by Zoe Sharp
“I think my wife is maybe trying to get rid of me.”
Josef Dabrowski had once been a handsome man, but time had not been kind to him. He was well over six feet, broad shouldered and narrow hipped but with a belly just starting to overhang his belt. His fair hair was thinning backwards and his blue eyes were bagged beneath and crowded with laughter lines at the sides. He wore an old T-shirt and denims faded from too many rounds with the washing machine rather than designer stressing.
At a casual glance, I would have taken him for an out-of-work actor who’d just been to a casting call for construction workers. The too-clean hands gave him away.
Dabrowski certainly did not look at home in the living room of this mock Tudor mansion in a leafy suburb of New York unless he was there to quote for renovations.
He perched on the edge of a buttoned leather sofa, one of a matching pair that framed the ornate fireplace. There was a thick earthenware mug of coffee on the delicate table in front of his clasped hands. It seemed as out of place as he did in the elegant surroundings.
Opposite sat Parker Armstrong, slender by comparison and younger looking despite the prematurely grey hair. He was apparently relaxed, one arm draped along the low back of the sofa. A convincing illusion.
I stood to one side where I could see out of the front window along the driveway, just in case of visitors. Dabrowski had said he wasn’t expecting anyone. We didn’t like to take that for granted.
“Why not go to the cops?” It was Parker’s standard opening question, and how people answered—or evaded—usually told him plenty.
“Go to the cops with what?” Dabrowski asked now, his voice bitter. “’Sides, my Olive is already prepping me as the bad guy.”
“How?”
Alongside him, vibrating with a kind of righteous anger, was Bill Rendelson. I would have described him as Parker’s right-hand man, except I knew Rendelson would take great offence at the remark. He’d lost his right arm to the shoulder in a parcel-bomb attack on the principal he’d been protecting some years previously. He made up for the loss by ruling the office with an iron fist, and seemed to nurture a deep resentment for those of us still active in the field.
Dabrowski shifted restlessly, making the leather squeak beneath him. It was left to Rendelson to jump in, which he did with barely concealed impatience even towards his boss.
“Acting in public like she’s real nervous of Joe, when he’s never laid a hand on her,” he growled. His eyes drifted over me. “However much she had it coming.”
Dabrowski murmured a protest, automatic rather than heartfelt. “Hey, come on, Bill. Someone tried to run her down in my truck—it just wasn’t me behind the wheel.”
“You only got her word for that, Joe.” Rendelson’s tone was quiet but final. “No witnesses and it all happened where there just so happened to be no security cameras. Convenient, huh?”
Dabrowski opened his mouth then shut it again, whatever he was about to say interrupted by a fair-haired boy, possibly just into his teens, who catapulted into the living room doorway.
“Hey, Dad, tell Adam it’s my turn! He won’t—”
“Not now, Tanner,” Dabrowski said, more heavy than sharp. “I got people here. Later, OK?”
Tanner looked downcast. “Adam always gets what he wants,” he complained. “It’s so not fair.”
As if in victory, a burst of loud distorted music thundered down the stairs from the upper floor.
“Excuse me,” Dabrowski muttered, rising. He stepped around Tanner, stood in the open doorway and yelled upwards, “Adam, turn that noise down! And play nice with your brother.”
There was brief silence before the music returned, this time with a booming rap overlay:
“Ad-Ad-Adam. T-t-t-urn that noise d-d-down. Noise down. And play nice. Playnice, playniceplaynice—”
“ADAM!” Dabrowski roared, army in his voice now. “Turn it down right now or every last scrap of that gear goes on eBay in the morning. You hear me?”
The music cut off in mid-note. Dabrowski waited a moment longer, then nodded and headed back to his seat.
“Wouldn’t happen if’n I had my own stuff,” Tanner muttered as his father passed.
“Wait and see what Santa Claus brings you,” Dabrowski replied. It sounded like an automatic response to an oft-made request.
