Full Ratchet: A Silas Cade Thriller Hardcover (26 page)

I
n the morning we had some trouble.

“Ouch!”

“Sorry, didn’t mean to kick you.”

“Why don’t you do your kata over there?”

“I
tried
shoving the bed but it won’t move. There’s no room.”

Light streamed through the east-facing window’s gauze privacy curtain—Harmony had pulled the drapes open when she woke. We were both trying to run through our dawn exercise routines.

“Do some isometrics or something. I can’t even stretch.”

“Okay, okay.” I gave up and pulled on Brendt’s pants. “I saw a Waffle House when we drove in. I’ll get some coffee and pastry.”

“Black. See if they’ll give you some oatmeal to go.”

I picked up her card key from the credenza. Its white plastic was stained from dirt.

“Is it okay if they cut your melon, or do you need little round balls?”

Harmony had one leg raised above her head, leaning against the wall in a ballerina’s vertical split. She looked over at me. “I’m sorry,” she said. “Hungry. Bad mood.”

“I know. Me too.”

Outside the air was cool, dawn broken but not yet warming things up. Cars hummed along the airport road, and a jet rose, shining gold in the sunrise. The Waffle House was only a few hundred yards down the road, but I drove anyway—pedestrians were the exception here, and I don’t like being an exception.

Coming out of the restaurant with a paper sack and two cardboard cups, I bought a copy of the
Tribune-Review
from a vending box. It seemed like a good idea to allow Harmony some additional time to herself. Back in the car I powered all the windows open, clicked the ignition back to off and pulled out the phone she’d given me last night. It was nothing fancy—another throwaway, in fact. I dialed Clara’s number.

“About time I heard from you,” she said.

“Sorry about that. Busy down here.”

“Harmony, huh?”

I paused a half second too long. “There’s lots going on—”

Clara laughed. “Good for you. She coming back to New York?”

“No, and we haven’t picked out a china pattern either. Can we talk about this some other time?”

“Sure.” The flippancy departed. “I saw Zeke in the hospital last night.”

I knew he’d planned to get a medflight back to New York. Zeke lives cheap in many ways, but he has the best medical insurance private money can buy. “He doing any better?”

“Stronger every day, he says. He didn’t look too bad, actually. Doctors wouldn’t mind keeping him, but you know Zeke—more worried about iatrogenic infection than a bullet through his lung. He’s going home later today.”

“I’ll check in as soon as I’m back.”

I pulled the tab off my coffee cup and drank. The sun was just up, and in the dawn’s long shadows the car was still cold.

“Zeke couldn’t tell me much about what’s going on, though,” Clara said. “Johnny had some bizarre story—Markson selling one of his companies to himself, in partnership with Russian energy money. What the hell are you doing down there?”

“I think that’s right,” I said. “It doesn’t reflect very well on Markson, but I wasn’t hired to enforce an ethics code. The real villain here—actually, ‘villain’ is too strong. The real
idiot
here is Brinker. If he hadn’t totally corrupted Clay Micro, Markson’s scheme would have gone off without a hiccup. He’d get his money, the Russians would get a half share of a drilling tech company, and they’d be on to the next deal. I’m sure Clay Micro is just one small step in a long chain of interlocked acquisitions, facilitated by Markson to keep his empire afloat a few more years.”

“But Brinker screwed it up?” I could hear her taking notes on her computer.

“This is all deep background, right?”

“Sure. Until you tell me different.”

“Brinker might have skated through, despite all the money he’d stolen, but he tried to shut down the investigation. Unfortunately, he used the crudest method available—his new drinking buddies, the Russians. They went and started a range war just to put a few curious accountants off the trail.”

“That’s how Johnny told it.” She stopped typing. “So . . . is it over?”

“Starting to feel that way.” I wasn’t sure, though. “I’m just not sure what to do about Markson.”

“Why do you have to do anything?”

“Harmony’s worried someone might come after her. Or me. Just to keep the story buttoned up.”

“That doesn’t sound like anything Markson would do. I mean, come on, the Buddha? He was on the cover of
The Economist
like two months ago!”

“I don’t know,” I said. “Maybe I’ll write him a letter.”

