Storm Front: A Derrick Storm Thriller (24 page)

The man’s name was Timothy Demming. He was chief currency trader at NationBank. Click’s updated model pegged the likelihood of the next victim being Demming at 73 percent.

“I met him at a conference and he’s a typical investment banking jerk,” Click wrote. “But there’s no question he would be able to order a trade of the magnitude we’ve discussed. Anecdotally, I’d say he’s a strong possibility.”

Storm didn’t hesitate. He loaded his People Finder app, which told him Demming lived a short distance away, in the financial district. Storm grabbed the first southbound cab he could and only felt a bit ridiculous when he told the driver to step on it.

Second Avenue blurred by outside the window, then Houston Street. New York was the city that never slept, for sure, but it was now after midnight, meaning that those who weren’t sleeping at least had the good sense to be doing something other than clogging the streets.

On the short ride, Storm Googled Demming. He was a star at NationBank, all right. There were blog pieces about him with pictures. He was handsome, no question, but in a sort of sleazy way. He looked like someone who would shatter a child’s piggy bank just to get himself one more nickel.

Storm arrived at Demming’s address to find an upscale co-op, one of those lower West Side high-rises that had started springing up like mushrooms after rain sometime during the nineties. Demming lived on the top floor. Storm paid and tipped the driver and walked through the building’s revolving doors.

“Could you please ring Mr. Demming in fifty-two J?” Storm asked the man at the front desk, a paunchy, middle-aged gentleman in a gold-braided uniform with “CLARK LASTER” written in bold letters on a discreet name tag.

“Isn’t it a little late for that?” said the man.

“Yes, but it’s an emergency.”

Laster sighed and made a big show of opening a large book in front of him. “I’m sorry. But Mr. Demming has left instructions not to be disturbed after ten
P.M.
It says so right here.” Laster turned the book around so Storm could read it. Storm leaned in as if he intended to inspect the document like it was the
Dead Sea Scrolls. Instead, he reached over the desk with his right hand and clamped down at the base of Laster’s neck, right over the collarbone.

The man tried to recoil, but Storm held firm. “Oww! Hey, what are you…”

The end of the sentence did not escape Laster’s mouth. The man was already unconscious.

“Sorry, friend, but I don’t have time to do things by the book,” Storm said.

Storm hailed an elevator, which took him to the fifty-second floor. It was quiet and hotel-like. Storm walked quickly to Unit J, all the way at the end of the hallway, and rang the buzzer. There was no answer. He rang again. Still no answer.

Demming was likely out. Wall Street types were known to entertain clients until the small hours. Storm decided the most advisable place to wait for Demming was inside his apartment.

He stepped back and looked at the door. It was reinforced steel, the kind that would be very noisy upon breaking. But the lock was operated by an old-fashioned, analog keypad. It took Storm exactly twenty-eight seconds to get it open. There were advantages to growing up with a dad who worked for a time in the FBI’s bank robbery unit. Learning how to crack safes was one of them.

Feeling smug, Storm opened the door and walked over the threshold straight into a bloodbath.

It was everywhere. On the walls. On the floor. On the couch. Even on the artwork. It almost looked like it had been coming out of a hose.

Even though he knew he was too late—a step behind Volkov, once again—Storm drew his gun. He entered cautiously, making sure not to step on any of the blood spatters but also keeping his eyes up, in case Volkov and his men were somehow still in the apartment.

They weren’t. Demming was. His body was behind the couch. What appeared to be a very large pair of dirty women’s under-wear
had been stuffed into his mouth and tied there by pantyhose. A tuft of pink frill escaped from one side of the gag.

He was shirtless, revealing a series of bruises that made it obvious he had been badly beaten before his death. Ribs that had suffered compound fractures broke through the skin in several places. There were cigarette burns up and down both his arms. His nipples had singe marks above and below them, suggesting that diodes had been connected to them and current had been run through his body. And, of course, the fingernails on his right hand were missing.

The torture had been extensive. Demming had obviously suffered greatly before his death, much more so than the other victims. Someone had wanted Demming to feel pain. Lots of it.

Still, none of that was directly related to his death, the cause of which was quite clear: His throat had been slashed so viciously he had practically been decapitated. That explained all the blood.

