Kill Fee (15 page)

S
tevens watched Oneida Ware sip her coffee across the boardroom table. The airport traffic cop stared back at him over her cup.

“We shut down O’Brien’s alias,” said Stevens. “Put a hold on his corporate credit card, too. No way he should have been able to skate undetected.”

Ware put down her cup. “Wasn’t skating alone,” she said. “Like I said, he had help.”

“Who?”

“Middle-aged white guy. Real clean. Nice suit. Blocked the rental car ramp in his Cadillac. I heard the commotion, a bunch of horns and whatnot, came out of the garage, and saw the Caddy was abandoned. Was about to call for a tow truck when the driver came back with your boy. Piled him in the car and drove off.”

“He intercepted O’Brien,” said Stevens. “Then they bolted.”

“You remember the guy’s face?” said Windermere. “Maybe we can get a sketch out. Put his face on the street.”

“I can try,” said Ware. “Don’t know how much good it would do you. Guy was your everyday old white man, like I said.”

“You remember anything else about him?” said Stevens. “About the car?”

“The car, yeah. Was a gray Cadillac. Four doors. Plates from out of state.”

“What kind of out of state?”

Ware shrugged. “North Carolina, maybe? I didn’t get a clean look.”

Stevens made a note. “Anything else?”

“Nah. It was fast.”

“But you’re sure he’s the guy.”

“Yeah.” Ware frowned. “I seen the drawings you all passed around. It’s the same kid. Spooky eyes, like he was sleepwalking.”

“That’s our guy,” said Windermere. She looked at Stevens. “Let’s get Officer Ware to a sketch artist. Try and get a read on this mystery accomplice. If the TSA’s not going to help us, this might be our only shot.”

P
arkerson drove north up Interstate 95 until he hit Savannah, Georgia. Then he made a detour.

He’d spent the night thinking about the asset, about the Miami job. He kept seeing the target’s head explode, the asset’s blank eyes. The kid was a genuine killer. A credit to the Killswitch program, and he’d gotten out of state clean. There were still too many new applications, though, for one asset to handle. It was time to expand the program.

He turned east onto Interstate 16, bombed across Georgia through Macon to Atlanta, where he found a cheap roadside motel with a vacancy sign, and parked the Cadillac for a few hours’ rest. It was nearly five in the morning; the eastern horizon was just starting to show light. Parkerson had been surviving on Red Bull and adrenaline for the better part of two days.

He slept until nearly noon, and when he woke up he showered and drove to a shopping mall, where he bought fresh clothes and a toothbrush and changed in the mall bathroom, splashed cold water on his face, and examined himself in the mirror. His eyes were bloodshot and sunken, his hair unkempt; he needed a shave. He was starting to look like one of the assets himself.

Parkerson dried his face and walked out of the bathroom. On the way out of the mall, he bought a pair of cheap sunglasses and a Braves hat—a ready-made disguise. He drove the Cadillac into a leafy suburb in the northeast part of town, found a back road office complex, a couple of restaurants, and a sketchy talent agency. He parked across from a
nondescript commercial low-rise and watched the building’s front doors from inside the car.

It was a busy day, and Parkerson watched people walk in and walk out for a couple of hours, listening to more Bach and fighting the exhaustion and adrenaline that seemed to come at him in waves.

THEY BEGAN TO ARRIVE
a little before three. Men, mostly, a couple of women. Most of them were still young, in their mid-twenties or so. Veterans, all of them, come for counseling or medication or simply a place of refuge. All of them potential new assets.

Parkerson knew that the average American citizen would find his actions reprehensible. The patriots would froth at his exploitation of traumatized veterans. Frankly, he didn’t care. These soldiers were his best workers. They trained better, they killed better, and they didn’t make mistakes.

As far as Parkerson was concerned, this was capitalism. This was no different than the railroads’ employing Chinese laborers because they worked harder, or Andrew Carnegie’s fighting the unions in his steel mills because they wanted unfair concessions. This was the pursuit of productivity, the American way. Soldiers made the best assets, morality be damned.

Parkerson watched the veterans arrive. Some came with friends and family; they were dropped at the doors out of minivans and midsize sedans, the drivers waiting until they’d disappeared inside the building before they idled slowly away. Parkerson ignored these candidates. He didn’t need nosy relatives asking questions, pushy mothers, fathers, wives. He waited, and focused on the young men and women who came alone.

It was five minutes past three when Parkerson saw him. As young as the rest, and solitary. He walked across the parking lot, slow, from the road. Like he didn’t realize he was late.

