Kill Fee (14 page)

P
arkerson drove the asset to the old Atlantic Coast Line depot in Palatka, Florida. He bought a ticket from the Amtrak agent inside, and then walked back out to the parking lot to sit in the Cadillac and wait for the train.

The asset still hadn’t said anything. He’d sat in silence as Parkerson reversed the big Cadillac down that godforsaken dirt road, unaware of how close he’d been to death. He’d sat and said nothing as Parkerson drove north, and he said nothing now, in the Amtrak parking lot.

The train station was nearly deserted. An older couple waited on the platform, surrounded by suitcases and overstuffed plastic bags. They were the only other people Parkerson could see. He checked the time and stared out the window down the tracks, searching for the train’s headlight in the darkness.

He handed the asset the train ticket. “This will get you to Philadelphia,” he said. “Get you home. Go back to your apartment and stay there. Understand?”

The kid nodded. “Yes.”

“You’re no longer Richard O’Brien.” Parkerson held out his hand. “As soon as they take your ticket, you throw out whatever ID you have with that name on it. Everything. Give me your wallet.”

Wordless, the kid produced his wallet. Parkerson took it, removed the
Triple A Industries credit card. Thought for a moment, and then dug in his own pocket and handed the kid a hundred dollars in twenties. “In case you need to eat.”

The kid folded the money into his wallet. Didn’t speak.

“Stay in the apartment,” Parkerson told him. “Don’t leave. Wait for my instructions. I’ll have your new name and ID ready in a couple of days.”

The kid put his wallet away. Parkerson studied his face. “What did I just say?”

The kid repeated his instructions, word for word. No hesitation. Like a robot. When he’d finished, he paused. Shifted his weight and looked at Parkerson like a first-grader with a full bladder.

“What?” Parkerson said. “What’s the matter?”

The asset hesitated. Opened his mouth and couldn’t seem to form words. “The visions,” he said at last. “You—”

“I’ll deal with the visions,” Parkerson told him. “I have a few more jobs I need you to do for me. Then I’ll make everything better. Understand?”

The kid looked at him, a glimmer of hope in his eyes. It was the first sign of life Parkerson had seen all day.

THE TRAIN SHOWED UP
at a quarter to ten. Parkerson walked the asset onto the platform. Stood him in line beside the gleaming coach cars and watched the asset climb aboard and pick out a seat. The kid didn’t look at him. He stared straight ahead, at the seat back in front of him. Didn’t move, barely blinked, and then the train pulled away.

Parkerson watched the train inch away from the platform. He kept his eyes on the asset as long as he could. Then the coach car was gone and the train picked up speed, the diner flashing by, then the sleeping cars, until all that was left were the red marker lights on the end of the last car, disappearing into the night.

Parkerson stood on the platform for a few minutes, listening as the big
diesel engine’s throb slowly faded away. When he turned from the tracks, the platform was empty. He walked back to the Cadillac and slid behind the wheel. Closed his eyes and rested there for a moment. Then he straightened and fired up the engine. He still had a long way to go.

M
athers hates you.” Windermere grinned at Stevens as he settled beside her. “Poor bastard had his heart set on South Beach.”

Stevens forced a laugh. “Miami’s nothing special in the springtime, anyway.”

“It’s freaking
perfect
, Stevens. And manning the fort while we run off and have an adventure is hardly going to turn Mathers on.”

“Yeah, well.” The plane jolted back from the gate. Stevens gripped the armrests. “Right now, I’m not exactly concerned with what turns Mathers on.”

“Maybe you should be,” said Windermere. “The big dummy asked me out.”

Stevens looked at her. “Really?”

“The other night, yeah. He tried to play it cool, but I could see what he was aiming for.”

“You turned him down.”

“I did.” Windermere picked up her magazine. “Don’t know why, though. It might have been fun.”

She paged through the magazine and said nothing else, leaving Stevens to clutch the armrests and stare out the window, his stomach churning and his mind working like a hamster in a wheel as the plane shuddered its way down the runway.

IT WAS JUST AFTER MIDNIGHT
when they landed in Miami. There was a federal agent waiting for them at the arrivals gate. He looked fresh, despite the hour, and he grinned wide when he saw Windermere. “There she is,” he said, wrapping her in a hug. “You figure your old friends couldn’t cut it down here, or what?”

“Roman.” Windermere hugged him back. Then she gestured to Stevens. “This is Kirk Stevens, Minnesota BCA. We’re working this thing together.”

The agent studied Stevens. “A state cop, too,” he said, deadpan. “You must really think we’re weak down here, Carla.” Then he grinned at Stevens. Held out his hand. “I’m just playing, brother. Roman Ojeda. Pleased to meet you.”

Ojeda’s energy was infectious, even after the flight, and Stevens smiled as he shook the man’s hand. “Likewise,” he said. “See if I can’t teach the FBI a thing or two.”

Ojeda grinned at Windermere. “A gamer. I like him already.”

Stevens and Windermere followed Ojeda to his waiting Crown Vic. They piled in, and Ojeda drove away from the terminal. “Got a couple of rooms at the Golden Glades Hotel, couple blocks from the office.” Ojeda glanced at Windermere. “Kind of shady digs, but we didn’t know where else to put you.”

Windermere nodded. “It’s cool. We’ll be close to home base, anyway.”

“Get you your own ride if you want it. Weapons, whatever you need.”

“Car would be nice. Guns, too. This guy’s not exactly an amateur.”

“Who is this cat, anyway? What’s the story?”