His younger son rolled his eyes behind his father’s back, then saw me watching and gave a sly grin. I kept my expression stony. I’ve never been exactly maternal but sneaky kids are the worst kind. Undeterred, he disappeared and shortly after came the pound of teenage feet up the stairs.
Dabrowski shrugged helplessly to Parker. “Boys, huh?”
“How old are they?”
“Tanner just turned thirteen,” Dabrowski said. “Adam was sixteen last fall. I guess he’s starting to find his younger brother a drag.”
From what I’d just seen of Dabrowski junior, I couldn’t blame the older brother for that.
“If your wife wants out,” I said mildly, getting us back on track, “then surely a divorce would be easier?”
Rendelson gave a snort that might have been twisted laughter. With him, it was difficult to tell. “Not when you’re on the rich list,” he said.
He gave an abrupt twitch of his right shoulder, the kind that might once have resulted in the dismissive flick of a hand. I tracked the direction, saw a framed picture on the wall just behind a grand piano that had the look of furniture rather than an instrument.
I stepped closer, recognised it as a front cover of Forbes—the money mag. I unhooked the picture and carried it across to Parker.
The cover photo was of a woman standing with one fist on her hip, the other holding the hand of the boy who’d just ratted out his older brother. Adam stood a little way back from his mother and Tanner, both kids scrubbed up and shiny. The perfect family.
The headline read:
‘OLIVIA DUVALL—SELF-MADE MILLIONAIRE SUPER-MOM’
“Ah,” I murmured as I handed it to my boss. “You’re married to that Olivia Duvall.”
Dabrowski hesitated a moment, then nodded, as if caution on the subject had become a habit hard to break. “She done good,” he said, his voice a mix of shame and pride.
“So, she doesn’t use the name Dabrowski?”
“Not anymore—something to do with ‘brand image’ or something.” He shook his head. “She did explain it to me one time but…” He glanced at the pair of us briefly, a shy smile on his face. “I didn’t take it in much. She calls herself Olivia now, not Olive. Don’t like it when I tell folks it ain’t so.”
I looked for malice, saw only a hurt bewilderment. He looked for all the world like a man who was still in love with his wife, but she had reinvented herself. The woman he’d married didn’t exist anymore.
“I’m guessing there was no prenup agreement,” I said dryly. “So a divorce would cost Ms Duvall big bucks.”
Dabrowski’s face took on a stubborn cast. “She worked hard for what she’s got. I only want what’s fair and no more.”
I heard his unspoken “but” and queried it.
“She knows I’d never let go of my boys,” he said simply. “I raised ’em single-handed, near as dammit. Ever since I got laid off and my Olive set up on her own. Internet stuff.” He spread hands so big he could have scooped up a litter of puppies in them, and jerked his head in the direction of upstairs. “Truth be told, the boys probably understand it better than I do.”
“They’re fine boys,” Parker said, his eyes still on the picture.
Dabrowski ducked his head in acknowledgement. “We didn’t always have money,” he said. “Might be that way again—this economy, who knows? I’ve tried to keep their feet on the ground. They still do their chores, earn their allowance. I want to see ’em raised right.”
“You could come to some arrangement over joint custody,” Parker suggested.
“My Olive’s an all-or-nothing kinda girl—always was,” Dabrowski said. “I gues
s that’s why she’s done what she’s done.”
For a moment I thought he was referring to her business empire. It was left to Bill Rendelson to expand.
“She rigged his truck to explode.”
I didn’t respond to that immediately. It seemed a little outrageous, put baldly like that. And where would a middle-class suburban mother-of-two get the components for…?
“Ah,” I realised, almost to myself, “she just happens to run an electronics company.”
Bill Rendelson flicked me a brief look of surprise as if he hadn’t expected me to put it together.
“It was kind of obvious to be a serious attempt,” Dabrowski said quickly, like that excused the whole thing. When Parker raised an eyebrow, he shrugged. “I seen a lot of IEDs back when I was in the military.”
“She really wants the boys that badly?” Parker asked.
