by Tim Tigner
“I can’t really speak to the whole investment part of the equation, but I believe Switzerland has one of the highest per capita GDP’s on the planet, and their economy is based largely on secretive banking. So I suppose I buy that too.” She looked back at me with her big amber eyes. “What’s making you skeptical?”
“I’m always skeptical. What’s bothering me is that Vondreesen’s explanation is flawless. I don’t like flawless. It implies engineering. Natural phenomenon are rough around the edges. They have imperfections, holes, and grit.”
“He got duped. That’s a pretty big hole.”
“I buy that part. I’m just not sure about the details. I also don’t believe that he doesn’t know the identity of the Russian owner. He’s too savvy to go for that.”
“But?”
“But those are just feelings. Feelings are useless. We need facts. And I feel like I’m overlooking some of those. Speaking of which, did you catch that senior moment of his?”
“Right after Melanie dropped off the coffee. He seemed spooked by it. You think that may have contributed to his retirement decision?”
“It may have. It’s certainly a confounding factor, and our investigation doesn’t need any more of those. It also surprised me. The other times I met him he seemed, I don’t know, superhuman. But for a second there I thought he was going to have a breakdown. Anyway, time to focus on the next meeting.”
“Rita?”
“Exactly. By tomorrow night I have to become Chris Pine. That’s not a lot of time.”
“You already look like him. What else do you need?”
“I resemble him from across a room. I need to pass muster face to face. Plus, I need to brush up on his biography, and study any online videos of him I can find so that my behavior and mannerisms match. We don’t know what kind of research Rita did, but whatever it was, I need to fit what she found.”
“There’s something else.” Katya reached over and put her hand on my arm. She’d never touched me like that before. Not pointedly. Purposefully. It was something we both seemed to understand was best avoided.
“What’s that?”
“I want to go with you to the pitch. I want to meet Rita.”
I thought about the hand on my arm, while I contemplated my answer. “She made it clear that I was to come alone. That I couldn’t mention this to anybody. But you know that, and you still want to go, which means you think your presence won’t blow the deal. Why’s that?”
Her hand didn’t move. “Because I’m going to be just as strong a candidate for Brillyanc as Chris Pine is. I’ll find someone I can play. Someone equally bright and ambitious and no less bent on climbing a greasy ladder. Perhaps Chris’s coworker. Bottom line, Rita’s a salesperson, right? She’s not the boss. Her mandate is to sell. Sure, she might have second thoughts about working with someone who’s less than perfectly obedient. But once I’m there her options become two sales or zero.”
Katya had some good points, but I wasn’t sure how far she’d thought this through. “When I ran covert meetings like Rita’s doing, if I saw that my contact wasn’t following instructions, I wouldn’t show. If Rita’s tactics are similar, she’ll never know that you’re a perfect second sale.”
Katya tilted her head. “You’re testing me, aren’t you?”
I winked back. “I want to help you think things through. My mentor, Granger, was always guiding me that way.”
“That’s easy enough to manage. I’ll keep out of sight until Rita shows. Also, she must have come to expect a little disobedience from her clients, given the egos she’s working with. Furthermore, we know what she’s going to pitch, so we know I’m a fit. We don’t have to worry about it being a guy thing or something in very limited supply. She’ll want me as a client. But still, it’s your call. You’re the one looking at life behind bars. I’m thinking that I can help you, if I’m there by your side.” She gave my arm a squeeze, and then withdrew her hand. “No pressure.”
No pressure. Right. And oh, by the way, does this dress make me look fat?
Our arrival at SFO’s rental car garage saved me from an immediate answer. Pulling up next to the yellow-shirted attendant, I had a thousand things on my mind, not the least of which was the warm feel of Katya’s hand.
As I looked up at the attendant’s smiling face, I finally remembered what I’d forgotten: returning a rental car was predictable. Detective Frost spoke to me over the barrel of his gun. “Kyle Achilles, you’re under arrest.”
