Dead End Deal

by Allen Wyler

  One of the FBI techs approached the car from the house and Fisher whirred down the side window. “Find anything?”

  The woman spread her hands in a hopeless gesture. “Lifted several prints, but I doubt they’re anything other than his,” with a nod toward Jon. Then she made a ding sound, said to Jon, “You’re free to move around the country,” turned, and headed to her small black SUV.

  Jon asked, “We done here?”

  “Not yet. Obviously, he knew about your plans. How?”

  “I didn’t say he knew. At least not directly. But he certainly implied it.” He reconsidered this. “At least, I didn’t get the impression he knows for sure. I got the feeling he was guessing.”

  “Bullshit. He knows. Why else come here?” Fisher scratched the stubble along edge of his jaw. “The point being, you and Dobbs talked about this at work, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay then, if it’s okay with you, I want to sweep your office. If we find a bug, we might be able to do something with it. Find out where it came from.”

  “That’s the first constructive thing you’ve said all night. Fine with me.” At least they’d be doing something.

  “One more thing. You have any training in self defense? Military, anything like that?”

  “No, nothing.” Unlike most of his high school buddies who used time in the service to figure out what they wanted to do with their lives, Jon went straight into the University of Alaska, med school, on through residency, never questioning his career vision.

  “All the more reason to back off. You’re a sitting duck.”

  Jon checked his watch. “I’ve got a flight in a few hours and I haven’t even packed yet. Mind if we continue this conversation some other time? Besides, I don’t know for sure if my friend in Seoul will even agree to do it. That’s the reason I’m going over there. I should have an answer in a little over forty-eight hours.”

  Fisher was drumming his fingers on the dash now. “Does your cell have global roaming?”

  “Yes.”

  “In that case, I want you to stay in touch. Keep me up to date, I’ll do the same with you. In a situation like this, knowledge is power. Believe me, we’re on the same page. I want those shitheads out of action as much as you do. Okay, we’re in agreement, you’ll call?”

  Jon nodded and offered his hand. “Sorry about earlier. This whole thing has really upset me.”

  Fisher shook his head but stuck out his hand. “I understand.”

  Jon angled across the street toward his house, a modest, two-story structure with a driveway to a detached one-car garage in back. Bigger than the Ketchikan home he grew up in. More expensive too, even factoring in inflation. But not even close to the cost of the waterfront homes on the opposite side of the street. From the corner of his eyes he caught a flash of red as taillights vanished around the bend in the road, then heard footsteps approach and spun around. His neighbor Linda Rodriquez was padding across the yard, right hand hugging the lapels of a heavy blue bathrobe to her throat, the other hand stuffed into a pocket. Slender and attractive, maybe two years younger than he, she carried herself with the stoop of a woman who never adjusted from an abusive husband years ago. She was now single, he knew, because she’d made a point of letting him know.

  “Jon, everything okay? I saw all the lights on and all those people . . .”

  “Yeah, everything’s fine, Linda.” He glanced at his house, anxious to go inside, hoping maybe she’d get the message of being in a hurry. The sky was becoming lighter shades of gray with the approach of dawn.

  “You sure?” Her gaze dropped to the sun-parched grass in need of mowing. “If you want, I could scramble us some eggs, make some coffee, that is unless of course . . .”

  Aw hell . . . “That’s really sweet of you Linda and I appreciate it, but—”

  “Oh, that’s okay,” She offered before he could finish, her head seeming to hang a little lower now. “Just a suggestion. I thought . . .”

  He started to reach out to touch her arm in a not-to-worry gesture but caught himself, knowing she’d take it to mean something more than intended. He started to say he was leaving town and would be back but caught that too, a paranoid area of his mind warning him to tell no one, even someone as benign as her. He immediately felt foolish for it, but . . . “How about we go out for dinner one day next week? Try that new place off Alki way?”

  She immediately brightened, and looked up hopefully. “Sure. That’d be great. What night would work best for you?”

