As Hank Multer sped north on I-71, he glanced down at the detailed map of Columbus, Ohio lying on the console of the rental car. Four more exits to go and then he would be making a left onto North Broadway. That would bring him within a few blocks of Swansea’s residence.
Yuri Popov had been furious when Hank informed him that Swansea’s flight out of LaGuardia was booked full and that the next flight to Columbus wasn’t for another four hours. Fuck him, he thought. It wasn’t his goddamn fault. But you’d think it was the way Popov had proceeded to shout a barrage of death threats over the phone after hearing the news. After he got a handle on himself, Popov told Hank to book the next flight out to Columbus, rent a car and resume his surveillance of Swansea the moment he arrived there.
Hank reached the North Broadway exit and took Indianola north until he reached Swansea’s street. A block and half further he arrived at his destination. Swansea’s house was a two story brick located on a good-sized lot with an attached single car garage. Since he didn’t have to worry about being recognized in his disguise, Hank drove a couple of houses past Swansea’s, pulled over and parked.
He checked his watch and noted the time: 5:15 PM. He had already decided that if Swansea weren’t there, he’d call Popov to find out if he was to simply hang out and wait for him to return or break into the place and see what he could learn about the guy. He got out of the car and walked leisurely toward the house, noting the quite peacefulness of the neighborhood and the lack of traffic. He was a long way from Manhattan.
He reached the driveway and figured that if Swansea were home, his car would be in the garage since there were no cars parked out front. He walked over to the garage and peered through a window. The garage was empty.
Hank glanced around then walked up to the front door, checked the mailbox, which was also empty, then peered through a window off to the side. Seeing no one inside, he walked around to a side window and looked in then went through a gate that opened to a backyard patio. He went over to one of the rear windows and saw nothing inside but an empty house.
The backyard had a six-foot privacy fence that effectively prevented prying eyes from the neighbors. He pulled out his cell phone and called Popov.
“I’m in at Swansea’s home – no sign of him. What should I do?”
“Shit, I was afraid you were going to say that. You have to find him, Hank, I have a feeling that he could be some kind of investigator from what Viktor told me. Seems he was snooping around his bar the night before he came out here. I just got home a few minutes ago and I’m going to look around and see if there are any clues to where he might have taken Nadiya before I go see Viktor.”
“Damn, Yuri, I’m really sorry I screwed this all up. The guy just didn’t look suspicious to me and I’ll really be surprised if he’s a cop. He just didn’t look the type, and I should know.”
“Hank, I hate to tell you this but you dropped the ball but royally this time. I don’t give a flying fuck if the guy looked like a frog in a tutu—you should never have let him get away!”
“You’re right, boss, of course. But I’m here now and surely he’ll show up before long—do you want me to hang out until he comes back?”
“Yes, but first I want you to go in and see what you can find out about him before he gets back. Do you think you can handle that?”
“Sure, no problem. I’m standing by his back door as we speak and it will be a cinch to pick this lock.”
“Do it. Then call me as soon as you find out who the fuck this guy is.”
“Okay, boss.”
“And don’t get caught, Hank. I mean it, if he catches you or you somehow screw this up, I’ll personally see that you sing soprano before I kill you.”
“Jesus—”
The phone went dead.
Hank shrugged and stuck his phone into his pocket, opened the storm door and took out his lock pick kit. It only took a minute for him to pick the lock and open the door. He stepped into a spacious den and began looking around. Finding a stack of unopened mail on the coffee table, he examined each piece but didn’t find anything significant—just a couple of bills and some junk mail. He looked through a stack of magazines by the recliner and saw quite a few techno-geek titles like MacWorld and Photoshop Weekly but nothing that would suggest Swansea was a cop or any kind of investigator.
He went into the kitchen, opened the fridge and saw a twelve-pack of Michelob and not much else. Something told him that Swansea lived alone since there wasn’t a whole lot of food and he’d seen nothing so far that indicated anyone else’s presence in the house.
He noticed a dog food bowl on the floor and his senses suddenly sharpened. If there was a dog in the house, his ass could be grass. He had a mortal fear of them. Instinctively he drew his Beretta from a shoulder holster and walked cautiously into the dining room. After a quick look around, he headed up the stairs leading to the second floor, keeping his eye out for any dogs that might bolt out from somewhere.
The first thing he did when he reached the top was freeze and listen for any sounds. Then he entered the master bedroom and started digging through the closet, nightstand and dressing bureau. Nothing suspicious.
Hank went back out to the hall and walked past the bathroom to the only room with a closed door. He quietly opened the door a few inches, craned his head and peered inside—just in case the dog was in there. He saw what appeared to be an office and entered the room. He went over to the computer and booted it up and started looking through several stacks of CD’s and DVD’s piled on the desk. Judging from the Sharpie-scribed titles, most of the disks contained images of this or that—cleaning products, office furniture, sporting goods and so on.
When the iMac’s desktop appeared, Hank took a quick look at the dock and read the icons for twenty or so applications. Besides Microsoft Office, he saw Photoshop, Dreamweaver, Flash, Illustrator, InDesign, Acrobat Pro and several more graphics-oriented programs. He read then names of the numerous color-coded folders on the desktop and noticed that many of the names contained “website.” He opened a few of the folders and looked at the files, which were mostly html pages. He knew from his experience with computers that these folders contained files for websites and that the guy probably designed and built them.
Most of the names of the sites were retail business related, which further indicated that the guy probably did web design for a living. He opened the email application but was surprised to find that he needed a password to access the mailbox. A bit suspicious perhaps, but not necessarily significant.
He dug around some more on the computer and found nothing indicating that the guy was any kind of law enforcement or investigative person. He had the feeling that the guy was clean and that Popov could quit worrying. After rifling through the desk drawers and finding nothing significant, he decided to clean up his tracks and call Popov to give him his report.
As he stood up he noticed a framed photo of Swansea and a woman standing together in front of the Horseshoe Falls in Niagara. The woman was tall, blonde and knockout gorgeous, hanging onto Swansea like her life depended on it. The guy sure had great taste in women, he thought as he turned and left the room.
After he left the house thorough the back door, Hank felt a little better now that he knew his instincts had been right on the money. Swansea was neither a cop nor an investigator—and maybe hadn’t taken Popov’s whore in the first place.
Now if he could just convince Popov of this, he may be able to save his own ass from the scary son of a bitch.
The Collector Page 49
