Hostile Takeover (Vale Investigation Book 1) Read online

  “Zian, I hate to ask, but I have to know. The files you gave me—how did you know about Thricin?”

  There was a long pause at the other end of the line. “While I was on the system, I … I noticed someone had done the same research you had me do. That … someone had made the connection with Thricin and put her on the list. So I figured—”

  “That someone would be your dad, right?”

  “So … what’s the deal with Kennedy?” Zian asked, avoiding my question.

  “She’s a reporter,” I told him reluctantly. “Maybe you’ve seen her on HDL?”

  “Thought she looked familiar,” Zian admitted. “She and I are working the same graveyard shifts, looks like.”

  “Something she wants to change,” I said as we hit yet another red light. “We’re kind of working together for a story that she’s investigating.”

  “Seems more your type than Melanie Ramirez,” Zian said.

  “How did you know—”

  “Hey, prince of information, remember? I like keeping tabs on my friends.”

  I tried hard not to get angry at what anyone else would view as a clear violation of privacy. But this was Zian, and I knew this was half curiosity and half making sure I was all right. I tapped my key fob in annoyance. That was when I noticed something on it that shouldn’t have been there. I used the light of my smartphone to shine a peek at it.

  “Sunnofa …” I muttered.

  There was a GPS tracker on the underside of the fob. My mind flashed back to Kennedy in my car the other night, twirling my keys in her fingers.

  “Hey, Bell, you still there?” Zian asked. “Look, I’m sorry about crossing any lines on the Ramirez thing—honest.”

  The light had turned green and Kennedy was already taking off. Moving to catch up, I said, “Yeah, it’s okay. Forget it. Hey, listen, do you have any idea who was chasing you tonight?”

  “That’s definitely one thing I wouldn’t keep from you or the cops,” Zian answered. “Sorry, no ideas right now. I can break into the police database tomorrow, though, see what they’ve got.”

  Zian and I made some small talk for a few more minutes before ringing off. The whole time I was talking, the only thing I could think of was what Kennedy had said about her “connection” leading her to Smoke & Mirrors. I had a feeling the guy looked a lot like me.

  ***

  The Mountain Shade Apartments block was neither the best nor the worst such complex in Cold City. On the one hand, it was no housing project. Plenty of taxpayers called this place home and patrols in the area were brisk. On the other hand, even though it was the third-newest apartment complex in the city, it was already ten years old and showing serious signs of age. The parking lot needed repaving, the trees in the tiny front yards looked thirsty and the collection of 1980s and 1990s vehicles spoke volumes about the relative age and economic bracket of the people who lived there.

  As soon as I had pulled into a parking slot next to Kennedy’s car and killed the ignition, I pulled out my keys and placed them in my lap. Then I ripped off the tracker, tossed it on the floor and smashed it with my heel. I picked up the pieces, pocketed them and got out of the car, leaving the keys in the ignition.

  Zian was already out and following Kennedy upstairs. I was about to join them when another thought hit me. Earlier, I had parked the car a block from Smoke & Mirrors, and as always left the keys in the ignition in case I had to make a quick exit. So how had Kennedy known that I had gone in?

  “Hey, Vale, you spacing out on us?” Kennedy asked.

  I shook my head. “Just realized I left my cell in the car.”

  “I’m up in 1008,” she told me. “We’ll wait for you.”

  I nodded and went back to the car as Kennedy and Zian walked down the hall. I opened the driver’s side door, then peeked back over my shoulder. All clear. Then I ran my hand carefully up the only piece of clothing I was wearing both tonight and the night I had my little chat with Kennedy, my jacket.

  It was an M65 field jacket I’d gotten at the army surplus. It was made of a mix of sturdy dark-green cotton and polyester and had lots of pockets. I checked them all, and then I checked the collar and found another tracker under it. A tug and a bit more fancy footwork and Kennedy’s “connection” was cut.

