Silver Justice (42 page)

Authors: Russell Blake

BOOK: Silver Justice

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“I reserved a small meeting room. I trust you’re ready to consummate?” Robert wanted to make sure the deal was closed.

“Of course. Lead the way.”

They entered one of the smaller rooms and closed the door. Robert pulled four dark wooden boxes out of his carry-on bag and placed them on the table.

“You’ll note they’re in mint condition, with full paperwork and histories. One million is a very good price—I can’t imagine any other collector having this combination.” Robert liked to reassure customers of the astuteness of their selection. No one ever minded being complimented on their acumen.

“Yes, yes, I’m pleased to have been fortunate enough to find them.” Mr. Kiu opened each box and looked at the watches for a few minutes. He nodded, and then placed his briefcase on the table. “They appear most satisfactory, Mr. Gideon.” He opened the locks and raised the lid, turned the case so Robert could see the contents. Stacks of hundred-dollar bills, neatly arranged in rows.

“Well, congratulations. Let’s begin the counting, shall we? I presume you won’t have any objection if I verify the authenticity of a few bills at random?” Robert planned on stopping at one of the currency exchange booths to have the bills checked.

“Not at all. Be my guest.” Mr. Kiu was smiling amenably.

Robert extracted a portable currency counter, plugged it in and loaded the first stack. All he had brought with him was a bottle of water, some pills, a small fabric valise for the watches, and the currency counter.

He was scheduled to return to New York in two hours. The counting took less than ten minutes. One million dollars. All there.

“Would you be kind enough to accompany me to the currency exchange?” Robert replaced the four watch boxes in the small fabric satchel and returned it to his bag. He handed the cash-filled briefcase back to Mr. Kiu, while holding several bills in his hand.

Robert wheeled himself to a small currency exchange window several hundred yards from the entrance of the club, accompanied by the Korean. He’d felt comfortable doing the transaction at the airport because of all the protection; there were police everywhere. It was safer than a bank, and no one made it to the club area unless they carried a ticket and cleared security.

Robert handed the clerk four crisp hundred-dollar bills, and asked for Euros. The agent behind the counter scrutinized the cash, ran an iodine pen across each, held them up to the light, compared them to others in his drawer. He extracted the appropriate sum in Euros, and passed them through the slot at the bottom of the bullet-proof glass window.

“Here you go. Anything else I can help you with?” The clerk was bored.

“Nope, I think we’re done. Thanks a million.” Robert couldn’t resist.

They returned to the lounge area, where Robert extracted the fabric bag and swapped it for Kiu’s briefcase. They shook hands and exchanged pleasantries—nice meeting you, etc.

“I must return to my delegation, Mr. Gideon. The watches are beautiful; I shall treasure them. Thank you again.”

Robert wheeled himself back to his departure gate and bought himself a vodka tonic. He’d just made almost two hundred and forty thousand dollars on one deal; he figured a little celebration was in order. He had the time, and heck, he had the money.

But something about the transaction was nagging him. Kiu hadn’t examined the watches the way an aficionado would have, and his eyes hadn’t lit up like a covetous collector’s. He was probably buying them for investment. Not a bad one, either, Robert mused.

Oh well.

A deal was a deal.

Chapter 3

A row of police cars blocked the alley on East 123rd Street, the forensics van active as the crew prepped for duty. The NYPD had pretty much seen it all, but this was a strange one even by their standards. Female, mid-twenties, Hispanic, cause of death unknown, stuffed into a dumpster in back of a Cuban Restaurant. She’d been there at least one night, possibly two. It wasn’t pretty—the rats had gotten to her.

They’d run prints and were waiting for a preliminary ID, but who knew how long that could take? Her eyes had been cut out, she’d been scalped, and her breasts were gone—cut off, crudely but efficiently. Sex crime? No indication of rape. Trying to make a routine murder look weird? Anything was possible.

The forensics team was carefully swabbing her fingers, going over the scene, as the detective in charge spoke with their director, Amy Silva.

“What do you make of it? Psycho? Boyfriend trying to fake a crazy? Or a girlfriend?” Detective Ron Stanford had been with homicide for nine years, and in that time had seen enough death for a whole career. He enjoyed catching the bad guys, but hated the bodies.

Especially the girls. And really, really especially in summer, when it got hot and decomposition was almost instantaneous.

“Don’t know what to think. We need to determine the cause of death. I’ll tell you one thing, she was in remarkable shape. Almost solid muscle, like a gymnast or a dancer or something.” Amy had a world-weary air to her. So many bodies. So much tragedy. So much violence.

They walked over to study the corpse again. Amy knelt down and peered at the chest area.

“I’d go with psycho for now. Everything’s been removed very carefully. Definitely a very sharp instrument. Maybe surgical. Our boy’s been practicing and sharpening, thinking about this for a long time.” She stood up. “I think he’s collecting, taking trophies. Eyes, breasts, scalps. Question is why, and has he done this before, and will he do it again…”

“What do you think?” Ron hated to even ask.

“Oh, I think it’s safe to say if it’s a psycho he’ll do it again. Like I said, he knew what he wanted and what he didn’t. I’d say he’s a collector.” She considered the mutilated corpse. “I hope I’m wrong.”

Ron glanced at the body, rubbed his face, and sighed.

“I hope so, too.”

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Table of Contents

About the author

Excerpts from Russell Blake’s novels

Foreword