Dirty Deeds (15 page)

I knew she’d regret telling me all of this, especially so easily. I guess I had a face you wanted to tell secrets to, like a bartender or a priest. I’d missed my callings, I guess.

“Are you going to arrest me?” Kelly asked.

I shrugged and drew out my answer for effect. I wanted her to sweat a little, and I still had no idea why I was really here. I’d never done this before. It went against everything in my code about my work.

“I’m not the cops.”

She sighed. “I thought it was like on one of those Investigation Discovery shows, where we paid an undercover cop to kill our daughter and we were going to prison.”

“It sounds like you’re in prison for it,” I said. I put up a hand. “I’m not judging. You’re probably a horribly shallow mess to begin with. This is just a blip on the evil in your life and heart, and I wish I was the fly on the wall when you tried unsuccessfully to get into Heaven. You will be judged and you’ll burn for everything you’ve done.”

I knew I was slipping into bad territory in my head and I stood to leave and cut this short. I didn’t want to be the fire and brimstone preacher, screaming at this sinner to shock her into repenting. Hell, I was going to burn right alongside her for all the bad things I’d done.

He who is without sin cast the first stone and all that jazz. . .

“Why did you find me?”

“For all the wrong reasons. For my own conscience, I guess. I need to know one thing, though. . . who was the middle man you used?” I asked, wanting to run out of the nail salon. I knew the workers were waiting for Kelly to give the signal so they could begin working on her nails.

“He said he worked with you. He brokered these deals so they would run smoothly.”

“Did he tell you his name?” I asked, which I knew was a long shot.

“Roger something or other. Started with a K, I think. Kelm, maybe?”

I sighed. “Was it Clemens?”

She nodded and snapped a finger. “Yes. That was it. Roger Clemens. My husband said he had the same name as a famous football player.”

“Baseball player,” I said. First he’d used Nolan Ryan. Now Roger Clemens. Whoever this guy was he was taunting me by also using ballplayers, and especially famous pitchers. He knew too much about me and I didn’t like it.

“Any chance he left a number or anything else?” I asked.

She shook her head. “For what it’s worth, I chickened out at the last minute. I wanted to get in contact with you – him, I guess – and call it off. We couldn’t find a number or e-mail address.”

He’d been thorough. I always gave them an out to get in touch and call it off. I didn’t judge. Sometimes people made snap decisions they’d regret for the rest of their lives. I wanted to give them an option whenever possible, but the killer had made it so there was no turning back. If I could believe this fake woman sitting next to me.

The killer had left me no clues. I stood, ready to simply walk away from Kelly Osgood and Las Vegas and a dead cheerleader without another word.

“Wait,” she said, fear in her voice.

I turned and stared at her. She looked old and haggard under all the plastic surgery and fancy clothes, like someone had put lipstick on a pig and called it pretty.

“Are we done?” she asked.

“What do you mean? Am I going to the cops since you spilled your guts to me? No. You’ll never see me again. If you tell your husband about this meeting and he tries to do something foolish, know I will go to the cops.” I took out my cell phone and waved it for a second before putting it back in my pocket. “I recorded everything,” I lied. “If I don’t hear or see another word about this in six months I’ll erase it. You have my word.”

“Thank you.”

I shook my head. “Don’t thank me. I didn’t do anything today for you. This was all about me and my selfish pride, lady. Someday you’ll have to meet your maker and explain to Him what you’ve done. I don’t envy you. Good bye, Mrs. Osgood.”

My hands were shaking as I left the nail salon, walked across the parking lot and got into my car. I was away in seconds, pulling haphazardly into traffic and not caring right now.

A crystal-clear thought hit me like a ton of bricks.

I was sure the driver of the car that night was also the killer.

The killer who’d killed the real driver and stuffed him in the trunk.

The killer who took me to buy a suit. Why?

I called Marisa and before she could talk I began going a mile a minute.

“Book me a flight to New York. Within two hours. It doesn’t matter the cost. I need to get there as soon as possible. I have to get back to see Jacques, the suit guy. The killer acted like he knew Jacques, and knew exactly where to go. I need to talk to the suit guy,” I babbled.

