Ratio: A Leopold Blake Thriller (A Private Investigator Series of Crime and Suspense Thrillers) (3 page)

“I’m golden.” Trevor grinned. “You can take the ladder with you.”

“How are you gonna lock the trap door when you’re done?” 

“I got something I can use for that before I drop down to the floor.”

“Yeah, well, I’m going home soon, so be sure to leave that key card on my desk when you go, okay?” 

“No problem.” He pictured the replica he had slipped onto Rick’s desk. “I can guarantee you’ll have it back. Scout’s honor.”

Trevor listened as Rick took the ladder into the elevator and left the floor. He waited another moment before closing and locking the trap door from above. Satisfied nobody was watching, he flicked on two flashlights, one for his hand, the other he wore as a headlight. Stowing the baseball cap away, he remained in one spot while he swept the area with a light. Everything in the space was utilitarian, the tops of ventilation exhaust ducts, fresh water pipes, standpipes for fire sprinklers, and electrical cables. Otherwise, there was only a thin layer of dust that hadn’t been disturbed in a while.

He unfolded one styrofoam panel after another, dropping them to the floor, making a bridge of sorts from the access point to one side wall. He knew that if he walked over the dust, he’d leave footprints behind, something he couldn’t risk. By walking over the panels, then taking them up after he passed over, he could get set up at one end without detection.

Leaving the panels in place, he pulled off his rucksack and set it in the far corner. Next, he set the bag of cat litter in another corner and tore it open. From his bag, he fetched a large plastic jug, leaving it next to the litter, effectively making a latrine to use for the next three days. Finally, he took up the styrofoam panels and folded them out to full size, positioning them around his hiding place, shielding it from view. 

Perfect fit. 

Trevor looked around his home for the next three days and smiled. It wasn’t much, but it would do. After all, with someone like Rick running the show, it would be easy enough to turn presidential candidate Jack Melendez into a corpse without much trouble. 

All he had to do was wait.

Chapter 2

“WHAT THE HELL happened?” 

Leopold Blake sat in Oliver Merrill’s plush office, staring out at the view over Manhattan’s Upper East Side, and took a deep breath. His company accountant, one of the senior partners at Silverman & Stone, stood behind his desk, waving a thick ledger in the air, waiting for an answer. A pair of reading spectacles hung on the end of his nose, a look of exasperation on his face.

“Well?”

Leopold leaned back in his chair, feeling the soft leather folding to the contours of his body.  He ran his fingers through his messy hair and looked up. “You tell me, Merrill,” he said. “That’s what I’m paying you for.”

“Your company is paying the firm to audit your accounts and prepare the annual reports,” Merrill said. “And that means you need to be a little more upfront with me. So, I’ll ask again,” he lay down the papers and leaned across the desk, “what the hell happened?” 

“Run me through the numbers again.”

The accountant sighed and sat down. “Operating profit for the year was one-point-four billion before taxes,” he said, consulting his computer screen. “Total turnover close to fifteen billion.”

“Sounds pretty solid to me.”

“Down four percent on last year, but still a good story to tell the shareholders.”

“So what’s the issue?”

Merrill took off his glasses and shot Leopold a look. “You know what I’m getting at. R&D budget for last year was four hundred million. Projections for next year put it at less than half that. You normally see a decent return from the research division, so why the cuts?”

“You read about Chemworks in the papers, right?” Leopold said. 

“The French business? Sure, just about everybody did. A PR nightmare, if you ask me.”

“Exactly. Since that sorry business, we’ve cut down on R&D spending. I don’t want anything like that happening again. Not with the sort of work we do.”

Merrill shook his head. “You’re not doing anything untoward, so far as I can see.”

“That’s the point,” Leopold said. “You’re not supposed to see. Chemworks was wrapped up in some pretty nasty stuff.”

“Like what?”

“I’m not sure. The boys in Brussels didn’t want an American running the show. The EU regulatory board forced me out years ago.”

“You still kept your shares, though.”

“Yes, but I lost any voting rights. I was off the board, had no access to their findings. Only what I’ve heard on the grapevine. That’s how the sale went through without my consent.”

Merrill turned his attention back to his computer screen. “Yes, it was quite the hostile takeover.”

“Understatement of the year.”

“Still no idea who the purchaser was?”

Leopold shook his head. “No. It was a closed shop deal. Parent company was a shell, no way of tracking down the owners. The French courts sealed the papers. Whoever the buyers are, they’ve got their hands on some pretty lethal stuff.”

“What kind of stuff?”

“Mostly engineered pathogens. The sort of thing you might use to develop a vaccine.” Leopold sat up. “Or a weapon.” 

Merrill chuckled. “Sounds a little dramatic, don’t you think? I’m sure you’ll get to the bottom of it.”  

“Not without a little help.” He stood up. 

“Your friends at the NYPD? Are they still talking to you?” 

“As far as I know, yeah.”

Merrill smiled. “You know, with all your money and resources, I don’t know why you spend your time running around with the police. It’s not healthy. People are talking.”

Leopold ignored him. “Is there anything else?” 

The accountant closed his ledger. “No, I’m done with you for now. I’ll have the audit ready for your team to look at in a few weeks.”

“How exciting.” Leopold headed for the door. “I can’t wait.”

Merrill sighed. “A pleasure as always, Mr. Blake.”

Leopold stepped out of the office, letting the heavy door swing closed behind him. Tax season was always a drag, but a necessary evil. Since the death of his parents when he was a teenager, Leopold had inherited control of Blake Investments Inc., a global corporation and umbrella company for dozens of diverse businesses across the world. Unfortunately, part of the job meant dealing with accountants and lawyers, most of whom hated his guts. He could see why. 