“Wish I knew,” she said. “We’re still scrambling.”

She gave Ojeda the rundown. The whole story, from Saint Paul to Duluth to Miami. In the backseat, Stevens leaned against the window and stared out at the night. He listened to Windermere for a while, tried to keep his eyes open. Within a few minutes, though, he’d drifted off.
When he woke, they were parked outside a hotel. Ojeda climbed from the car and walked them to the front doors. “Reservation’s in your name,” he told Windermere. “See you tomorrow.”

Stevens stretched, yawning. “Christ,” he said, following Windermere into the lobby. “I’m ready for bed.”

“Yeah?” Windermere turned and grinned back at him. “Get your sleep when you can, partner. As of tomorrow, we’re twenty-four seven.”

L
ind rode Amtrak’s
Silver Star
through the night. He stared out the window, watching his reflection slowly fade as dawn broke over the Carolinas. The train trundled north through Raleigh and Richmond, Washington, D.C., and Wilmington, Delaware, and Lind watched the scenery pass and didn’t move much, drank bad coffee and tried not to sleep.

Something had gone wrong in Florida. Lind could tell. He felt an emptiness gnaw in his stomach, a worry. He was counting on the man’s help to make the visions go away. The man had promised he would help. It was a promise Lind clung to. It was the only thing that kept Lind from blowing his own head off.

The train pulled into Philadelphia’s 30th Street Station early in the evening. Lind stood, stretched, and filed off the train with the rest of the passengers. Rode the elevator up to the concourse and walked outside to the street.

It was raining again. It was always raining lately. Lind ducked his head and walked into the city. He was soaked before he made it two blocks, but
he hardly noticed. He walked back to his apartment, rode the elevator to his floor. Turned on the TV and every light in the place, brewed another pot of coffee, and sat down on the couch to wait for the man to tell him what to do.

C
ameron Ansbacher,” Windermere announced. “That’s our dead yachtsman. Owns a shipping company.”

Stevens caught her eye across the boardroom in the FBI’s Miami office. They’d commandeered the location for a temporary base of operations first thing in the morning. Now, with Roman Ojeda’s help, they’d set to work hunting down their shooter. “A shipping company,” he said. “And the boat’s owner is an importer.”

“Coffee.” Windermere sat. “The guy imports coffee. Or that’s what he claims.”

“So we’ve got a shipper meeting with a coffee importer on a mega-yacht in Miami Beach. How does this tie in with Spenser Pyatt and Eli Cody?”

“I had Mathers go through our files on Pyatt this morning. He couldn’t find any connection. Ditto for Cody.”

“How’s the kid doing up there in the cold?”

“Mathers?” Windermere shrugged. “He ain’t happy, Stevens.”

“Shit.”

“Thought you didn’t care what turned him on, partner.” She grinned at him. “He’s a junior agent. You know how many times I got stuck shoveling shit in this office while everyone else got to run off and play cowboy? It’s a fact of life around here. Gotta put in your time.”

Stevens shook his head. “Still robbed the kid of his trip to the beach.”

“Still nothing, you big softie. Focus on the case.” She picked up a stack of paper, examined it idly. “Mathers couldn’t find anything linking Pyatt, Cody, and Cameron Ansbacher.”

“Besides the fact that they were killed by the same shooter.”

“Yeah,” said Windermere. “The shooter’s the same, but maybe that’s the only connection.”

“That’s a pretty damn big connection, Carla.”

“No doubt,” Windermere said. “I’m just thinking maybe we get further if we treat Ansbacher and Pyatt like two distinct crimes. Add up all the facts and look for similarities.”

Stevens mulled it over. “Okay,” he said. “So what do we know about Cameron Ansbacher?”

ACCORDING TO MIAMI PD,
Ansbacher was a fifty-six-year-old American expatriate living on the island of St. Kitts. He owned a small shipping firm, as advertised: a couple of old cargo ships used mainly, it appeared, to transport goods from Miami around the West Indies. He’d been in Miami
to negotiate a contract with one Hugo Peralta for the import of coffee beans from Colombia into the United States. From what the police department could gather, the deal was almost done.

“And then Ansbacher stepped aboard Peralta’s yacht and caught a bullet in his brain,” said Windermere. “No deal.”

“No deal.” Stevens stared out the window to the highway beyond. “Huh. So maybe someone didn’t want Ansbacher importing that coffee.”

“Like a competitor? Like our shooter’s some kind of murderous shipping magnate?”

“Who knows? The timing is suspicious, is all I’m saying.”

“Ansbacher was scheduled to fly back to St. Kitts on Monday morning,” said Windermere. “Maybe it’s a coincidence he was murdered on
Peralta’s yacht. Like it was the only time our guy could get to him before he flew home.”

Stevens threw up his hands. “Shit. We’re just guessing at this point.”

Ojeda poked his head into the boardroom. “Hey, guys,” he said. “Got a present for you.”

“Is it security footage?” said Windermere.

Ojeda shook his head. “TSA’s still being a bastard. But I have someone I want you to meet.” He ducked back from the door. Ushered in a companion, a heavyset woman with dark eyes and a set jaw. She held Stevens’s gaze like a challenge.

“This is Officer Oneida Ware,” said Ojeda. “She thinks she saw our shooter.”

Ware glared at Ojeda. “Don’t
think
anything. I
saw
him. I saw them both.”

Stevens and Windermere swapped glances. “Both?”

Ojeda laughed from the doorway. “I’ll get Officer Ware a coffee. I think you’re going to like what she has to say.”