by Tim Tigner
“We’ve already got our deal. I’m not doing another thing for you, unless you have something else to offer.”
“You’ll do whatever I tell you to do, or—”
“Or what? You’re not going to do anything, so don’t make idle threats. You need me to complete this mission. In fact, it’s safe to say that at this point in the operation, or more precisely at this date on the calendar, you need me more than I need you.” The words just flew from Troy’s mouth without forethought. He knew that it was foolish to challenge a top courtroom attorney to a verbal joust, but the frustration pent up inside him demanded release.
“I’m only getting money out of this, Troy. You are getting two lives; your own, and Miss Green’s here. Shall I let her know how little you think she’s worth?”
“Why don’t you just get to the point, and tell me what you want?” Troy said, trying to sound aggressive as he retreated.
“That’s more like it. I want you to take a trip—back to Grand Cayman. Have you been missing it?”
“That depends, are you going to send Emmy to join me? It just wouldn’t be the same without her.”
“I’m afraid not. I need Emmy here, with me. But you are going to get to see an old friend.”
“And who would that be?” Troy asked, now genuinely curious.
“Kostas Kanasis. If he doesn’t die of natural causes within forty-eight hours, Emmy will.”
Chapter 87
“Phone for you, Honey,” Susanna yelled across the bullpen.
Honey looked up from the report he was perusing with Mertins. “Who is it?”
“I don’t know, but he’s obviously Irish.”
Honey felt his heart skip a beat. Could it be? The manhunt had dropped to passive status ten days ago, and he had all but given up hope of redemption.
“You okay, Honey?” Susanna asked, reading his face.
“Fine. Just give me the phone,” Honey said crossing the room. He snatched the receiver, took a deep breath and said, “Captain Honey.”
“Have ye put it together yet, captain?” Asked the voice he would never forget.
“I still have a few questions. Why don’t we meet for lunch to discuss them?”
“Actually, I did breakfast on yeer fine island. But I’ll be lunching here on mine. I will, however, be arranging for you to dine with another person of interest.”
Honey’s throat went dry. He took a sip from Susanna’s cold coffee cup before replying. “The shooter?”
“Precisely, the man who assassinated Jacobs. May the saints bless that quick mind of yours. Of course, After ye anticipated our escape strategy, I expected no less. Tell me now, have ye tied him to the Johnson murder as well? I suspect that took more than simple ballistics. He sands his fingertips, you know.”
Honey had surmised as much after finding Brandell’s car clean despite Mertins’ insistence that the perp was not wearing gloves. “He wore a helmet throughout that operation, but I managed all the same—used a computer to uniquely identify his skeletal measurements. We’ve got him for the whole trifecta, Johnson, Jacobs, and Brandell.”
Irish paused, leading Honey to infer that he did not know about Brandell, then said, “Good. So, if I get him to you, will that get my friend and me off the hook?”
Honey’s impulse was to lie, but intuition told him to play it straight. “I’ve still got about twenty charges with your names set squarely beside them. Everything from assault with a deadly weapon to desecrating a corpse.”
“I regret that those actions were necessary. The shooter put my friend and me into a bind we couldn’t escape without violence. So I guess this is where quid pro quo comes into play?”
Honey thought about the proposition. He could legally promise anything and renege. No doubt Irish was aware of that. Irish wanted a gentleman’s agreement, implying that he was gambling on Honey’s need to restore his dignity. A fair wager. Again Honey asked himself the question he had been mulling over these past two weeks: Would he have done what they had done, if he were in their shoes? The answer had not changed since the last time he asked: Of course. “When can I expect this dinner?”
“Monday. Perhaps you’d like to meet him at the airport? He’ll be arriving on a private flight.”
Chapter 88
For his return from Grand Cayman, Troy booked the flight that maximized his layover in Miami. Four hours on the ground—less the ten minutes he used to call Honey and the ninety it had taken him to procure a Miami cell phone—left him about half an hour to conduct his business with Tate.