I caught my breath but before I could continue Marisa cleared her throat.

“Boss. . . I know I’m not your favorite person right now, but I have more bad news.”

I pulled over onto the side of the road.

“Will Black didn’t go into the crack house to get high. He went in and out the back door. He’s gone. In the wind,” Marisa said.

“I need a flight to New York,” I said and hit the end call button.

I’m sure there are better people out there who don’t hold grudges. People who can rise above the petty hurts and forgive and forget when they’ve been slighted or angered.

I’m not one of them.

When I landed at JFK Airport and got into my rental car I’d missed three calls from Marisa, all on purpose. I really had nothing to say to her. I’d call once I had a chance to talk to Jacques and learn whatever I could from the suitor.

Jacques had come through with half a dozen gorgeous and expensive suits for me and thrown in an extra pant and shirt set for my troubles. I knew he was a legit guy as far as I knew legit guys. I needed to know how he knew the killer.

I also knew I was tired and constantly calling the killer
the killer
was getting annoying, but I didn’t have a clue who he was. It irked me. He obviously knew me quite well. He’d hacked into my system and knew every dark thing I’d ever done in my past, and where I’d really come from.

Marisa and I were going to have a nice chat once I cleared all of this mess off my plate, and the anger was propelling me forward. Even though I was really hungry right now.

What did I know? Not much. I hoped Jacques could give me a clue, even if he didn’t know the killer personally. If he’d been there before or purchased clothing from him it might help to pick up a trail.

I glanced in my rearview mirror and knew I was being followed.

Great. Just what I needed right now. It was a single driver and it could be anyone: the FBI, Keane, The Family, Chenzo, the killer, Santa Claus or the Tooth Fairy. Any way you sliced it I had another problem on my hands.

So much for stopping for a quick bite, too.

I drove straight towards Jacques’ office. No one would figure out where I was headed and I knew I could lose them in a side street at some point. Better to let them think they were still on my trail and I didn’t know they were back there.

About four blocks away the car following me turned right and disappeared. I didn’t know if it was a good or bad thing.

My phone rang again. It was Marisa. I was going to ignore it but I decided to be the bigger man for a moment and see what happened.

“I’ve been trying to reach you for hours,” Marisa said. She sounded really mad. Not that I blamed her, but I was even madder.

“What’s the latest? Chenzo in the middle of setting fire to my baseball cards?”

Yes, I can be a jerk when I want to. Nobody’s perfect.

“I’ve been following Keane all day. He went back to Washington DC to his desk. As far as I know he’s been in meetings all day, and naming names. He’s threatening to tear down the walls of the place. Lots of rumors flying and an hour ago two agents were taken out in handcuffs. Your buddy is cleaning house. I hope he doesn’t hold a grudge like you or we’re all in trouble. He’ll be the head honcho by the time the day is over,” Marisa said. “I spent quite a bit of money with my contacts inside to make sure he didn’t slip out the back. So far so good. As far as I can tell, your name isn’t being mentioned.”

“Thank God for small miracles,” I said.

“I managed to shut down our network for now and back everything out. I still have hard copies so I went ahead and corrupted the files and anything they touched. When I get back from DC I’ll rebuild it. . . the network and not the file system. Right now we have no way of getting new clients but at least I stopped him from intercepting any.” Marisa sighed. “I know we need to sit down and talk when you get back.”

“Yes, we do.”

“Until then. . . I’m doing everything off of my phone and tablet. Once you see Jacques I’d switch over to the next phone, too. As an added precaution,” Marisa said.

“I might lose you. I’m pulling into the garage for his building now,” I said.

“You could be fifty miles underground and I could hear you like you’re next to me. I juice every phone I get. No way I’ll lose you,” Marisa said.

I was quiet as I found a spot and turned off the car. I was still mad at her.

She finally got the hint when I got out of the car and slammed the door. I knew with her juiced phone she’d hear it.

“Ok. . . well. . . let me get back to Keane. Hopefully the guy will stop rolling heads and want to get lunch. I’ll stick to him,” Marisa said.

