“Damn. I hate this bullshit.” He added in a tiny whisper to himself. “But the money is great.”
For the deputy police commissioner to leave his midtown apartment and not be noticed? Not the easiest thing. Bruner’s house was a brownstone that he inherited from an uncle who never had kids, but he had another house in Queens near Jewel Avenue. He urged Tammy to meet him out there to spend the night away from the city.
John gave his driver a nod and got into the Escalade heading east. The Queens-Midtown Tunnel ended up being less of a headache than expected—no need for lights and a siren, which was always preferable. He made it to the house before his wife.
“Thanks, Jim. Take off, but pick me up at 6:15 in the morning.”
The driver gave him a thumbs-up and bolted down the path to the waiting S.U.V. John watched him go.
The house was quaint, and he did his best to keep a low profile. There was no point in pumping money into the place, considering that it was just fine and matched everything else in the neighborhood.
He hit a speed dial number. “Honey. When are you here?”
She was driving the little Ford sedan that was past its prime. “Do you miss me?”
“Always.”
“Eighteen minutes. Is that quick enough?”
He grinned and looked at his watch. That could cut it a little close, but there was no alternative.
“Here.” She handed him the keys to the car. “I was hoping you wanted me home so you could surprise me with a nice dinner and a couple of gin and tonics.”
He patted her arm. “How ‘bout in an hour? Order up some subs and a beer for me.”
Tammy smirked. “There’s that primo Bruner charm and style I was looking for. Where are you going, anyway?”
“Just police stuff.” He was halfway out the door. “Try to keep my sandwich hot, babe. Thanks.”
The drive to the “spot” referenced in his notebook was 15 minutes from the house. He got there in twelve. Despite the excellent working relationship with her, it made sense to avoid issues—like showing up late.
A very bland Chevy parked just ahead of him on the dead-end northern Queens street. A forty-something woman, Hispanic, exited the driver’s side and walked over to stand in front of the Ford. She stopped and waited there about a yard away from the front bumper. John got out and walked around to greet her. It was dark, but he could see her in the dim light. She was fairly attractive. He stuck out his hand, but she didn’t shake it.
“We have a business arrangement. Shaking hands or talking about New York baseball is not part of the conversation.”
“It would be the Yankees,” he retorted.
She smiled. It was unreadable and maybe a tinge frightening. “You passed that part of the test. Screw that other team.”
“I’m glad we can agree on more than one thing, considering our history.”
“Let’s stick to business.” Her method of speaking was very direct—cold but cordial. “You have two problems, a reminder, and a question. Shall I start with the reminder or the problems?” She wasn’t asking a question; the woman was performing a monologue.
“We need to make sure that the notion of a woman running the city product is swept under the carpet. That’s one. Two. You’ve got a detective named Williams in Brooklyn. Ty Williams. Look him up and then re-assign him.”
Bruner scratched his head. “That’s not so easy.”
She frowned. “Make it easy.”
“Okay. I’ll figure out something. What’s his problem?”
“That’s irrelevant. Just move him.”
John looked around the dark street. The trees that ran along the sidewalk rustled a little. He did not fail to recognize that her choice of locations was thought out.
“What’s the reminder?”
The Hispanic woman lifted her right hand to flick back her hair. Just then, a small red dot lit up on the deputy commissioner’s chest. He froze.
“Now and then, I like to reinforce the details of my relationships.”
He looked down at the spot. It disappeared. He grinned at her. “Did I give you the impression that I was unreliable?”
“Of course not, but in my career, it is smart to be careful with your associates.” She turned towards her car but swung back around to face him. “Check your folder on the island. It’s been eating well and just got fatter. It’s my way of saying thanks for your work for the people of our lovely city.
“I appreciate that.” Bruner tried to look placid despite the knowledge that his life could be snuffed out in an instant.”
She smiled perceptively. “Don’t worry. You’re safe. I’ll let you know when and if you screw up—or maybe not.” She put her hand on his arm. “Bruner, we do good business. And, don’t we have a long, long history together?”