  Oh man, why’d I have to say that? Now look what you’ve done. “Tell you what. I’m leaving town for a few days. Not yet sure how long. Soon as I return I’ll check the calendar and let you know.” He was fingering his scar again, playing with a persistent dull pain along the healed suture line.

  Her smile evaporated, embarrassed by her obvious eagerness and the rejection in his reply. “Yeah, why don’t we do it that way.” She glanced at her feet in an awkward pause. “Okay. I better get back before I freeze to death.” Then, with a brave smile, “I’ll wait to hear from you.” She turned to return along the same route she came.

  Jon kicked a pebble off the narrow concrete walk and turned back to his house. She knows you don’t want to take her out. Then flashed on Wayne’s encouragement to start putting his life back together; start dating, get laid. He shook his head and headed inside to pack.

  NIGEL FEIST WATCHED Ritter climb the steps to the back of the house before starting the car. He’d head back to the motel to wait to hear if the warning produced the result. A gut impression said he’d be flying to Seoul in a couple hours to finish the job. But he’d been wrong before. Maybe it wouldn’t have to come to that.

  14

  STILLMAN’S 2PAC ring tone competed with the hum of his electric razor. Who the hell would call this time of morning? He hurried from the bathroom to silence the damn thing before Nikki started yelling for him to answer it. She was already sitting upright up in bed, short spiky blond hair flattened on one side, her beautiful breasts fully exposed, giving him an expression that . . .

  He muttered, “Sorry, Cash.” The nickname he only used in private. One she loved.

  He checked the display, saw JON RITTER, and answered. “Yo, dog, what up?” Without consciously thinking, he began rubbing his freshly shaved scalp, checking for missed stubble, and found a patch. Then moved to the sliders to admire the city as Ritter told him about the Aussie, about how the FBI seemed ineffectual, about how the Avengers seemed to know he didn’t intend to stop work on stem cells. He admired Nikki’s reflection as she walked naked into the kitchen. A moment later, he heard the familiar rattle of coffee beans pouring into the grinder.

  When Ritter finished, Stillman asked, “The guy that broke in, did he mention Korea specifically or did he only talk in generalities?”

  “No, nothing about Korea.”

  He smiled. “But he knows you’re up to something.” Careful to not let the grin creep into his voice.

  “Yes.”

  Then, throwing a very serious edge, he said, “We can always cancel, you know. You’re the one at highest risk. Your call,” figuring cancel would be the last thing Ritter would want to do.

  “No. I just got off the phone with Wayne. We don’t have a choice. We have to do it. But Fisher raised a good point. How did the Avengers know? He wonders if my office might be bugged. I gave him permission to check it out. Maybe you should do the same. I’m sure if you call him, he’ll send someone over.”

  Stillman turned to watch Nikki lean against the kitchen counter, arms folded over those perfect breasts, long legs crossed at the ankle, the fading tan line triangulating her waxed pussy. The sight provoked a warm tingling in his crotch. Soon as he hung up . . .

  “Good idea. But I’ll have a private security firm do it. Not that I don’t trust the Feds, it’s just I want it done as soon as possible. Speaking of which, you all packed, ready to shove off? Don’t forget your passport.”

  “What
are you now, my mother?” Ritter gave a nervous laugh. “Yeah, it’s in my coat, along with my ticket. I’ve double and triple checked. As far as packing, I still have a couple hours before I need to leave for Sea-Tac. I’ll throw some things together soon as I hang up.”

  “Don’t forget to check in often. Call me on the cell. It’s always with me and turned on. Even in the can.” He laughed, trying to sound as if he were keeping it light as a macho way of covering up real concern, when in fact, his only real concern was getting Ritter to tell him the tissue culture method, no matter what he had to do to get it.

  Back in the bathroom, Stillman was touching up the stubble on his scalp when Nikki’s reflection appeared in the mirror, a mug of black coffee in each hand. She paused to admire his muscled back and perfect butt. Without turning he said, “Hey Cash.”

