The Bid

by Adrian Magson

  This guy—he’d introduced himself as Paul—had called himself an entrepreneur. Tommy-Lee didn’t really know or care what that was, only that the guy was buying drinks, which was fine by him. He could call himself Buddha if he wanted, long as he kept paying.

  About an hour later, after more drinks and Tommy-Lee had mentioned he was looking for work, Paul had asked him if he wanted to earn some ready money, no questions asked.

  As liquored as he was becoming, Tommy-Lee knew right away that it had to be something a little off-the-wall. Guys in bars—especially in Kansas City—didn’t throw money around if they were into a legitimate line of work. Just didn’t happen. And there was something about this Paul guy that gave off a vibe that was down deep and dark.

  But Tommy-Lee was near broke and he’d said yes right off. Fact was, he had no immediate prospects, so any money was fine by him as long it was legal tender. Didn’t mean he had to like the man paying him, though.

  “It’ll be easy work,” Paul had explained, leading him over to a corner table where they could talk in private. “You seem a pretty solid kind of guy, I can tell. Just had a run of bad luck, that’s all. Can happen to anybody.” He leaned forward, his breath sweet. “Fact is, I overheard you talking to a pal of yours in here a couple of days ago. See, I know you have no love for the military or Uncle Sam. Am I right?”

  Tommy-Lee gave the man one of his looks. Normally that was enough to shut down an unwelcome line of conversation; but this Paul just seemed to absorb it and shrug it off without a flicker. He didn’t much like knowing he’d been watched before now; that was definitely creepy. But since the guy was offering paid work, how much did it matter?

  “I’ve had my run-ins, sure. Ain’t ashamed to admit that. So what?”

  “Nothing wrong with that at all.” Paul called for refills. “Nothing wrong,” he added, “with collecting a little payback for some of the hard times, if you get my meaning.”

  Tommy-Lee frowned. With what he’d already drunk, he was struggling to hold onto the line of conversation. “How does that work? You saying you work for the government?”

  “No. Not at all.” Paul smiled genially and clapped a friendly hand on his arm. “Let’s just say I have access to some rerouted funds … sort of liberated cash that nobody’s going to miss and doesn’t need to go back into the system. And you could have some of it. The beauty is, there are no taxes to pay. How does that sound?”

  Tommy-Lee understood that bit, no problem at all, and any tiny suspicions he might have had disappeared in a flash. What the hell, money was money and he needed some real bad. “It sounds sweet. Doing what?”

  “I want you to look after somebody for me. Keep him quiet and secure for a few days. Think you can do that?”

  Tommy-Lee had nearly laughed. Keeping people secure had once been his specialty, he’d said, although gut feel had cautioned him not to mention where or who they were. This Paul wasn’t exactly dark-skinned. More Latino-looking. But you never knew how people would take the news that he’d once been a jailer and interrogator in Iraq. Especially if they’d ever done time themselves. Hell, step across the road to another bar with white-collar workers and he’d be a hero; right here, right now, though, it could just as easily go the other way.

  “Looking after people is what I used to do,” he said, and mentioned doing guard duty at a correctional institute in Indiana. It wasn’t quite true; in fact, he’d been on the wrong side of those bars doing short time on the institute’s farm as a security level 1 prisoner. But there was no way this guy would ever find that out.

  Paul had seemed satisfied at that. “I knew I’d chosen right.” He looked down and nudged a small leather briefcase at his feet. “See this? I’ll pay you as much money as I can get in this briefcase on completion of the job. Shouldn’t take more than a week.”

  “Yeah? How much are we talking about?” Tommy-Lee had ducked his head for a quick look. It was a pretty sizeable item with a heavy strap and a brass lock. How much cash could a briefcase like that hold, he wondered?

  “Fifteen thousand US dollars,” Paul had murmured quietly. “Small notes, well-used and easy to spend. You’d have nobody asking why you’re breaking fifties or hundreds, and you’d always have money in your pocket, free to go wherever you like. But you have to come with me right now. This is kind of urgent and we have a drive ahead of us. You in?”

