AT THE SOUND OF THE BUZZER, TODD FIELDING SMILED AND popped a breath mint into his mouth. He pressed the button for the intercom and, using his best British savoir faire, answered. “Do come up, love.”
You still have it, old chap. He chortled to himself as he stood and quickly checked his hair in the beer-commercial mirror hanging on the wall. He wondered if he should have downed a Viagra tablet. No time now, she’s here. Just going to have to score this goal on your own.
He hoped she wouldn’t mind that he’d already gone ahead and called her boyfriend, Jim Williams, that morning and suggested that he meet him in the evening “regarding certain photographs I took outside the residence of one Michelle Oakley last Saturday evening a little before ten.” He’d felt immensely clever using the electronic voice changer that he’d purchased at his last PI Schools class. And of course, he’d also placed a “restricted number” on his cell phone so that he wouldn’t be identified; then he’d walked several blocks away from his office to Sara Roosevelt Park off Chrystie Street to make the call so that his location couldn’t be pinpointed by GPS.
“I’ll want five hundred thousand dollars in small unmarked bills, for which you’ll get my camera’s memory card and all the printouts. Oh, and my word as an English gentleman that you’ll never see or hear from me again.”
That good old drunk ex-cop Mike Machovoe taught me well, Fielding had thought as he walked back to his office. He’d made sure that the meeting that night would be in a very public place—outside Madison Square Garden, where any hanky-panky on the part of Williams would be witnessed by a few thousand spectators attending the Knicks game, as well as a couple dozen cops. They’d make the exchange, and he’d disappear into the crowd, head down the escalator to Penn Station, and be off on the first train out of Dodge.
Never to be seen in this part of the country again, he mused. And if that fine little tart Sherry wants to go along for the ride with her half, which I’ll tell her was two hundred thousand, so much the better. He wasn’t worried about the money running out; he’d downloaded and kept a flash-drive copy of the Oakley photographs in case he ever needed to dip into that well again.
Fielding glanced around the office in anticipation of the arrival of his beautiful client. He tossed an old pizza box off the couch, unlatched the door, leaving it open just a crack, and then half sat, half leaned against the front of the desk with what he thought was his finest Humphrey-Bogart-as-Sam-Spade pose. He was concentrating on the type of smile he should employ—friendly, suggestive, but not gloating, I think—so at first, he didn’t grasp the enormity of the situation.
Jim Williams was standing in the doorway with a finger to his lips and a gun with a silencer attached pointed at his head. “Shhh,” the gunman said quietly. “If you so much as squeak, I’m going to blow your fucking head off.”
Standing and raising his hands, Fielding was suddenly aware of a warm, wet sensation running down his right leg as his bladder voided. He was shaking too much to consider doing anything else when two young, muscle-bound men rushed past Williams. One of them plastered a piece of duct tape over Fielding’s mouth, while the other spun him around and violently shoved him down onto an old wooden office chair normally reserved for clients. It took only a few more seconds and more duct tape for the pair to bind his wrists to the arms of the chair and his ankles to the front legs. All he could do was try to suck in enough air through his nose and roll his eyes wildly as Williams walked around the desk and sat in the chair, with the gun still pointed at his face.
“Now, you and I are going to have a conversation,” Williams said quietly yet firmly. “If all goes well, you may live to see another sunrise. If it doesn’t, you won’t. Am I clear?”
“Mmmphff,” Fielding replied, nodding his head rapidly.
“Good. I need to fix some things, and you’re going to help me do it.”
Watching the Brit pansy wet his pants and shake like a wet dog, the Fixer wondered how such a complete idiot had come so close to messing up his plan.
Some of it, of course, had to do with his decision to deal with the Michelle Oakley problem by himself. If he’d had the usual team together, someone would have been on lookout and surely spotted a bumbling spy creeping around the residence. Then again, he would have had to share the wealth for the additional work, and he did, after all, have other expenses. That new Lotus Elise SC I want will run me at least ninety thou, but with 219 supercharged horses under the hood, it will be worth it. At least, that was what he’d been thinking when he went alone to the Purchase mansion.
