Terminal Secret Page 12

  “I think I’m calling a moratorium on the ‘old man’ jokes. Unless either of you want to go a couple of rounds in the gym, winner gets to assign all future nicknames.”

  Croc shook his head and Ginger raised his hands in defeat.

  “Good then. Get a standard sublease form off the Internet. Print it out and I’ll sign it.”

  *

  Dan was concluding his interior design efforts on his new room. A double futon was rolled out on the hardwood floor in the dark corner, away from the window. A laptop sat on the floor next to the futon. Two cell phones were plugged into the old outlet on the far wall. There was a short stack of magazines and a book buried on the bottom of the pile. A pull-up bar rested above the door to the room, wood shavings on the floor, remnants from the holes drilled into the doorframe for support.

  Dan stood on a stool borrowed from the living room and hung a large basket chair from the massive hook drilled into the ceiling. He spun the chair in place and the rattan basket rotated in tight circles. Dan grabbed the basket chair with both hands and pulled down to confirm it was securely attached. Confident the wood in the ceiling beam would hold an additional hundred and ninety pounds, Dan slipped into the chair. From his perch he could see most of the park in the distance to the right. To his left, he had a decent view of the street leading in the direction of Sherry Wellington’s shop. The Wellington residence was just out of view, a hundred yards around the corner from the park.

  Croc popped his head into the room. “How do you like it?”

  “Love it. Worth every penny.”

  “Who are you keeping an eye on?” Croc asked.

  “What makes you think I’m keeping an eye on anyone?”

  “I wasn’t, until you hung that big bird cage in front of the window.”

  “I just like the view.”

  “We also ran a background check on you,” Croc admitted. “You’re an attorney.”

  “I’m also a detective.”

  “So who are you detecting?”

  “Not who, what.”

  “What are you detecting?”

  “I’m detecting too many questions.”

  “I walked into that one, didn’t I?”

  “You did. I thought you young guys would be quicker than that.”

  “Okay, old man. You win that one.”

  Dan sneered.

  Croc smiled. “We’re going to grab a beer later, if you want to join us.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Why not?”

  “I’m a little old to be drinking with college kids.”

  “A little what?”

  Dan growled. “Old.”

  “Now the score is tied,” Croc said from the doorway. “If you change your mind, we’re heading over to McGinney’s around nine if you want to join us.”

  *

  Dan sat in the chair, waiting for Sherry Wellington to pass on the street below. Waiting. The real glamour of detective work, he reminded himself. Stakeouts were the most boring part of any job. Database digging, interviews, crawling through the underbelly of society when necessary—Dan loved those aspects of the job. The mental stimulation he got sifting through pieces of a puzzle and putting them together to form something meaningful. Stakeouts, on the other hand, always left him feeling as if his IQ had dropped a few points. After the first dozen, he understood why most TV police dramas showed two detectives together on stakeouts. It minimized suicidal tendencies.

  But the potential of this stakeout was different. He wasn’t going to be spending time hiding behind a dumpster, slipping listening devices into a public toilet, or taking pictures from the top of a building in the middle of the summer with roofing tar bubbling around him. He was in an apartment, in his own room, with a couple of university students who promised to be out most of the day. It was looking like the royal treatment of stakeouts.

  Dan swung in the chair and mulled over what he knew about his latest client. The vibration in his pants snapped him back to reality and he pulled his cell phone from his pocket. He recognized the number from Detective Jim Singleton at the Arlington Police Department and pressed the talk icon on his phone.

  “Jimbo.”

  “Danno.”

  “Took you twenty-four hours to call me back,” Dan said. “Not that I’m counting.”

  “Been busy. A lot of heat over here.”

  “I’m sure. I have some information that may speed your investigation into Marcus Losh.”

  “I’ll take it.”

  “Just remember you took it the next time I come asking for something,” Dan said.

  “What do you have?”

  “The guy you are looking for is named Doc.”

  “The killer?”

  “No, the drug dealer. The guy who supplied the oxy to Marcus Losh. He goes by the name Doc, but he may have a record in California under the alias of Dopey.”

  “Good name change, but I see a theme.”

  “Doc is an improvement for sure. Anyhow, word has it that the shooter was not the guy supplying the drugs. Apparently this Doc character keeps his nose clean, uses nonviolent runners, and typically stays white collar.”

  “Where did you get this info?”

  “A source.”

  “Who?”

  “Doesn’t matter and I can’t tell you. But it’s accurate.”

  “I appreciate the information. I’ll throw it into the investigation blender with everything else.”

  “You find anything on your end?”

  “Nothing concrete. Found a couple more Army buddies. A couple of them remember Sherry Wellington. But no good leads there for murder. By all accounts Marcus was a good soldier. It wasn’t until the accident that he fell off the deep end.”

  “That was my read on his military records as well. I got a hold of his DD 214.”

  “Why am I not surprised you have access to his military records?”

  Dan ignored the question. “What’s next?”

  “I’ve been assigned to keep digging. Been looking into Marcus Losh’s finances to see if there’s something about money that may have gotten him killed. Captain also wants to know if I can get an estimate on how big his oxy problem was. Putting together a standard spreadsheet with income and expenditures. See if Marcus was overextended.”