  “Can I ask who this guy is?”

  Paul hesitated, then said, “Sure. I guess that’s only fair—and I trust you. You don’t need to know his name, but he’s a former military officer.”

  “What kind of officer? A general?”

  “No, nothing that heavy. Lower scale but with his eyes on the top. He put a couple of friends of mine away … friends who got caught shipping a few mementoes back from Afghanistan.”

  “Mementoes?”

  “You know the kind of thing I mean … stuff they could have sold for a nice profit. It wasn’t classified or top secret or anything like that. Nothing the government should have got worked up about. But this officer … well, he pushed it all the way because he wanted to make a name for himself. They were good men, too.”

  “What happened?”

  “They’re serving a ten-year stretch, no early release.”

  “That’s harsh.” Tommy-Lee felt the jab of fellow-feeling for victims of the system. He knew how tough that was. There really hadn’t been any more to it than that. He’d already overstayed his welcome with his pal, Dougie, who he guessed wouldn’t miss him if he never went back and neither would his lady. What few items of clothing were at Dougie’s place he could do without or replace later. Hell, with fifteen grand in his back pocket, he could buy a whole new wardrobe.

  He finished his drink and stood up, filled with bravado. “Hell, I never did like officers much anyway. Let’s go do this!”

  Out in the parking lot they’d climbed into a pale blue Ford van and driven across the city, stopping at a small hotel to pick up two men Paul had said were work colleagues. He’d introduced them as Bill and Donny, which even Tommy-Lee in his drunken state figured were made-up names. Both were dark, with black, oily hair and deep eyes. Good men, Paul had told him. The best. But Bill and Donny? Come on.

  Bill was big. Over six foot tall with a weight-lifter’s chest and shoulders, he was somewhere in his twenties and had a surly mouth. Donny was younger, skinny, with wild, wiry hair and looked like a geek fresh out of college.

  Laurel and Hardy more like, Tommy-Lee thought, and shook their hands. Bill’s grip was surprisingly fleshy and soft, while Donny barely touched fingers before sticking his hand back in his pocket. Tommy-Lee shrugged it off. He’d trade courtesies with these guys’ dead mothers if it meant he got paid.

  But no way were they fully paid-up citizens of the US. He’d swear on that, no matter what Paul had said about his pals in the military doing time.

  six

  Ruth took out her cell phone and hit speed dial.

  “What are you doing?” asked Vaslik.

  “I’m calling this in. Whoever did this knows where Elizabeth Chadwick lives and where Ben goes to school.” And God help them if we’re already too late, she thought.

  The call was answered instantly. It was to a direct number for insider use only, and the responder had the calm, controlled voice of a professional. “Cruxys. Go ahead.”

  “It’s Gonzales,” she said briefly. “Subject is James Chadwick, currently a Code Red. Confirm?”

  A faint clicking of keys and the operator said, “Correct. How can I help, Miss Gonzales?”

  “His Newark address has been trashed and there are signs that whoever did it is now in possession of the UK address details of his wife and their son’s boarding school.” She read out the message in the address book, knowing that the call was being recorded. “I strongly recommend we send response teams to both addresses and that they move the
Chadwicks to a secure location until we know what we’re dealing with.”

  “Will do. You believe there’s a direct threat?”

  “Absolutely. I’ll send photo details in a second.”

  “Very well. Teams are on their way.”

  “One other thing. I need a full backgrounder on James Chadwick. From college through to now. What has he done, when, and where. Anything that’s out there. The details we have are too sketchy to be of much help.”

  “On the way.”

  Ruth cut the connection and took a photo of each piece of paper, sending them off to Cruxys for the files. It would demonstrate the clarity of the threat made, although not the reasons behind it. She said to Vaslik, “Something he did must have stuck to him. This kind of threat doesn’t come out of the blue.”

