Ramsey's Gold (Drake Ramsey Book 1) (5 page)

The
ping
of the microwave pulled him from his reverie, and the odor of questionable Sicilian surprise wafted through the space. He unceremoniously pushed the money on the dining room table aside and sat down with his feast, which he consumed with plastic utensils provided by the Lebanese couple who’d bafflingly chosen Italian cuisine as their specialty.

He chewed the tough layers of suspect pasta with mechanical determination, his mind elsewhere. As he swallowed the last bite, he checked his watch and considered his options for the evening. The choices were hitting one of the local watering holes and throwing some of his newfound wealth around in the hopes of attracting female company, or settling in for a long evening of plodding research as he attempted to triangulate his father’s friend. An image of himself standing in a darkened bar, hundred-dollar bills plastered all over his naked body, sprang to the forefront of his imagination. Perhaps he could construct an elaborate fan of hundreds, like a strutting peacock’s tail, announcing his mating availability to the willing hens…

The visual convinced him to opt for research, although he rewarded his diligence with another beer, the green bottle his companion for another tedious night of solitude in front of a flickering screen.

~ ~ ~

Lynch yawned as he finished with the pile of paperwork on his desk and stared at it like it was toxic waste – always a reliable indicator it was time to call it a day. He’d attended to all his pressing matters, having arranged for an automatic transfer to Drake and executed the remainder of the instructions in Patricia’s will.

He’d been less than forthcoming about his relationship with Patricia, true, but he saw no reason to complicate a simple transaction with irrelevant personal history. The truth was that he and Patricia had been an item two decades ago – a long time by any measure.

It had been forever since he’d seen her. He’d helped her change her name when she’d moved to a small town in Idaho after her brother had died. But maintaining their long-distance affair had grown increasingly difficult over the years, made more so by Patricia’s dawning awareness that Lynch was never going to leave his wife and children for her, and that any hope he would was as misguided as many of the other choices that had sculpted her life. He’d been surprised that she’d kept him on as executor of her will, but it made a certain sense, he supposed. He was good at his job, even if possessed of considerable moral elasticity in his personal affairs.

His secretary ducked her head in to say goodnight, and he admired the fit of her skirt as she left, as he found himself doing more often – always a dangerous sign, he knew from prior entanglements. No matter how tempted, he wouldn’t poach in his employee pool. It was one rule he made sure to never break, even if she did have the easy glide of a tigress with the smoldering looks to match.

Lynch shook off his mental meandering and rose. The work could wait. He was tired, and his longsuffering spouse would be waiting at home, a delicious meal prepared, a passable Bordeaux open on the table. He ran his fingers through his hair, thankful that unlike his father he still had most of it, and moved to the door, where his tailored suit jacket hung on a hook.

The offices were still as he walked through the suite. He was turning off the last of the lights when the front door opened and two men entered. Lynch regarded them, his briefcase in hand, taking in their cheap suits and rugged features.

“I’m sorry. We’re closed,” he said.

The taller of the two, around the same age as Lynch, perhaps a little younger judging by the amount of gray in his crew-cut hair, offered a smile as warm as a cadaver’s.

“Michael Lynch?” he asked, the two words thick with an accent – Russian, Lynch thought fleetingly before responding.

“Yes, that’s right. But I’m afraid you’ll have to come back during business hours.”

The shorter man moved surprisingly quickly, covering the distance between them in a blink, and Lynch barely had time to register the blow to his abdomen before a wave of nausea washed over him and the room spun.

When he regained consciousness, it was dark. It took him several moments to realize he was in the conference room. His stomach felt like he’d been hit by a car. He tried to move, intending to probe the tender area, but found himself immobilized. He heard a rustle to his left, and turned his head to where one of the intruders was sitting, staring at him. The man leaned forward and cleared his throat.

“Mr. Lynch. This is not a robbery. I am here to obtain certain information. As you may have guessed, I am willing to do whatever is necessary to get it.”

The accent was definitely Russian, the voice cultured but menacing. Made more so by the fact that Lynch had been tied to the chair. Testing his bindings, he quickly calculated the time: The cleaning crew would be there by nine; he’d been preparing to leave at seven thirty. So depending on how long he’d been out, if he could stall them…

He looked at his captor. “I’m an attorney. There’s no money here other than a petty cash box. No stock certificates, no bonds,” he sputtered.