  “You’re barking up the wrong tree.”

  “And what tree are you barking up, Dan?”

  “A rich, beautiful one who has secrets and tells lies.”

  Chapter 19

  Amy felt the first wave of exhaustion at the elevator. The medical tape on the back of her hand where the needle had delivered the chemo irritated her skin. She looked down at the small purple bruise, and ran the fingers from her other hand over the annoyance. She turned her attention away from her hand and pressed the button for the elevator. Then she waited.

  And waited.

  For the terminally ill, impatience took on a heightened form of torture. Amy stood there in the hall, staring at the illuminated down button, burning time she didn’t have.

  When the doors opened, she forced a smile in the direction of the elevator’s lone occupant. She entered the elevator and as the doors shut she wondered what ailed the man standing next to her. Colonoscopies were offered on the top floor of the building. Rehabilitation covered the fourth floor. OB-GYNs took up the sunny side of the third, leaving the dark half of the floor to a team of podiatrists treating corns, ingrown nails, and plantar fasciitis. Chemo and radiation, in all their glory and enjoyment, were peddled out of the Oncology office on the second floor.

  The elevator moved and Amy registered some nausea. Please not in here, she thought. At least wait until I get to the parking garage. By the time the elevator reached the first floor of the underground garage, Amy felt better. And tomorrow was a day of rest. A day for new, healthy cells to form. Or so they said. She also knew any new cells would do nothing to save her. The only offer the new cells flaunted was more time with her daughter. Time measured in weeks and d
ays and hours.

  Amy felt death closing in. An almost palpable stench of hopelessness permeated the air around her. And she was scared. Frightened of the unknown. But she vowed to show her daughter how to die unafraid. It was something no one even mentioned as a possibility, as a lesson to learn. And for whatever faith shortcomings she had, she rested in the conviction that she had spent the last four years of her life being the best mother she could be. Beyond the tattoos on each limb, dropping out of college, and getting pregnant out of wedlock, she had tried. The father of her daughter had left them both when their daughter was still waking up three times a night to eat and fill diapers. Without warning, he had taken a cue from Amy’s mother’s parenting handbook and was last seen boarding a Greyhound bus outside of Frederick, Maryland.

  After the depression of abandonment dissipated, a small part of Amy was grateful. She had been blessed with a realization: There were shitty fathers and there were shitty mothers. Her baby’s father was the former. Her own mother was the latter. And being that both existed, Amy realized she was not doomed to parental failure. She had choices.

  And her choices were about to become more difficult.

  Amy exited the elevator on the third floor of the basement garage. She slipped behind the wheel of her tired four-door Nissan and felt another wave of nausea. She left the door open for a moment; unsure whether the remnants of the oatmeal she had eaten four hours ago was going to make an encore appearance. Satisfied she wasn’t going to be ill, she pulled the door handle. She started the car and tugged on her seatbelt. She checked her mirrors and when the face of a man in the back seat of the vehicle appeared in the rear-view, she screamed.

  “Relax, Amy. If I wanted to harm you, you would be harmed already.”

  “Get the hell out of my car.”

  Amy heard the racking of a semiautomatic pistol and froze.

  “I didn’t say I couldn’t hurt you. Relax and take a couple deep breaths. Chemo can be draining.”

  Amy didn’t relax but she did breathe. She also moved her left hand slowly in the direction of the door’s side compartment while staring at the man in the back seat. A New York Mets hat was pulled down to the man’s eyebrows. Large sunglasses filled his face. A beard, either real or fake, covered most of the remaining details of his features.

  “I have a proposition for you,” the man said.

  “What kind of proposition?”

  “One that will solve all of your problems.”

  “All of my problems? Do you have a magical cure for cancer? The doctors say I have no chance for survival. I’ll need a miracle to see Thanksgiving.”

  “It’s a meaningless holiday.”

  “Fuck you.”

  “Okay, Amy. Relax. I have a proposition that will solve all of your problems except for one.”

  Amy squinted slightly, as if trying to see through the man’s disguise. “I’m listening.”

  “Then listen very carefully. We are going to have a short conversation here in this car. If the conversation goes well, you will have a gift in the back seat when I exit the vehicle. A good-faith down payment. Do you understand?”

  Amy nodded slowly, never breaking her gaze from the large sunglasses and baseball cap, brim pulled low.

  “I know your situation, Amy. I know you’re a single mother to a beautiful daughter. I know you have no life insurance. No great amount of money stashed away in a bank account. I also know the little savings you do have are going to be tapped out by the time the end is here. You’re probably staying up late at night, wondering what you’re going to do with your daughter. Wondering who is going to take care of her. You have limited options.”

  “Who told you this?”

  “I know everything, Amy. Everything. And I can make all of your concerns melt away.”

  “How?”

  “You do me a favor. Do me a favor and I will take care of you and your daughter.”

  “What’s the favor?”

  “First we agree to the rules.”

  “I’m going to need to know the favor.”