  “I was going to ask what you thought,” he said mildly. “But that doesn’t seem necessary now.”

  “No.” She gestured at the ruined apartment. “This wasn’t a search; it was too calculated and deliberate. It was part of the message.”

  “I agree.”

  “Have you spoken to the neighbours?”

  “Out at work, most of them. It’s that kind of building. If they did hear anything, they’re not saying. What they hear doesn’t concern them, and what they don’t hear doesn’t matter. But whoever did this was clever. They thought of that before they went to work.” He bent and picked up a plastic rectangle from the floor. It was a building contractor’s site plate with the legend GO-LINE CONSTRUCTION—we build fast! followed by a telephone number. “This was on the landing outside. If anybody heard anything, they’d have figured Chadwick was having some work done. It’s pretty common.”

  “When did it go up?”

  “According to the super, a week ago. He had no reason to question it.”

  “So just before Chadwick disappeared.”

  “You got it. I called the phone number and the company claims they haven’t got any crews in this area. And the signs get damaged or go missing all the time, mostly taken by college kids and drunks as trophies.”

  “It would be nice if we knew the point of the message.”

  “Beats me. But I’ve seen it before. It’s scare tactics; you want someone to know you can reach out to them anytime, even within their own home, you do this. Smash their possessions, destroy their peace of mind … and most of all let them know you can come back any time you choose and do it all over again—or worse.”

  Knowing a little of his background in the NYPD, Ruth said, “That sounds like organised crime.”

  “It is, mostly. And it works. A straight break-in is scary enough; a lot of homeowners never want to go back inside the place again. Throw in this kind of destruction and you’ve really got somebody on the run.”

  “Isn’t it counterproductive?”

  “Not in the cases I saw. It made the victims freak out and crack under the pressure. They pretty much caved and gave in to the next demand. Adding other family locations, though, that’s a twist.”

  “Is that what Chadwick did, do you think—upset somebody?” Ruth was trying to picture any normal person’s reaction to this scene of devastation. According to his file and his wife, Chadwick was a business consultant, engrossed in his work to the exclusion of all else. Wouldn’t he have reacted to this like any normal citizen and called the cops? Or was there a reason why he might have freaked out and gone into hiding, if that’s what he’d done? It might explain his sudden vanishing act, but not his going completely off the radar to the possible detriment of his family.

  She walked back through the rooms, trying to pick up a sense of something that would help. Some places were like that; you could almost feel a message in the atmosphere, the décor or the possessions left behind that gave a feel for what the victim might have been engaged in.

  But not here. There was nothing. Just a chilling message that was clearly intended to mean something to James Chadwick.

  Do as we say or lose them.

  “I think we need to speak to his employers,” she said. “Get whatever they can tell us about what he was working on.”

  Vaslik nodded. “Makes sense—although I’m not sure what kind of business consultant would attract this sort of attention.”

  Ruth moved over to the bedroom window, the overshoes squishing in the silence, and looked out from the corner of the apartment block across an expanse of grass and plants no doubt cultivated solely for their lack of maintenance time. It spoke again of Chadwick having money, but instead of an ultra-fashionable and desirable location like the Chelsea pad in London, this one spoke of convenience, simplicity, and practicality. A man’s place.

  Through the foliage on the trees and bushes dotted across the area, she could see where the street curved around to skirt the property, with another apartment block sitting with its back to this one. A small brick-built structure with a cement-block roof stood at one side of the building, and she could see two sports bikes and a small scooter chained up inside.

  And a man, watching her.

  She moved back out of instinct. He was of medium height, young-ish, dressed in dark blue workman’s overalls and a hard hat, like a hundred other building or utility workers you could see any day of the week.

  Except that utility workers didn’t normally use binoculars.

  “Slik,” she called softly and turned her head away, yawning deliberately but keeping her eyes on the man. She saw his hand move as he adjusted the focus and knew she hadn’t imagined it. “Slik, in here.”