Chapter 67
Bad Note
“WHAT’S THE CHARGE?” I asked Frost as he locked the cuffs around my wrists with a bit too much verve.
“Prison escape.”
“I’m out on bail.”
“No, you’re not.”
Frost’s smugness made me want to kick his teeth in. I held back, as I was reserving the first couple of kicks for myself.
I’d screwed up big time. Twice. I’d made a predictable move, and I’d failed to factor banking delays into my thinking. It was only Thursday. My bail payment probably still hadn’t cleared. I was no expert, but this felt like a legal gray zone. I definitely didn’t have time for one of those.
Frost barked across the Tesla’s roof at Katya. “Stay where you are, Miss Kozara. If you interfere in any way, I’ll arrest you for obstructing justice.”
I looked over at Katya. Tears were streaming down her cheeks. “Stick with the plan you proposed,” I said, trying to sound optimistic. I’ll work this out and catch up with you as soon as possible.”
“Should I call Casey?”
“Yes, but don’t miss the plane. The big clock is still ticking, regardless of my current situation. Please focus on that, and let me worry about this. Now go.”
Frost spun me around before Katya replied, and started marching me in what I assumed was the direction of his hidden police cruiser. I didn’t resist. Once my cuffs were on, he’d swapped his automatic for a Taser, and I was sure he wouldn’t hesitate to use it.
“I’ll see you soon,” Katya called after me, her voice squeaky, but resolute.
“So, you are sleeping with your brother’s wife.” Frost smirked. “The jury was still out on that, so to speak. I’ll be sure to let them know.”
“Why are you doing this? I have a deal with the DA. She even instructed Kilpatrick and Flurry to support my investigation. Surely, you know that.”
“I know no such thing.”
I wasn’t inclined to believe him, but couldn’t be certain. Frost was behind me in a control position, so I couldn’t see his face. “We agreed on the terms for my bail yesterday. I initiated the payment as soon as we were off the phone. It’s a done deal.”
“Perhaps this changes things.”
That was my fear, although I was screwed either way. If I went to Santa Barbara rather than DC, I’d miss the meeting with Rita.
I decided to go on the offensive. Test some hunches. Shake things up. What did I have to lose? “You’re acting alone, aren’t you? You’ve gone renegade, looking for a win.”
“Caught you all by myself.”
“Kilpatrick isn’t going to be happy that you went behind his back. Maybe you should call him now, before this goes any further.”
“Kilpatrick isn’t my boss.”
“That may be true, but you both work for the mayor, and I’m sure he wants harmony, not renegades.”
“You seem to think you’re above the law, Mister Achilles. I’m here to tell you that owning a yacht doesn’t make the legal system optional.”
“And apparently having the title of detective doesn’t mean you have a clue,” I replied. To be honest, I understood Frost’s point of view. But that understanding didn’t change my situation. If I wasn’t at Off the Record at eight o’clock tomorrow night, I’d lose my best link to the real killers. Then the clock would run out, and I’d be living under the heel of men like Frost and Grissel for the rest of my life.
Where was Frost’s car? I was scanning the rows of
parked cars ahead looking for government vehicles, when it hit me. “Did you fly here?”
“Straight from Vandenberg.”
That was bad news.
I had to act quickly.
As we were passing one of the garage’s supporting pillars, I stopped walking and turned to face Frost. “Where’s Detective Flurry? I’m sure she’s in the loop. Call her if you won’t call Kilpatrick.”
“Keep walking.”
I stuck out my chest. “Flurry’s what, ten years younger than you? Fifteen? But she makes you look like the rookie.”
I did my best to look smug and egg Frost on while he blasted me with his rambling retort, but my mind was elsewhere and the words didn’t register.
A handcuff key has more in common with a standard screwdriver than it does with the device that unlocks your door. Like standard screwdrivers, handcuff keys are essentially identical. Like all screwdrivers, handcuff keys are merely tools designed to apply torque. Just as you can use a coin or letter opener to turn a slotted screw, you can use another improvised torquing device to release a handcuff ratchet. All you need is a tool that fits the slot, and the knowledge of how to twist it.