  “Hey baby.” She set the one of the black mugs of black coffee on the black granite counter next to the recessed black sink, leaned against the wall, her own mug held in both hands. He dumped the electric razor back into the charger and picked up his mug. Too hot to drink, so he put it back on the counter. With his warmed palm, he cupped her breast and rolled the nipple between thumb and index finger.

  “You really think Ritter’s technique is going to do the job?” she asked, all too aware that talking business during sex was a turn on for him.

  Earlier, had he debated telling her about the Korean trial but finally decided there was no way he could avoid it. As Trophozyme’s CFO, she’d eventually sign the checks to cover expenses. He simply neglected to mention employing Nigel Feist to make certain he got Ritter’s tissue culture technique no matter what. Not that he didn’t trust her. It was simply that there was absolutely no reason for anyone other than Feist to know about it. Even Feist’s fees came from personal funds. Although expensive, he considered the high fees simply the cost of an investment guaranteed to yield huge returns. Considering the number of shares of the company’s stock he owned, it would parlay into a small fortune. His only misgiving was having shifted his entire portfolio entirely to Trophozyme stock. On one hand, with the stock price in the toilet this past month it’d been a hell of a buy, considering what would happen to the price in a few weeks. On the other hand, he’d sunk every dime of his personal net worth, and then some, into it. Leaving him slightly queasy for breaking such an elementary rule of investing. Even children knew the old adage to never put all your eggs in one basket. Unless, of course, it was a sure thing because of having the ultimate insider information. Once he had stem cells that could be safely implanted into human brains to reverse Alzheimer’s disease, his stock would be worth a fortune. Making this opportunity the one exception to the rule.

  Uh oh . . . Nikki was waiting for an answer. He said, “Yes. I do.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  She spread her legs slightly, giving him a full frontal, making it apparent her interest in his answer was less important than his reaction to her body. As his eyes wandered down to her labia, the tingling between his legs increased. As he continued fondling her nipple she walked her fingers from his chest to his abdomen.

  “Because he showed he could successfully implant monkeys. That pretty much ensures it’ll work on humans.”

  “All that has shown,” Nikki’s hand caressed his erection, “is they can stuff a glob of stem cells into a monkey’s brain. That doesn’t prove it’ll do diddly squat to someone with Alzheimer’s disease.”

  She was right, of course. But her point was nothing more than a technicality. Enough business for now. He effortlessly picked her up and set her on the counter where the ridge of her spine and a flare of freckles across both shoulders reflected in the mirror. “We’re going to do exactly what NIH wanted him to do. Prove it in humans.” He began flicking his tongue from her belly to the crease between her legs.

  SUPINE ON A HOTEL bed, head on a stack of pillows, the iPad propped up on his thighs, Nigel Feist studied his hand. Online poker was his way of relaxing before sleep. Sitting in the rental car surveilling Ritter’s house all night on top of an additional twenty hours of work was taking its toll. More so than in his younger days. Just another sign of retirement being in the cards for him. His cell rang. He rechecked his hole cards—a pair of eights—before glancing at caller ID. Fuck! Mister Richard you-can-kiss-my-ass Stillman. The fifteen seconds warning flashed on the screen: bet or automatically fold. Fuck it. In spite of holding what was probably a winning hand, he picked up the phone, said, “Go ahead.” With mild disappointment, he watched the final three seconds expire, effectively folding his hand. Texas Hold ’Em. Loved the game, played daily as a defense against the mind-numbing hours this job usually required.

  Stillman said, “Your plan didn’t seem to make the desired impression. He’s leaving for Seoul. Same flight as previously.”

  “Fuck a duck! What’s wrong with the bastard?” Feist swatted away the iPad and swung his legs over the side of the bed. He wore camo boxers and an olive drab tee shirt.

  Feist grabbed his Patek Philippe Calatrava from the nightstand, ready to strap it on his wrist the moment the call disconnected. Wouldn’t do to forget it, now would it? Not the most expensive in his prized collection of fifteen watches. In contrast to his heavy Rolex Submariner, the Calatrava was thin, feathery, and elegant. The dial showed 10:03 a.m., meaning he’d have to haul ass to reach Sea-Tac for the flight. But before packing, he’d check the account to be sure that snake Stillman made the deposit.