“Perhaps my English is not as good as I imagine it to be. I said this is not a robbery.”

Lynch looked at him, confused, noting the scarring on his face, the nose broken numerous times, his eyes wide set, the cheekbones high, typically Slavic. “Then I don’t understand.”

The man scowled and shook his head. “I will attribute your confusion to having lost consciousness. This one time. But I must warn you that my associate here will not display such patience. So again. I am here for information, not to rob you.”

Lynch felt a stab of fear. Whatever he was, the man was clearly dangerous – as if his current predicament wasn’t sufficient evidence.

“Information?”

“Yes. You are handling the affairs of a Patricia Marshall. Or should I say, Patricia Ramsey?”

Lynch tried to control the flit of his eyes, but couldn’t.

The Russian nodded. “I see the name is familiar to you. Let us dispense with any further games, Mr. Lynch. I know you are handling her affairs. I require information about her. Everything about her. What she bequeathed, and whom she left it to.”

“I…Patricia Marshall? I don’t…that’s a nothing case. A simple will. Winding up her business and her leases on her home and shop. There’s nothing to tell.”

The conference room opened and the shorter man entered carrying a paper cutter and a pair of scissors, the blades glinting from the hallway light. He set them on the table.

“Mr. Lynch, allow me to introduce ourselves: I am Vadim and this is Sasha, who you met earlier, but I fear not under the best of circumstances. Sasha is expert in interrogation. And after twenty years in the Siberian prison system, more so than any man on the planet. Sasha and I have experienced things I will not burden your soul with.” He paused, allowing his words to sink in. “I mention this because I do not want our discussion to be more unpleasant than it has to be. You
will
tell us what we need to know. Everything. You will beg to tell us things we have not even asked for. Your deepest secrets. Those of your clients. Passwords, account numbers, crimes. In the end there will be nothing between us.”

Lynch refrained from commenting, the blood draining from his face.

“
Da
, you will talk,” Sasha echoed with assurance.

“This is your opportunity to make things easy on yourself. Tell us everything about the will. Start with telling me where it is. After I have read it, I will know exactly what questions to ask.”

“What do you want to know? Tell me, and maybe I can help you,” Lynch tried, hoping to drag out the discussion.

“As I just spelled out to you, I want the will. Where is it?”

“I…it’s in a safe deposit box at the bank.”

The Russian sighed, an exhausted sound like a winter wind, containing the weariness of the world. “It is obvious you do not fully comprehend your situation. Sasha? Start with Mr. Lynch’s left hand. When he has lost those fingers perhaps he will think twice about trying to delay the inevitable.”

“No. Really. I’m not lying,” Lynch insisted, his tone now panicked.

“Perhaps. But perhaps you are still playing games with us. Say goodbye to your little friends. It is regrettable that it has to come to this. Because you
will
tell everything.”

Twenty minutes later, Lynch had.

Sasha rooted in the office refrigerator for a bottle of cold water then moved to the sink to rinse the blood splatter off his face, taking care not to touch anything – not that it would have mattered much, since his fingerprints weren’t on any records in the U.S. Still, it was better to be prudent than foolhardy.

Vadim glanced at his watch and spoke softly in Russian before gesturing to the entry doors. After a final sweep around the suite, they slipped out of the office and down the emergency stairs, soundless as wraiths, leaving the unlucky attorney’s mangled, lifeless body to be found by the janitor.

Chapter Seven

Drake came to with a start, a metallic taste in his mouth from the dubious cuisine and the beer, and realized he’d fallen asleep at his computer station at some point. He coughed as he sat up, ignoring the pain in his sacroiliac and the tingling as blood and feeling returned to the arm he’d rested on. He stood and stretched before padding to the kitchen to get a glass of water and some aspirin – a commodity he always had on hand, no matter how barren his larder.

He eyeballed his watch and blinked. It was seven a.m., so he’d slept for three hours. No wonder he felt like the floor of a rest-stop bathroom. He took a cautious sniff of his armpit and winced. Time to clean up, no doubt.