He hesitated. “I thought you told me not to mention that?”
“Well,” she exhaled smoothly. “Lately, I’ve felt like the past should be embraced and not ignored. I’m not so steely that I don’t remember what you did for me. Not just on St. Nick, but also the candy you snuck into a fragile girl’s hospital room.”
He shrugged as if to say that anyone would have done that.
“Don’t underestimate the value of your little chocolate presents to a kid who dispatched an armed robber who turned her dad into a vegetable.”
“Um. It was the least I could do.”
Rosalita smirked. “In this city? You could have written it off as another crappy event where the victims don’t really matter. Enough. Here’s my question. Before I forget. Where’s Casper?”
The deputy chief shifted uncomfortably. “I think he left the country.”
“That’s it? You have the resources of the biggest and most heavily-funded police force in the world, and that’s it?”
“Casper is tricky. His dad was a smart cop, and the guy is skilled at staying off the radar.”
She looked at him coldly. “I don’t give a shit if it was only 100k that he took from me. That ghost that you’re failing to locate saw us, our two dead associates, and a load of product. I consider that a huge problem. He can probably I.D. you. Does he have photos?”
“I’m not downplaying his ability to cause trouble.”
“Ah. Deputy. Your target did split out of the country. He’s in Europe. How is it that I can know this and you don’t? Forget it. I don’t need an answer to that. The man managed to slip through your fingers and is now in Spain or Italy. Probably Italy. I also have people looking.
“I put a nice paycheck into your account. Use some of that money to try and locate him. Bring me some of Mike Casper’s body parts.” Rosalita spun around and left without looking back.
Chapter 3
“Hey, Yank! You’re three minutes late.”
“It’s ten exactly,” said Mike checking his watch.
Cassie tilted her head and raised an eyebrow. “And I said three minutes before ten, right?”
Casper wasn’t sure how to respond.
“I’m playing with you! You’re only a smidgen late; I’ll get over it.”
He felt relieved but couldn’t quite wrap his head around why that should matter. “Walk on the beach?” he inquired.
“Absolutely!” She handed him a white paper bag. “You’re looking a tad skinny. I brought you some chips.”
“Thanks.” He took the bag and held it by his side.
She giggled. “Don’t be shy. I know you’re starving. You got the hungry man look about you. Make me happy and eat!”
Mike didn’t know what happened just then. He’d been having these superfluous chit-chats with Cassie for months. Casper had worked hard to keep their relationship limited to a couple of English speakers stuck in Pellaro, Italy. Nevertheless, he spontaneously felt something for her. Tip-toeing into a relationship was dumb, but she had some magnetism to her—and it was difficult to ignore. He threw some mental ice water on his hormones and attributed his desire to flirt as a symptom of sexual deprivation.
“Thanks again.” Mike stuffed some fries into his gullet. “I’m frickin’ hungry.”
Cassie seemed pleased but tried not to show it. She began walking south towards the sandy path on the right that led to the beach by the breakwater. He stepped quickly to be adjacent to her and munched contentedly.
Despite the daytime heat, which usually dragged on until late, it was cool. Outside of Casper’s chewing, they were quiet. The small waves sloshed against the rocks. Only a few puffy clouds were visible, and the new moon was just a sliver.
She stopped and pointed up. “Do you see that handful of stars right there? That’s called Cygnus. It’s supposed to be the shape of a flying swan.”
“A city dweller like me wouldn’t know that. Too much damn light in every direction.”
Cassie was the kind of person who caught details. “Ah. So now I know that your efforts to come off as a country boy were all a big fibbing campaign, wasn’t it?” She crossed her arms and tapped her foot.
Mike realized that the British girl just peeled away a one layer of his deception. “No. Not at all. I spent my childhood in Colorado, but then my dad got a job in an eastern city.” He lied.
“Oh really? Which one?”
“Um. Atlanta.”