After we hung up, I started to call Johnny, then reconsidered. He’d already said he was trading against Markson, but that wasn’t going to get anyone in trouble. Maybe he’d even put a little aside for me, throw a little friends-and-family into my beneficial account.

I flipped through the newspaper while I finished my coffee. God knows why anyone wants to know what’s going on in the world anymore. I looked for the sports pages.

I almost missed the article, buried on page five of the third section.

—

“It must be the same site Brendt and his buddies were working on.” I talked through a mouthful of muffin, checking both mirrors before I bumped the car out of the parking lot. Harmony studied the paper folded in her lap, spooning oatmeal rapidly from a plastic container. “How many fracking press events can there be today? With a celebrity like him coming?”

“There’s no address. Just says Erlenton.”

“We’ll go over to Brendt’s house. He can tell us.”

“If he’s back yet.”

“If he isn’t—I hate to say it, but Dave will probably be there. He might know.”

I’d already tried Dave’s phone, and it had gone to voicemail twice in a row.

“Too much sugar.” Harmony finished her oatmeal. “But, you know, thanks.”

The article was short, with no photo:

WILBUR MARKSON TO VISIT NEW NATURAL GAS PROJECT

The man himself, come to cut the ribbon at the biggest wellhead yet drilled in western Pennsylvania. The reporter hadn’t done much more than retype a press release, quoting company executives talking about millions of cubic feet per day, tax dollars, clean fuel and energy independence.

“Looks like he’s okay with nonrenewables after all,” I said.

“But fracking?”

“Not so much, but if there’s money in it, I imagine he’ll bear up.” Having his smiling, cherubic face at a well-manicured well, nothing but a quiet pipe about the size of a fire hydrant, was just believable.

“He’s not too far away, either.”

“What do you mean?”

“Doesn’t Markson live in Ohio? That’s right across the state line.”

“It’s a big state.” But she had a point.

“What do you expect to do?” Harmony asked.

“Confront him?”

“That’s dumb. And pointless. Markson won’t talk to you—his people won’t let you get near him.”

“I know.” I jammed the rest of the muffin into my mouth and mumbled around it. “It’s what you said. ‘His people.’ That might include the Russians.”

“So?”

“So I’m tired. I want to go home. A conversation with Markson directly might be the easiest way to convince him we’re done.”

“What if he doesn’t believe you?”

“Then I threaten to go public. Can’t hurt.”

Harmony drank off her coffee. “Okay. Why not?”

Coming up to Brendt’s house, the first thing I saw was the Charger, gleaming in the early sun.

“Dave’s here,” I said, pulling into the driveway behind it. “And Brendt’s Saturn isn’t. He must not have come home yet.”

“Overnight.” Harmony got out, shaking her head. “That’s not going to end well.”

We walked up. The wooden steps creaked once, but the house stood silent, windows closed. After a moment I knocked.

The door swung open beneath my hand.

Fuck.

Harmony went sideways immediately, the Kahr appearing in her hand.

“Elsie?” I called into the darkness inside. “Dave?”

Nothing. Harmony and I glanced at each other.

“They could still be asleep,” I said in a low voice.

“Uh-huh.”

We went in like it was hostile—me first and immediately left, Harmony next and right. I shoved the door back with my shoulder, making sure no one was hiding behind it, while Harmony swept the room then moved to the next door.

Still nobody, but I caught a smell coming from the kitchen.

“Aw,
shit
.”

Harmony was already there, peering around the door frame. She straightened and turned back to me, raising her free hand slightly.

“It’s bad,” she said.

We cleared the house first. Protocol. Harmony went point, pistol at ready, room to room, then the basement. It took less than a minute—the bungalow couldn’t have been more than a thousand square feet. No one else was there.

I stood in the kitchen doorway.

Elsie slumped in a chair, half fallen onto the table, one arm dangling to the side. Blood ran underneath her, over the table, dripped onto the floor. It looked sticky already. I could see an exit wound at the back of her head, and there was enough mess in the back of her T-shirt to suggest another one there.

Rage coursed through me, stiffening my muscles. A keening, wordless sound came out for a moment before I realized and bit it off.

Flies buzzed.

The other body had fallen in front of the stove, curled onto the floor. He held a pistol, and the side of his head facing up was nothing but gore.