The Fixer also knew he’d committed the sin of being overconfident, which in the spy game could result in capture or death. But it was such a perfect setup, he consoled himself.
Originally, when Judge Kingston called and said they had a problem with Oakley’s “discretion,” the Fixer had hoped that she could simply be bought off or “discouraged” with implied threats. Either was always preferable to murder, which carried with it a whole new set of issues with the police and crusading family members. But Oakley had proved difficult.
She was the sole proprietor of a high-end call-girl service that she’d run out of her family home in Purchase. From what he’d been able to gather from Kingston, as well as what she’d told him before he killed her, the whole thing had started when one of the upstanding members of the country club, knowing she was desperate for funds, had offered her a generous sum for sex.
Despondent from the breakup of yet another marriage and nearly broke, she’d decided why not when her benefactor introduced her to a couple of other members of the club, including his Honor. At some point after that, Oakley had been approached by several bored, wealthy twenty-somethings, the children of her clients, one of whom had found compromising e-mails on her father’s computer. Rather than being upset, the girls, including Rene Hanson, had wanted to go into business with Oakley; they’d done their research and had been impressed with the financial opportunity. “Better than screwing college jocks for free,” Rene had apparently once told Kingston.
Oakley had demurred at first. But when the younger women had said they were going to go forward anyway, she’d acceded. The girls, like Rene, had seemed attracted to the fantasy of seducing powerful men and making their own way out from under their parents’ financial thumb, as well as rebelling against their pampered, comfortable lives. At least there’d be one wiser head to run the service like a business, including setting up the “arrangements” to protect the girls’ identities and safety while providing discretion for the clients.
Things had apparently been going along swimmingly until Judge Jack Kingston choked the life out of Rene in a frenzy of sexual ecstasy. Unfortunately, the girl was the child of wealthy parents with a lot of political and social clout, who’d applied a great deal of pressure on law enforcement from the federal government on down. The media had obliged by going into full “missing blond white girl” syndrome and made Rene’s disappearance a national story. Seeking to redirect attention, he’d supplied the false lead by feeding the press the story about Mexican drug trafficking, and it had seemed to work. Guadalajara had received more adverse media attention than even that city was used to getting.
Oakley had not been so easy to fool. She knew Rene and how enamored the girl had become with Kingston and his promises to divorce his wife and marry her.
“There was no way she was going off to Mexico with a stranger, especially without telling me,” Oakley had told the Fixer the night he murdered her. “I went back and looked at her accounts and noted that she was seeing Kingston pretty much exclusively and spent every night with him that week before Christmas when his wife was out of town. Except there’s no entry for the night she disappeared. At first, I was fooled when Kingston kept calling, demanding to see her. It didn’t make sense that she’d just left town, but I wasn’t sure what else to think. Until I overheard him talking about his trip with the wife and kids at the same time he was supposedly so desperate to see Rene. That’s what confirmed my suspicions.”
With confirmation of what she’d had a hand in creating, her conscience—whose voice she had heard but ignored—returned. Then she’d become a blackmailer, but not the usual sort who wanted money, a job, or some special favor. Instead, she’d demanded that Kingston come clean on his own—claim it was an accident if he wanted and that he was giving himself up because his conscience was haunting him. But he would have to admit his guilt and throw himself on the mercy of the courts. And there was one more thing. He would have to reveal where Rene Hanson’s body was located so that her parents could have the closure of a burial.
If Kingston didn’t do it on his own, she was going to the police with documentation, including deposited checks from traceable bank accounts, a calendar of dates when he’d met with Rene, plus the blood test Kingston had taken, which could be traced back to him through DNA, and even his last two voice messages asking to meet with Rene. And if the judge didn’t think that was enough to worry about, or at least open up an investigation with him as the prime suspect, there was one more piece of evidence, she’d said, that she wasn’t going to reveal yet. “But it will finish him.”
Sitting in her library, facing the Fixer across her desk, Oakley had sighed, and for a moment, he’d almost felt sorry for what he was going to have to do. She’d looked haunted and incredibly sad. Obviously, when her conscience had resurrected itself, it had done so with a vengeance.