  While I was more than a little steamed to find out that she’d been bugging me for inside info, I had to give her points for covering her bases. I didn’t know if she knew my habit of leaving my car in out-of-the-way spots when I had to be somewhere, but she probably guessed that there were going to be some spots I would make on foot. I was going to need to keep a close eye on her.

  Then another wave of exhaustion hit me. It was time to get some shut-eye before I wound up sleeping on the sidewalk.

  Chapter fourteen

  Payoffs

  When I woke up the next morning, I found Zian in the same chair he was in when I knocked off, hunched over his smartphone.

  “You been up all night, Z?” I asked as I stretched my sore muscles. That couch was anything but comfortable to sleep on.

  Zian nodded without looking at me. “Been checking the camera feeds on the Indigo, my offsite, and my place all night long. Also got a little info I’ve inserted into this morning’s police reports from replaying last night’s footage.”

  “And it took you all night to do that?” I asked, sounding doubtful.

  Zian shook his head. “Just … wanted to be sure that they didn’t try again.”

  “Did they?” I asked, getting up.

  Zian shook his head again.

  I was feeling grungy, having slept in yesterday’s clothes, jacket included. A quick check of my smartphone told me that I wouldn’t have time for a shower. I put in a text to the guy I’d mentioned to Morgan last night about the door situation at my place. Then I yawned and tried to get my hand through my hair, only for it to get stuck halfway in. The tousled mess my brown locks always ended up in was almost enough to make me miss my army days and the regulation short-cropped look.

  “Kennedy still here?” I asked Zian. Neither one of us had been talking loud but I lowered my voice just the same.

  “Yeah, and won’t be going anywhere for a while, judging from the snoring.” Zian nodded towards the bedroom. “She told me to wake her up at noon if she’s not awake by then.”

  “Did you do that other thing for me?” I asked, putting my shoes on.

  “Waited for Kennedy to get to sleep first,” Zian said, finally putting down his smartphone. “Last night shook her up. I could relate, so … we talked for a bit.”

  “Anything I need to know?” I asked, pausing as I did my best to straighten out my shirt.

  “She asked about my eyes,” Zian confessed, embarrassment showing on his face. “I fed her the usual, a strange variant on heterochromia that sparks when emotions run high.”

  “And she bought it?”

  “Think so,” Zian said, stifling a yawn. “You humans are all the same—throw in a big word or two and you swallow the lot wholesale.” He reached into his pocket. “Here. I got it done when she called it a night.”

  He held up a molding of her apartment key, encased in plastic. I grabbed it and slipped it into my pocket. Then my smartphone buzzed. It was my guy letting me know that he’d have the door taken care of by close of business today.

  “You know, if you want to move in with the new girlfriend, there are easier ways to do it,” Zian commented.

  “Considering how things ended with my last girlfriend …” I let that one hang in the air as I went out the door.

  ***

  Argo Nautilus was one of the few local business success stories of the last eight years. The Great Recession had wreaked havoc on plenty of businesses large and small and AN, as the locals called it, was no exception. Up until ’08, it had been a moderately successful maritime shipping company. The
n the Lehman Brothers collapse removed the words “moderate” and “successful” from the company description.

  AN’s ledger bled red ink for three straight years before finally turning a profit in 2012. Now, having outlived and/or outmaneuvered all its previous competitors, AN was a key pillar of the business community. Half to three-quarters of Cold City’s economic growth could be traced back to them pulling off the impossible. You’ve got to respect that.

  Of course, their offices on the top floor of the Ditko Building was another reason I gave them that respect. They were nice and clean but unshowy. Even the executives were pretty low key about their authority, sharing office space with the middle managers who made the company run.

  There was one big exception to this rule: the office of founder and CEO Ian Townsend, whose door I had just been buzzed through by the secretary. Even so, it wasn’t what I expected from one of this city’s leading businessmen. In place of the usual motivational posters there were Dali prints. Instead of coffee being brewed on the pot my nose detected the distinctive smell of herbal tea. The only things that gave me an idea of my client’s status were his desk, which was about the size of a Lincoln Continental, and the spectacular view of the bay from the window.

