by KJ Kalis
Driving in the blackness, Emily drummed her fingers on the steering wheel. She started to think about Vince and Marlowe and how their business arrangement had devolved. There were too many questions left unanswered. A wave of frustration hit her. Why was she taking the time to track Vince, all dolled up with her high ponytail and her low-cut tank top? She frowned, hitting the blinker on the truck so she could pass into another lane. For a second, she considered turning the truck around and going home, pulling out her ponytail, wiping off the red lip gloss, and putting her sweatshirt back on. She didn’t have to say anything to Marlowe. She could call Angelica in the morning and let her know Marlowe was unreliable, had fed her inconsistent information and that Emily wasn’t going to take the case no matter how much Angelica fought her. But, for some reason, Emily kept driving. There were questions here, questions that were left unanswered.
When the GPS told her she was eight minutes out, she passed an office building that looked like a miniature version of the Lakeview, where she had been in the morning with Marlowe. White, with windows on all sides. Emily remembered the feel of the wind whipping through the lobby, the air from floors above that weren’t protected by windows somehow filtering down through the building, the webs of electrical wire dangling from the ceiling like a giant spider had abandoned its efforts in the middle of building a trap.
Emily swallowed. That’s what this whole case was, a trap. The question was, would she be able to navigate her way through it before something unseen came to get her?
The Fainting Cow was perched between a dry cleaner and a sign that offered clarinet lessons in a small brick building that wasn’t much different from the one where Sammy’s Butcher Shop was. Emily circled the block a couple of times, getting the lay of the land. Across the street from the bar was an all-night diner and a bookstore. The sign for The Fainting Cow spanned the entire frontage of the storefront, a red lacquered background with gold letters. Somehow, Emily had expected a cow theme, but there wasn’t any, at least not one to be found on the outside of the building.
Pulling the truck around the back, she found a spot and backed the truck in. It was a safety precaution she used as much as she could, knowing that it was always faster to pull straight out than having to navigate pulling the big truck back and spin around in a small parking lot. She made a mental note to look into purchasing a small sedan. Might be easier for cases like this, something gray or blue or black that wouldn’t be noticed, unlike her big blue truck.
There was no time to deal with that at the moment. She was there in her truck wearing her red tank top ready to go into the bar. She just hoped Vince was as reliable as Mike seemed to think he was. Otherwise, the trip would be for nothing.
The cool fall air slapped against her bare skin as Emily made her way around the corner. Reaching back, she checked to make sure the holster was in place and covered by her jacket. The last thing she needed was someone in the bar spotting the gun while it was still in the holster. Satisfied it was covered, Emily gathered the collar of her jacket together in one hand, shoving her other hand in the pocket. She told herself that the cold wasn’t that bad — six months from now it would seem warm after a couple of months of the wind whipping off Lake Michigan. Luckily, it was a short walk to the front door of the bar.
The front entrance of The Fainting Cow was guarded by a thick wooden door with a single rectangular pane of glass at the top and a long, brass door pull. Emily paused at the doorway getting the lay of the land. To her right, there was a dark wooden bar that spanned the length of the space, nearly the entire distance from the front to the back. Square bar stools with deep padded leather seats were stationed every few feet, dirty brass rungs at the bottom of each of them. Behind the lit bar were rows of wine bottles and spirits. Emily wondered if they were real or just for show. Scattered to her left were tables, some of them full, some of them not. The bar had the slightly sour smell of alcohol and stale food lingering in the air.
Though she had an idea based on the surveillance video which table Vince and his cronies liked to sit at, she didn’t want to look that way. Not just yet. Emily adjusted the collar of her coat, making sure it was open and walked to the bar, choosing a seat about halfway down, far enough away from the table Vince usually sat as not to attract attention, but close enough so she could see what was going on.
