Ops Files II--Terror Alert (34 page)

“Yes, sir. Of course, I wouldn’t have had to enter your property if this dangerous felon hadn’t been there first.”

“Shut your pie hole. You play this way for a living, you take the hits.”

A small voice called out from the open doorway. “Ew. You got fish guts on you, mister.”

Drake sighed, trying not to gag at the reminder of the rotting leavings soaked into his hoodie.

“I know, kid.”

The man snarled over his shoulder. “Shut up. Bailey, go back into the house. Git. Now.”

“I ain’t outta the house.”

“You want a strapping? Talkin’ back like that? Get back inside. Now.”

“You gonna shoot ’em?”

The man grinned, an ugly display of marginal dental work that chilled Drake’s marrow. “Never know, son. Now git.”

Sirens greeted them several minutes later, and Drake stood by patiently while the disgruntled homeowner insisted on swearing out a complaint. A second squad car arrived and carted Cranford back to jail as the officer finished filling out the form and had the owner sign it.

“All right, Simmons. You know the drill. We gotta take you in and book you.”

Drake shook his head. “Tell me this is a joke.”

“Wish it was. Sorry. Let’s go. Oh, and I need your Taser.”

Drake handed it over as the homeowner watched, a smirk on his face, and Drake got another waft of fish stink rising from his shirt.

“Christ. What is that? Smells like an open sewer,” the cop complained as they walked together to the car.

“You ever have one of those days?” Drake asked.

The cop stopped by his cruiser, opened the back door, and nodded. “All the time, man. Watch your head.”

Chapter Four

The afternoon light faded to amber as dusk approached. Harry paced in the small area behind his desk, gazing through the window at a copse of trees behind the office, the stub of an unlit cigar clenched between his teeth. Obviously agitated, he finally stopped and faced Drake, who was sitting in one of two dilapidated chairs in front of the desk.

“I’m sorry, man, but I warned you. I can’t have this kind of crap associated with my company.”

“What crap? I nailed him. Dead to rights,” Drake protested.

“While trespassing on private property. You’re lucky the old lady didn’t jump into it and file, too.”

“She’s lucky I don’t sue her for the dog bite.”

Harry shook his head and sat in his worn executive chair, his nervous energy finally dissipated, and leaned over to open his bottom desk drawer. He extracted a locking metal box and lifted the lid.

Drake caught the bundle of rubber-band-wrapped hundreds in midair.

Harry smiled. “Good catch.”

“Thanks. This the five?”

“Yup. Listen. Drake. We go back a ways, so let me make a suggestion. Lay low. Take some time off. Go find a girl or get drunk or something. Take a vacation. And consider a different line of work. This isn’t for you. You’re too smart to be a bounty hunter. You’ve got your whole life ahead of you, a degree…you’re wasting your time with this.”

Drake’s eyes fixed on Harry’s face. “You firing me? For real?”

“You don’t work for me. You’re a free agent. So I can’t fire you. But if you’re asking, I’m not going to hand you any more jobs, at least not for a while. I don’t need the grief. You know better than to chase a perp through private property like that. And Cranford’s complaining that you used cruel and unusual subjugation techniques. He may press charges, too.”

“What? I Tasered him.”

“You got him in his family jewels.”

“While he was trying to kick my face in.”

“Still. It looks bad.” Harry’s gaze wandered to his message pad. “Dude, you’re the best I’ve ever seen at figuring out where these mugs are hiding. It’s eerie – like a sixth sense. But you don’t follow the rules, and that’s a big problem. So even though you’re great at the tracking part of the job, you suck at the obeying the law part, and I can’t have that reputation associated with me.” He squinted at the writing on the pad. “Oh. Hey. I almost forgot. This came in earlier. Some guy looking for you. An attorney, he said.” Harry tore off the message slip and handed it to Drake, who read it with a puzzled expression.

“Did he say what he wanted?”

“Nope. Maybe somebody else wants file charges against you. Been a full day even by your standards, hasn’t it?”

“Very funny. Can I use the phone?”

“Sure. And then make yourself scarce. If you still want work, call me in a month. But for now, you’re off my approved list. Nothing personal, of course.”

“Of course.” Drake stood and walked to the office door. “I’ll use Betty’s phone, okay?”