“You mind waiting?” He asked the taxi driver as they pulled to the curb. “There’s an extra hundred in it for you. My flight is at two.”
The Russian driver just nodded and cranked the volume on his ABBA CD.
Troy recognized Alice from his first visit, but since he had been a wheelchair-bound seventy-year-old then, she did not recognize him. “I’m Arthur Adams,” he said, holding out his hand. “I’ve got a twelve o’clock appointment with Mister Tate.”
“Yes, I know he’s expecting you. I’ll just let him know that you’re here.”
“Thanks. Tell me, Alice, is Sylvia here?”
“Sylvia, no, she’s out to lunch. Is that a problem?”
“No, no, nothing like that,” Troy said, closing the subject.
Just then a man entered whom Troy had last seen picking up pills off the downstairs floor. He said, “I thought I heard someone arrive. He held out his hand, “I’m Alexander Tate. You must be Arthur Adams.”
“A pleasure to meet you, Mister Tate. I’ve heard good things.”
“Please, come on back to my office,” Tate said, gesturing.
“Sure, but first, I was hoping that I might be able to impose on your charming assistant to pick me up a sandwich? Say corned beef on rye, or even better a Reuben? I’ve got a lot to go over with you, and a crazy schedule the rest of the afternoon.”
Troy was no Emmy, but he knew voices, and he definitely detected a strain of embarrassment in Tate’s when he asked Alice, “Would you mind running down to Lenny’s for a couple Reubens?”
To her credit, Alice said, “Not at all.” She opened the filing drawer on her desk, pulled out her Sak purse, and walked out quickly enough that Troy suspected she was hiding either a scowl or tears.
Turning back to Tate, Troy said, “Lead the way.”
When Tate opened his door, Troy was delighted to see a long couch residing beneath an oil painting of what he recognized as Miami’s South Beach. “Lovely painting.”
Tate looked over at him and said, “Yes, when I told my realtor what my budget was and expressed my desire for a view of the beach, this was what she suggested.” He winked and then settled down into his high-backed burgundy chair as they both chuckled perfunctorily. Sitting across the cherry desk in a similar chair with a lower back, Troy scooted forward so that the lip of the desk hid his lap from view. That would make things easier.
“Now, Arthur, what is it I can do for you? On the phone you mentioned the need to establish a number of offshore accounts?”
Listening with practiced ears, Troy began to dissect the lawyer’s syntax, tone and cadence. Tate was obviously of British origin, and had made no attempt to lose his accent. No doubt that was at least in part due to the fact that Americans were subconsciously more trusting of a British voice. This was good news for Troy, since they also tended to identify a voice by that foreign accent without much regard for its subtler features. “Yes, I’ve just come into a substantial inheritance,” Troy said, using words he wanted to hear repeated.
“An inheritance? So you made your money the really old fashioned way,” Tate commented with a chuckle.
“Yes. My uncle’s estate on Grand Cayman.” He paused, ostensibly for a reaction, but really in order to focus on palming the syringe tucked beneath a rubber band up his sleeve.
“We do a lot of work on the Caymans. And for that matter, a lot of work with rich uncles.” Another chuckle.
&nbs
p; “That’s wonderful. Say, Alex, would you mind showing me to the restroom before we get into the details?” Troy asked. “That will give you a couple minutes to come up with some specific recommendations.”
“Yes, of course,” Tate said standing. “Can you give me an idea as to the size of the opening deposit?”
“I don’t know for sure yet, since some of the assets have yet to be liquidated, but it will be well into seven figures, perhaps eight.”
“I see. I happen to have several outstanding opportunities in that range. But I’m getting ahead of myself. Please, follow me.”
Troy slipped the syringe it into Tate’s left buttock as the lawyer held open his office door. The sedative worked instantly, and Troy had to whirl about to catch the lawyer before he crashed to the floor.
Holding Tate under his arms, Troy dragged him over to his couch and laid him out as though he were taking a nap. Hopefully, that was not an uncommon position for the lawyer. He toyed with the idea of taking off Tate’s shoes for effect, but decided not to push it.
