It was a squat split-level house on Dedham Street in Newton that was impressive fifty years ago but had since developed a shabby gray layer in the passing years and a passive sort of sag to its stature. Danish modern, now dilapidated passé, and yet an exorbitant dwelling on a pricey street that priced out all the actual middle class for whom it was originally built. It was a little after one in the morning and some lights in the house were still on. Bernie Franking, late forties, slump-postured, pot-bellied, bespectacled wandered into the den of the house from the bedroom at the end of the hall where he had been napping. His computer was running, and the television was still on at a low volume crooning continuous cable news.
A man draped in a dark overcoat wearing a porkpie hat rumpled up and looking himself to be a kind of shadow was slumped in a leather recliner. Bernie stopped cold and shuddered for a moment. He cleared his throat. He knew what this was.
“Street,” he grumbled. “I’m not street. You’ve got the wrong guy. If you have a problem with the company, I can give you a name and a number.”
“Exactly what I came here for,” said Null softly. “I’ll want that name and number.”
“I’ll get it for you,” Bernie said.
“Not yet,” Null replied and pulled the Heckler & Koch P7. Aimed it straight, relaxed in his lap.
Bernie was cool, stayed still.
“What do you want?”
“Everything,” said Null, unblinking, almost in a whisper. “I want it all.”
“There’s no cash on hand. Nothing of value here. My wife and kids are asleep down the hall.”
“I’ll try not to wake them.”
“I see.” He rubbed his chin, slumping a bit as he stood. “If you let me, I’ll get you what you want.”
“Do you even know what I want?”
“Manny Legere’s number. He’s the guy to talk to.”
“You mean he’s the guy who’ll whack me out?”
Bernie smiled and shook his head, stroking back his receding hairline. “If that’s what it takes, sure. He’s street. He deals with bums like you. He has people to take care of problems like you.”
“Good to know. So, how smart is it really, do you think, to call a guy with a high-powered semi-automatic pistol and suppressor aimed at your face a bum?”
“Makes no difference. If you were going to kill me, you’d have done it already. But your little plan won’t work—they won’t be giving you any money for my safe return. They’d see me die before they gave you a nickel.”
“I believe that’s true, Bernie. I’m not here for that.”
“So, what are you here for, then? Get to the point. I’m tired and it’s late.”
“You have balls, Bernie, I’ll give you that.”
“It’s easy to have balls compared to a sack-less low life like you. Do what you came to do and screw, already.”
“You’re next. You’re number two.”
“What the fuck are you talking about?
“Finnerty.”
Bernie scrunched up his face, adjusted his rimless glasses. “Jesus. You’re the whack job that offed Finnerty?”
“With a pencil.”
“A number two pencil?”
“You’re number two. Which means you’re next.”
“You’re talking about Hebe Group.”
“If that’s what you call it.”
“That’s the name of the financial entity whose money I move to and fro.”
“You’re the accountant.”
“No, we have several of those. You could say I’m the comptroller.”
“But you know about the street.”
“I know enough to know I have nothing to do with it. And to send schmucks like you packing.”
“You’re clean. No contact with the filthy little kiddies?”
“None. I do the money, oversee the legal end, manage financial compliances, investments, employee benefits.”
“Benefits?”
“Second and third-tier employees get a modest benefits package, ala carte health, 401k, dental.”
“You’re very forthcoming, Bernie.”
“I just want you to go, so I’ll tell you whatever you need to know.”
“You have the wrong idea about this meeting, Bernie.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because it’s highly unlikely you’re going to survive it.”
“The sound of shots will wake the wife and kids. You intend to kill them too?”
“No, not if I can help it. The suppressor attached to the barrel here does a pretty good job with the noise. Hardly makes any.”
“What do I have to say to make you leave and not kill me?”
“Answers, Bernie. I want answers.”
“Just ask.”
“You think it’s alright, what you do, making porn with children, forcing them to have sex with men—”
“Women too.”
Null nodded. “Okay. Women too. Log-boys, “young friends” they call them on the dark web: little children fucked constantly for content, live streaming playhouses, special DVDs, one-on-one camera sessions for the goofs, then sold off as slaves when they hit puberty. Or just outright killed when it suits your purposes—when the product is too damaged to sell. You have someone break their necks.”
“You make it sound ugly, inhuman.”
“You mean it isn’t?”
“It’s like dealing with loaves of bread, really. We think of it that way. They’re just a commodity—we invest in the product, perfect it, package it, leverage it then sell it. It’s a straight up business—nothing more.”
“What do you think of these little, innocent children you whore out and murder?”
Bernie chuckled. “Innocent? Really. You’re not that naïve. Most of the kids we get have been whored out and raped long before we came into the picture. They come from nothing, from abuse and horror, headed for nothing. We rescued them, gave them medical attention, fed them well, even gave them a little tutoring—”
“How many of them are there?” Calm, almost unctuous.
“Recent count?”
“That will do.”
“Two twenty, including the ones being readied for sale.”
“You’re like me. You feel nothing.”
“What’s to feel? They’re barely even human. Little beasts, crying monsters of savage disgust. Hebe Group is their salvation. We make their terrible lives livable; give them a chance.”
“I don’t think you’re lying.”
“I’m not.”
“There’s something in that. I believe you believe what you’re saying.”
“As far as I know, it’s true. You’ve got what you need?”
“No, I need total Hebe Group employee information—everything. Home addresses, hours they work, physical location of where they work. Birthdays, salaries, the works.”
“I have all that, but it might not prove to be, umm, totally accurate. And we have some 1099 contractors who might, uh—”
“Might not actually be on a 1099.”
“Exactly.”
“How do you plan to give it to me?”
“I can send it to you in a zip or rar file.”
“No, I have to leave here with it in my pocket.” He leaned toward Bernie, expressionless. “Give me the remote address of your VPN, the IP address and all the passwords and we’ll be done.”
“Sure. Easy-peasy. How do you know I won’t change them before you gain access?”
“Let me worry about that.”
Bernie breathed a sigh of relief. He was getting off easy. Maybe he’d give him a day, just to be certain, then make the necessary changes. He’d have to meet with Legere about security. Now that he was de facto the one in charge, these kinds of incursions had to be prevented. Legere would track this thug down and murder him neatly and quietly in some occult venue, same as always. Still, this was a curious mess that had to be accounted for and prevented in the future. No telling who else knew about the group and how much information this joker had gotten from Finnerty.
Oh, well, soon it would be a moot point.
Bernie was given leave by Null to sit down and write out the information. He handed it to Null, who had by then put away the Heckler & Koch P7. He pocketed the paper, turned his back on Bernie, who for a moment actually thought of doing something, maybe battering him on the head with one of the pots in the foyer, but thought better of it and decided just to let him go.
Getting rid of him was the key point, and that was happening.
Null left the house, quiet as a whisper.
By the time six in the morning had rolled around, Bernie had barely slept. He was anxious to get back to the office on Beacon Street and meet with Legere and some of management to attack this security breach and the potential problems it might cause, even after Legere disposed of the criminal, and he was obviously a criminal, not a person of substance like them. This could turn into something serious, jeopardizing the bottom line. Rules had to be tightened. He was getting used to being in charge. So far, he liked the fit.
It was a gray New England morning—misty—just past dawn. He was leaving early today. Bernie opened the driver’s side door of his Audi, humming “What a Fool Believes,” as Null came up silently behind him with the Heckler & Koch P7, suppressor pointed squarely at the back of his head and blew his brains out with a single round.
Then he flipped the body over and snapped a picture of what was left of Bernie’s face with his phone.