“
Mi casa
, baby. Sorry to cut you off at the knees.”

“No sweat. Maybe you’re right. Time for some sightseeing someplace warm and sunny. Maybe Mexico. You can live pretty cheap there, I hear.”

“That’s the spirit. Get a tan. Have too many beers. Find a
señorita
to lie to. You’re a young man. Live a little.”

“Not that young.”

“What are you, twenty-five? I got stuff in my freezer older than that.”

“Twenty-six. Not that I’m counting.”

“Course not.”

Drake sat behind Betty’s receptionist desk and dialed the number. Washington state, judging from the area code. It rang three times and then a musical female voice answered.

“Baily, Crane, and Lynch. May I help you?”

“I think so. I’m returning a call from a Michael Lynch?”

“Certainly, sir. And who may I say is calling?”

“Drake Simmons.”

Music on hold waltzed in his ear for thirty seconds and then a refined baritone boomed over the line. “Michael Lynch.”

“Mr. Lynch, this is Drake Simmons. You called today?”

“Oh, yes, of course. First of all, let me extend my sincere condolences.”

“Condolences?”

“Yes. Your aunt, Patricia Marshall, passed away the day before yesterday.”

“I’m sorry. Patricia Marshall? You say she was my aunt?”

“That’s correct. I gather you weren’t close?”

“There must be some mistake. I’ve never heard of Patricia Marshall.”

“Mmm. Apparently she was your father’s sister.”

“My father didn’t have a sister, as far as I know.”

“Well, be that as it may, as executor of her will, her instructions were very clear. I have a package here that I’m to hand to Drake Simmons, currently of San Antonio Road in Mountain View, California, in person. Your employer was kind enough to confirm that’s you. I’ve also been authorized to purchase a plane ticket to get you to Seattle, as well as pay for accommodations for two days. And of course, compensate you for your time.”

“Compensate me?” Drake echoed, his ears perking up.

“Yes. A thousand dollars a day. Apart from what she left you, of course.”

“She left me something besides the…package?”

“Correct. Twenty-five thousand dollars. All the money she had in the world.”

“Mr. Lynch, I’m afraid there’s been some sort of mistake. I don’t know this woman, and as sorry as I am to hear she passed away, I’m not sure what to make of this. How do I know you’re legit?”

“You called the firm’s offices. If you like, go online and check us out – verify that I’m a member of the bar, that we’ve been here for over twenty years, whatever you like. You should be able to do that quickly.” Lynch paused. “Mr. Simmons, there’s twenty-five thousand dollars with your name on it in my account, and a package that requires you to sign for it in my office. Do you have something so pressing that you can’t make it here to claim your inheritance?”

“See, that’s the problem. It’s an inheritance from an aunt I didn’t even know I had.”

“If you say so. That’s not my concern. But it’s your money, assuming you show up to claim it.”

Drake thought about the odd set of circumstances. “And there are no strings attached?”

“Correct. Show up, confirm your identity, sign, collect your cashier’s check and the package, and you’re done.”

Drake picked up one of Betty’s pens. “Fine. I can fly in tomorrow. I’ll verify your bona fides, and if it all checks out, I’ll be on the first plane out tomorrow. How do I get a ticket paid for, and will you be there around lunchtime?”

~ ~ ~

When Drake arrived at Lynch’s building the following afternoon, he was impressed by the baroque décor and wood paneled offices on the firm’s floor. The suite smelled like prosperity, of weighty matters and important men. The receptionist was a perfectly manicured Chinese woman not much older than Drake, who peered over the rims of designer glasses at him with the glacial composure of a surgeon. One glance at her severe suit made him feel instantly underdressed in his dark gray cargo pants and blue polo shirt, his North Face jacket clenched in one hand as he waited for her to alert Lynch of his arrival.

A tall bearded man in a charcoal suit with a leonine head of graying hair approached from the back offices with an outstretched hand and a somber expression.

“Drake Simmons? Michael Lynch. Good of you to come. I trust your trip was uneventful?”

“Yes. It wasn’t bad.”

“Excellent. Would you be kind enough to follow me to the conference room?”

“Sure.”