I pulled a paperclip from my back pocket and quickly kinked it in the proper place for Smith & Wesson cuffs. Frost had double-locked them, so working the locks was painfully slow — about four seconds for the counterclockwise move that released the locking pin, and three seconds more for the clockwise twist that retracted the ratchet. Fortunately, Frost had more than seven seconds of blathering in him.
Palming the freed left cuff in my right, I tuned Frost back in, and prepared myself for the inevitable prompt. I didn’t have long to wait.
“... I’m done with you. Now get moving.”
I gave Frost a defiant stare for good measure and began pivoting to my right in compliance, only to stop almost immediately. “One more thing...” Reversing my pivot to face him again, I threw my left hand at Frost’s Taser arm while my right swung for the left side of his head. It was a move similar to the sap strike that had failed me in the Escalade, but Frost didn’t have the black suit’s lightning reflexes, so this time the blow was true to its target. The impact of the handcuff was solid enough to hurt my hand, but nothing his thick head couldn’t handle. Frost wobbled for a second or two, then his eyes rolled up, his knees gave way, and he dropped into my arms.
I hoisted the unconscious detective into the bed of a nearby pickup, and laid him on his left side in what EMTs call the recovery position, with his mouth down, chin up, and arms and legs in stabilizing positions.
Pulling the reporter’s notebook from the breast pocket of his blazer, I began flipping pages. The last scrawled entry was, “Silver Tesla,” followed by our rental’s plate number. I tucked that informational nugget away for later analysis, and penned Frost a note with my left hand on the next blank page. “Sorry about the headache. I’ll make it up to you when this is over.”
Chapter 68
Conflicting Interests
“YOU LEFT HIM A NOTE?” Katya said, still beaming and unable to believe my sudden reappearance on the plane.
“The guy might be a stick in the mud, but he didn’t deserve a club to the head. I’ll do something to make it up to him once I’m free and clear of this mess. Maybe season tickets to the Lakers.”
“Not the opera, or the Polo & Racquet Club?” She replied with a wink.
I’d just made our flight to DC. When I’d plunked down next to Katya, she’d been curled up in her seat, knees to chest and phone to ear, trying to get through to Casey for the twenty-third time. Now we were cruising at 36,000 feet and giddily sipping airline wine.
“Where’d you learn to pick handcuffs? Why’d you learn to pick handcuffs?” Katya asked, giddily.
I responded in kind. “There’s a lot of sit-around-and-wait time during covert operations. Usually we sparred or goofed off, but sometimes we got more inventive. That particular trick came up when we were brainstorming on all the things you could do with a paperclip. There’s quite a list, actually. An impressive enough list that I’ve kept a couple in my back pocket ever since. You can find paperclips everywhere, and take them anywhere, and they’ve got dozens of practical uses. Picking handcuffs with them was the most interesting. It began as a typical male challenge-issued, challenge-accepted thing with a former MP, but we all ended up spending hours learning to do it blind.”
“I’ll never look at a paperclip the same.” Katya’s face clouded over as she spoke. “Wait a minute. Won’t Frost have people waiting for you when we land in DC?”
“That’s a distinct possibility. But I doubt it. I don’t think he’ll have either the time or the inclination.”
“Really? It won’t take him long, now that he knows the name you’re using. From the rental car, I mean.”
“There’s still a lot of bureaucracy to press through, and it’s only a five-hour flight. But I’m guessing he won’t even try.”
“Why ever not?”
“Couple of factors. First, he was acting alone, trying to be the hero, trying to upstage Flurry. I don’t think anyone else knew what he was doing. Not Flurry or Kilpatrick anyway. So nobody is expecting an update. Why admit an embarrassing failure if you don’t have to? ‘Guess what? I caught him, but then he got away.’ I don’t think so. That goes against human nature. Second, once my wire transfer completes, I’ll be out on bail. So they’d be doing my in-processing and out-processing simultaneously. That won’t be good for Frost’s reputation.”