  Feist cleared his throat, said, “All right then. Just so’s we’re straight on this we’re at the end game now, right? No more warn-ings. This is it. Right-right?” And pictured Stillman in black pants and black mock-tee, looking like a fag German industrial designer. He wondered if his black is beautiful concept carried through to his apartment? Black toilet paper, black sheets, an ample supply of black condoms. What a piece of work.

  “The one caveat is to make sure the Avengers get the credit.”

  Nigel disconnected, unplugged the phone charger and threw it in his rucksack, decided to wait until making it through security and securing a boarding pass and seat assignment before checking his account, but he’d damn well check to make sure the money was there before boarding the flight. Besides, Stillman wanted this done so badly he wouldn’t try to stiff him. And Stillman damn well knew the consequences if he did.

  A HEAVY DRIZZLE completely saturated the oil-stained gravel parking lot, rapidly enlarging puddles here and there. Underneath the eave of storage shed roof, Fisher turned up his raincoat collar before dialing Jon Ritter’s cell. To his left, an eight-foot-high cyclone fence topped with razor wire encircled the lot. Directly ahead three uniformed poncho-clad Sea-Tac cops with clear plastic hat protectors guarded a cordoned area around a rental car, their squad car’s blue lights flashing.

  “Jon, Fisher. I realize you’re in a hurry, but I need to give you a quick head’s up. Still on the one o’clock to Narita?”

  “I am. Why?”

  Fisher wiped a drop of water that blew into his eye, flicked it off his finger. “We found Lippmann’s shooter.”

  “How?”

  “The rental car was found in a long-term parking lot out by the airport. Someone noticed a smell and recognized it for what it was. They had the Sea-Tac police pop the trunk. He was in there, shot through the head.”

  “Good! Who is the son of a bitch?”

  Fisher glanced at the crime scene the cops were guarding until the King County coroner could remove the body. “We got lucky. He had his wallet on him and we ran the name through NCIC. Turns out he’s a small time punk, name of Raymore Thompson. The bad news is he’s decomposing in the trunk of a rental car.”

  “He was shot through the head?” Ritter sounded disappointed.

  “Yup. Two shots, execution style. From the looks of it, I suspect your Aussie friend of the Avengers is responsible. The bad news is we still don’t have a lead on where that guy might be. But we now have a name associated with him. Nigel Feist.”r />
  “Whoa, how did you figure that out?”

  “We got some more enhancements back on one of the cameras in the parking garage. We were lucky enough to have a shot of them just prior to slipping on their stockings. The quality was good enough to run it though Interpol in the assumption you’re right, that he’s Australian. Got a hit back for Feist. Interestingly, he owns a home in Los Angeles.”

  “What makes you think Thompson shot Lippmann?”

  “We don’t. Not for certain, but the car he was found in is the same one the surveillance camera picked up entering the parking garage. This isn’t enough to even take to a grand jury, but it’s a start.” Fisher recognized the medical examiner van bounce over a chuck hole, heading toward the car with the open trunk.

  Ritter said, “I just hope you’re right, that Thompson was the guy. If so, he got what he deserved.”

  “Hey, I’m with you on that particular sentiment. Change of subject. A word of motherly advice. Be careful. Remember, those shitheads have extremely good intel. If you’re not careful, they’ll know exactly what you’re doing. You listening to me?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay then, I just did my job by warning you. What you do at this point is your business. In any event, stay in touch. I want to hear from you regularly. Got it?”

  “Yes, mother.”

  Fisher cracked a smile. “No joke, Ritter. You’re messing with some serious shitheads here. Don’t forget that.”

  After hanging up, Fisher debated whether to walk through the rain to meet the ME team or stay where he’d be relatively dry. Looked at the rapidly increasing puddles and decided to stay under cover and make another call instead.