He had long, greasy hair and a peach-fuzz chin. Circles under his eyes, as though he hadn’t slept in weeks. Just looking at him made Parkerson
feel tired again. The kid crossed the lot, glanced in the Cadillac as he passed it. Parkerson met his eyes and knew in a split second that this was the one. He wore the same blank expression as Lind.

The kid walked to the low-rise and paused at the doors. Stood there for a moment, not looking at anything. Then someone opened the door and came out of the building. The kid hesitated, and then slipped in through the open door.

Parkerson stared after the kid and saw dollar signs.
That’s the guy,
he thought, his adrenaline ramping up again.
That’s my next asset.

W
are said North Carolina plates.” Stevens stared at his computer screen. “Virginia plates aren’t much different, if you don’t get a clean look.”

Windermere circled around the table and peered over Stevens’s shoulder. “Triple A Industries has a Richmond P.O. box,” she said. “That’s where you’re going with this?”

Stevens nodded. “Maybe this guy’s Triple A Industries.”

“And, what, the shooter’s his partner? They make these hits together?”

“I don’t know,” said Stevens. “Where was this guy when Spenser Pyatt was murdered?”

Windermere stared at the screen for a moment. “We’ll get the sketch to Richmond police,” she said, straightening. “Have ’em look out for gray Cadillacs. Who knows? Maybe our man checks his mail.”

“If he hasn’t gone underground yet,” said Stevens. “We definitely spooked him. Could be they turned tail and ran for the border.”

“It’s a lot tougher to disappear than people think,” said Windermere. “If we can find a loose thread to pull, we can unravel this case, Stevens. We just need a lead on these guys.”

“Mathers making any progress?”

Windermere shook her head. “Not yet. He’s pretty much stonewalled on Spenser Pyatt, though. As far as he can figure, there’s no connection to the Ansbacher killing whatsoever. I have him trying to chase down Philadelphia O’Briens right now, maybe pick up the trail from that end, but I still think we have a better chance chasing our killer down here.”

“Yeah,” said Stevens. “But how?”

Windermere walked around the table to the wall of windows. Stared out at the bleak landscape: low-rise office buildings, the highway. They’d been over this all morning and half of the afternoon. The shooter was gone. And nobody had any answers.

Stevens’s cell phone began to ring. He answered. “Kirk Stevens.”

“Stevens, it’s McNaughton.” Even eighteen hundred miles away, Stevens could sense the excitement in his old colleague’s voice. “You got time to chat?”

Stevens sat up. “Always.”

“You’ll notice I’m working on the weekend,” said McNaughton. “All for you. Feel free to thank me with cash.”

“I’ll send flowers. What’s up?”

“Couple of things I figured you maybe could use. First, I found a Post-it note in Eli Cody’s desk. Just a word and a series of numbers. Didn’t make sense, but I stored it away. Figured I’d check on it later.”

“Sure,” said Stevens. “I bet it’s later now.”

“Correct. We got into Cody’s bank accounts this morning. He was pretty much broke, like we figured. At least relatively speaking.”

“Relatively speaking.”

“I mean, he comes from a family of multimillionaires,” said McNaughton. “At the time of his death, Cody had exactly fifty-four thousand, one hundred and twelve dollars and eighty-eight cents to his name.”

“Not exactly a fortune.”

“Exactly. Here’s the weird part. In the week before he was murdered, Cody made two hundred-thousand-dollar payments to a numbered bank account on the Isle of Man. First payment a week before his death. Second payment was initiated on Saturday afternoon, completed Sunday morning.”

Stevens straightened. “Just after Spenser Pyatt was murdered,” he said.

“I guess so. I mean, yeah. That’s more your area of expertise. Point is, the numbered bank account matched the numbers I found on Cody’s Post-it note.”

Stevens frowned. “You said there was a word on that Post-it note, too,” he said. “What was it?”

McNaughton paused. “Killswitch,” she said. “The word was Killswitch.”

T
he minivans began to return at ten minutes to four. Parkerson watched them from the Cadillac. At five minutes past four, the office doors opened and the veterans started to emerge.

Some of them came out in pairs, some in groups. Some talked to one another, even laughed, though not many. They shook hands or waved good-bye, or walked alone to the cars and minivans at the curb. The minivans pulled away. The veterans dissipated. Parkerson waited.