  The man himself, a fortyish guy in a gray suit that matched the prematurely gray hair on his head, rose from his desk to give me a two-handed shake of the hand.

  “Thank you for being so punctual, Mr. Vale,” he said in a mellow baritone that was low but penetrating.

  “I know that your time is valuable, Mr. Townsend,” I said as we finished the handshake.

  “Oh, please,” my client said as he patted me on the shoulder. “You’ve more than earned the right to call me Ian.”

  “Just as long as you call me Bell,” I replied with a shrug.

  He looked puzzled for a moment. “Oh—yes, a shorter version of your first name, right?”

  “And a lot easier to remember, not to mention pronounce.”

  Townsend chuckled as he walked back to his desk. “I’d offer you a cup of tea, Bell, but I’ve only got a few minutes to spare,” he said as he pulled a piece of paper from an open desk drawer. “The rest of my day is going to be similarly tied up or I’d invite you to lunch.”

  “Not necessary, Ian,” I said, waving it off. “I’ll just collect my pay and we’ll call it even.”

  Townsend grew more somber as he walked over to me with what I saw was a cashier’s check. “Even,” he said, lost in thought. “Heh … even.”

  I took the check from him and noticed something unexpected. “Ian, this is more than what we agreed upon when I took the case.”

  That seemed to snap Townsend out of his reverie. “Time and a half. You’ve more than earned it.”

  “Not that I couldn’t use it or that I’m not flattered,” I said, feeling uncomfortable with the largesse being handed to me. “But are you sure?”

  “I’ve rarely been this sure in my life,” Townsend said, looking me in the eye. Then, looking off someplace else, he added, “When I think about … Marion … and where she was a few days ago … and what could have happened …”

  The tears caught up with him. I saw a familiar pain in the man’s eyes.

  “You never get over losing a child,” I said, putting my own hand on his shoulder. “I’m just glad that you didn’t find out what that’s like.”

  Townsend gave me a look. I could tell that he wanted to ask me what I meant by that. The secretary’s desk buzzed him before the words could come out, however. He wiped the tears from his eyes and cleared his throat before pushing the button on the intercom. “Yes, Felice?”

  “Mayor Galatas is here for her nine-ten appointment, Mr. Townsend,” the secretary’s voice said through the speaker.

  “Give me just a few minutes,” he said before letting the button go.

  “Guess you really don’t have time to spare,” I remarked as I secured the check in my inside jacket pocket.

  Townsend nodded. “But this was worth a few minutes of it … thanks again, Bell. I mean that. If any of my acquaintances need your kind of services, I’ll be sure to put a good word in.”

  “Word of mouth goes a long way in my line of work,” I told him with a smile.

  We said our goodbyes and I returned to the outer office.

  Her Honor Mayor Jacinta Galatas was sitting primly with a folder in her lap, perfect boarding-school posture. She had an olive complexion, dark eyes that matched her equally dark hair—the latter done up in a severe bun—and what looked like a decent figure under the tasteful but expensive pants suit she was wearing. But she was no youngster. Even if I hadn’t noticed the laugh lines under her eyes and seen past the makeup to spot the occasional wrinkle, her eyes spoke of someone who’d been on this planet long enough to know how to be both polite and wary.

  I got a hint of both as she spotted me leaving. “Mr. Bellamy Vale, isn’t it?”

  The fact that the mayor of Cold City even knew my name in the first place was enough to stop me … well … cold.

  “Yes, ma’am,” I replied, turning towards her. “If you don’t mind my asking, your Honor, how do you—”

  “Let’s just say that a certain Detective Lieutenant Morgan has filed a number of complaints about you,” the mayor explained as she stood up. “These complaints have made their way to the commissioner’s desk and, in turn, my own.”

  “I’m assuming that these include my arrest photos?” I asked.