Pressed for time both because of the plane and because he did not know how long it would take Alice to return from Lenny’s, Troy recited a few practice phrases to get Tate’s voice right, and then picked up his phone. He dialed the number he had memorized weeks ago.
“Luther Kanasis.” The lilt in Luther’s voice betrayed his subscription to caller ID.
“Yes, Mister Kanasis, this is Alexander Tate calling from Miami. I’m afraid to be the bearer of bad news. Your uncle Kostas Kanasis has passed away.”
“Oh, no. So suddenly? Did he have an accident? He didn’t fall off that beloved balcony of his I hope.”
“No, nothing like that. It appears that your uncle died of natural causes. The coroner will know for certain early next week.”
“I see.”
“Yes, well, my sincerest condolences.”
“Thank you.”
“Now, as the executor of your uncle’s will, I am pleased to inform you that he has named you as the sole beneficiary of his estate. In addition to his condominium on Grand Cayman, this includes an account at Solomon Bank and Trust worth approximately five-hundred-forty-eight million dollars.
“I would be happy to help you—”
Luther cut him off with, “I thank you, but the only assistance I will be needing is for you to open a numbered account for me in Switzerland. I would like the entire balance transferred by close of business today. Less your fee, of course.”
“I see, well, the Swiss account will be no problem, but I’m afraid you will have to wait a few days for the transfer. Your uncle’s assets are frozen as per legal requirements until the coroner gives the all-clear. I should be able to have your money in Switzerland by close of business Tuesday.”
“Are you certain?”
“Well, no. We can’t be one-hundred percent sure until the fat lady sings, but you can be certain that I will be on top of it. I’m planning on going to Grand Cayman personally to ensure that this and a few other affairs are handled properly. I’ll call you if it looks like there’s going to be any delay. Meanwhile, since I won’t be reachable here at the office, let me leave you the number of my mobile phone.”
Chapter 89
Troy dialed a number from memory and then cradled the payphone receiver between shoulder and chin while Farkas watched from ten yards to his left. Pretending to make a call at this time on this phone was part of the plan he and Farkas had concocted for injecting Justice Brewer. Still, Farkas was eyeing him suspiciously. Was it the nature of the Croatian beast? Or was Troy’s deception easy to spot?
He pushed his fears aside and continued to follow the script, unscrewing the cap from his mineral water and emptying it over an indentation in the sidewalk to create a puddle.
“Seaborn’s. Sean Seaborn speaking.”
“It’s Sebastian Troy calling, Sean. Is my order ready to go?”
Troy kept Farkas in his peripheral vision as he spoke. The Croatian sat on a park bench with three French Bulldogs tethered at his feet, watching him over the top of his newspaper. He had been dissecting Troy with his eyes nonstop since Troy’s return from Grand Cayman an hour ago. The logical conclusion was that Farkas thought he was now looking at a bone fide assassin, but Troy’s little voice was screaming that Farkas somehow knew his secrets.
“It’s four-thirty on Friday, right?” Sean Seaborn said, his squeaky voice conjuring up the image of a thin man in protective goggles and a white lab coat. “I promised you it would be ready by Friday afternoon and it is Friday afternoon, so yes, it’s ready.”
“And the FedEx—”
“The FedEx guy is due here in a few minutes—also as promised. I do still need the shipping address however, and of course your credit card number for the balance of the payment.
Troy dictated the AmEx number he had memorized years ago and the address of the Italian restaurant next to their hotel. He and Farkas had eaten late dinners at Benvenutos half-a-dozen nights during the past couple weeks, not because it was particularly good, but rather because it was convenient. Their marathon of surveillance had them up early and out late, so they were always tired when the job was done. As a result, Troy knew their usual waiter well enough to make an arrangement. “Make sure you specify Saturday morning delivery, care of Benny Azara. If you just do regular priority overnight, I won’t get it until Monday, and they’re useless to me then.”
“I am filling out the form as we speak,” Sean squeaked, “and will place it in the courier’s hands personally. Thank you for your business.”