  “In good time, Amy. In good time. Rules first. Rule one: If you mention this meeting, future meetings, or my existence to the authorities, your daughter will not make it to her next birthday. Do you understand the first rule?”

  “Yes. Now you can get the hell out of my car.”

  “Amy, Amy, Amy. We’re just talking. Rule one is the hardest one. And the only one that truly matters. The rest of the rules are mere details. Rule two: If you choose to accept the arrangement I propose, there will be no backing out. Once you have agreed, you will follow through. Otherwise, the outcome will be the same as a rule one infraction. Your daughter will not see another birthday.”

  “You’re threatening the only thing that matters to me. It’s not a good way to gain trust.”

  “I’m merely explaining the rules. You follow the rules and no one will touch your child.”

  “Are you done?”

  “Rule three: Once you have agreed to the arrangement, you will receive $100,000 cash. It is yours. Do with it what you want. Well, almost anything you want. Open a safety deposit box at a bank. Stuff it under the mattress. Put it in the refrigerator. Buy what you need. Just don’t draw attention to yourself. It is enough money to see you through till the end. You can enjoy your remaining time with your daughter without worrying. For obvious reasons, it would be wise not to do anything extravagant.”

  Amy nodded again, but her eyes had perked up with the mention of a tangible amount of money. Suddenly, the conversation no longer seemed so ethereal. Cash was on the table.

  “Rule number four: Once you have agreed to the arrangement, you will follow directions precisely. Exactly as told. You will not vary from the plan. If you are told to show up at eight o’clock, you will show up at eight o’clock. Consider it the military. The consequences for noncompliance will be grave, as you can now imagine. There will be no whining. No exceptions. Do you understand?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay. Four rules. One consequence.”

  “What do I have to do?”

  “As I mentioned, our arrangement starts today, here in this car, with a good-faith gift. Just for listening to my sales pitch.”

  “Like one of those time-share salesmen? You agree to sit for an hour and you win a television. Except you never actually get the television. You only receive an endless amount of bullshit phone calls.”

  “I’m not selling a time-share, Amy. And I actually pay. So when I leave this car, you will have money. Once you agree to the arrangement, you will receive a larger payment. One hundred thousand dollars. Cash. Play money for the rest of your life.”

  “And then?”

  “And then comes the real money.”

  Amy embraced the words like a warm blanket.

  “Once you complete the task I give you, you will receive one million dollars. Paid into a trust for your daughter. To be used for her education, upbringing. Anything left over from this trust after her education and upbringing will be hers to use, at her discretion, once she is an adult.”

  “And you pay this money after I’m dead?”

  “That’s correct. Unfortunately, you will never see this money. For most people, it’s not possible to hide a sum of money that large. It has to be passed through legitimate channels, with legitimate lawyers and accountants.”

  “And what is the favor I have to do for this one million dollars?”

  She could already envision how she would spend a portion of the money. Toys. Meals out. A new tricycle. Disneyland.

  “You are going to have to kill someone, Amy.”

  Amy’s jubilation ended.

  “Who?”

  “You will only know after you agree.”

  “I don’t think so. You could tell me I have to shoot someone like the president. I won’t risk my child’s life for that. Label my child as the daughter of a crazy woman who shot the president. Daughter of a whacko. Forget it.”

  “I assure
you, it will not be anyone famous. No politicians. No actors. No authority figures.”

  “Then I think we need to include all of those in the rules.”

  The man laughed and Amy could see his white teeth for the first time.

  “Okay, Amy. We can call that rule five. No one famous or well-known.”

  “Or the authorities. No cops. No FBI agents. None of it.”

  “Agreed.”

  There was a long pause. “Then who?” Amy asked.

  “Someone bad. Someone who did something bad. That is all you need to know.”

  “How can I trust you?”

  “You can.”

  “I need proof.”

  The man smiled. “Check out the story of a woman named Carol T. Sutton. Go somewhere with public Internet access. Google her. See what happened. See how it all worked out for her. See how your story could end. Choose how your story is going to end.”

  “Carol T. Sutton?”

  “That’s correct. From Maryland. Check last spring.”

  “So what’s next?”

  The man in the back seat reached into his pocket with his right hand and removed a business card with a single number on it.

  “When you make up your mind, you call this number. Find a pay phone somewhere or buy a prepaid phone with cash and use it once. Don’t leave a long message. You will provide me with a yes or no response. This number will only work once. We will take it from there. If your answer is yes, I will find you.”

  “How long do I have to decide?”

  “You have a week to decide.”

  “And if I say yes, how long do I have for the favor?”

  “That, you will have to decide. We will devise a plan that, if followed precisely, should allow you to perform the task you agree to without risk of being caught. But accidents happen. The timing of the task is determined by your health. If you wait too long, you may be too weak to perform the task you have agreed to perform. If you perform the task too early, and you are apprehended by the authorities, you may waste precious remaining time with your child.”

  “So it’s my decision.”

  “It’s your decision. The timing is flexible. There may be some training involved. But the first step is for you to make a decision and call the number on the card. Then destroy the card. Any more questions?”