  “Every last one of them,” Her Honor assured me. “I wish I could say that they don’t do you justice, but …”

  Being reminded of how I was doing a pretty good impersonation of a down-and-outer made me fidget a bit. “As you can imagine, I disagree with the lieutenant’s characterizations of me in all the cases he’s sent your way.”

  A half-grin tugged at the side of her mouth. “Given that no human being I’ve ever run across likes to be described as ‘reckless’, ‘a menace to public safety,’ and other related endearments, I would hope so.”

  I frowned a little. “Based on what you’ve read on me, Madam Mayor, what’s your opinion?”

  Galatas pulled a face as she gave the matter some careful thought. “It’s difficult for me to say,” she admitted. “On the one hand, given that what you do is borderline vigilantism, I can see where Detective Lieutenant Morgan has a point in his critiques. On the other hand, when I weigh that thought against the fact that Marion Townsend is now alive, well, and attending school instead of being buried, I find that his argument is much less black and white than he would like me to believe.”

  The intercom on the secretary’s desk buzzed. “Send in the mayor now, Felice,” Townsend’s voice instructed.

  “Right away, Mr. Townsend,” the secretary replied.

  “Well, it seems duty calls,” Mayor Galatas said with a sigh. Sticking out her hand, she added, “It was a genuine pleasure to meet you in the flesh, Mr. Vale.”

  “Even with all you know about me?” I queried as I shook her hand.

  “Even with that,” she assured me with a professional politician’s smile.

  As she turned to go in the office, I got a glance at what was written on the folder … Orion.

  ***

  By the time I got to the Tombs for breakfast, I hadn’t figured out why Ian Townsend would be mixed up with the Orion project. Cinema Leone was twenty-one blocks away from AN’s offices and didn’t have any business-related buildings that weren’t on the waterfront. Since I wasn’t getting anywhere, I put the thought aside. One of the things I had figured out as a detective is that if you look at something too hard, it won’t ever get around to telling you what it wants.

  Tommy was waiting out front with a big grin on his mahogany face. That look always worried me. It meant he had just pulled a fast one on me or was about to.

  “So … you ready to pay up, son?”
he asked by way of greeting.

  “It’s in my pocket right now,” I said. I’d cashed the check at my local bank on the way over.

  “Ah! We’ll settle inside,” Tommy said, leading me to the door. “Candice Kennedy’s waiting at your booth for you.”

  I stopped dead in my tracks. “Why?”

  Tommy shrugged. “She mentioned that you two were working together on a case.”

  “And you believed her?” I retorted in amazement and disgust.

  Tommy’s smile grew sly as he tilted his head to the side. “Maybe I did, maybe I didn’t. But I figured that either way this was a prime opportunity for me to expand your dating pool a bit.” He placed a fatherly arm round my shoulders. “Now come on. I know you haven’t had any breakfast yet and you’re not leaving until you do.”

  I was too stunned to do anything but let him drag me in.

  ***

  Kennedy was digging into her Eggs Benedict as I sat down in the seat across from her, glowering.

  “What?” she asked. “Isn’t a girl entitled to a little breakfast?”

  “Not when it’s served up with a side of stalking and snooping,” I answered, tossing what remained of the bug on my car keys onto the table.

  Her eyes flicked over to the pieces for a second before focusing on me. “Oh, that’s rich, coming from somebody who does it for a living.”

  “Why are you even here?” I asked. “Zian said you mentioned something about waking you at noon if you didn’t—”

  “I … didn’t have a good night’s sleep,” Kennedy explained. “After about nine or so, I got up. Zian told me where you’d be for breakfast. He’s a real sweet guy, by the way. No idea why he hangs with a jerk like you.”

  I filed a mental note to read Zian the riot act later. “Didn’t last night convince you that this story is way too dangerous to keep pursuing?”

  She put down the orange juice she had just raised to her lips. “I had a journalism professor out in Houston … tough, disagreeable cuss but knew his stuff, you know? He said something that I have never forgotten: the stories that scare you the most are the most important ones in your career.”