“I should have stopped it when I realized she was falling in love, because he was only going to use her until he moved on. I didn’t even consider that he would kill her,” she’d said. “Of course, I should have stopped the whole thing, the Gentleman’s VIP Club, before it got started. What was I thinking? Victimless crime? A win-win opportunity?”
Oakley had looked him deep in the eyes then, and he’d realized that she already knew what was going to happen to her. Then she’d said something curious. “And now I have to atone.” With that, she’d picked up her cell phone. “I’m calling the police.”
Surprised by the sudden turn of events, Williams had thrown himself over the desk with the steak knife he’d picked up from the dining room table when he’d first come in. It had been the perfect setup. The weird little man was easy to frame. The taxi driver an added bonus. The availability of the murder weapon, which he’d surmised would have his scapegoat’s fingerprints ready and waiting. But he hadn’t wanted to finish her yet. He’d still needed to know where she kept all the incriminating evidence.
However, she’d fought like a tigress, and he’d had to kill her too soon. Her ferocity had taken him by surprise, and he didn’t like surprises, as they could lead to mistakes. He’d sat down, looking at her body for a moment, to recollect his thoughts. When he’d been satisfied that his mind was back on track, he’d stood and gone to work.
After setting up the murder scene, including a sexual assault with a candlestick, the Fixer had hacked into Oakley’s computer, where he’d found the files to the Gentleman’s VIP Club. She did indeed have the documentation she’d claimed, including the testing clinic in New Jersey where the blood sample had been sent. But there had been no indication of what secret she had not revealed that would “fix” his client.
His concerns about the unknown piece of evidence had soon been overridden by another. Her computer’s log had indicated that a little after nine P.M., the files pertaining to Client 032355-JK—which he immediately recognized as the birthdate and initials of Jack Kingston—had been downloaded, presumably onto a disk or flash drive. Cursing, he’d inserted a disk of his own that introduced a computer virus into Oakley’s machine and would crash the memory system the next time it was turned on. He’d then searched for the downloaded material, to no avail, leading him to one conclusion: She’d given it to her date, Warren Bennett, the man he’d set up to frame.
The Fixer had had to wait until Sunday afternoon to get a friend at the Agency to get him Bennett’s address in New York City. He’d then watched the apartment the rest of that Sunday, hoping the occupant would leave long enough to have Josh and Lex search the place while he watched. But Bennett, who seemed to have a steady stream of homeless bums for visitors, had stayed inside all day and hadn’t left until very early Monday morning.
Only then could Josh and Lex toss the place, working quietly and quickly to search while purposefully making it appear to be a burglary. But they hadn’t found anything of value. No matter, he’d thought. This case will soon be closed.
He’d waited until after Rob, who’d been parked down the block from the Oakley mansion, reported that the maid had discovered the body and run out of the house screaming. Then he’d called the Westchester County police and asked to be put in touch with the lead detective on the Oakley case.
Good fortune had smiled again when Detective James Meadow had come online. The Fixer had identified himself as a “concerned citizen” who wanted to report that Michelle Oakley had entertained one Warren Bennett on Saturday night, the latter arriving by taxi. “Which you can check out,” he’d said. “I don’t want to be a snitch, but I heard this sleazeball talking about raping and killing this broad.” He’d then hung up and was satisfied to learn that Bennett had been arrested that afternoon as he was closing his newsstand.
The next step was to contact the powerful people who were paying him to protect Kingston and to put the pressure on District Attorney Harley Chin and make sure they wanted this case resolved quickly. If he wanted to come within sniffing distance of the soon-to-be-vacated state attorney general’s seat, Warren Bennett needed to be indicted forthwith.
As expected, Chin had jumped through the hoops like a circus poodle. Then all that had remained was for Jack Kingston to get himself appointed to the case. When the judge had pointed out that the defense attorney was likely to demand that Kingston recuse himself because of his personal knowledge of the deceased and the defendant’s family, the Fixer had told him it wouldn’t matter. He’d left it unsaid that this case would never make it past arraignment, and the only way Warren Bennett was getting out of the Westchester County jail was in a body bag.
