Once a Killer (14 page)

She shook her head in resignation, as if this happened all the time, although she’d probably not heard the microphone story before. Havlicek took a seat while she picked up the phone and called Walker’s PA.

“I’m sorry, Julia, but I have a special delivery for Nick.” She paused and listened. “Yes, I offered to do that but, apparently, he needs to hand it to him personally. He’s not allowed to leave it, I’m afraid.” She looked over at Havlicek after replacing the receiver. “He’s on his way down.” The smile made a partial return.

Havlicek rested the envelope on the glass coffee table next to the chair and left the open rucksack on his lap. A few moments later, there were footsteps coming from the staircase behind the reception desk.

“He’s over there, Nick,” the receptionist said when Walker entered the room. He was wearing an open-neck white shirt with dark gray suit trousers.

Walker came over and stood above Havlicek. “I believe you have a delivery for me.”

Havlicek stopped fumbling through his bag and looked up. “Yes,” he said, rising to his feet, the rucksack held in his left hand. “Mr. Nicholas Walker?”

Walker nodded. “Yes, that’s me. Where do I sign?”

Havlicek reached into the bag. “Just here.” He took out a silenced pistol with his right hand and stared into Walker’s eyes.

Walker gasped and stepped back when he saw the gun.

Havlicek fired three shots: the first hit Walker in the middle of his forehead, and the others in the center of his chest. Red stains emerged on his crisp white shirt as Walker fell backward against the mahogany desk. The receptionist held her hands to her face and screamed.

Havlicek walked over to Walker’s wriggling body and let off two more rounds into the side of his head before strolling out of the building. Moments later, the motorcycle raced north on Davies Street toward a busy Oxford Street.

Chapter 16

“T
HE
C
OFFEE’S
N
OT
T
OO
B
AD
I
N
H
ERE
,” said Brad Kaminski, sliding into the red booth seat in the window at Curly’s.

Floyd Crouten, easing into the worn-out seat on the opposite side of the vinyl-topped table, picked up the menu. “What’s the food like?”

“Never tried it.”

The waitress came over with a jug of filter coffee, turned over two of the mugs on the table, and filled them up. “You ready to order?” she asked, as though everyone who came into Curly’s knew its menu by heart.

Crouten raced down the menu. Standard diner fare. “I’ll have the Curly Classic.”

Kaminski held up his right hand. “Coffee’s fine with me.”

“Are you sure, honey?”

“Really, I’m not hungry.”

“There’s no limit on refills,” the waitress said as she walked away.

Crouten had a confused look on his face when he stared at Kaminski. “You not hungry?”

“No. I had breakfast.” He glanced at his watch. “It’s only eleven fifteen. Too early for lunch. Least it is for me.”

“One thing you learn on this job is to grab food when you can.”

Kaminski looked at Crouten as if to say: “I can see that.” He turned his head to the window and peered across Cedar Street at the Grannis office building directly opposite.

Crouten continued reading the menu. “Next time, I’ll try one of their omelets.”

Kaminski kept his eyes glued to the window. “I’m not sure we’re ever going to see him again.”

“How many times have you been here since that first sighting?”

“Four, maybe five times. I’d need to check the log. It seems to me he would have been back by now if he was coming.”

“The thing about surveillance is you have to learn how to deal with the tedium. Most of the work is like this. It can be a long and patient game.” Crouten folded the sticky menu and placed it into the plastic holder at the edge of the table. “We’re a bit like chameleons, see. They spend most of their time sitting around, merging into the background, and then bam, a fly comes out of nowhere and out shoots the tongue.”

“So we’re catching flies now?”

Crouten emptied his mug. “You’re right; the coffee’s not bad here.”

The waitress brought over a large plate, piled high with bacon, fried eggs, hash browns, and a jumbo bagel. She placed it in front of Crouten with the pride of someone who’d just cooked it all herself, rather than having just picked it up at the counter in front of the kitchen. “Can I get you gentlemen anything else?”

“Another coffee,” Crouten said, raising the empty plastic container from the middle of the table. “Do you have any more Sweet’N Low?”

“Sure.” She leaned across, grabbed the full container from the next table, and handed it to him. “I’ll be back with the coffee.”

“Wouldn’t we be better off watching Towers at Dudek’s?” asked Kaminski as Crouten finished pouring half a bottle of ketchup over his breakfast.

Crouten now had a mouth full of food. “We could do that, but every time he went out, we’d need to follow him. Most of the time, he’d be heading somewhere else.” He stopped talking long enough to swallow. “A lot of wasted effort. Just relax. We’re much better off here.”

“I guess I’ll have to learn to be more patient.”

While Crouten devoured his food, Kaminski continued to watch the Grannis building. Across the street, a few people came and went, but none of them looked anything like Towers. By the time they’d finished their third coffee refill, Curly’s lunchtime trade was picking up. As a line started to form, a couple of hungry customers came over and asked them if they were about to leave. Crouten told them to go away.

Kaminski waved over the waitress. “I’ll order something to eat so people don’t keep thinking we’re about to go.” He asked for a tuna melt and a small portion of Curly’s fries.

Crouten pointed to the large glass container on the edge of the counter. “Is that apple pie?”

“Apple and blueberry,” the waitress said. “It’s our most popular dessert.”

“I’ll have a slice.” Crouten stood up. “Where are the restrooms?”

She pointed to the back of the restaurant, beyond the kitchen, and then went to fetch their order.

When Crouten returned, a giant slice of pie was waiting for him. Kaminski was still staring out of the window and hadn’t touched his tuna melt.

“You weren’t waiting for me, were you?” Crouten said, sliding back into the booth. “Is it me, or do they make these seats a tight fit?” He picked up one of Kaminski’s fries and threw it into his mouth before grabbing his dessert fork.