“In other words, you’ve got pride and practicality working for you.”
“And spite working against me.”
“So it all boils down to Frost’s character.”
“Exactly.”
Katya finished off her Chardonnay before speaking again. “Assuming Frost’s character goes your way, is it still okay with you if I come along to the meeting with Rita?”
“If you can find a solid fit, I’d love to have you by my side. But that’s no small order. Remember, on top of everything else, the person you’re impersonating will need to be unreachable, presumably traveling overseas. You better get started right away.”
Katya did, right there on the plane using inflight Wi-Fi. By the time we arrived at Washington National, she’d found her woman.
Then we learned that Frost’s pride and practicality had won out over his spitefulness. As our taxi pulled away from Washington National Airport beneath overcast skies, I thought I saw the clouds parting ahead. But maybe that was an illusion.
Chapter 69
Rules
BEFORE I KNEW IT, I was headed for the Hay Adams, free on bail, with Katya by my side. Or should I say Chris was headed there, with Alisa. I had a fresh haircut with a bit of premature gray on my temples and some makeup that altered the shape of my face and diminished my dimple. Katya was now a brunette with shoulder-length hair and black Versace glasses. We went early and entered separately, so that we’d be properly positioned when Rita arrived.
Off the Record was known as Washington’s best place to be seen and not heard. It had dim lights and wood-paneled walls and plenty of plush alcoves upholstered in red. Katya went to the bar while I grabbed a corner booth. I scooted over so that it would be easy for Katya to slip in beside me once Rita took the opposite seat.
Ambient jazz music played in the background, just loud enough to keep quiet conversations private without being obtrusive. I didn’t recognize the artist’s sultry voice. I don’t have a memory for that kind of thing, but I loved the way it melted into the piano and double bass like a dab of churned butter on a sizzling steak. I had the waitress bring me a club soda with lime, and studied the other patrons while waiting for Rita to arrive.
At the bar, lawyers and lobbyists were buzzing around Katya like yellow jackets smelling grilled meat. She was holding her own, fending them off without offending. No doubt the result of years of practice.
At precisely eight o’clock, a woman I pegged as Rita glided through the do
orway like she was expecting to fuck the president. Confident. Poised. And sexy as hell.
I estimated that her outfit cost six-figures, including a low-cut couture suit of fine cream-colored wool, pumpkin-toned heels with a matching bag, and heavy gold jewelry splashed with diamonds. Rita herself had sparkling green eyes, suntanned skin, and dark hair coiffed up to reveal a long and slender neck. Marilyn Monroe and Jackie Kennedy rolled into one — here to meet me.
Here to make a sale.
She’d sold me and she had yet to say word one.
I stood as she spotted me and walked toward our booth. “I’m Rita, and I’m glad you came.” It was the British voice from the phone. She held out her hand. A French manicure and a bracelet that likely cost as much as the average car. As soon as we were seated, Katya slid in beside me and extended her own hand. “I’m Alisa.”
Alarm crossed Rita’s face like the passing shadow of a predatory bird, but she took Katya’s hand. “Pleased to meet you.”
“Alisa is also an ambitious junior partner at Kenzie,” I said. “She’s a Princeton PhD with two great talents: predicting competitive reactions, and climbing greasy ladders.”
“We’re a team of sorts,” Katya said, mimicking Rita’s poise and confidence. “We serve as each other’s sounding boards, and help each other out behind the scenes. Kind of a secret alliance.”
I leaned closer to Rita. “So whatever your career-enhancing service may be, she’ll be equally interested. I’m sure that with a little research you’ll find that Alisa is every bit as attractive a candidate as I am. So I figured you’d be happy to include her — and double your commission check.”
Rita processed this like Miss Manners finding an unexpected crunch in her food. A dab of distaste and a smidgeon of surprise, but she swallowed and smiled. “What’s your last name, Alisa?”
“Abroskina. As you may have guessed from my accent, I’m originally from Russia.”
“And yet you graduated Princeton, with a PhD no less. Most impressive. When were you born?”