Then, when the defendant was murdered in jail, Chin would declare the case closed. And whatever secret incriminating evidence Michelle Oakley had against his client would go to the grave with her.
There’d been a flicker of concern when Marlene Ciampi unexpectedly took on Bennett’s defense. Not only was she the wife of the incorruptible district attorney of New York County, but his contacts had told him that she was a formidable adversary in her own right. She had quickly deduced that the apartment search was no ordinary burglary. But after considering his options, the Fixer had decided that however competent Ciampi might be as an attorney and investigator, it was going to be too little, too late.
It was the perfect setup, he told himself again. Except for this moron Todd Fielding and his camera.
When he’d first received the call from the blackmailer, he’d worried that it was a professional working freelance for one of the agencies. Maybe someone hired to get a little dirt on one of the rich and powerful assholes from the country club whose influence might come in handy at some point in the future. But instead, whoever it was had snapped photographs of the Fixer and, realizing what he had, had decided to supplement his income.
However, it was soon apparent that the blackmailer was a rank amateur. Of course, this Fielding had no idea who he was dealing with or that he had all the latest countersurveillance and tracking gadgetry. As soon as the “caller unknown” had come up on his private cell-phone number, the Fixer’s equipment had immediately started tracing the call. The GPS tracking system found in most late-model cell phones had placed the caller on Chrystie Street. But another search had come up with the caller’s real phone number and linked into the Agency’s database, which said it was owned by Todd Fielding with an address on Mott Street.
If I’d wanted to, I could have probably beat him back to his office, the Fixer thought now as he sat looking at the frightened man. He nodded to Lex, who pulled a pair of pruning shears from his pants pocket and placed the business end around the first knuckle of the pinky finger on Fielding’s left hand. The private eye squealed and began to hyperventilate.
“We’ll get to your photographs in just a moment, but first I want to know why you were spying on that house,” the Fixer said calmly. “So I’m going to ask Josh to remove the duct tape covering your mouth, at which point you will quietly, yet clearly, tell me the truth.” He let his eyes flick tellingly to the endangered pinky and added, “I think you know the consequences of lying.”
It took every bit of willpower and the dual threats of shears and gun for Fielding not to scream when the Fixer’s man ripped the tape off his face.
Although he’d once been evaluated by the headmaster at the boys’ school he’d attended in Wales as “not the brightest bulb in the room,” he was smart enough to know that as soon as these men got what they wanted, he was a dead man. He tried to recall if old Mike Machovoe had covered this sort of circumstance in class. The man he knew as Jim Williams, who he’d assumed had killed Michelle Oakley in some sort of fit of passion, had turned out to be some sort of mob guy, complete with henchmen, guns, and shears.
You need to stall, old man, until you can figure a way out of this pickle, he told himself. It was risky, but he considered himself a consummate liar and thought he ought to be able to talk himself out of this. Maybe we can still work out some sort of deal, like gentlemen, where I get paid for my troubles.
“I was working for some old broad who thought her hubby was banging the decedent,” he said, trying to sound sincere and professional. He even added what he thought was a relaxed smile for good measure. That ought to throw them off.
As he spoke, Williams leaned forward and studied his face. The man then sat back with a rather disconcerting look of disappointment.
“Did you know that when people lie, their pupils dilate, and their eyes involuntarily shift from side to side?” Williams asked. “And that when your smile is sincere—meaning that you’ve told the truth—you use all the muscles in your face, including those around your eyes. But if you’re insincere, you only use the muscles around your mouth. And Mr. Fielding, your eyes aren’t smiling.”
Fielding felt the scream building up inside, but it didn’t get a chance to erupt before Josh slapped the duct tape back across his mouth and Lex squeezed the shears. There was a sickening snap, a lightning bolt of pain, and then he passed out.
The Fixer looked at the lolling head of his captive and rolled his eyes. “Jesus H. Christ, what a pansy. Wake him up!”