As she slid onto the bar stool, hooking the heels of her boots on the footrest, the bartender approached her. It looked like the same guy from the surveillance video Mike had found. Tall, bald, with bulging eyes. He had on a black T-shirt that was printed on the front with a cow that looked like it was flopping over. Fainting, Emily guessed. “What can I get you?” he said, setting a coaster down in front of her.
“I’ll have grapefruit juice and club soda, please.”
“Want a menu?”
Emily almost said no. She had no intention at all of eating at The Fainting Cow. She was here to do a job and that was it. But the menu could give her a little bit of necessary cover and allow her to blend in. “Sure.”
The bartender turned away, exposing his back. The opposite side of the T-shirt didn’t have a name on it, just staff in big white letters. She shook her head a little bit. The Fainting Cow wasn’t nearly as cool as they were trying to be.
Within a moment, the bartender was back with her drink and a menu, “Let me know when you want to order.” He said, resting his hands on the bar.
Emily nodded. “Thanks.”
Now that Emily had some props to make her look like a genuine barfly, she was able to concentrate on the reason she was there. Vince. She picked up the short glass and jiggled the ice in it, taking a sip. She wasn’t sure which one she hated more, the acrid taste of the club soda or the sour grapefruit juice. It wasn’t a pleasant drink. Emily looked at her glass for a second, wishing she had ordered something sweeter. Nothing about being at The Fainting Cow under the circumstances was sitting well with her, not even her drink.
To her right, there were three empty barstools and then two guys, each with a hand wrapped around tall beer. They seem to be deeply involved in a conversation that involved the fate of the Chicago Bears for that season. Emily took another sip of her drink, her lips puckering. When she put the glass down, she glanced to her left. There were three women crowded at the end of the bar, the bald bartender with them, making jokes and refilling wine glasses. Between the women and Emily, there was only one man, drinking alone. There were two empty beer glasses and an empty shot in front of him. He was resting his head on his hand. He looked like the kind of guy that was having a bad day.
Emily glanced at the menu and then heard the front door open. She looked over her right shoulder and saw a couple of come in, the woman waving to someone on the other side of the bar who already had a table. Emily half spun on her barstool, taking a look at the front half of the bar, the section where Vince would be sitting if he came in. The corner table was empty.
That wasn’t a good sign.
After a few minutes of Emily nursing her sour drink and gazing at the menu, the bartender came back, “You doing okay? Can I get you anything else?”
“No, thanks. I’m fine.”
“Suit yourself.”
Emily pulled her cell phone out of her pocket, checking the time and sending Mike a text. “Nothing yet.” It was just after eight o’clock.
“From the surveillance video, this is about the time he likes to arrive. Keep your eyes open. Don’t give up yet.”
Emily stuck her phone back in her pocket and took another sip of the drink she ordered. From over her shoulder, she heard a voice, “Can I buy you another drink?”
A stocky man had crept up on her and was now hovering over her shoulder. From his position, Emily was sure he was trying to get a look down her shirt. She pivoted towards him, keeping her gun out of reach. Although he didn’t know it was there, she did. “No thanks. I’m waiting for someone.”
“Yeah, right,” the guy said sarcastically, walking off. He joine
d a table of two other guys near the back corner of the bar. If Emily had to bet, she would guess that his buddies put them up to it. She kept an eye on him as he walked back to his table. Sure enough, she saw cash sliding across the table. Someone had lost a bet. At least it wasn’t her.
For the next couple of minutes, Emily stared at the menu, occasionally sipping at her drink, trying to look like she was there intentionally. She shifted on her stool. Everything about being there seemed strange to her — the way she had to dress, the strange man that had approached her to buy her a drink, the bulging eyes of the bartender. She gripped the menu with both hands, pretending to be reading it.
At a quarter until nine, the door of The Fainting Cow cracked open again. Emily watched as a couple of men came into the bar. They immediately beelined for the corner table by the window, Vince’s table. Emily turned back to her drink, taking a sip. It had become watery, even worse than when the bartender first gave it to her. A moment later, she heard a voice to her right, from between some empty barstools. “Can we get some beers over at the table in the corner?”