Cassie resumed walking towards the shoreline. He felt like she was a detective working him over. “Atlanta? Lovely. Brilliant indeed. I’ve been to Atlanta. In fact, I’ve got an uncle living there. What’d you think of Stone Mountain? The carvings of eagles and presidents up there are amazing, don’t you think?”
“Hey. That’s my boat.” Casper pointed out to the Sylvia Cantonni.”
The attractive restauranteur could see the little fishing boat bobbing around slightly. “You know, Bill, it’s very nice—not like all those sailboats carved onto the side of Stone Mountain, Georgia, but still nice.”
“Yeah, nothing like those sailboats. This is a recently overhauled fishing boat. Not too many deep-sea options in Atlanta.”
“That’s it!” Cassie turned and poked her finger dead center into his chest. He involuntarily burped. “Good one, Billy,” she blurted out. “Now, let’s get something straight. I don’t particularly appreciate being lied to. Bill is not your name, so stop trying to hose me. Oh, and that carving on the cliff outside Atlanta is of a guy on horseback. No presidents and no sailboats. Clearly, you ain’t from Georgia, neither!” She said the last line with a strong southern accent.
“Ouch. Can you please stop poking me?”
“Only because you asked nicely. Now tell me the truth, or this date is going to come to an abrupt halt.”
He laughed. “This is a date?”
“No. It’s not a date yet, and it won’t be if you don’t start fessing up.”
“Cassie, I must say that you are seriously confusing.” He stood his ground and waited for her response.
“Okay. Bill. Have a good night.” She turned and started heading back to the street. “We’ll just keep it fish and chips then.”
Under the single street light, he watched her head off in the direction of the pub. She didn’t look back. “Cassie! Look, it’s complicated.” Even pissed off, this girl was still enthralling. He whispered a line that a friend used to say, “We hate to see them go, but we love to watch them leave.”
“Sorry, Bill. I can’t walk on the beach with someone who won’t even tell me his real name. For all I know, you’re some kind of fugitive,” she retorted.
“Where’d you come up with that, um, idea,” he stammered.
She swung around to face him from perhaps twenty feet away. “If you decide to repent your fraud, you know where to find me. Enjoy the rest of your chips, Georgia boy.”
*
Scott Barnett, chief technical officer of Rangolenk Industries, was periodically ambivalent about his boss. Not that they didn’t have a close relationship. The C.T.O. nurtured that connection for eight years. He worked his ass off to get in tight with Clemp.
“Hey Chuck,” Barnett cruised past the executive secretary and tapped on the open door.
Clemp raised a finger to hold off his tech guy so that he could conclude a call with a few grunts and a thank you. The C.E.O., hung up and signaled for Scott to shut the door.
“I know why you’re here.” Chuck tilted his balding head while easing his tall, slightly overweight frame back in his chair.
“You do?”
“Yes. The Knicker account and all the crazy security demands they have connecting to their order system here, right? It’s a real hassle, and you want me to talk them into backing off on their ridiculous timeline. Right?”
Barnett sat on the other side of the ornately carved desk and prepared to answer but was interrupted by the tones from his boss’s grandfather clock. The Westminster chime rang out, followed by two bongs. “I think I’ve got them settled. We managed to meet all their demands, and I even got a dinner invite out of it. Golf and dinner.”
“So then it must be that woman you’ve been pestering me about. The one you knew in high school?”
“You know, Chuck, you are darn good at reading people.”
Clemp smiled broadly. “That’s how I made it in this stupid-ass business. Go ahead, nudge me some more.”
He pulled out his cellphone and handed it over. “She’s an attractive woman, and she would be outstanding at backing you up at all those tricky little social events you attend.”
“Wonderful. So she’d be a trophy wife to help me close deals?”
Scott paused and showed a slanted grin. “Yes, help you to get deals done, and she’d be a hell of a great companion.”
The C.E.O. took a closer look at the picture. “She is pretty. I’ll grant you that. But, you know that I’m partial to blondes.”