For all the violence I’ve seen, it never gets easier.

“It’s
Brendt,
” I said finally. My jaw hurt. “I thought, for sure—”

Harmony knelt, not touching anything, studying angles.

“Looks like a murder-suicide,” she said. “He killed her first, then put the gun to his head.”

I was wrenched two ways—horror at the deaths, relief that Dave wasn’t one of them. The emotions didn’t sit well together, and I forced them down, forced myself to concentrate.

“No.” I said. A scrap of white on the floor caught my attention.

“
Looks
like.”

“He didn’t do it.”

She stood up, holstering her own weapon. “It could be a setup. Forensics might find some clues. Main thing is, situations like this, the murderer usually doesn’t kill himself in front of the victim. He goes somewhere else.”

I didn’t answer, but bent to the floor and picked up the bit of paper I’d noticed. No—not paper, a cigarette.

Filterless. Just like the one from Brendt’s car.

“On the statistics,” Harmony said. “Like he can’t look at what he’s done.”

“Whatever. I know
this
one’s a frame.”

“We have to get out of here.”

We stepped through the living room, more carefully this time.

“I think you’re right,” said Harmony quietly, as we paused by the front door. “And we have to think about who might have done it.”

“The Russians.” I didn’t like how cold and certain my voice was coming out, though I couldn’t control it.

“Maybe.” Harmony put her hand on my arm. “But you have to consider—it could have been Dave, too.”

“No.”

“Why would the Russians care about Elsie? Dave’s the only one with
motive
. It’s the oldest triangle in the world.”

“Brendt’s left-handed,” I said. “Dave knew that—he’s been friends with the guy since they were eight years old.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.” I looked out. The neighborhood was quiet. No sirens. “Whoever arranged the scene in there, they put the gun in the wrong fucking hand.”

—

Harmony went straight for the car, but I angled across the lawn, headed for the neighbor’s house. It was the same vintage as Brendt’s, though more nicely kept.

“What are you doing?” Harmony called.

“Just a minute.” I pressed the bungalow’s bell, setting off chimes inside. A baby began to cry. After a half minute a drawn woman in sweats opened the door.

“What’s so goddamned important you had to go and wake her up for!” she demanded, rocking an infant in a stained onesie over her shoulder.

“Sorry,” I said. “I’m looking for Dave Ellins. My brother? Have you seen him?”

“What?” Her mouth opened.

“Dave Ellins? That’s his car over there.”

“I know Dave.” She squinted. “You look just like him!”

“Yeah. Listen, you hear anything earlier this morning? Shouting, like that?”

“What are you talking about?”

“I’m just trying to find Dave.” That didn’t make much sense, but the woman looked too tired for logical reasoning.

“Dunno.” She stared at Brendt’s house. “The way Carly cries, I could of missed a bomb going off. Up half the night.”

“Okay, thanks.” I turned to go.

“Wait—where’s Brendt?”

I didn’t reply, just gestured vaguely with one hand and kept going.

Harmony was sitting in the driver’s seat, but slid over when I opened the door.

“I was getting ready to wire it,” she said.

I paused. “Can you do that?”

She rolled her eyes. “How do you
manage
?”

I ignored the comment. “There’s only one way to figure this. Dave came over in the Charger, then left again. Brendt must have lent him
his
car. The killing happened after.”

“How—?”

“If Dave found them like that, and decided to run, he’d have taken the Charger—it’s faster and it’s his. Even more so if the Russians were chasing him.”

“What if they caught him already?”

I didn’t want to think about that. “Let’s assume not.”

Harmony still didn’t seem convinced. “We don’t
know
it was them.”

I showed her the cigarette I’d picked up from the floor. “It’s the same as we found in Brendt’s car after they used it to attack the garage.”

“Well . . .”

“There’s no one else involved.” I said it with utter finality. “You, me and them are the only players on the field right now.”

She nodded slowly. “Okay.”

“Look up Rockwire. On that fancy phone of yours? That’s where the Russians came from. So we’ll go there and ask where they went.”

“What about Dave?”

“He could be anywhere. I don’t
know
.” Frustration raised my voice. “Rockwire is our only lead.”