Precipice (2 page)

Several miles away, a phone buzzed to life. The man sat in silence at his desk, watching the rain fall lightly outside his window. He frowned and reached across a stack of folders to answer. Holding the device to his ear, he said nothing. After listening intently for a minute, he uttered two words, “Good work,” and hung up, setting the phone on the papers beside him.

He smiled to himself, contemplating the upcoming events, knowing his introduction to the world would be magnificent. Foundations of power were about to be shaken. Precious few people would ever see it coming, and those who did would be too late to intervene.

He focused again on the rain outside. It continued its steady drizzle, creating small rivulet patterns on the windowpane.

***

Michael Krieger exited his car and turned to look at his destination. Once upon a time, the towering columns, stone statues, and haunting, gothic architecture of this massive abode would have intimidated him. But that was years ago. He’d seen too much in his 71 years to be impressed or daunted anymore.

He tugged at the sleeves on his black, leather jacket to straighten it, concealing the small Christian cross tattooed on his wrist. He never got used to wearing street clothes; he struggled to remember he was a civilian now. In his current line of work, however, it was beneficial to downplay his years in the service. Most of the people he met on the job didn’t think much of military personnel or law enforcement.

The pristine condition of the building struck him as he climbed the steps to the massive, double-door entrance. It was easily as old as he, but as it gleamed in the morning sun, it rivaled anything newly built.
And it would probably outlast those newer buildings as well
, he mumbled.
Buildings back in the day were built to last, not like the new-fangled architectures constructed today solely for appearance.
As he reached toward the old, pewter knocker, the door swung open. He was expected.

His newest client, a wealthy museum director, stood in the wide entranceway. Michael jokingly thought of his clients as rich, young rulers, which always made him chuckle. The “rich, young ruler” was a character in a famous Christian narrative.

With classic archetypes, practical morality, and a complex theological amalgam of sin and salvation, the Bible was packed with intrigue and insight into human neurosis. He’d read it cover to cover after an English professor commented, “Only after reading the Bible can one hope to understand literature and fine arts.” He showed examples from Shakespeare to Steinbeck, from Springsteen to Metallica.

Though it kept him sane during long years overseas, the depths of human depravity ultimately cooled Krieger’s interest and he’d put aside his study of religion. All that remained were random connections to amusing stories. The rich, young ruler was one. Michael loved them for their vanity. Their love of money and material possessions made them easy prey.

“Please come in. I’ve been expecting you.” The man in the doorway greeted him. He stood tall and lanky, with tight curly hair. If Michael didn’t know better, he would’ve guessed his client still in college with his awkward, youthful appearance. Ruddy cheeks and pronounced dimples accentuated a baby face.

“Herr Braxton, I knew you would be.” Michael strode through the foyer, led the way into the adjacent room and sat down in one of the large high-backed armchairs.

As the young man hastened to another chair, Michael picked up a fancy crystal decoration from the glass-topped end table between them. A dolphin leapt from a crashing wave. “You know, the ancient Greeks once revered dolphins. Their presence during a voyage was believed to be a good omen.”

The client didn’t respond, balancing so close to the edge of the seat, it was a wonder the chair didn’t topple. The poor man fidgeted incessantly, running his hands through his messy hair and subsequently brushing loose strands out of his eyes. It didn’t take years of psychological training to recognize anxiety.

“Alright, then. Let’s get to business.” Michael replaced the crystal dolphin on the glass and straightened in his chair. He let his eyes wander over the ornate room, settling on a massive, wooden wardrobe set against the far wall, the type that might house an entire gothic wonderland if you peered deeply enough into its depths. “The Feds have been going crazy the last couple days. It’s only a matter of time until the trail leads them to you.”

“But I didn’t do anything wrong.” Ian Braxton’s voice quivered. “I didn’t!”

“Is that why you’re so jumpy?” Michael raised an eyebrow. “Innocent people aren’t scared of their own shadow.”

“They told me no one would get hurt.” Braxton hesitated, “I didn’t know anyone would get hurt!”

“And you trusted them?”

“They said it was just a prank. Jimmy was an old friend and they wanted to surprise him. I told them museum policy prevented me from letting them in after hours, but they assured me they’d be careful. No one was supposed to get hurt…”

“I see.” Ian Braxton was either a criminal mastermind, playing Michael to cast doubt elsewhere, or a royal fool. From what the veteran had learned about his client—he inherited, not earned, his wealth—Michael was willing to bet on the latter. The man permitted thugs to enter a closed museum at night to, as they said, surprise a friend.
Well, death by execution would come as a surprise
. “Are you in the habit of letting random people enter the museum after dark without your presence?”