Emily glanced in the direction of the voice. It was the heavyset guy from the surveillance video. Turning back, Emily stared at her menu. She was sure the man had already looked at her, but the last thing she needed was to start a conversation with him.
A few seconds later, the heavyset man lumbered away, back to his table. Emily realized her heart was beating a little faster in her chest. Not that she was concerned that the heavyset man or his skeletal friend would recognize her. There was no way they could, no way they would know the woman they had stood so close to at the bar was watching them unless she wanted them to. Emily took a deep breath, trying to calm herself. If Vince’s buddies were at the bar, it was likely he would show up at some point, too. At least that’s what she was hoping.
She didn’t have to hope for too long. By the time the bartender had dropped off bottles of beer at the corner table for the two guys, the door pushed open again, a lone man standing in the doorway. Emily glanced over her shoulder. Even without a long look, she recognized the man to be Vince, Marlowe’s business partner. He was wearing the same expensive suit and pressed shirt she had seen on the video, just in a different color. For a moment, she imagined he had an entire closet full of them. Guys like him usually did.
The bartender made his way up the bar towards her, “You need a fresh one?” he asked.
“No, thanks. I’ll take a glass of white wine.”
The bartender spun around, lifting a stemmed glass and filling it halfway with a pale yellow liquid. He set down a new cocktail napkin, emblazoned with the cow logo on it, and put the base of the glass right on top. “Are you done with your drink?” he said, pointing to the grapefruit and club soda she had ordered when she first got to the bar.
“Yes.”
As he cleared her drink away, giving the counter a quick clean with the flick of a white bar towel, wiping away the condensation ring from in front of Emily, she glanced over her shoulder.
Three guys at the corner table — Vince and his two cronies — were laughing. The heavy-set guy was standing up, waving his arms in the air as though he was relaying a hilarious incident from earlier in the day. The other two were nearly doubled over, their voices bouncing off the embossed metal ceiling. Vince had his back to Emily, but she could tell by the way his suit hung that he spent a fair amount of time at the gym. He was probably one of those guys who did a lot of weightlifting to bulk up and then hours on the elliptical or running to show off the muscles he built. Not that there was anything wrong with working out, Emily thought to herself. If what she thought was true, he was only doing conditioning, not learning how to fight. In her world, fighting was more important.
Emily sat at the bar for the next hour, occasionally glancing at the corner table and fending off two more offers to buy her another drink, which she didn’t need. In that forty-five minutes, she took exactly three sips of the wine. It was more of a prop than anything else. She unzipped the small purse that she brought in with her and pulled out a twenty-dollar bill. From watching the surveillance video, she knew Vince would come in for about an hour each time he stopped at the bar. His cronies would stay longer, often until nearly midnight. She wanted to be ready when it was time for Vince to leave.
Sure enough, exactly twelve minutes later, Vince stood up from his bar stool, pulling his wallet out of his pocket and nodding to the bartender who closed out his tab. As Vince started to make his way for the door, Emily pulled out the twenty-dollar bill, slipping it under the edge of her wine glass and picked up her purse, giving a semi-friendly wave to the bartender and pointing down at the money. If she left the bar without saying anything it would likely be more memorable than a quick wave and a smile. As she opened the heavy front door, she nearly bumped into Vince, who wasn’t standing far from the doorway. He had his phone up to his ear, his face down. Emily’s heart started to beat in her chest. If he turned around, he would see her. That was not the plan. Without thinking, Emily turned to her left, walking away from the direction Vince was facing, pretending to go back to her truck. She clutched her purse a little tighter to her body as she rounded the corner and stopped. Pretending to look for something, she peered back toward Vince. He was still on the phone. Something had gone wrong. She could hear him clearly although he was a good thirty feet from her, “I don’t care what you’re saying,” he boomed. “You said the cost would be three hundred thousand. Now it’s five? I don’t understand how that happens.”