Josh stepped around and slapped Fielding’s face until the captive came to. However, it took him only a couple of seconds to feel the searing pain in his left hand and attempt to scream despite the tape. He looked as if he might pass out again.
“No, no, now stay with me here, Todd,” the Fixer said. “Just tell me the truth, and this will all be over. But don’t lie to me, because I’ll know it. You won’t lie to me again, will you, Todd?”
Fielding gagged and shook his head violently. He started to cry when Lex handed the shears to Josh, who placed the sharp edges around the same knuckle of the pinky on his right hand.
“Good. Now, Lex will remove the tape from your mouth, and I want you to tell me truthfully who you were working for,” the Fixer said, leaning forward again.
“Your girlfriend, Sherry,” Fielding blurted out. “She thought you were cheating on her.”
The Fixer looked as if somebody had hit him on the head with a two-by-four. I knew I should have dumped that bitch the moment she mentioned marriage. He blinked twice and looked up in time to see Lex and Josh exchange a look and knew what it meant. The boss had made a bad mistake. He was getting soft, which made him dangerous to work with. But he would have to deal with that later.
Pointing to the digital camera on the desk, the Fixer asked, “Is this the camera you used?” Without waiting for an answer, he opened the port on the side and removed the memory card. “Now, in just a moment, I’m going to look at your computer, and it will tell me if you’ve stored or made copies and prints of these photographs. But you could save me the trouble of having to search your office, and perhaps remove more pieces of your fingers, if you’d just tell me where everything—and I mean everything—is located.”
Fielding sniffed and whimpered. “All the prints are in the folder in the filing cabinet marked Jim Williams,” he said, and paused.
The Fixer smiled encouragingly. “Come on, spit it out.”
“I made a copy of everything and placed it in a safety-deposit box at a bank!” Fielding cried, certain that he was about to lose the tip of another pinky.
The Fixer studied his victim’s face. Damn, he’s telling the truth. But before he could say what would happen next, a buzzer sounded. Somebody was at the door downstairs.
“I guess this would be the female company you were expecting,” the Fixer said. He pointed to the intercom. “You’re going to tell her that you’re busy and to come back later.” He pressed the button on the intercom and nodded.
“Sorry, love, I’m a . . . I’m preoccupied!” Fielding shouted, trying to sound normal. “Come back later, please.”
The Fixer looked at Lex. “Go have a look through the peephole,” he said.
Lex returned a minute later and reported. “It was some MILF,” he said. “Actually pretty good-looking for a wuss like this guy. How do you do it?”
“It’s the accent,” Fielding mumbled.
The Fixer actually laughed. “I’ll have to remember that one. Now, back to the bank. You were being naughty, weren’t you? If ‘Jim Williams’ had paid, he was going to have to pay again and again. So it’s only fair that since you were caught cheating, you tell me which bank and give me the key.”
The Fixer was surprised when Fielding shook his head. “Sorry, old chap,” the Brit replied, “but if I give you the key, you’ll simply kill me now. And I’d rather like to see that sunrise you talked about. I will, however, take you to the bank. You get what you need, and I get to walk away. Very far away, I assure you.”
Fielding cringed and shut his eyes as Josh tightened his grip on the shears and waited for the order to start cutting. The Fixer considered his options. The Agency tended to look the other way regarding his activities, but they frowned on the murder of civilians. If it came out that he was responsible for Oakley’s death, he would have to call in all sorts of favors to get off—favors he might need some other day.
“Okay, Todd, we’ll play it your way,” the Fixer said, nodding to Josh, who pocketed the shears while Lex tore the tape off his mouth.
“Ow! Fuck!” Fielding swore. “Bloody wankers!” He was obviously feeling good about his little stand.
The Fixer shot him a hard look. “Don’t get carried away, you moron. We’re going to the bank to retrieve the flash drive,” he said. “Josh will accompany you. If anything goes wrong, we’ll be watching, and I promise you that Lex and I will find you in the not-so-distant future and take you apart joint by joint. A very long, gruesome, and painful way to die. Am I clear?”
Fielding swallowed hard. “Quite.”