Finally, the shaggy-haired kid came out of the building. There was a woman beside him, a brunette, middle-aged. The kid towered over her, even slouched as he was. He stared down at her as she talked to him. Didn’t
say a thing. Finally, the woman stopped talking. She looked at the kid. They looked at each other. Then she seemed to sigh. Her shoulders deflated. She patted the kid on the arm and went back inside the building.

The kid felt around in his pockets and came out with a cigarette. Lit it and started across the lot. He passed the Cadillac again, and if he recognized it he didn’t show it. He just walked, empty-eyed, out to the street.

Parkerson idled the Cadillac after the kid. Followed him down the block to a bus stop and waited in an adjacent lot. The kid stood at the shelter for ten minutes. Then the bus came and he climbed aboard.

Parkerson followed the bus until it stopped in front of a vast concrete apartment tower. The doors opened and the kid stepped down to the curb. He walked toward the tower. Parkerson followed. Parked the Cadillac outside the front doors and watched the kid walk into the lobby. There was a bank of mailboxes along the wall. The kid took out a key and opened a mailbox, stared inside a moment, and then closed it again. Then he walked to the elevators.

Parkerson climbed out of the Cadillac as the elevator doors shut. He walked into the lobby and checked the number on the kid’s mailbox. Then he called another elevator and waited.

Parkerson rode the elevator to the eighth floor. He walked down the hall until he found the kid’s apartment number, and he stood in the hall for a minute or two, straining to hear through the flimsy wooden door. He heard a TV but no voices. Finally, he knocked on the door.

There was no answer. Parkerson knocked again. Waited. Heard the lock disengage. The door swung open and the kid stared out at him, no recognition in his eyes. Parkerson looked past him into the apartment. It was a studio suite. An immaculate bed—looked like it had never been slept in. The TV on, loud. Bed aside, the place was a mess. There was nobody else in the room.

The kid stared at Parkerson, waiting. Parkerson grinned at him. “Hi there,” he said. “Buy you a cup of coffee?”

K
illswitch,” said Windermere. “What the hell is it?”

Stevens stared at his computer. “According to Google, it’s an emergency shutdown trigger,” he said. “Used when normal avenues fail.”

Windermere cocked her head. “That doesn’t help us. What else comes up?”

Stevens scrolled down the long list of search results. Shook his head. “Not much,” he said. Then he leaned forward. “Wait.”

“Yeah?”

Stevens clicked through. “It’s an entry on a forum,” he said, reading, “for gun enthusiasts. Guy says he’s having problems at work. Hates his boss. His buddy says, ‘Let Killswitch take care of it.’”

“And?”

“And the guy says, ‘LMAO. Wish I could afford it.’” Stevens looked at Windermere. “What the hell’s LMAO?”

“Laughing my ass off.” Windermere arched an eyebrow. “It’s Internet speak, Stevens. Thought you had a daughter.”

“Guess I don’t pay enough attention to her. Too busy solving the FBI’s cases.”

Windermere snorted. “Oh, is that what you’re doing?”

“Trying to, anyway.” He turned back to the computer. “‘Let Killswitch take care of it,’” he read. “What does that mean?”

Windermere walked around behind him. He could feel her body close, her breath near his ear as she bent down and read over his shoulder. “He’s a mercenary,” she said. “Killswitch. A hired gun.”

Her face was close to his, very close. Stevens moved back a little. “Go on.”

“Cody paid two hundred thousand dollars to Killswitch the week Spenser Pyatt was murdered. You said yourself Cody had a hate-on for Pyatt.”

“Yeah,” said Stevens, “okay, but who in the hell paid to kill Eli Cody?”

“Mickey Pyatt. Or some other Pyatt. Revenge.”

“No way. Mickey Pyatt called my boss himself. Anyway, he wouldn’t use the same shooter that killed his dad. I think revenge is out.”

Windermere picked up the phone. “I’m still telling Mathers to check out Mickey Pyatt. You BCA guys are a little too close to that family.”

Stevens stared at her. “You’re kidding me, Carla.”

“Of course I am, partner. But I’m still going to need to see bank statements and alibis before I’m convinced they’re the good guys.” Windermere straightened and started to pace. “If this Killswitch angle is for real, Stevens, it means the Ansbacher murder is totally disconnected from Pyatt and Cody. It’s a new job for O’Brien. Another assignment.”

“Yeah, so who called it in?” said Stevens. “Who paid Killswitch to murder Cameron Ansbacher?”

Windermere stopped pacing. “I don’t know, Stevens,” she said, grinning, “but we’re going to find out.”