Los Angeles local time was four hours behind Buenos Aires, so Vargas waited until just before midnight before placing his call to Lieutenant Troy Hembury of the Los Angeles Police Department. He figured Troy should be home and off duty, so they would have plenty of time to talk. Despite living thousands of miles apart, the two men had started an unlikely friendship four years earlier when they’d attended a five-day Law Enforcement Conference at The Venetian Hotel in Las Vegas.
The rationale behind the event had been for the brightest and most promising detectives from North and South America to have the opportunity to meet up and explore the latest technological innovations that were reshaping law enforcement around the globe. In reality, the two men had gone through the motions of attending the boring lectures and tedious workshops during the day and, at night, they’d explored the live shows, bars and casinos on the infamous strip. On one memorable occasion, they’d stayed up all night and attended the breakfast lecture the following morning wearing the same clothes they’d partied in the night before.
Both men were habitual winners, whether it came to hunting down criminals or beating the house blackjack dealers. Remarkably, they shared the same birthdate, the twenty-fourth of February, although Hembury was ten years older. This fact came to light when they played roulette together on the opening night of the conference and both men placed their respective chips on black 24. During the four intense days that followed, a strong friendship developed. On the morning the conference wrapped, they shared a taxi to the airport and vowed to keep in touch but, other than a few texts in the following weeks, they hadn’t spoken since.
Hembury had been looking forward to a quiet night in, watching the game and ploughing through a Chinese takeaway, accompanied by a few cold Buds. He’d supported the Clippers since he was a young boy, and tonight they were taking on their local rivals, the Lakers, in one of the most anticipated basketball games of the season. Hembury was a fifty-year old muscle-bound African American who maintained fitness levels that were truly age-defying. Although he was only six foot two, during his college days he had excelled at basketball and had not been far off turning pro, so was pumped up for the game. However, his well-laid plans for the evening suddenly changed when he saw the ID flash up on his mobile.
“Nic, how the hell are you? Can’t believe it’s been four years since that insane conference. Every birthday I raise a glass to you and mean to call. I feel really lousy about not keeping in touch.”
“No need for guilt, Troy. I’ve been just as bad. But, right now, I really need to talk to you about a case I’m working. In fact, I badly need your help and wisdom.”
Hembury sensed the serious change of tone in his friend’s voice and slipped straight into work mode, hitting the remote to mute the sound on the TV.
“Go on, I’m all yours.”
“Okay, I’m guessing you saw the news about the shooting outside the courthouse in Buenos Aires?”
Hembury’s voice rose an octave with excitement and anticipation. “Jesus, are you involved in that case? That footage is everywhere. They say it was a revenge gang killing connected to a bank robbery. I’ve been following it, but, weirdly, it didn’t cross my mind that it might be your investigation—”
Vargas cut in. “Troy, the gang-killing theory is total shit. This case involves a level of criminal power and ruthlessness that’s off the scale. What started as an audacious but pretty regular robbery has morphed into a catalogue of torture and murder, the like of which I’ve never experienced before.”
During the next hour, Hembury listened intently as Vargas took him through the intricate details of the case, starting with the safe-deposit raid and finishing with the sniper shooting on the courthouse steps. Troy nibbled on some cold prawn toast and downed it with a large swig of beer.
“Nic, clearly this is all about whatever’s inside one of those boxes. The torture, the executions, the contract killer are all part of the pursuit of that one objective. What kind of criminal walks away from millions of dollars when it’s handed to him on a plate? This case is a total head fuck.”
“Exactly, and right now my only lead is a San Francisco phone number, which is why I need your help.”
“Nic, it’s our only lead. Give me five minutes to check it out.”
Hembury ended the call and logged on to his work laptop.
Using the police database, it took him less than two minutes to discover the address and owner of the number. Unfortunately, he didn’t think the information was going to be of much help to his fellow detective. He hit the last number on his mobile and Vargas picked up after just one ring.
“Okay, Nic, here’s what we’ve got – the number is registered to a high-rise office block on California Street, which is located in downtown San Francisco. The entire building is owned by the Franklin Pharmaceutical Corporation, which is one of the ten largest companies in the States. They’re a huge outfit. That building alone must house over five thousand employees, and that number is a direct line that could belong to any of them. They are an incredibly well-respected company. In fact, the son of the CEO, John Franklin, is running for the Republican nomination and looks odds-on to win—”
Vargas cut in. “Yes, they’re enormous over here as well. They have offices in Buenos Aires and Córdoba. I think the company originated in Argentina.”
He paused for a moment of thought. “Troy, my old man used to say that every good barrel can have one bad apple.”
“Okay, Nic, if we are going to play the metaphor game … we are looking for a needle in a giant haystack.”