“Off the record, boss, that’s what the civilized world calls being shallow.”
“That’s true. Your friend does look charming, and the dark hair is not a minus. So what is she angling for? What’s your cut?”
Barnett looked hurt. “I have no cut. But getting you into a stable relationship is going to pay benefits for all of us here at Rangolenk.”
“You’re starting to talk like a marketing guy. But seriously, you’ve known her for twenty years. Is she a gold-digger? She wants to get hitched, then file for divorce and take half the company?”
“Don’t you know me better than that? She wants kids. Her dad was Martin German.”
“Should I know the name? It doesn’t sound familiar.”
“Chuck, he was a kickass lawyer. The man earned a ton of money from Wall Street types. He was also a nice guy when he was outside the office. I’d call that well-rounded. Gave a lot of money to charity.”
Clemp swiveled around in his leather chair. “Okay, so he was a good guy. I’m not going to be dating him. What’s her deal? You didn’t even tell me her name.”
“Her name is Claire German. And her deal is that she’s been through a lot of crap, but she’s strong despite losing both her parents.”
“I don’t want a partner with a lot of psychological baggage.”
Scott sensed the resistance. “I hear you. But that’s my point; she lost her mother as a teenager. Her dad died in a freak accident. Even so, she was never unbalanced. I know because I saw her now and then at parties. Claire is focused on doing good things and making people happy.”
Chuck shook his head. “Too good to be true. She’s what 35, maybe? Never got married? That’s usually a warning sign.”
“The woman knows what she wants and didn’t settle. Her dad, left big shoes to fill. Claire wants to do things that matter, and she has the style and class to boost whoever she ends up with.”
“There’s always a catch. Is she in debt? If she sweeps me off my feet, then she’ll want a pre-nup with half my shares going to her?”
“Not a chance. She doesn’t want a dime of your stock. Claire actually told me that she didn’t want to date you because people would say that it was a ploy to get her hands on your equity in the company.
Claire ain’t that kinda girl.”
“And this fantastic, nearly perfect catch is not looking for something.”
“I didn’t say that. But why don’t you just try one date? She may decide you’re too stuffy and you work too much—no playtime.”
Clemp was quiet and thoughtful for a moment. The only pictures he had on his desk were of his sister and her husband and children. Plus a couple of photos of him playing golf and sailing. Not a whole lot of long-term meaning in that for a man who was almost forty-five. Despite his job title and money, he’d noticed that the dates and romances pretty much became few and far between.
“Alright. I’ll give one date a shot. I’m trusting your judgment, but I can always move on if Ms. German’s a dud.”
“Yes, Chuck. You can walk away if she doesn’t float your boat. I think you’ll find her to be a pleasant challenge.”
Barnett got up and headed to the door. He’d almost exited when Clemp drummed a pencil on his desk. Scott turned back around.
“One question. What happened to her father, the lawyer?”
“Do you promise not to obsess about it?”
“Why would I? But I might as well know upfront. Tell me.”
“He tripped and fell on a pair of scissors, right in front of Claire.”
Chapter 4
Guillies Gin Cafe on East 123rd Street was a business that survived Covid-19 by delivering all over Harlem. Now it was thriving by selling a delicious assortment of juices and African coffee. Ty Williams agreed that the description of the place was on the mark—except he didn’t see any actual gin sitting on the shelf behind the attractive girl working the espresso machine.
“Williams?”
Ty got up. “That’s me.” He sauntered over to the register and tried to look younger than thirty-three. She smiled, took his money, handed him his order, and moved onto the next customer. Professional, with body language that said she wasn’t interested.
The Brooklyn detective turned back towards his small table to see the reporter perched on a chair directly across from his. It was Glenda Jones, the one investigative sleuth among the N.Y.C. news media who actually got down in the mud to find out what was really going on. Screw the transwoman label, Williams was focused on how damn good Jones was at unearthing who the wicked were and what they were doing.
Cold Dead Hands (A Mike Casper Thriller Book 1) Page 3