“She’s built her whole image on being some kind of super-mom,” Rendelson said, twisting the words with contempt, “but she barely sees the kids from one day to the next. She just hates to lose.”
“So you think getting rid of Joe might be a cheaper option for her,” I said.
Rendelson began to bristle. “If it’s the money you’re so damn worried about, I’ll pay the agency’s going rate myself—”
“I’ll pay what I can,” Dabrowski said stoutly. “I ain’t asking for charity.”
Parker paused, considering. Bill Rendelson leaned in, as if about to plead and loath to have to do it in front of me, muttered, “Joe and I served together. I don’t often ask for personal favours, boss…”
Parker got to his feet, buttoning his jacket, and it might have been my imagination but his gaze lingered over the two kids in the photograph. “Let’s worry about the money later,” he said. “Mr Dabrowski, we offer a very special service in cases like this. Not just close protection in the traditional sense, but a more…proactive approach.”
I saw the man’s frown at the sideways terminology and simplified it. “What he means is, we draw out the threat and neutralise it.”
Dabrowski rose also, suddenly uneasy. He was half a head taller than Parker, and towered over both me and Rendelson.
“I just need to know I’m gonna be around for my boys,” he said again.
“I think we can arrange that.”
“Yeah? How?”
I smiled. Was it really only three weeks ago? It seemed so easy then.
“By offering to help your wife.”
Five minutes ago…
“Olivia!” I called again. “We need to get out of here before we all get killed.”
“Isn’t that what you want?” her voice yelled back. The echoes made it harder to define direction. But at least she was talking to me.
I skirted the forklift as it began to retract, balancing a pallet-load of HD flatscreen TVs. I watched it whirr away quietly into the gloom.
“Things have changed,” I said. I crabbed forwards with great care, keeping close to the stacks. “Whatever’s happening here, it’s not what you think.”
“Oh really?” There was a harsh bark of laughter. “What made you betray me, Charlie? Did he promise you a fat bonus if I didn’t make it to the final decree? Well, I got news for you, honey. Anything happens to me, every cent goes to the boys.” Her voice caught audibly. “If the bastard hasn’t killed them already.”
My ears finally got a fix. I dived through one of the cross-streets—there was no other way to describe the gaps between the racking. One up and two across.
And there she was, staring around her with fear-filled eyes. She was clutching the little revolver she’d bought for her own protection after claiming her husband tried to kill her. I moved into view with the SIG up and levelled.
“Put it down, Olivia,” I said, loud enough for there to be no mistake, soft enough not to startle her into a negligent discharge.
She spun with a gasp, even so, staring at me. If I expected to find her dishevelled I was disappointed. She still looked like she’d stepped out of the pages of a fashion mag.
“Not while that bastard’s out there,” she said. She gestured to the SIG. “What—are you really going to shoot me?”
“No,” said another voice, deep and bitter. Joe Dabrowski came rushing out of the shadows with his own gun raised and pointed straight at his wife. “But I will.”
And then, out of nowhere, the darkness came whistling in on us and Dabrowski’s hand jerked.
He fired.
An hour ago…
“The bomb was a blind,” Parker said.
I felt the Navigator twitch slightly as I reacted to the news. I almost dropped my cellphone—which served me right for not taking his call on hands-free while I was driving. It had begun to snow again and the roads were lethal, even with four-wheel drive.
“Charlie—you still there?”
“Yeah, I’m still here,” I said. “What do you mean, it was a blind?”
“It was too complex for an amateur to have put together. Olivia Duvall may run an electronics company, but that doesn’t mean she has the knowledge on how to build an improvised device, so I had Bill check it out. We’ve been waiting for his tame IED expert to rotate home from Afghanistan and he’s gotten an expert opinion—she couldn’t have done it.”
“Come on, Parker, any school kid with an internet connection can find out how to build an improvised device in about twenty minutes.”
“True,” he allowed, “but you’ve been alongside her twenty-four/seven for the past week—when does she have the time?”