Emily watched from the corner as he moved off. From their research, Emily knew he drove a green Land Rover SUV. Glancing down the street in the direction he was moving, Emily saw it. If she was going to get a tracker on his car, it was now or never. She zipped the top of her purse closed and slung it over her shoulder, following Vince. It didn’t take long for her to catch up to him. He had no idea what was going on behind him, still yelling at some anonymous person on the phone. It sounded very much like a deal had gone bad. Maybe Marlowe wasn’t Vince’s only victim, Emily thought, shrugging her coat a little closer to her body. She reached into her pocket, feeling the tracker Mike had given her. Her nerves started to tingle and she walked a little faster. She would have one shot to install the tracker before Vince got in his car and drove away. Otherwise, they’d have no idea where he was going or who he was meeting with. If she didn’t get the tracker on his car, finding out the truth would be harder than ever before.
Emily trailed Vince down the street, passing a white four-door sedan and then a red one, the car parked right behind Vince’s Land Rover. Emily stayed behind him, just off to his right. If he were to wheel around to look at her, it would appear she was just walking in the same direction as he was, not following him.
Just as Vince passed the front bumper of the red sedan, he hung up the phone. How the call had been resolved, Emily wasn’t sure. The buzz of adrenaline droned in her ears. With two quick steps, Vince stepped off the curb, passing between the red sedan and the back of his green Land Rover. This was the moment, Emily thought. She closed the distance and knelt so she wouldn’t be caught in his mirror, pulling the tracker out of her pocket. Slapping it on the inside of the wheel well, Emily turned it on just as the brake lights flashed and the tires started to turn. She stood up and quickly turned away, fumbling in her purse. If Vince looked back in his mirror, it would look like she had just paused for a moment. The fact that she was facing the other direction would be less threatening than if she was staring at him. She froze in place and then started walking the other way, Vince pulling off into the distance.
When she got back to the truck, Emily locked the doors and sent a quick text to Mike. “GPS on.”
14
By the time Emily got back to her house, it was nearly ten-thirty. She was tired. Everyone always said that exercising was exhausting. She actually felt that way about sitting still at the bar, having nothing to do but pretend she wanted to be there, waiting for Vince. The night wasn’t
a loss though. Emily had attached the tracker to Vince’s car just as he pulled away.
Mike and Miner met her at the door. “How’d it go?”
Emily put a hand on the wall and leaned over, unzipping the boot from her left foot and letting it fall on the floor. She did the same with the right. “Fine. If I didn’t know any better, I would just say he was a guy out for a couple of beers with his buddies. Nothing really interesting to report, except for the fact that he got a yelling match with somebody outside the bar on the way back.”
“Did you get pictures? Do you know what the guy looked like?”
Emily picked up her boots, realizing Mike had misunderstood her. “No, he was yelling at someone on the phone. Took off in his Land Rover like he’d been shot out of a cannon. Said something about a three hundred-thousand-dollar bill that had turned into five hundred.”
“Well, for someone who had just siphoned twenty million from a project, a little two hundred-thousand-dollar upcharge shouldn’t be that big of a deal, wouldn’t you think?” Mike said, a wry smile on his face.
“Yeah, you’d think that was the case.” Emily glanced around the kitchen. Mike’s backpack was still slung in the corner, his laptop on the kitchen table, just as when she had left three hours before. “I’m going to go upstairs and change. Can you show me the tracking information when I come down?”
Mike nodded.
A few minutes later, Emily padded her way down the steps back to the first floor, wearing an old pair of sweatpants, floppy socks, and a big sweatshirt. It was a lot more comfortable than the heels and tank top she had worn to the bar, but sacrifices were necessary for business.
Mike sat at his computer, typing away. He leaned back as she came in. Emily sat down in the chair next to him. “Any news on where our friend went after the bar?”
“Not sure you’d believe me if I told you,” Mike said, raising his eyebrows.