Storm reached down and touched Demming’s exposed shoulder. The body was cold. So was any trail that might lead Storm from this apartment to wherever Volkov was now holed up.

Storm quickly swept through the remainder of the residence. He did this knowing there would likely be nothing left behind of any use. There hadn’t been at any of the other scenes. But he had to check.

Storm worked methodically, going room by room, willing himself to stay focused. Still, his mind wandered: Volkov now had all six MonEx codes. If he knew what to do with them—or had given them to someone who did—a financial tsunami could be heading for Wall Street at any moment. After all, ForEx didn’t close on business days. It was like knowing a huge landslide was coming and having no idea how to escape the base of the hill.

The apartment was, as Storm suspected, devoid of anything useful. He was preparing to make his exit when a pair of uniformed police officers entered the front door.

The first thing Storm said was “Before you overreact, I’m with the CIA and I didn’t do this.”

The lead cop took one look at all the blood, took one look at Storm, then drew his weapon, and aimed it at Storm’s chest.

“NYPD,” the cop shouted. “Let’s see those hands.”

Storm allowed himself to be handcuffed, even as he tried to explain to the officer that this was all just a big misunderstanding. Like the cop hadn’t heard that one before.

He was made to lie facedown in the hallway as backup was radioed in. Soon, what felt like half the officers in the New York Police Department’s Twentieth Precinct poured into Demming’s apartment.

As the next hour unfolded, Storm was allowed to shift to a sitting position, then shunted into the kitchen. Identifying himself as CIA had saved him a ride in a squad car and a trip to the Twentieth Precinct lockup, but it hadn’t exactly endeared him to anyone in a uniform.

From his place in the kitchen, he could hear the cops’ chatter. Clark Laster had awakened from his sleep hold–induced slumber no worse for wear but substantially pissed off. Laster called the police, who were sharp enough to assume that the man who had asked for Demming’s apartment had likely proceeded to… Demming’s apartment.

The early talk had Storm doing twenty-five to life at Attica, CIA or no CIA. Then the medical examiner, an attractive black woman, arrived and ruined the cops’ fun: time of death had been several hours before, meaning this burly stranger who only just showed up had not likely been involved.

Then the medical examiner made things interesting. Demming was actually a hermaphrodite. He appeared to be male, but had both male and female sex organs. Sure enough, the plain-clothes detectives going through the apartment found both men’s and women’s clothing, even though it was clear the apartment only had one inhabitant. This led to the theory that Demming liked be a man during the day, when it was convenient to be a
member of the Wall Street boys’ club, but sometimes indulged his feminine side at night. It certainly explained the rather large pair of pan ties in his mouth and the hose that had been used to secure it there.

Storm was a mere spectator to their speculation. It wasn’t until an hour later that a woman flashing a detective’s badge approached him in the kitchen. She had dark hair, dark eyes, and was easily the most beautiful detective Storm had ever seen.

“Hello, Mr. Storm,” she said. “My name is Nikki Heat. I’m with the NYPD.”

“Hello, Nikki Heat,” Storm said amiably. “Didn’t I read about you in a magazine somewhere?”

“Yes. But if you like your head unsmacked, I suggest you don’t remind me.”

“Consider me advised,” Storm said, then jerked his head at a man who had appeared behind Heat, just out of earshot. “Who’s that?”

“This is Jameson Rook. He’s… he’s none of your concern.”

“Jameson Rook, the magazine writer?”

“Yes,” she said, like this annoyed her.

“I never knew he was so handsome,” Storm said.

“You really
do
want to be smacked,” Heat said.

Storm shrugged as Rook approached. “Excuse me, Detective Heat, but who is this?”

“This is our suspect,” she said.

Rook apprised Storm for a moment. “Not possible. He’s too good-looking to be a suspect.”

Heat threw her hands up in the air. “Before you ladies go off and get a room together, do you mind if I ask him some questions?”

“Sorry, go ahead,” Rook said.

Heat turned to Storm: “Can you please explain to me what you were doing in this apartment with Mr. Demming’s corpse?”

“To your satisfaction?” Storm said. “I very seriously doubt it. But I can tell you who the killer is.”

“Great,” Heat said sarcastically. “Can you also tell me where he is, get a warrant for his arrest, and then collar him so I can go home and get some sleep?”

