These Mortals
Page 17
“A specific model?” she said.
“A specific car. I saw it out and I’m curious about it. I need help narrowing it down.”
She said, “Okay,” unconvincingly.
“It’s goofy, I know.”
“So…maybe a salesman?”
“Or woman.”
She gave me unamused. “Right. Good point, sir.”
“Every little bit helps.”
She spun in her chair and looked toward the distant glass offices. “Brian should help, but…he appears to be with a client in the lot. Would you care to take a seat? I’ll ring him.”
It was as she indicated that I should take a seat and wait with my stupidity…it was as she reached for her phone…it was as I got a good view of her profile that I realized I knew her.
I was looking at the very woman I’d been searching for. She was Stephanie.
She’d left the bartending business to work at BMW of Lynchburg and I’d stumbled into her as I was chasing leads.
Mackenzie August, falling ass-backwards into success since 2015.
“Um,” I said. Professionally.
“Will that work, sir?” she said.
“Well…yes.”
“Good.” She pointed at the chairs and waited. I got the impression from her that I might have special needs.
“Thanks,” I said.
“You’re welcome, sir.”
I sat.
She picked up her phone and spoke into it.
Calling Brian, probably. Arranging a meeting I no longer needed.
She was Stephanie. No doubt. Her hair was different from the photograph at Chili’s, shorter and sharp. Beneath the new nose and…lip injections, perhaps?…I could detect the woman from Darren’s photographs. Stephanie Griffin/Robbins/Douglas/Cole.
What did I do now?
Not meet with Brian, that’s what.
I faked a phone call. I stood and fake answered it, and began pacing the marble lobby. Mumbling to no one.
I couldn’t reveal who I was. One thing Stephanie had made crystal clear during the previous thirty-six months was that she didn’t want to be found. Had to play this carefully, like sneaking up on a deer.
The lobby of a car dealership, I decided, was not the ideal ambush.
I’d try during her lunch break or after work. Carefully and with investigatorial tact.
I fake hung up. Returned to her reception desk, where she was steeling herself to deal with the lunatic again.
“Work calls, and I need to go. Tell Brian I’ll come back soon.”
A polite smile. “Sure. I will.”
I grabbed a card from her desk. It read Stephanie Hart.
“I’ll call first, next time.”
The polite smile remained. “Good idea, sir. That will speed things up.”
I turned and left, my ears burning.
Thursday Afternoon
Manny
Manny Martinez ordered half the room service menu when he woke. He set the house phone down and drifted off another twenty minutes, woke again, and went to the bathroom to rouse himself. He emerged as two concierge valets pushed in carts loaded with food.
They left and Manny stood above the bounty, gingerly working his shoulder and eying the unopened bottle of Bombay, wondering at what point during the meal he should partake in a cocktail. Maybe all the points.
“You know what today is, Beck?” he said.
“The day you die from gout?” She’d ordered a salad and sparkling water. From her place on the floor, leaning against the wall with her computer in her lap, she watched him pump the arm, watched his bunching shoulder and his face, and she winced in sympathetic pain. Also his shirt was off and she was only human.
“No, señorita. It’s a good day for carbs.”
“You earned some,” she said.
“I earned all of them.”
“Can I update you, while you eat?”
“Not yet.” He sat on the mattress and buttered a cinnamon raisin bagel, forcing himself to use both hands. His shoulder would heal. The bullet had grazed him, like a knife wound. A month of physical therapy and then good as new. Until that point, he’d force it.
He ate the roll, a Willard burger, a pork tenderloin, some flatbread with tomato and basil and mozzarella, and a raspberry mascarpone cream cake. At the end, he mixed a glass of gin and ginger ale and ice, and scooted back on the bed. He leaned against Darren’s foam pillow and took a long drink. Chased it with some Tylenol. Closed his eyes and said, “Estoy contento.”
“Ready?”
“Ready.”
Beck began. “The Coast Guard bust off the coast of Cape Henry isn’t national news yet. Maryland Victory’s still being searched, but tomorrow the military will announce the seizure, the biggest in years. Lieutenant Gibson will survive, though his days of running marathons might be over. He’ll get a medal, certainly.”
“He should have been more careful. A medal’s no replacement for a working leg.”
“Would you like a medal? You deserve one.”
Manny snorted. “Medals are meaningless. I have America. Keep going.”
“Special Agent Weaver called. She agrees—we were never involved with Maryland Victory, except if she needs to leverage the successful seizure as evidence to justify additional funding for JFIC. She sends her best wishes for your speedy recovery,” said Beck.
“She’s not angry?”
“She’s furious. I learned several new curse words.”
Manny opened his eyes. “Which words?”
“Under no circumstance will I repeat them. I provided her with further vague details of what we’re doing. She says we abused our supremacy license and if this goes wrong we’re out of JFIC.”
“Which curse words?”
“No way. I won’t even write them down.”
Manny closed his eyes again, disappointed. He liked learning new English words to impress Mackenzie.
