The Hunt (Mike Greystone, Book 1) (19 page)

"Okay, I’m ready," Harker said hastily, persuaded by Maya's gaze.

"Maya, please finish the procedure then," I said, but Harker interrupted again.

"I don't want to die," he started sobbing. "I don't want to die. Can't you just let me go, please?"

"Jesus, two pussies in one room." Maya got impatient, grabbed his arm, buried the needle in one of the muscles, hopefully it was the right spot, and emptied the contents.

"Fuck, I wasn't ready yet, that's not fair," Harker said, taken by surprise. It didn't last long though, as the drug worked rapidly. It was over within a minute. He was anesthetized, paralyzed, and then his heart and lungs stopped working. We waited a few minutes to be sure he was dead.

"Maya, I don't want to question your professionalism, but you jabbed him in the wrong arm, you disinfected the other one," I teased her.

"Fuck you Mike," she laughed.

34.

I called Ivanov
.

“It’s me,” I said.

"How did it go?" Ivanov asked.

"Are we on a safe line?"

"We are."

"Good, I'm on a disposable phone anyway."

"Tell me," Ivanov was anxious to hear the news.

I waited a few seconds to build the impact.

"Mr. H. is dead. I'm really sorry for this tragic loss your daughter’s suffered. My sincere condolences."

"Thank you. Your words bring me some much-needed comfort. He'll be very fondly remembered by all of us."

"He will," I laughed.

I heard a burst of laughter at the other end of the line.

"What are you going to do with the body?" he asked.

"We'll bury it somewhere. I'm going to hand over the contents of his laptop to the police, with all the names of the victims."

"Good, what about his assets? What's my share?" Ivanov was always business-minded.

"He didn't leave much," I answered. Martin had texted me earlier that there was nearly 5 million dollars in Harker's bank accounts, but Ivanov couldn't know that. "I'll have two hundred grand for you, the same for me, and I'm going to donate some change to the families of the victims." What I didn't mention was that I was going to distribute the entire remainder to the relatives of the victims, after deducting Ivanov's share and my expenses.

"Very noble, but don't go overboard. I'm sure they’re doing fine without the money. Money doesn't bring happiness," he said.

"No worries."

"What's the plan now?" Maya asked. "What are we going to do with this carcass?"

"I talked to Dermot Clenaghan from Research & Execution. He said if Harker's body disappears along with his money, nobody will ask questions for a while, possibly a long while. If the body is found now, a whole investigation starts, including a legal process to assess and distribute his assets to his heirs. No body, no problem. Nobody would miss him. He'll send a crew to clean up the scene and remove all traces of what happened here, especially traces of our presence," I explained.

"Sounds like a plan," Maya said.

"Martin, everything went well. Call Dermot to tell him to send the clean-up guys," I was on the phone talking with Martin.

"Sure, he was asking what his share of the take was," Martin said.

"Tell him thirty grand."

"He said the incinerator itself is twenty grand. They don't burn the bodies themselves anymore. Dermot has a trusted funeral home, the owner does jobs for him frequently, but it cost, as there's some risk, and he has to pay his people too. But they’re very professional and discreet, as funeral directors should be," Martin joked.

"Okay, fifty thousand bucks for Dermot. Two hundred thousand for me, the same for Ivanov, a hundred grand for Maya, fifty for you, and a few grand for our guys in the office. The total take was quite reasonable, five million. I want the rest distributed among the victims' relatives.."

"Sure, our geeks are already working on the info that Harker gave us. They'll have all the victims identified within a day or two."

"Good, catalog them, and send it over to Dermot, he'll deal with the police. They'll find the victims and contact their relatives. We'll just send the relatives envelopes full of cash."

"Yeah, sounds like a good plan."

"Thanks. By the way, I want to meet Ivanov tomorrow. Can you give him a call to arrange it? Also, be ready for some action the day after. He's going to tell me how to get Morgenthal, at last." I seriously wanted to conclude this Morgenthal affair soon.

"Will do."

I dropped the call. We waited half an hour for Dermot's crime scene sanitation team to arrive and left.

On the way home I dropped by the office and picked up a package from Dermot. It was a gift that he’d brought for me from Ireland on the other side of the pond. He said he went there frequently to play golf. It might have been true, it might have not.