“What? No, no. Not at all. I knew one of the men. He worked for me a few years ago as a security guard. Big fella, kinda scary looking, but trustworthy, or so I thought. His name was Nichols. Roscoe Nichols.”

“Probably a patsy the others took advantage of, though if he was in on it all along, Roscoe could be a pseudonym. Did you see the men that night?”

              “They arrived right as I was pulling out of the lot. I waved and then left pretty quickly.”

“And your friend, this Roscoe Nichols? He was with them?”

“He went by Ross. I’m not sure if he was there. I only saw them at a distance and I wasn’t paying particularly close attention. I had another engagement, so I didn’t stick around to say my hellos.”

“I see.” Michael sighed. This Ross Nichols, pseudonym or not, was likely long dead by now. The others used him to get to Braxton. Ian seemed to be a decent man, but his gullibility, it appeared, had finally done him in.

Michael hesitated for a couple seconds before getting to the point. “So what do you expect me to do for you?”

“I got your name from an old school friend, Jeremy Meeks. You helped him a few years back. He was arrested for murdering his wife, but you proved his innocence.”

“I remember,” Krieger sighed. “But you aren’t falsely accused of murder. You aided and abetted one, albeit unknowingly. You admit to abetting a B and E, breaking and entering, and conspiracy law dictates you can be charged with the entire offense. I don’t know that I can do anything.”

“Can’t you prove it was an accident?”

“It wasn’t. You intentionally let them in.”

“But I didn’t mean for anyone to get hurt.” Braxton’s voice rose in a panic. “You have to help me!”

“I’m sorry. It appears I’ve wasted your time. Your admission of leaving the museum unlocked dooms you. The best you can hope for is to show the court you held no ill will toward Jimmy.”

The young man’s face paled and his eyes widened. He blinked a few times, then asked, “Why would anyone think that?

“Well, you left a door unlocked, allowing men to enter and kill him. A jury might not look highly on that. But I wouldn’t agonize too much about a court case.”

“Wait…what? Why not? That sounds serious…”

“Oh it is…very serious. But you have something more troubling to worry about.”

It was unfortunate. Michael was unable help this man, and for that he felt truly sorry. But Braxton needed to understand exactly how much trouble he was in. “You saw the men responsible, maybe could recognize faces. That fact will dawn on them, if it hasn’t already. These men are killers and they can’t let you stick around long enough to identify them. You need to get out of town.”

Braxton stared at Michael blankly. Clearly, he needed more explicit explanation.

“They want you dead.”

From their vantage point a couple blocks away, agents Dominic Randal and Shannon Faye enjoyed a clear view of the building. The entrance to Sasori Software, a nearly bankrupt computer company in the Campbell neighborhood, was hardly intimidating. Once a large coastal chain, headquartered here in Greenlake, Sasori had fallen on hard times and was largely abandoned when the owner moved to Silicon Valley.

Tucked between Greenlake Gaming and MONSTER, a popular restaurant known for its large portions, was an undersized, unassuming, and unremarkable set of wooden double doors. The entire entrance covered a ten foot span on the street. Passers-by never gave the doorway a second glance, if it even managed a first glance. A dulling bronze 42 adorned the windowless, dirty, building.

Most people assumed the lot had been abandoned long ago. What most didn’t know was that this address had been a center of increasing activity over the past few months and local law enforcement had taken notice.

Randal and Faye had been sitting in his dark gray Corolla for close to three hours. It was the perfect car for a stakeout…a make and model one would never associate with law enforcement, in a bland color that attracted zero attention.

Besides vehicle, the key to a successful stakeout is alternating shifts to stave off the growing boredom and fatigue. So the two took turns observing, waiting for signs of activity. In that time, not a single person entered or exited through the door, despite heavy foot traffic along the street.

About an hour and a half into the stakeout, however, Shannon had pointed out an elderly man at a table outside MONSTER. His wrinkles, age spots, and thinning white hair indicated he was in his late 70s, but he sported a muscular torso and strong arms and legs. Decked out in a colorful, floral Hawaiian shirt and floppy hat, he was reading a book. Binocular magnification proved it to be the classic
A Tale of Two Cities
. None of this was what piqued their interest though.

The peculiarity that caught their attention was his inactivity. He’d remained motionless since early that morning. Time stretched past two hours and finally to three, but while all other patrons moved on with their lives, the mystery man remained buried in his novel.

“Who do you think he is?” Dominic inquired. Staring through the binoculars helped little. He yawned. “Do you think he’s connected to Sasori?”

“Has to be. No one can read Dickens for that long without needing to stand up and move around.” Shannon muttered. “Maybe he’s security. Or a watchman, a lookout.” As it was Dominic’s shift to watch, she labored on her new hobby, the daily Sudoku from the paper. She was becoming quite adept at the numbers game, but this one was giving her fits.