“Rocky called,” she said. “He touched base with some of the Kings, who obviously aren’t happy about losing the inbound cocaine. But the general consensus is, it could have been much worse. Rocky revealed Darren’s involvement with MS-13—the Kings owe us and they know it.”
“Damn right, they owe us.”
“Rocky will confer with Kerry Price later today, and he’s confident she’ll produce an informant to help Mackenzie.”
“What informant? How will that help?” Manny’s gin and the residue of powerful painkillers and the exhaustion was gaining ground on him.
“I don’t know. But Rocky said it would.”
He nodded. “It better.”
“One more thing.”
“I’m sleepy, Beck.”
“This is important.”
“Talk fast. I do everything well, even sleep,” he said.
“I’m monitoring Darren Robbins’ email. He’s been communicating with Hal New.”
“Hal New? Who’s that?”
“Hal New is the contract killer Darren hired,” said Beck.
“Oh yeah. Him. Bastardo.”
“Stay with me, Sinatra.”
“Talk faster, Beck.”
“Darren offered him a million to kill Mackenzie. And another to kill you. Are you listening?”
“Two million,” said Manny.
“Right. He upped the amount. Significantly. In the email, Darren stipulated the contract would stay off the ledgers. And that Hal New would help him kill Mackenzie within the next few days.”
Manny snorted again. “Darren wishes.”
Beck was upset. Her voice betrayed her. “Hal New accepted the contract. He’s going to kill Mackenzie soon and then you after. For two million dollars. Sinatra? Did you hear?”
“I heard.”
“And?” she said.
“Gonna take a lot more than two million.” He grinned, his eyes still closed. “But if he can, that’ll be the bargain of the century.”
“This isn’t funny.”
“Shhh,” he said as he slipped off.
Thursday Afternoon
Mackenzie
Stephanie drove off the lot in a tiny BMW Z4, cherry red, a convertible with the top up. She turned north on highway 221 and parked at a little mall after the intersection. She ate lunch by herself at Zoe’s Kitchen and afterward perused The Fresh Market.
As she did, I perused Facebook and the BMW of Lynchburg website. I used a burner phone purchased at a local Cricket store. My normal phone, the one Darren hacked, was inside a Holiday Inn on the southern edges of Lynchburg. I didn’t want him tracking me this afternoon.
Stephanie was listed as Stephanie Hart on the card and on the website. The manager of the BMW dealership was Jerry Hart, a pleasant looking guy in his late forties, going bald. My guess, it was Jerry Hart’s dark BMW she’d been seen entering several times after work; they met while she tended bar at Grey’s, he quickly proposed—she was in an entirely different league than him, based on their photos—and she went to work at the BMW dealership. She got the stability she desperately needed and he got a pretty wife eager to please. Win win?
Just a guess. But I was right.
Jerry Hart hadn’t updated his Facebook profile to reflect the union. That didn’t bother me much—she would’ve asked him not to. She was still a woman who wished to avoid a digital footprint on social media. Thus he was prohibited from bragging about her with photographs online.
It was as I flipped through his digital photos that Stephanie knocked on the passenger window of my car. She knocked with the barrel of a revolver.
Jiminy Christmas.
She’d snuck out of The Fresh Market and got the drop on me.
In my defense, it’d been a long week.
I hit the unlock button. She didn’t open the door. She knocked again, a hard clack-clack-clack. The pistol was mostly hidden within the folds of her stylish overcoat. I lowered the window a crack.
“You selling pistols,” I said, “car to car? No thanks, I hate violence.”
“You’re following me.”
I couldn’t see her face. She wasn’t bending to the window.
“Yes.”
“Tell me why.”
“Get in. Let’s talk.”
“Put both hands on the wheel,” she said. I did. She stepped back to verify. “Do you believe I’ll shoot you?”
“I doubt you will. But I won’t risk it.”
“I will.”
“Get in.”
She opened the passenger door. Kept the pistol steady. She slid in and closed the door. She smelled like Burberry perfume that I hadn’t noticed at her desk. She was still an attractive brunette, though the gun ruined it. The plastic surgery didn’t help her appearance much; she’d already been pretty, but now it bordered on too perfect. Her bright green eyes weren’t happy with me.
“Drive,” she said.
“No.”
“I’m the one with the gun. Drive.”
“You’re the one panicking. I don’t think you’ll shoot me in this parking lot. But if I drive to some abandoned junk yard? I’m less confident that you won’t shoot and set fire to my car.”
She thought about that some. “What do you want?”
“I want you to relax. I won’t tell anyone you’re here.”
Her eyes narrowed. Anger and suspicion. “Do you know who I am?"
“I do.”
“Who am I?”
“You’re Stephanie Griffin Robbins Douglas Cole Hart.”
She bunched her mouth to one side in tight grimace.
“Shit.”
“I’d have trouble keeping the names straight, I was you.”
“Why are you following me?”
“I’ll tell you. But calm down. The answer isn’t as bad as you think,” I said.
“Ugh. It better not be, for your sake.”
“Darren sent me.”
“I already knew that. Keep going,” she said.