I had a quick shower, ate a light supper, and unpacked the parcel.

It was a brand new bottle of Teeling whiskey. Well, brand new was not exactly the right description, as it was their so-called Vintage Reserve Collection. They had just released a 26-year-old Gold Reserve and a 30-year-old Platinum Reserve Irish Single Malt. Nice. The 30-year-old had been maturing the whole time in Bourbon casks. Only two hundred and fifty bottles produced. The oldest Irish whiskey on the market. I was sure Dermot squirreled away one or two for himself.

I got a glass and poured out a generous amount of the Platinum Reserve. Heaven on Earth.

Martin texted me: 'Ivanov, tomorrow eight pm, the earliest possible.'

I called Martin. "Eight in the evening? Why so late, couldn't he do it any earlier?" I asked.

"Unfortunately not," Martin responded.

"I sometimes wonder if I could just go there with a few of our guys, kill his goons, and torture him to tell me where Morgenthal is. Why am I bothering with all this hide and seek with Ivanov? I could have caught Morgenthal long ago."

"Not practical. He has good security, some of our guys could die in the process, too much risk," Martin said. "Although, on second thoughts, we could probably arrange it with no losses," he admitted. "But his family and associates would find out who did it and would chase you till they got you. A nuisance and too much risk," he concluded.

"True, I would handle it, but the possible vendetta could be a nuisance," I agreed.

"Besides, if word got out that we’re killing our potential clients, that wouldn't be good for business. You wouldn't want that, would you?" Martin argued.

"Yeah, I definitely prefer clients who are alive to pay for our services."

"So you just grit your fucking teeth and jump when Ivanov tells you. He may be a good business prospect down the line," Martin laughed.

"Hopefully," I said as I filled the glass with another round of Teeling. "Talk to you tomorrow." I hung up.

I took a generous sip from the glass and thought it’d been a long time since I’d drunk such a good whiskey. Dermot surely knew the good stuff.

Tomorrow could be an important day. Ivanov would help me track down Morgenthal. By this stage, this guy was driving me seriously crazy. After I got him, I hoped to enjoy a few quiet days, perhaps even a week. I really needed some quality rest. I thought about asking Jane if she would like to go with me somewhere nice and warm.

But Morgenthal was the priority for now.

35.

Officer Jarred Rankin
was an experienced and long-serving member of the City of Pittsburgh Bureau of Police. Officer Rob Scarlatti was only a few years younger than officer Rankin, and nearly as experienced. Officer Rankin had been one of the best-looking young officers when he graduated police academy 30 years earlier. He was slim, fit and handsome, and could have any girl he wanted. He’d chosen Anna and got they married. He was a lucky man as Anna was a brilliant cook. And she was very principle-driven in the kitchen. One of her main principles was “better a little more, rather than not enough, just in case.” She would be very unhappy if her husband wasn't satisfied during their daily dinner, so she always cooked a little more than was actually required. Officer Rankin was an exemplary husband and never refused food that was prepared by his dear wife, even though it was more than he could handle safely. As a result, he'd gained an average of at least five pounds every year. You don't need a PhD in algebra to figure out that after thirty years of marriage officer Rankin was at least a hundred and fifty pounds heavier. It hadn't bothered him too much over the years, as it wasn't difficult not to notice extra five pounds a year. So he didn’t really noticed it and gradually got used to his weight.

Officer Scarlatti was a few years younger than officer Rankin, but surpassed him in terms of weight without a doubt. He’d been plump since his childhood, which coincided with the Department Of Agriculture publishing the so-called food pyramid, which recommended eating carbs instead of fat. Some say the Department of Agriculture’s remit is to promote agriculture, not to improve people’s health. Some say they remained truthful to their remit, and promoted agriculture, but didn't improve people’s health. After the anti-fat frenzy kick-started by the DOA, food manufacturers started removing fat from food. The problem was, food without fat tasted bland. So what did they do? They added a dirt-cheap, high-fructose corn sugar to everything. That way they were promoting agriculture, exactly the way the DOA wanted. As a side effect, forty years later 80% of Americans were overweight, a good few times more than in the 1970s, when the food pyramid was published. Needless to say, no heads rolled. Government jobs were cushy jobs. Decent money, a good pension, no responsibility. Anyway, Officer Scarlatti's parents wanted the best for their son. They meticulously applied the food pyramid – lots of carbs, not much fat. They were quite surprised to see their son gaining weight, but attributed it to genetics. Not sure why though, as they were not obese themselves. Just bad luck. So Officer Scarlatti had an unfair advantage over Officer Rankin. To be fair to Officer Scarlatti, he’d lost a few pounds just before he joined the police force, only to yo-yo back up to his former weight within a few months.

