Gruefield 18 (Tarnished Sterling Omnibus) Read online

  When I went hunting for someplace secluded to think, I found myself at the Brickyard. The brickyard was a failed attempt at induced gentrification. The old brickyard had been shut down for decades, and developers tried to put in condos. The only problem was a shortage of buyers. As a result, half of the old brickyard was left standing. An abandoned warehouse with a few piles of old dirt was a nice quiet place to pause and get my bearings. No one locked the doors because no one cared about the decaying old building. I had four phones, three sets of keys, two wallets, and someone else's face. I poked around the car for anything I hadn't spotted.

  A hard-sided plastic case sat in the trunk atop a spare tire. A small key on Volkan's keyring popped the lock on the case. Inside was a pistol, an envelope stuffed with bills, and a couple of manila folders. I counted maybe two thousand in the envelope, all battered banknotes of varying denominations. I slipped it into the inside pocket of my borrowed jacket. After what Volkan had done, I didn't feel the least bit bad about it. In fact, I felt almost vindicated. The pistol was a cheap nine-millimeter, and someone had gone to the trouble of boring out the serial number. The slot they'd cut went all the way through the frame, removing any chance of the number being raised forensically. It looked a lot like the one that had put five rounds into Salvador this morning.

  The folders contained a few sheets of paper with pictures and names. Nishihara Katai was first of the set. One bearing Salvador's face was tucked behind it. This brought a sigh of relief from my lungs. The others were L. N. Sullivan, the ancient woman in the blue dress from Tesla Too and a doughy-looking man with little hair named Kazor Grova. I thought about walking away, but I hadn't been paid. The two grand Volkan had was less than what Sullivan had been waving around. I pulled out his own phone and called the number Evelyn had called me from.

  "Is it done?" the voice of a thousand cigarettes asked. It had to be Sullivan.

  "There was a hired killer waiting in Katai's room," I said. "He tried to strangle me."

  "Evidently, he failed," Sullivan said. "Were you seen?"

  "Yes, by the desk clerk."

  "That will work for my purposes."

  "There's one other thing, you're on the hit list I got off the killer, Ms. Sullivan."

  "I see," she said. "Is the killer dead?"

  "No, but there's a chance he was arrested. Unless he woke up and got out of the suite before the cops arrived."

  "I see. I have an office at fifty-four Deal Street. Bring whatever you have on the hit man. If it helps figure out who hired him, I'll up your compensation." Sullivan hung up.

  I closed the trunk and drove back to Sandy Shore. Deal Street was a few blocks over from Tesla Too. The building in question was a two-story glass-fronted office block. It had a small, mostly-empty parking lot. The building directory listed 'Sullivan Entertainment Enterprises' on the second floor. I climbed a spiral stair in the lobby and hunted down the plain wooden door. It had an eye logo with the initialism 'SEE' under it. I knocked. The door buzzed, and I stepped in.

  Sullivan had a shotgun aimed at the door, raising my eyebrow. Her finger was outside the trigger guard, and she didn't apologize, or even set it down. She was seated behind a desk of slightly higher quality than Evelyn's, though not by much. The nameplate read 'Vicki Lee, Receptionist'. I guessed Sullivan's own office was probably nicer. I smiled, the expression accenting the boyish nature of Katai's face. I set Volkan's case on the desk and extracted the folders. I pointedly ignored both firearms during the transaction. Sullivan clearly saw the nine-millimeter, but she didn't flinch, which was good given that she had a twelve-gauge pointed at my gut.

  I closed the case with the pistol inside.

  "Sit over there while I read these," Sullivan said. She gestured at the bland gray seats on the other side of the room. I sat down and waited as she perused the hit orders. "This isn't much to go on," Sullivan said.

  "I don't know your enemies as well as you do."

  "What makes you think I have enemies?"

  "Friends don't put out contracts on your life."

  "They do if they stand to gain from it."

  "You have an odd definition of 'friend', Ms. Sullivan." The conversation went silent again. I waited, unwilling to be the one to break the silence.

  "Why in God's name are you still wearing that face?" Sullivan asked.

  "I haven't had the opportunity to change out of it," I said. I didn't need anything special to revert to my normal appearance, but she didn't need to know that. I try to keep as much about my abilities to myself as I can. The people who know I can face-shift don't know about the wall climbing. In fact, I'm not sure even the BHA knows about the wall climbing. I should probably erase this tape after I've gotten the catharsis of telling something my story.

  Anyway, Sullivan had finally taken her hand off of the shotgun, but it was still pointed at me as it lay on the desk. She held up Salvador's picture. "This is the guy who got plugged on the beach today."

  "I guess."

  "Don't bullshit me, you were there."

  "Where would you get that idea?"

  "From the bug in Evelyn's office," Sullivan said.

  I gave an embarrassed chuckle. "Yeah, that's the guy."

  "Says here he fled North to avoid trial for raping a thirteen-year-old girl. The girl's father got tired of waiting for justice."

  "So?"