Troy severed the connection while continuing his pretense of talking on the phone. Amazing the service you could get by offering a ten-fold price premium, he thought. Still he was cutting it close.
Glancing casually back to his left, Troy saw Farkas pull his sunglasses down from atop his head to cover his eyes. That was the sign that a two-year-old mittelschnauzer named Dory had entered the far side of the park—with Justice Stanley Brewer in tow. They knew from prior stakeouts that it would only take Dory sixty to ninety seconds to drag her master to this end. Troy felt the familiar adrenaline rush. It was showtime. Kickoff. The start of a nine-game season.
He moved his paper grocery bag a pace to the left so the corner rested in the puddle his mineral water had created. As the water wicked up the side, his mind drifted to the gamble they were taking with the science.
According to the bioavailability calculations of scientists murdered four years ago, Friday afternoon was too early to implant a dose that would not be activated until Monday morning. The drug’s doomed inventors had estimated forty-eight hours to be the outer limit of its bioavailability. MDs Troy and Farkas had revisited that conclusion after determining that they could not fit nine risky implants into just two days. Knowing that medical treatment in general and drug profiles in particular were required to be conservative, and given the slowed metabolism of a man in his seventieth year, they agreed to risk an eighteen-hour extension. Brewer might not lose as many years’ memory as the other eight, but even one year would be more than enough.
Troy cradled the payphone receiver as Dory and her owner strolled into sight from behind a bushy mound. He stooped to gently lift the brown bag by its handles and set off on an intercept course.
The small city park was fairly crowded, this being a sunny fall afternoon and D.C. being a walking town. To Troy’s chagrin, Dory was proving to be one popular bitch. Every dog has her day. As she stopped to exchange sniffs with one purebred after another, Justice Brewer exchanged reserved pleasantries with their owners. Meanwhile, Troy was literally left standing there holding the bag.
He glanced around casually, careful not to shake the bag while acting like a vacationer soaking up the view. Soon Dory resumed her quest for fresh scents and pulled Justice Brewer toward ground zero. As Dory passed Farkas, the Croatian kept his French bulldogs heeled by stepping on their leashes. Once they were midway to Troy, however, he stood and followed. The three slobbering hounds
strained at their leashes, eager to get a snout full of Dory’s scent. Farkas was still about fifteen feet behind Brewer when Troy, closing on them from the opposite direction, tugged sharply at the handles of his brown bag.
The two-pound package of ground beef broke through the paper and split open on the ground, just as it had during his practice sessions in the hotel. This time, however, it was only inches from a schnauzer’s nose. Dory’s tail began whirling like a propeller and she dove at the feast from heaven before Brewer could rein her in. As Troy bent to reassemble his other rolling groceries, Farkas’s three French Bulldogs leapt into the mix.
The startled justice bent over the writhing mound in a frantic attempt to extract his feasting pooch from the sixteen-legged tangle. He failed to notice the mosquito-like prick on his rump amidst the torrent of flying spittle, flapping leashes, and disappearing meat.
Chapter 90
Luther had slipped a needle into Emmy’s shoulder as she watched Farkas drag Troy from the room. With her heart breaking, she had not felt the prick.
When Emmy awoke, she was already imprisoned.
Twelve days later, nothing had changed.
The Brinkman was sixty-eight feet of floating luxury, a gleaming pearl gliding gracefully through an azure ocean. Emmy felt like a princess locked in a tower while black and white knights battled for her in a land far far away.
She hated it.
She wanted to pick up a sword and fight her own battles.
Brinkman’s opulent atmosphere felt hauntingly familiar. She had no memory of ever setting foot on a yacht, or showering in a head, or having a private chef to cook whatever she wanted for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Yet she had slipped into the lifestyle like a well-worn slipper. This was her first sighting of the ghost of Bo Beaulieu. Oddly enough, it did not spook her. She didn’t feel a sense of loss or longing or remorse. The only emotion she had experienced aplenty these past twelve days was guilt.