The two officers were experienced nonetheless, and their huge weight, regardless if separate or combined, commanded respect among criminals. In fact, a mere swing of a muscular, fat, and heavy arm was enough to knock a suspect down. Their statures had sufficient kinetic energy and momentum when necessary. An unruly youngster resisting arrest? When using a gun was not warranted, officer Rankin would take three steps forward at a brisk pace, hitting the suspect full-on like a bull. Once the target was on the ground, surprised at what had happened, Scarlatti would gently restrain him by sitting on his back while the suspect was groaning and struggling to breathe under the weight of Officer Scarlatti. On one or two occasions the suspects actually passed out due to lack of oxygen. You would too if you had that kind of weight on your chest.

The supervisors of officers Rankin and Scarlatti were concerned about their size and weight, or actually about the health implications. However, the Rankin and Scarlatti team worked very efficiently and were valuable members of the police force, and therefore got off the hook a few times.

To sustain momentum, both officers had to eat adequate amounts of proper food. Officer Rankin was just reaching for his seventh donut that day, when a large silver Audi stopped next to the driver side of their police car. A smartly dressed gentleman wearing fashionable rimless designer glasses lowered the window; he was holding a map in his hands, and seemed to be asking for directions. Officer Rankin tried to be helpful to members of the public, who after all were paying taxes to cover his salary and pension. He therefore lowered the window to hear what the problem was.

"Good morning officers, I'm looking for Rockland Avenue, any idea where it is?" the stranger asked, and added: "My GPS broke down and my paper map only shows the city center area."

"Good morning Sir, no idea to be honest, but let me check on my navigation system," officer Rankin offered helpfully. But before he typed the name of the street into the GPS, he decided to grab his eighth donut and to sip some coffee. He wiped his sticky hands discreetly on his trousers, and fired up the sat-nav. As the system was slow to load, officer Rankin removed a ninth donut from the bag, offered another one to officer Scarlatti, who duly accepted, and checked their supply, establishing there were only twelve more donuts left, which wouldn't last until their lunch break. Officer Rankin struggled with math at grade school, but had a perfect eye for donuts and didn't even need to look in the bag to know how many donuts were there. But he always checked his estimates, as it was usually time for another donut anyway.

"Apologies, the system is just starting up," he said. He meant to apologize for eating a tenth donut, but put the blame on the navigation system. "It's Rockfield Avenue you say?" officer Rankin asked, grabbing for another donut, which must have been the eleventh that day. He actually started feeling uncomfortable, not because he was devouring another donut, but because the donuts supply would soon be running dangerously low.

"It's Rockland Avenue," the civilian said, very amused, watching as officer Rankin clumsily entered the address into the navigation system while at the same time fumbling to grab a twelfth donut. Because the stranger was in a hurry, regardless of how entertained he was, he produced an M1911 with a silencer and aimed it at Officer Rankin.

"What the fuck!?!" Rankin cried, half a donut still in his mouth, not sure if he should reach for his own gun or protect the donut. Long years of training and practice prevailed and he eventually tried to grab his gun, but it was of no avail.

Two precise shots were fired into the heads of officers Rankin and Scarlatti. Officer Rankin still had half of the twelfth donut in his mouth when his face crashed into the steering wheel.

The attacker reversed, positioned his car behind the police car, got out, opened the police car’s doors, wiped the most visible traces of blood and brains from the windows, turned the steering wheel to the left, put officer Rankin's hand between the spokes of the steering wheel to sort of lock it, released the handbrake, got back to his car and then pushed the police vehicle in front of his car into the driveway of the nearest house. When the car was parked in the driveway, the dead bodies wouldn't be immediately visible and wouldn't attract immediate attention.