“You already knew?”
“I knew at the dealership. You have a bad poker face.”
I frowned, in high dudgeon. “In my defense, it’s been a tough week.”
“Keep going.”
“Our situation is complex and requires some explanation.”
Stephanie’s spine was straight and her voice hard. She wore a little too much makeup, like armor. She leaned toward me, not away, unafraid of conflict. A formidable woman. I understood why she and Abigale Holloway, the woman in a Bedford jail, got along. They were both tough women, not pining for life to do them favors.
She said, “Give me the short version.”
“I have a message from Darren.”
“I don’t want it. And now I have to move,” she said. “Again.”
“Like I said, I won’t tell him where you are.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“I promise.”
“Grow up,” she said. With a snort.
“You aren’t interested in what he has to say?”
“I already know what he wants.”
“What does he want?” I said.
“That’s not your business. Who are you, anyway?”
“I’ll give you my card later in the conversation. It’s in my jacket pocket and you’re about to shoot me, so let’s not risk it. I’m Mackenzie, a private detective from Roanoke.”
She released a sigh, an angry blast of air, and leaned against my passenger seat facing me. “I knew that son of a bitch would show up sooner or later. Men are just the worst.”
“He won’t know where you are. I won’t tell.”
“Why’d he hire you in particular? Are you in his mafia circle of assholes?”
“No. He hired me because I’m good. But as I said, it’s complex.”
“How’s it complex? Give me the slightly longer version.”
I had to dole out some truth. I didn’t know what I was doing, just feeling it through as I went, but I’d anticipated this part, that I’d need Stephanie on my side and that required honesty.
“Darren and I are in an old-fashioned feud,” I said. “He tried to kill me; it didn’t work, so I gave him an ultimatum—run away or else. He was ‘fired’ from his mafia group of assholes because of me, and told to leave the country. In retaliation, he abducted my wife and forced me to find you. He’ll kill her soon if I don’t.”
“Why did he try to kill you?”
“I took away someone he loves.”
“Why’d you do that?” she said.
“I am spoilt for reasons. But I’ll say, love.”
“Your story is bullshit. Why should I believe this?” She twisted to look out all my windows. Checking for an ambush.
“For starters, you can google him. He died two weeks ago, except he didn’t. He faked his death to collect on insurance before leaving the country. That’ll corroborate parts of my story.”
“That sounds like something Darren would do. He’s a prick who can’t think past himself.”
“True. He’s also human. Like the rest of us, he gets desperate,” I said.
“I don’t care if your story is true. If it is or if it isn’t, you are ruining years of careful hiding.”
“Hiding from him?”
“Yes. From him.”
“He won’t find you, Stephanie.”
“You just said he’ll kill your wife unless you deliver me.”
“Remember, it’s a complex and dynamic situation. I haven’t told you everything yet.”
“Ugh. What the hell am I going to do now?” She shifted her gaze off me to stare at people going into The Fresh Market. “Move again, I guess. My son’s already on the verge of disowning me.”
“John doesn’t have to move again. I have an idea.”
“I don’t care about your idea,” she said. No tears. Just anger. “Fuck your idea, you ruined my life today.”
“My idea is, we should work together.”
“No.”
&
nbsp; “I’d like to reach into my jacket pocket, without getting shot. I wrote down some telephone numbers for you to call. They’re on the back of my business card. I’m working with Roanoke City’s sheriff, and a US deputy marshal, and an NSA. agent to take down Darren. You can call the numbers to verify.”
That got her attention. Her eyes came back to me and her eyebrows knitted. “A marshal?”
“The witness inspector you worked with at Roanoke’s marshal’s office died. But I’m working with another deputy marshal named Manny Martinez.”
“Show me the card. Slowly.”
I reached into my jacket pocket. Kept the other hand on the wheel. I removed the business card and placed it on the dash between us. She took it and glanced at the numbers.
“This is really the sheriff’s office? And the marshal’s office?”
“Yes.”
“I can verify these numbers online. If this is a trick, it’s a stupid one.”
I nodded. “Verify them online. And then call them.”
“Is this a trap? I know my rights. They can’t arrest me.”
“I believe you.”
“I haven’t done anything illegal.”
“Stephanie. Dare to hope. Maybe, just maybe, I’m telling the truth, and I’m giving you the means to verify it.”
“Even so, that doesn’t mean I’ll help you,” she said.
“Will you call the numbers?”
“Maybe.”
“You’re scared of Darren.”
“Of course. I hate that bastard.”
“Do you have something that he wants?” I said.
She pocketed the card and opened my car door. “Yes.”
“What is it?”
She got out, doing her best to keep the gun on me. But it was halfhearted. On some level, she knew I wasn’t the enemy.
“Working with me is your best option, Stephanie. We’re on the same side.”
She leaned down to give me a good glare. “No one’s ever been on my side, Mackenzie.”
“Things change.”
“And some things don’t. Like Darren.”
She slammed the door hard enough I worried the window might crack.
Thursday Night
Mackenzie