Kaminski ignored the question, keeping his eyes locked onto the Grannis building. “There’s something familiar about that guy,” he said, nodding toward the other side of the street. “Do you recognize him?”

Crouten threw him a disappointed look when he wasn’t able to dive right into the pie and then narrowed his eyes to focus on the man who’d captured Kaminski’s attention. He was dressed in a smart suit and twice walked by the entrance to the Grannis building before standing outside the Indian restaurant next door, where he played with his cell phone.

Crouten almost wet himself. “You see. It pays to play the long game. It’s exactly this kind of discovery that makes a chameleon’s career.”

Kaminski turned to Crouten. “I’m certain I’ve seen that face before. Is he our fly?”

Across the street, the man moved away from the restaurant, opened the entrance door to number twenty-six, looked over his shoulder, and then disappeared inside.

Crouten rested the fork on the side of his plate and stood up. “Wait here. Don’t let anyone touch my pie.” He rushed out of the diner and ran across the road.

Chapter 17

M
ICHAEL
S
CRIBBLED
S
OMETHING
D
ELIBERATELY
I
LLEGIBLE
in the visitors’ book at the security desk inside the foyer of 26 Cedar Street then took the elevator to the twenty-first floor. He went straight to the men’s room outside suite 60 and locked himself into one of the cubicles. His guts couldn’t decide whether he needed the toilet or was about to throw up—maybe both. This was it: the moment of no return; the moment he’d been dreading for days. By now, he’d analyzed his situation to death, and he knew he had no choice. But it still felt wrong and a betrayal of everything he believed in. Leaning with his back against the door, he grabbed a few sheets of toilet paper and used them to dry his forehead while trying to control his breathing.

You can do this, Michael.

When he walked out of the restroom, a chubby man in a loose-fitting, cheap suit looked at him. He appeared to be waiting for the elevator, but there was something strange about the way he was staring. Maybe he was one of Rondell’s cronies, but he didn’t look the sort. Michael turned away and entered the offices of the Grannis Hedge Fund, where the same pretty receptionist was seated behind the reception counter. She looked up and smiled at him. For her, this was just another day at the office. She probably had no idea her employer was a crook.

The receptionist stood up. “Mr. Hoffman, Mr. Grannis is expecting you. I can take you right in.”

Michael looked at the clock on the glass wall behind her. He was almost twenty minutes late, having spent the best part of half an hour pacing Cedar Street, wondering if he could go through with this.

She led him to Rondell’s corner office, knocked on the door, and took him through. Rondell came over and shook his hand. When the receptionist left, Rondell’s broad smile went with her.

“I thought you weren’t coming,” Rondell said, returning to his seat while Michael sat across the desk from him. “We agreed twelve thirty.”

“I’m here now.” Michael was in no mood to explain himself.

“Okay. What do you have for me?” Rondell stood up and walked over to cabinet near the window. “I’m sorry. I almost forgot my manners,” he said, picking up a tray of sandwiches, which he brought back to the desk. “After all, I did invite you for lunch.” He pointed at the tray. “Help yourself.”

“I’m not hungry. I want to get this over with and get out of here.”

“Come on, Danny Boy. Why make this difficult?” Rondell picked up a sandwich and placed it on a side plate. “These are my favorite—turkey and cranberry jelly. Do you remember my mom used to make these for us when you came around? She knew you weren’t fed properly at home.”

Michael threw him an acidic stare. “Stop the pretense. We both know this is not a social meeting. I’m only here because I have no choice. We’re not friends, or anything like it, so don’t try to pretend otherwise.”

Rondell showed no emotion. He bit into his sandwich and looked straight at Michael. “I’m waiting,” he said when he finished chewing.

Michael swallowed then cleared his throat. “I have a deal for you.”

Rondell stretched out his right hand. “Hand it over. Let me take a look at it while you’re here.”

“Do I look stupid? I’m not giving you any paperwork.”

Rondell broke into a slight smile. “Smart. Okay, talk me through it. I’ll make a few notes.”

Michael kept wringing his hands. “It’s an acquisition I’m working on for Corton Zander.”

Rondell raised his eyebrows. “You do move in elevated circles.”

“One of their clients is about to acquire a public company.”

“Are we going to have to play a guessing game, Danny Boy? Which client, and what are they buying?”

Michael paused. So far, he’d not broken the law; he’d shared no inside information. He could walk out of here now with a clean conscience. But his next sentence would make him a criminal.

“It’s a…” He stood up and grabbed a plastic bottle of water from the top of the cabinet. He returned to his seat and gulped some of it down. “It’s a telecoms company.” Some more water. “Called Spar Cellular.” He watched Rondell write down the name of the company on a legal pad, and it made his skin crawl. Michael had crossed the threshold.

“Must be one of their biggest clients. Who are they buying?” The whole thing seemed so normal for Rondell, something he’d done many times before.

This next step would complete the crime. The most valuable piece of information was the name of the target. With that name, Rondell’s fund could buy stock in the company at today’s price and then sell it at the much higher bid price once the deal was announced in a few days’ time. The Grannis Hedge Fund would make millions out of it, and so would Rondell’s criminal backers once he passed on the information to them.

“They’re buying another cellular company.”

“Yeah, I guessed that, but who?”

Michael’s throat tightened. After another drink of water, he managed to squeeze out, “Collar Telecom.”

“Wow!” Rondell wrote it down. “That’s huge.”

Michael looked down at the floor. He’d done it; he’d just broken the law and breached the confidence of his biggest client. Amanda Etling’s face flashed into his mind. A surge of guilt ran through him, followed by a strange sense of relief.