The warm spray of the shower revitalized him, and his mind began replaying where it had left off. He’d narrowed the field to twenty-two men who were in Jack’s probable age range. Now it was a matter of doing the grunt work, calling each to see how they reacted to a few key questions. A process he was more than familiar with.

Ignoring the pungent odor of fish rot from the prior day’s disastrous chase wafting from his dirty clothes basket, he pulled on a fresh shirt and a pair of dark brown cargo pants. In the kitchen, he double-loaded his coffee maker and stood like a contrite penitent waiting for it to spurt forth alertness.

After his second cup of coffee, he munched on a stale breakfast bar he’d been avoiding for months and returned to his computer, where he pulled on a headset and opened his voice-over-IP software.

The first Jack he called was in Trenton, New Jersey, three hours ahead, so it was more than past wake-up time. The man answered on the third ring.

“Hello?”

“Yes, hello. I’m Frank Lombard, with the Nellis law firm. How are you this morning?”

“Who?”

“Frank Lombard. With the Nellis law firm. Is this Jack Brody?”

“Uh, sure. Whaddaya want?”

“I’m handling an estate, and I’m looking for the Jack Brody who’s named in the will.”

“Will?”

“Yes. If you wouldn’t mind, can I ask a couple of questions?”

“That’s one.”

“Yes, it is. Thanks for helping out. Do you know a Patricia Ramsey?”

Drake listened attentively, every fiber of his being keying in on tone, word choice, volume, breathing, timing.

“Who?”

“Patricia Ramsey. Or does the name Ford mean anything to you?”

“I drive one. Hell of a truck. Although I’ve had a few crap ones the first model year.”

“Thank you for your time, Mr. Brody.”

Drake hung up and scratched the first name off his list. Forty-five minutes later, he struck pay dirt. A woman’s voice answered the phone, and he asked for Jack. Her voice sounded young.

“Who’s calling?”

“Frank. Frank Lombard. Is he there?”

“I don’t know any Frank Lombard.”

“No, I wouldn’t expect you to. Who am I speaking with?”

Long pause.

“His daughter.”

“Ah. Very good. Is he home?”

“What can I tell him the call is regarding, Mr. Lombard?”

Drake sighed, hoping the exasperation of the long-suffering cog in the machine carried over the phone line and engendered sympathy, or at least kinship. “It’s a personal matter. A legal matter, actually. I’m with the Nellis law firm.” He paused. “Long distance,” he added, hoping to hurry the process along.

“You should get a calling plan. Hang on,” she said, and then the phone clattered as it struck a hard surface and bounced. A minute later a gruff male voice picked up.

“Yeah? What’s this about?”

“Jack Brody?”

“You got him. Now answer my question.”

Drake went through his introduction and began his interrogative. At the first question, he got what he was looking for. A hesitation. An instant too long to be innocent.

“Patricia? Mmm, no, can’t say as that rings any bells. Where was she from?”

“Idaho.”

“Idaho? Son, Texas is a long way from Idaho. Sorry I can’t help you.”

“You’re sure you never heard of her? The estate’s rather significant.”

“Story of my life. You got the wrong Jack, Jack. Good hunting,” he said, and hung up.

Bingo.

Drake had been doing skip-tracing long enough to recognize the subtle tells. This was his Jack. Drake checked the address on his computer screen and executed a Google Earth search to find the nearest airport to Flatonia, Texas.

Which was Austin.

Fifteen minutes later he’d packed an overnight bag, stuffed all his money in his pockets, and called the airline to book a flight departing in three hours, which he could just make out of San Jose if traffic wasn’t bad. He took the stairs to the parking area two at a time, energized in spite of his lack of sleep. As he started the car and let it warm up, he called Harry.

“New Start Bail Bonds,” Betty answered, her voice perennially cheerful.

“Betty. It’s Drake. Harry there?”

“He just got in. Hang on a moment, mmkay?”

Harry’s voice came on the line after a brief pause. “What – are you in jail?”

“No. I’m taking your advice. Heading out of town for a few days.”

“Wow. Look at you. Where you going?”

“Texas. I’ve never been there.”