  "So, that means each of these folders is for a different client," Sullivan said. "There aren't any Guatemalan farmers who want me dead."

  "Surely the motive information in your folder--"

  "Is absent," Sullivan said. "I think the Turk added the annotation to Salvador's file to remind himself why he gave such a steep discount on that one."

  I fished through my pockets and withdrew Volkan's phones. One of them was a cheap flip phone, probably a nameless prepaid account. I tossed that one on the desk. "That's the Turk's burner," I said. "Probably the phone he used to connect to his clients. Depending upon how careful they were, it may have relevant information."

  "You're still holding back information, aren't you?" Sullivan asked.

  "We just met this evening," I said. "I have no personal stake in your continued existence, but we are doing business. You seem like the kind of woman who understands the value of information. We are currently trying to figure out who sent a hired gun after you. That doesn't require telling you everything I know."

  Sullivan shrugged. "Fair enough. I'll let it go simply because I might have future use for you." Sullivan picked up Volkan's burner and scrolled through the calls. "Wiley Brooks, you are an idiot," Sullivan said. Opening a drawer in the desk, she took out an object and tossed it to me. It turned out to be a bank brick of hundred-dollar bills. Ten thousand in crisp, new, sequential notes. Not bad for a night's work. I tucked them next to Volkan's two thousand in my jacket pocket.

  "Nice doing business with you," I said.

  "Disappear," Sullivan said. "If I need you, I'll have Evelyn get in touch. If you come back here without being summoned, you'd better have a damn good reason."

  I picked up Volkan's case and headed for the door.

  "You might not want to be wearing that face when Nishihara's body turns up."

  "Yes, Ma'am," I said, trying to keep the sarcasm out of my voice. As I headed down the spiral stairs, I cataloged what needed to be done. I had to get rid of Volkan's car and gun, dispose of Katai's clothes and do something about the two extra phones I was carrying. That's when greed bit me. Up until that point, most of my misfortune had been someone else's doing. I should have simply abandoned the car with the gun in it for the cops to find. But, I had the mistaken impression that I was on a roll. I made a phone call, trying to disguise my voice as my normal voice. It didn't work, but I could be mistaken for a congested version of my normal self. "Hey, Charlie, do you know anyone
who'd be willing to buy a six-year-old Chrysler, no questions asked?"

  "Don't fucking call me 'Charlie', white boy. It's Charles."

  "Anyway, Charles, can you think of anyone?"

  "How quickly are you looking to move it?"

  "Sooner rather than later. Cash, preferably, and I don't exactly have a copy of the title."

  "How'd you end up with that kind of car? You jack somebody?"

  "Not exactly. And I said no questions."

  "I'll get back to you," Charles said. "We may be talking morning here. And you owe me a finder's fee off the top for hooking you up." There it was, my stupid mistake. By not dumping the car, I was stuck with it until Charles found a buyer. It wasn't so much the car, but hanging on to it delayed ditching everything else. I couldn't go home, everyone there knew I didn't own a car. I couldn't use Katai's hotel room, the dead body and the call to the cops made that a no-go zone. I could return to the Brickyard, but that would mean sleeping in the car. My best bet was a no-tell motel. If I paid from Volkan's petty cash, I could be fairly untraceable. Since I was already wearing someone else's face, the clerk and any camera footage wouldn't lead back to me.

  It seemed like a good idea at the time.

  I gave the name Jason Kim to the clerk. I know Kim is a Korean name, and I was wearing a Japanese face. I was being deliberate in that. I don't know if the old Cuban behind the counter even cared. He gave me a keycard for room 104, and I tried to get some rest. The room wasn't spectacular. Paint from the nineties over wallpaper from the eighties tried to cover even uglier paint from the seventies. The springs were sprung on the mattress, but the sheets were new. The air conditioner was as loud as a semi truck, but it blasted out cold air well enough.

  At the time, I had no clue how Volkan found me, but seeing that distinctive face through the sliding glass door came close to stopping my heart. Turns out, it was his phone. I should have been less surprised that he got out of Bacchus Rest. I hadn't put much effort into containing him. He was delayed a moment when the pane turned out to be plexi instead of regular glass. He was unable to break it and had to force it open instead. Those precious few seconds bought me the time I needed to bolt from the other end of the room.

  Four sharp cracks of gunshots chased me out the window. I ran up the wall of the building opposite and flopped on the roof. Up was the one direction Volkan didn't look when he emerged from the motel. He muttered something in a language I didn't understand, but it sounded like a profanity. A few minutes later, I watched his car drive off. I pulled out my phone and called Charles.

  "What is it? I ain't got a buyer for you."

  "You can forget about looking," I said, trying to sound like normal me. "The car's gone."

  "Gone? How do you get and then lose a car in a few hours? No, wait, I don't want to hear it. Good night, and don't call me again today."