“Look!” Dominic exclaimed, grabbing his camera. Shannon, happy to take a break from her headache-inducing puzzle, sat up straight, stretched, and grabbed her binoculars. A man was climbing the steps to Number 42. Wearing a dark pair of jeans and a black t-shirt, topped with a Chicago Cubs ball cap pulled low over his eyes, he could have passed for a graduate student from the local university.

He stepped quickly and with authority, sauntering to the door with the gait of one who knows what he’s doing and doesn’t care who sees him. He was someone of importance, or rather imagined himself to be. He appeared a shade over six feet and thin as a rail. A pair of large, dark sunglasses—aviators—covered his eyes.

Probably of West African descent, he reminded Shannon of the Nigerian man who recently shattered a record in one of those big marathons; she couldn’t remember which. He carried nothing of interest, merely a bottle of water.

More intriguing, the old man had come to attention, breaking away from his book as he stared, unblinking, at the man. He reached for his cell, hit one button, then spoke a few brief words into it. After he set it down, the door abruptly swung inwards and the newcomer glanced behind him before disappearing into the darkness within.

“Did you get that?” Shannon whispered. Her binoculars were glued to her eyes and she remained frozen in her seat. “Was it him?”

“I got shots of everything.” Dominic’s high resolution camera ceased its snapping. “Let’s get these back to HQ. It looks a lot like him, but we should take these to the lab to make sure. We’ll be able to positively identify him once they’re enlarged.”

Shannon nodded, tossed her binoculars into the backseat, and reached for her seatbelt. Dominic grabbed the keys from the cup holder, started the engine, and pulled out from their spot.

The two sped past the building, neither noticing the old man put down his book. He stared after their car as they maneuvered their way through traffic and turned down a side street a couple blocks further up. The man reached for his phone one more time and again spoke briefly into it. He packed his things, walked over to Number 42, strode up the few steps and disappeared inside.

***

“Oh good.” Chief Detective Jacob Sloan glanced up from his computer, “Randal, Faye…you’re back.” His gruff voice had grown more and more agitated these past few weeks. Their investigation had slowed to a crawl and the edge in his voice reflected that frustration. Rising to his feet, he trudged around his desk to meet the two agents.

Every time he saw his boss, Dominic was amazed how much this man had changed since they first met. Once elite, Sloan let himself go when he landed this desk job.

Though still intellectually sharp, Sloan had transformed from a trim, muscular rock of a man to a pudgy picture of unhealthiness. The man could move fast and decisively when necessary, but he supported a great weight on his beefy shoulders.

A thin halo of hair wound from ear to ear, framing his thick, rounded head. Rarely seen without a Camacho Corojo cigar dangling between his lips, he’d graduated from taking orders to giving them and his appearance reflected that promotion. He’d tell anyone who asked “not many cigars are strong enough for a real man, but this one’ll knock your socks off.”

Many suspected Sloan had also fallen heavily off the alcohol wagon, but with his penchant for infamous fits of anger, no one dared broach the topic with him. Besides, it hadn’t affected his ability to get the job done…not yet anyway.

“You feeling alright, boss?” Today, Sloan was knocking back a few pills with a swig of something Dominic couldn’t identify. “What is it?”

“I’m fine. It’s Vitame—something.” He shut his eyes and shook his head. “Never mind that. What did you find?”

“We’ve got something you’re gonna want to see. A man showed up at the site today. We got a half dozen decent photos of him before he disappeared inside. It looked like him, but we were too far away to make a positive ID. We dropped the shots down at the lab on our way in.” Dominic spoke quickly; his boss hated wasting precious seconds.

Sloan pursed his lips, then exhaled. “Excellent. Let me see them when they’re ready.” He headed toward his chair before stopping and swiveling his thick neck to call after them. “Oh and guys? There was another one this morning. At the museum on 5
th
Avenue. Appears to be one of the janitors.”

“Same M.O.?”

He nodded. “It’s the real deal. Every detail was perfect, even the ones we left out of the papers to identify a copycat.”

“Great,” Randal groaned. “That’s number six.”

“And in only six months,” Shannon added.

Sloan frowned and nodded, showed both of them out the door with a flick of his wrist, and returned to his desk. Hefting his body into his desk chair, he plucked the cigar from between his lips and reached for a mug of hot coffee sitting next to him. Unable to get through the day without his java keeping him awake and alert, he’d sneak a dash of rum from his secret stash on particularly bad days.

Settling himself into his cushy chair, he returned to work on the suspect files. He’d been studying hardcopies—he preferred the days before computers complicated everything—when Randal and Faye arrived.