They moved through the hushed suite to a large room with a rectangular table. A bookcase filled with legal tomes occupied one entire wall, with a panoramic view of the Seattle skyline through the picture windows that ran its length the main attraction. Lynch offered Drake a seat by the window.

Lynch moved to the head of the table, where a small package wrapped in brown paper sat next to a check and a heavy green leather-bound signature book.

“Let’s dispense with formalities. Do you have identification?” Lynch asked.

“Of course. Driver’s license okay?”

“Certainly.”

Drake slid it across the table to the attorney, who pressed a button on the intercom box mounted on the corner of the table. “Would you please come in and make a copy?”

Twenty seconds later a blonde in a black business suit entered and wordlessly took Drake’s license. She offered a polite smile and departed as quietly as she came, exuding high-priced professional discretion.

Lynch made small talk until she returned with a photocopy and deposited it in front of him. He studied the license like it held nuclear launch codes and then opened the big ledger and slid it, and the ID, to Drake.

“Sign there, by the X, if you would,” Lynch instructed. Drake did so and pocketed his license.

“Well. There we have it. All done. This, young man, is yours,” Lynch said, presenting him with the cashier’s check. “And this is also yours.” He handed him the package. “Oh, and I’m afraid there’s one tiny caveat. It’s nothing, really.”

“A caveat?” Drake repeated, instantly suspicious.

“Yes. You’re to open the package while seated in this room, and read the note inside. After that, if you choose to do nothing else, I will return with another check for your two thousand dollars of expense money, and you may leave the contents of the package with me. I’ve been instructed, if that’s your choice, to forward it on to the largest museum in New York, and you may leave, your part in the matter finished.”

“Wait. All I have to do is read a note from some lady I never heard of?”

“Your aunt. Recently departed.”

“Sure. Okay, go get the check. This won’t take long.”

“As you wish. I’d suggest you be careful with the wrapping. You don’t want to tear the note,” Lynch said with a frown, and then stood. “I’ll be back shortly.”

Drake waited until the heavy door had closed and smiled to himself. Fine. He’d humor the old codger. Play along, pretend interest, and then take the money and run. Twenty-five big ones. No, counting the extra two, twenty-seven. Added to the five he’d just gotten for Cranford, that was enough to lounge around on the beaches of Baja for a good year, if not longer.

He leaned forward and began tearing at the brown paper, which to his eye was an old sandwich bag hurriedly sliced up and used for wrapping, and then remembered Lynch’s warning about going easy. He folded back the flaps, the cheap tape yellowed from age, and found a single creased sheet of binder paper sitting atop a five-by-seven battered brown leather book, held closed with a grimy piece of twine. Drake gave it a cursory glance and opened the note. A flowing, clearly feminine hand filled the ruled page in blue ballpoint ink.

Dear Drake:

If you’re reading this, I’m dead. How or why isn’t important. What is important is that you know some things about your past. Important things. About your father.

My brother.

After his death, I moved from Portland, leaving everything behind. I did so because the men who killed him would be looking for me. As they would for your mother, who was a saint. By the way, I’m sorry she passed away. She’ll be missed.

Where do I start? Best at the beginning.

I was at your baptism. At your first four birthdays. At countless outings, picnics, dinners. Then everything changed. Your father went away and never returned. But I’m getting ahead of myself.

Do you know the story of your name? You’re named after one of the greatest adventurers of all time: Sir Francis Drake. Your father admired his courage no end, which was probably his undoing. And your real last name is Ramsey. Drake Ramsey. Your mother and I changed our names after your father died, and yours, too. Why you don’t use the Ramsey name is one of the topics of this letter.

Your father loved you more than life itself. Words can’t describe his joy when you came into the world. It breaks my heart that you never really knew him.

Your father, Ford Ramsey, was an adventurer. A treasure hunter. He was a good man, but with a wild streak that couldn’t be tamed. Your mother knew it when she married him, and she did so willingly.

He was killed searching for a lost Inca city said to contain the greatest treasure ever known. The journal contains his notes and his reasoning, up until he left for South America. Word arrived later that he’d died in the jungles there. Murdered, although the details are muddled. I know this because his trusted friend, who also changed his last name and is now using the name Jack Brody, returned from that trip with the news of his death.