It happened to be Lauren Wimbledon's grandparents' house.

Officers Rankin and Scarlatti had been assigned to protect Lauren Wimbledon. Both were experienced officers, but circumstances and donuts had conspired against them.

Ron Morgenthal had been following Lauren Wimbledon. He was full of unsatisfied vengeance. Having killed her husband during school shooting, he thought that would be enough. But a worm inside his heart, or inside his head, or inside other parts of his body, was eating away and eventually prevailed. Ron Morgenthal wanted revenge. He followed Lauren Wimbledon, even though she was being closely watched by the police officers assigned to protect her. Even officers as experienced as Rankin and Scarlatti were no match for Morgenthal. He was waiting for an opportunity to strike. Lauren was just visiting her parents and it turned out to be a perfect moment to execute his fiendish plan.

He took the remaining donuts, approached the front door, and rang the bell.

After a few moments, the door opened. It was Lauren Wimbledon. Her face blanched.

"Hello Lauren, you must have missed me," Morgenthal said. "We're going to have a picnic, I've brought some donuts," he grinned, and showed her the half-eaten bag of donuts he had in his left hand.

Lauren wanted to shut the door, but he hit her with his right hand right in her face, breaking her nose.

"Won't you let me in? I'm disappointed," he said, gagging her and binding her arms. She tried to resist, but her broken nose took away much of her strength.

"Who the fuck are you?" shouted Lauren's father. He’d heard the commotion in the hall and had taken a fire poker just in case. It turned out to be an emergency situation indeed, so he rushed towards Morgenthal holding the iron poker. His question was more rhetorical in nature as he meant to kill or incapacitate the assailant. A precise swing, despite his years, was directed towards the head of the intruder. But the intruder was well-versed in close-quarter combat and dodged the iron rod. When the poker passed his head, he kicked Lauren's father sideways in his right knee, breaking it. He just had enough time to hear a gun being cocked, turned swiftly towards the kitchen, and saw Lauren's mother holding a gun. But before she managed to pull the trigger he shot her with his gun. He still had a silencer on, so there was no sound. He removed a small plastic box containing cloth tissues soaked in a rapidly working paralyzing agent, and applied it gently to Lauren and liberally to her father. Morgenthal wanted Lauren to be conscious enough, barely paralyzed, but still aware of what was going on around her.

Next, he looked outside to see if the commotion had been noticed by the neighbors or passers-by, but everything seemed quiet.

He quietly went to the kitchen, where he found John and Karrie, Lauren's children.

"Hello," he said, grinning.

Karrie started crying with fear and John had frozen to the spot. Morgenthal approached, lifted John up, and started gagging him and binding his arms. John squirmed and twisted, but it was useless. Karrie hit Morgenthal with her fist, shouting at him to let her brother go and crying for help, but Morgenthal wasn't bothered by that too much. When he was finished with John, he went after Karrie. She sprang over to one of the kitchen drawers, and took out a long carving knife.

"Come on you fucker," she hissed. Surely, it wasn't Lauren who’d taught her that kind of language.

"As you wish sweetie," he hissed back. He approached, and before Karrie could notice anything, he grabbed a kitchen chair, swung it, and hit Karrie in her torso, catapulting her eight feet towards the rear garden door. She collapsed, groaning and totally powerless. He gagged her and bound her hands.

The whole family was at his mercy.

His original plan was to incapacitate the whole household and set the house on fire while all the members were still alive and watching. He intended to use natural materials like cotton rope to bind the victims, so that when they burned there would be no trace left when forensics come on site. Plastic wire would melt and might leave chemical traces around the wrists, even when completely burned. In fact, he was even considering, depending on how the whole situation developed, drugging them with paralyzing chemicals that immobilize the body without loss of consciousness, so that he wouldn't have to gag or bind them at all. That way they would look even more like victims of carbon monoxide poisoning or fire, or something like that.

This plan was in tatters as he’d had to shoot the grandma, and the bullet would remain for forensics. Bad luck.

He wasn't bothered too much though, as he would clean up all traces of his presence and use an alternative plan.

Without further ado, he got to work to finish it off.