“It’s like anything—you want it badly enough, you make the time.” But even as I said it, I realised that Olivia Duvall ran to the kind of schedule that would make presidents and prime ministers wilt.
“So, what are we saying?” I demanded. “That she had help?”
“Or that Dabrowski put the thing together himself,” Parker said flatly. I could almost hear Bill Rendelson simmering in the background. “He did admit to having extensive experience during his time with the military.”
“But if Joe built the bomb he claimed his wife used to try to kill him does that mean—?” I began.
“That we’ve been taken for a ride?” Parker finished for me. “I hope not.” His voice was grim. “Where are you?”
“On my way to meet Olivia at the house.”
“What’s your ETA?”
I took the phone away from my ear just long enough to use both hands on the Navigator’s wheel. I swung the big vehicle through a gap in the dirty banks of ploughed snow and into the tree-lined driveway. “I’m there now,” I said. The house came visible through the sparse foliage. I glanced across, saw the front door standing slightly ajar. “I’ll call you back.”
For once I didn’t bother taking the Navigator round to the side of the building to the tradesman’s entrance. I left it sprawled untidily on the cleared stone setts of the driveway and ran to the doorway, sliding the SIG from its holster as I went.
Taking a deep breath, I nudged the heavy oak door open with the toe of my boot and slipped inside fast. Nobody fired at me while I was silhouetted in the opening. A good sign.
I went from room to room, moving quickly, quietly. The place had been festooned with Christmas decorations since my visit with Parker and Bill Rendelson, and the living room smelled of pine from the eight-foot tree near the grand piano. The time of seasonal ill-will was rampantly upon us.
But I found nothing out of place—except the people. There was nobody at home.
It was a Saturday, late morning. Joe Dabrowski should have been there with the boys. Olivia had said she wouldn’t be working for once. They had planned a family brunch, but when I stuck my head into the kitchen everything was squared away. There were no signs of food preparation.
I looked into Joe’s workshop, which was empty and unlit. Tanner’s room was its usual muddle, scattered with dirty clothes that Olivia refused to allow the cleaning service to pick up for him.
The room of the older boy, Adam
, was neater, just cluttered with his music paraphernalia, the latest piece of which he’d bought second-hand from eBay. Joe had told me that the kid had bitched about the fact that Olivia sold all the latest gear through her company, but wouldn’t give him more than staff discount. They were trying to teach him the value of things. It was taking a while to sink in.
I went back downstairs and stuck my head into Olivia’s study. Her handbag and briefcase were both sitting on the desktop. If the open front door had sounded the first note of alarm, that sent it up a notch. Olivia never went anywhere without her cellphone, laptop, and diary. To find them apparently abandoned was worrying.
I scanned the desktop, saw the message light blinking on the answering machine. Suddenly wary, I used the butt of the SIG to tap the replay button.
“Hey, Olivia.” Joe’s voice came raspy and barely recognisable out of the tinny speaker. “I’ve got the boys. Unless you want to be burying them, you’ll ditch the bodyguard and meet me at that mausoleum you call your empire. And you better hurry.”
“Shit,” I muttered under my breath. I punched the redial button on my cellphone. While it rang out, I paused the message, set it to replay. “Hey Parker,” I said. “I think you—and Bill—need to hear this…”
Now…
The motorised forklift caught Joe Dabrowski little more a glancing blow. Even so, I heard the bones of his shoulder give way like an old dry branch as it flung him out and to the side. If he hadn’t heard that betraying squeak at the last moment, started to turn, it would have mowed him flat.
As it was, at least the shock of it deflected his aim enough to go wide. The discharge was still brutal in the echoing cavern, then the gun was falling from his grasp.
I darted forwards and kicked the weapon out of his reach. It was an old Beretta, a standard military sidearm, something that was no doubt familiar to him.
I scooped one hand under his good arm and dragged him back against the stacks just in case another forklift bore down on us. He slumped there, breathing hard. The shock was taking care of the pain—for now. He was grey with it.