  As I lay on a roof on the edge of Bilgewater, the clock chimed midnight. Technically, the day was over, but something nagged me that my luck hadn't improved. If Volkan was searching for Katai, I didn't want to try to walk home just yet. I slipped out of Katai's motorcycle leathers, moving my stuff from his pockets to my own. After I tossed Katai's things on the floor, I gathered up anything I had left in the motel room and returned to the rooftop. I lay down, let myself go slack, and slowly, my face reverted to my own. Climbing down the far side of the building, I strolled in the direction of my apartment.

  My caution was rewarded when I saw Volkan cruise past, peering into the shadows in search of Katai. A red-haired gaijin like me wasn't going to be mistaken for a J-Pop singer. The hired killer ignored me, still muttering to himself. His run-ins with "Katai" had to have put a nasty bruise on his ego to go with the one on his cheek. I had almost twelve grand in my pocket, and the big threat to my life had looked right at me without noticing, so I was starting to feel pretty good. The walk spoiled my mood. It was a buggy, humid night, and the sea breeze didn't do much to dispel the lingering heat. Every slap of a mosquito reminded me that I should feel miserable.

  I got home an hour or two later. I approached from the direction of the ditch where I'd tossed the gator. I paused as I saw a light through my window. Getting down on all fours, I peered inside. Someone, probably female, with long blonde hair was in my chair. She was facing the front door and was slightly slumped over. I looked around for anyone else. The door to the bedroom was closed now, and I'd left it open. I slipped the window open and slithered in. It was a tight fit, but not really dangerous for someone who can cling to walls. Once I was inside and standing up, I had a better view of who had taken my seat.

  "Evelyn?"

  She jumped, started awake by my voice.

  "What are you doing in my apartment?" I asked.

  "I'm sorry," she said. "Things have gotten... messy."

  "In what way? And that doesn't really explain coming here of all places."

  The door to my bedroom opened and a voice came out. "It's funny, the one of us who was supposed to get some sleep didn't, and the one who was going to stay awake dozed off." Normally, seeing an attractive girl like Becky emerge from my bedroom would be an encouraging sign. At that moment, it felt like a bad omen. "You make a decent vegetable soup, by the way," Becky said, tipping her head towards the crock pot.

  "I might have invited you in to have a bowl if given the opportunity," I said. Having been reminded that I hadn't eaten in a while, I wandered over and dished myself up a bowl of random freezer mess soup. Becky was right, it had turned out surprisingly tasty. "You were telling me why you two came here, with details," I said.

  "Vincent Brooks," Becky said.

  "Who is he?"

  "Was," she said. "He's dead now. He was a hacker. He was in the employ of three co-conspirators who sought to defraud the Russian Mafia in Sandy Shore."

  "That's usually a bad move," I said.

  "He drew off quite a substantial chunk of change from their accounts, laundered it and stashed it in numbered accounts."

  "I take it this got him killed," I said.

  "But not by the Russians," Evelyn chimed in. He was backstabbed by his co-conspirators who'd dredged up the information he needed to conduct his theft."

  "Vincent saw it coming," Becky said, "And encrypted the file that held the information on the numbered accounts. He split the encryption key and sent pieces to each of his co-conspirators. He was betting that the same chronic backstabbing disorder that did him in would wreak his revenge for him."

  "You need all the pieces of the key to find out where the money's hiding, and the other pieces are held by people just as greedy and ruthless," I said.

  "Not me," Becky said, "My aunt, Lana Sullivan, was one of the co-conspirators."

  "As were Katai's band-mate and a man called Grova," Evelyn said.

  Part of me wanted to apologize for the misunderstanding with regards to my use of the word 'you' when describing the dilemma. But I couldn't find a way to say it that didn't sound simpering. Also, the name Grova resonated with my memory. He'd been on Volkan's hit list. "Who's Wiley Brooks?" I asked, my mind going back to Sullivan's offhand remark.

  "Vincent's older brother," Becky said. "He's been hounding my aunt since Vincent died. I don't know which of the conspirators actually offed Vincent, but I wouldn't put it past Aunt Lana." She paused. "Where did you hear that name?"

  "Your aunt mentioned it after I brought her the Turk's hit list. Both she and Grova were on it."

  "How did you get your hands on that? Evelyn asked, sounding somewhat amazed.

  "I unlocked the box and picked it up," I said, sarcastically.

  "You've been holding out on me," Evelyn said. "How am I supposed to know what jobs you can do if you don't tell me what you can do?"

  "I'm a private person," I said.

  "I'll bet," Becky said. She held up a hand with two
objects pinched between her thumb and fingers: a mask and a blue BHA card. "Did you know Danny Boy's a licensed hero?"

  "I have to pay the insurance either way. I just never bothered filing to end the license. I haven't been a hero in a long time."

  "Really?" Becky pushed up my sleeve. "So you're just a fan of long underwear?" she asked, snarkiness seeping into her tone.

  "When you walk away from that existence, they don't ask you to turn in your uniform." There was a long, silent moment in the air. "Lets go back to the part where you two decided to come here," I said. "Since you clearly didn't discover that until you rooted through-- My license was in my lockbox!"