Catching the elevator down to ground level, Leopold pulled out his cell phone and dialed a number from memory. The call picked up. 

“Blake, this isn’t a good time,” a woman’s voice answered. 

“Is it ever?”

“What do you want, Leopold?”

“Where are you?”

“I’m on a case. This really isn’t a good time.”

“Mary, I need your help with something.” The elevator slowed to a halt and the doors opened. Leopold stepped out into the lobby, avoiding the crowds as he headed for the exit. The sun streamed through the tall windows, flooding the marble-clad hall with light. 

“Is this about Paris again? You know that’s not my jurisdiction.”

“I know, I know. But you were there; you know what went down.”

“Don’t remind me.”

“Mary, I can’t do this without you.” Leopold pushed the glass doors open and headed out onto the street, the busy NYC traffic slowing his pace. “Where are you?”

“Queens. Like I said, on a case.”

“Anything interesting?”

“Possible homicide. Gang related, it looks like.”

“Boring.” Leopold pushed past a hot dog stand, the scent of fried onions hitting his nostrils. He wondered where he could grab lunch. “When are you done?”

Mary sighed loudly. “The NYPD was not put on this earth for your amusement. I’ll be here until Forensics finishes up. Could be a few hours. Then it’s paperwork. Then bed.”

“Oakes got you on the early shift?” 

“Yeah. No rest for the wicked, huh?”

“Meet me for dinner. I know a new place, almost impossible to get in. Unless you’re me, of course.”

“Rain check,” Mary said. “I’ve got to go.”

“Tell me a little more about the case,” said Leopold, crossing the street. “Maybe I can help you get out of there a little earlier.”

“Maybe another time.”

“Indulge me.”

A pause. “Fine. We got a single male vic, looks to be mid-thirties, Asian. GSW to the abdomen, entrance wound in the back, exit through the chest. He’s packing, but no gunpowder residue on his hands, so it doesn’t look like he got off a shot. So far, no hit on his ID.”

“Clothes?”

“Jeans, boots, tee shirt.” 

“Watch?”

Another pause. Crackling on the line. “Steel casing, Omega chronograph.”

“Seamaster?” 

“Yeah.”

“New?”

“Doesn’t look it.”

Leopold turned down a side street, heading away from the crowds. “How’s his skin?”

“What?” 

“How’s his skin? Any redness, scars, tattoos?” 

“A couple of tattoos on his forearms. Skin looks fine. Pretty good, actually.” 

“Look closer at the tattoos. Any swelling or redness?” 

There was a rustling noise and Mary came back on the line. “There’s some slight inflammation around the inner arm, just near the outline. What are you thinking?”

“Hair?”

“His hair?”

Up ahead, Leopold spotted a Cuban restaurant. He quickened his pace. “Yes, his hair. How is it styled?”

“It’s black. Short, clipped, very neat. A little too much gel.” 

“Okay, so we’re not dealing with a gangbanger.”

“How’s that?”

Leopold reached the restaurant and stopped, glancing at the menu in the window. “It’s not unusual for gang members to wear expensive watches, but they rarely have such good taste. Redness around the tattoos suggest they’re recent. Looks like someone’s playing criminal.” 

“What are you saying?” 

“This guy didn’t even have chance to draw his weapon. Even the most violent gangs have honor codes. They wouldn’t shoot someone in the back, not unless it’s some kind of revenge killing. Why would they want this guy dead? Either he’s on the take, or he’s playing for the wrong team. If he’s had the tattoos done recently, chances are he’s trying to fit in where he doesn’t belong.” Leopold opened the restaurant door, the scent of smoked paprika and fried potatoes wafting out into the open air. “Run his prints through the internal Vice database. I bet you they’re one man down.” 

“You think he’s a narc?” 

“If the glove fits.” 

Mary sighed. “How about we wait for the forensics team to get here and find some actual evidence?”

“Be my guest,” said Leopold. “But, like you said, you’ll be there all day.”

“Thanks for reminding me.”

“Tell you what. If I’m right, meet me for dinner.”

“And if you’re wrong?” 

Leopold smiled. “There’s a first time for everything.” He hung up.

Stepping inside the restaurant, the sounds of the busy streets outside quickly faded behind him, replaced by the gentle notes of jazz guitar from the stereo. Rich smells from the kitchen made his stomach growl, and Leopold was only too eager to find a table. He settled for a booth in the corner, with a clear view of the front door, and waved one of the waitresses over. She took his order and brought him a cold bottle of
Bucanero
beer.

Leopold settled into his booth and took a deep swig of his drink. Things were looking a little better already.

Chapter 3

THE STUDIO RENTAL apartment was empty except for spools of wire, toolboxes, and a small wooden crate that had been pried open and nailed closed again. A small folding table sat off to one side with two chairs, several sheets of schematics and copies of archival blue prints stacked on top. An overflowing ashtray sat in the middle of it all, two cups of tea leaving stains on sheets of paper. Two Korean men sat smoking, poring over the documents, making notes. One of the men shoved the papers around, looking for something.

“We need to get this organized,” he told the other. “We’re running out of time.” Mid-forties, his black-and-gray brush-cut hair hadn’t been combed or washed in days, his face peppered with coarse stubble. He took a drag from a cigarette and washed it down with tea. Grabbing a computer printout from the mess, he studied the letterhead. Across the top of the paper, the words “Washington State Convention Center” were printed in large type, hand-written Korean translations jotted here and there. He rubbed his face and dropped the cigarette in his cup.