“Anything new on Will Black?”

“Nothing. I added three guys to find him. Hit his usual haunts and two goons are on their way to the jazz club to kick in the door if they have to. We’ll find him before Chenzo does,” Marisa said. She didn’t sound too convincing.

“Gotta go,” I said curtly.

“Boss. . .”

I closed my eyes and stopped walking towards the elevator. “Yeah?”

“I messed up. I’m sorry.”

I sighed. “We’ll straighten all of this out when I finish in New York.”

I hung up before we could get into this conversation deeper, which I didn’t want to do right now. I needed to focus on Jacques. He hopefully held some answers.

On the ride up the elevator I thought back to the last time I was here and wondered how I’d been so stupid. I took a strange driver’s word for it about an attack and the guy in the trunk was the real driver. Why didn’t I see it?

I tried to remember as much detail about the driver as I could. I’d never seen him before. He was in his mid-twenties, very non-descript and plain. I guess that was what he was going for. No tattoos, facial scars, crazy goatee or piercings. In movies and TV the bad guy always wore what I call the modern day black hat to set him apart: a teardrop tattoo, maybe a Bible saying on his neck, a shaved head and odd piercings. . . something to set them apart easily so the common civilian knew they were evil. Real life didn’t work this way, though.

A soon as the elevator doors opened I knew something was wrong.

The lights to the hallway were out and the front door to the loft was wide open. Inside was also dark.

I fumbled with my cell phone, silently thanking Marisa for the day she treated me like a child and showed me where some of the basic apps were. I jabbed at the phone, waiting for the doors of the elevator to close or a shot to ring out and wondering why I shouldn’t just run and never look back.

Just as the doors began to shut I put my foot out and stopped them.

I found the flashlight app and turned it on. I have to say I was impressed by how much light it gave off.

The light in the elevator was giving me enough light to know there wasn’t an immediate threat but if I went into the loft I’d be blind. I grabbed a fake tree in a heavy pot and dragged it to the elevator right before it closed, keeping the doors from shutting and leaving me on the floor. I might need to make an escape, and running down the stairs didn’t seem like a fun time.

I knew I was stalling, too. I didn’t want to find a dead body or a killer hanging over a dead body. Maybe Jacques tripped a breaker and needed to run out and get a new one?

Four steps into the apartment and I could smell the blood and it was fresh. The place stunk of it and I gagged.

The cell phone light showed about half of the studio, and when I moved a few more feet I saw Jacques.

Lying on the rug in a pool of blood. It looked like his neck had been sliced open with a very thick and sharp blade. When I saw the baseball card of Randy Johnson in his hand I shook my head. As if I didn’t already know who’d killed Jacques, he was hammering it home.

Instead of running to the body and examining him for signs of life and getting myself covered in his blood, I continued to shine the light to see who else was hanging around.

The bad thing about having the light so close is the shadows in the corners seem darker, and your mind plays tricks on you.

Plus, when someone steps up to your side and clubs you with something hard, it isn’t good, either.

I went down but managed to kick out and hit whoever had attacked me in the kneecap.

The phone almost fell from my hand as I hit the ground but I managed to also roll over and shine the light, already knowing who it was.

The killer.

He smiled at me and now I could see the .22 in his hand. He was still on the carpet near me but if I tried to rise or get at him I’d be shot at close range.

I was beginning to wonder why I didn’t carry a gun.

“Mind if I stand? I have bad knees,” I said.

When he didn’t answer I stood and shined the light away so I could get a good look at his face without being obnoxious and blinding him. He was too far away now to make a lunge for the gun and I didn’t feel like getting shot and bleeding out onto the floor.

It was the driver, which again wasn’t too hard to figure out. I just needed to know who he was and why he was doing the things he was doing to me.

“I don’t suppose you’ll tell me your name?” I asked.

“Not my name now. My real name was Harry. Remember me? You kidnapped me from my parents and gave me away to another couple in Portland.”

Portland Oregon. Now I really remembered the case.

“A simple
welcome
would’ve sufficed,” I said.