  Vaslik stepped into the room and she gestured for him to move round to come up behind her. “The bike shed in the next block. Is he doing what I think he’s doing?”

  Vaslik moved closer, his breath touching her hair. “Damn. He’s a spotter.”

  “What?”

  “Posted to keep an eye on the place, to see who turns up.”

  As they stared at each other, the man lowered the binoculars and revealed tanned skin and dark eyes, with a slim moustache over the O of a mouth opened in surprise.

  Then he was gone.

  “Let’s go.” Vaslik turned and ran for the door.

  Ruth hit the front stairs, figuring she could get out faster that way than waiting for the elevator, while Vaslik disappeared through a fire exit towards the rear of the building. She could hear the twin echoes of her breath being bounced out of her and the slap of her shoes as she jumped three steps at a time, and hoped she didn’t meet any little old ladies coming the other way. Otherwise one of them was going to cartwheel downwards—and it wasn’t going to be her.

  She cleared the last few steps and burst through the entrance door into the open and turned right, towards where she figured the watcher would be going. The street was empty, save for cars parked at the side. No people, no movement; just a few birds scattered serenely across the grass as proof that he hadn’t come out this way.

  She turned back, breaking into a run past the apartment block back towards the main street where they’d turned off. He’d done a switch. The guy had clearly done his homework and scoped out the area to find a way out if he was spotted by a resident. Now he’d be looking for the cover of other people where he could blend in and disappear.

  She picked up speed and emerged on the main street and took a left, using the apartment block as the swing point. If he was headed this way, he should pop up somewhere along here. She slowed to a walk, eyeing buildings and stores, lines of vehicles, and a number of pedestrians going about their business.

  She kept walking, sticking close to the buildings and checking, against the odds, for signs of blue overalls and a hard hat. Great as camouflage most of the time, they would be a dead giveaway for a fugitive if he hadn’t dumped them.

  She passed a real-estate agency and a flower shop. Still nothing. He must have moved faster than she thought and was probably several blocks away by now. S
he was about to turn back when she caught a flicker of movement at the corner of her eye. A figure burst out of a narrow alleyway between two buildings and slammed into her.

  Ruth cried out and instinctively grabbed for something to hold onto as she was knocked sideways. A woman close by cried out in alarm, and Ruth became dimly aware, as she rolled on the ground, of coarse dark blue fabric clutched in her fist and a man’s breath, hot and sickly in her face.

  He was lithe and strong, and surged back on to his feet. He tried to wrench himself free, but she had too strong a grip on the lapel of his overalls and used his momentum to pull herself upright. He hissed at her, a spray of saliva touching her skin, and his hard hat spun away, revealing coarse black hair, dark eyes, and a face twisted in fury. Then he chopped viciously at her wrist, breaking her hold as a button popped loose from the coveralls and the fabric tore. He staggered back several paces but instead of turning to run, he moved towards her and brought one hand up.

  He was holding a knife.

  She had no choice; he was too close for her to outrun him and there was nowhere to go without endangering others. She stooped and took off her shoes, then moved forward towards him, gripping a shoe in each hand.

  It wasn’t what the man was expecting. She was supposed to have cowered in fear, frozen to a standstill at the sight of the blade, or turned to run. Not this. He hesitated, a frown of indecision crossing his face. Then he snarled and launched himself at her.

  Ruth waited until the last moment, then stepped to one side. As the man was almost upon her, she swung her arm up and around in an arc. Her fingers were curled inside the shoe, with the stubby heel to the fore. She felt the impact all the way to her shoulder as her shoe connected with the side of his face. His own weight did the rest, and he cried out and careened past her, colliding with the side of a delivery truck and dropping the knife.

  Then he turned and ran.

  Ruth dropped to her knees, her legs wobbly, and watched him go. A woman rushed to help her, and a stocky man in jeans and a check shirt came round the side of the delivery truck and grabbed her other arm.