Storm sighed. “That,” he said, “is where things get a lot more difficult.”

T
he Delta Airlines terminal at LaGuardia Airport had been under construction so long, Storm swore they could have rebuilt it at least three times already. Yet the scaffolding remained, a temporary fixture that had somehow become permanent.

Storm arrived there at 6:45
A.M.
, looking wrinkled and feeling worse. It had been a long night with the NYPD, who were eventually convinced to let Storm go his own way. It helped that a CIA station agent had vouched for Storm. Naturally, that added a complication for Storm: The station agent would fill out a report that would reach Jedediah Jones’s desk in twenty-four hours or less, which would prompt questions from Jones. But Storm would just have to finesse that.

The final stumbling block had been Laster, the front desk man, who wanted Storm brought up on assault and battery charges; he also hinted at a civil suit, where his pain and suffering would be compensated with tens, if not hundreds, of thousands of dollars. Then Jameson Rook promised that in exchange for letting it drop, he would wrangle the guy an invite to a Fashion Week party that would be crawling with gorgeous models. That turned out to be enough to ease the man’s pain and end his suffering.

Storm had thanked Rook for the assist. The two complimented
each other’s rugged good looks one last time, prompting Heat to say something about vomiting in her own mouth. Then Storm went off to grab a few quick hours of sleep at the W, ruing the tragic underuse of the Heavenly Bed the whole time.

He had taken a cab out to the airport, having it stop in the garage where he kept his Mustang Shelby GT500—and, more importantly, some spare weapons. He thought about having the cab leave him there, but then opted against it. Counting the rental car he had driven out to Cracker’s house, he already had one Mustang out of place that he’d need to deal with later. He didn’t want to have to leave another one scattered somewhere else. He completed the trip to LaGuardia in the taxi.

Now he was waiting in the arrivals area, expecting to see a glimpse of something even more heavenly—Ling Xi Bang—when his satellite phone rang. He recognized the country code of the incoming call, which originated in Romania. That could only mean one person.

“Sister Rose,” he said. “You’ve changed your mind about my proposal.”

“Oh, Derrick Storm,” Sister Rose McAvoy’s brogue poured through the phone. “I only wish the purpose of my call was so happy.”

“What’s the matter?” Storm asked.

“I don’t mean to be troubling you. And if you’re busy saving the world, you just tell this little old nun to get on her way and go.”

“You know I always have time for you, Sister Rose.”

“You’re a blessing, Derrick Storm, a real blessing,” she said. “But I’m afraid what we need right now is not a blessing, but a miracle.”

“What’s going on?”

“The diocese has decided to shut down the orphanage.”

Storm’s mind immediately flashed to the Orphanage of the Holy Name, that small bright spot amid all the grimness of Bacau. He saw the eyes of the children whose lives were saved by it. In par tic u lar, he remembered a little girl, Katya Beckescu, clutching
a tattered teddy bear and chasing butterflies. Storm’s heart was immediately transported thousands of miles away.

“But why on earth would they do that?” Storm asked. “I can’t pretend to know much about God’s work, but if you’re not doing it, who is?”

“It’s not about that, Derrick. It’s about money. The abbey that houses Holy Name is too valuable. The diocese is fast going bankrupt, and it’s figured out it can get seventeen million leu by selling the abbey and the grounds surrounding it. That’s the equivalent of five million of your dollars. The bishop says selling the abbey can save the diocese, and it’s better to keep the entire diocese going than just one orphanage.”

“But… Okay, can’t they just move you somewhere else?”

“There’s nowhere else for us to go—at least not that will fit all of us. The abbey is the only place big enough. That’s part of what makes it so valuable. What’s more…”

Whatever she said next was cut short by a stifled sob. Storm pressed the phone closer to his ear. “What is it, Sister Rose?”

“The bishop says that once they sell the abbey, it’s time for me to retire,” she said, and Storm could practically hear the tears streaming down her face. “They’re putting me out to pasture, Derrick Storm. Just like a nag that’s no use to anyone anymore. I’ll become one of those old crones doddering around the nuns’ retirement home, bumping into walls and dribbling porridge out of my mouth. Oh, I know I shouldn’t fight it if this is God’s plan for me. Lord knows I’m old enough, but the children… Who’s going to take care of these children?”