on him. “The Outback commercials. He sounds exactly like that guy, his vowels, the tone of his voice . . .”

  “Okay, good.” Fisher made a note of that. “You say he’s white. How do you know that with pantyhose over his face and gloves on?”

  This was an easier answer. “I saw his wrist. His left wrist.”

  “The one with the gun?”

  “Yes.”

  Fisher made another note. “How about the other guy? You get a look at him too?”