Chapter 8
8
P retty city, Portland , Frederick thought, as he exited his luxurious downtown hotel. Cold, though. The snow was ankle height and it was below zero. However, Frederick was billionaire Paul Andrews and the rich didn’t do cold. Billionaires had a Goldilocks existence, never too hot and never too cold. He was wearing a heavyweight cashmere Brooks Brothers overcoat, cashmere scarf and a genuine Borsalino. He stepped from the heated entrance of the Beresford Hotel where he had the Presidential Suite directly into a towncar he’d booked online. The car was heated, of course, and the driver suitably subservient and in livery.
“Where to, sir?” the driver asked, meeting his eyes in the rear view mirror.
“The Beckstein Gallery. On Stratton Street.”
Before presenting himself to Suzanne Huntington, he wanted to visit the art show where Anne Lowell had been photographed. He was a computer expert but he liked first hand data whenever possible. He’d viewed all the photographs of the caterer’s FB page, the official photographs on the gallery’s website. It was interesting that Anne didn’t show up once on any other photos, anywhere, including the official website photos which seemed to highlight everyone who’d been there.
Except Anne.
The car left him right in front of the gallery’s entrance, and the driver said he would park around the corner and to call when he was ready.
No bell rang when he opened the gallery door. Bells were so passé. Instead there was a metallic sound of a drop of water. Immediately a man appeared from an inner door. Elegant. Dapper, even.
Frederick held up a hand covered in a cashmere-lined Sermoneta black kid leather glove. “Just looking,” he said.
The man gave a little ironic bow and disappeared again behind the door. It was clear that if Frederick wanted to buy something he would let it be known.
He clasped his hands behind his back and slowly walked the perimeter of the gallery, looking carefully at each picture. They were excellent, even he could see that. Each picture was of either the facade or the interior of a building Suzanne Huntington decorated.
They were all superbly rendered.
He made the circuit twice. Most of the paintings, drawings and watercolors had a small red ‘sold’ sticker. A placard stated that the proceeds of the sale went to a breast cancer research fund.
Frederick knew he was lingering too long, but there was just something about the pictures that tugged at him. They were all beautiful, yes, stylish, yes…but somehow familiar.
He even debated buying one. A watercolor of the facade of a sleek mansion in the foothills of Mount Hood was exquisite. The artist had perfectly captured the contrast between the streamlined outline of the house and the gnarled old forest lines of the branches surrounding it.
A flute appeared, half full of champagne.
“Excellent, isn’t it?” the gallery owner, presumably Mr. Beckstein, said.
Frederick sipped. Not champagne but prosecco and excellent. “Yes, indeed. I would have contemplating buying it if it weren’t already sold.” The small red sticker was discreetly placed in the lower right hand corner.
“We sold out in the first half hour.” The owner gave a small, satisfied smile. He shifted his drink to his left hand and held out his right. “Alfred Beckstein.”
Frederick held his own hand out. “Paul Andrews, pleasure.”
“Welcome to Portland,” Beckstein said.
Frederick arced a brow. “It’s that obvious I’m an out-of-towner?”
“With that tan it is. It’s been raining and snowing for two months. You didn’t get that tan here.”
There was an unspoken question. If it went unanswered, Paul Andrews would stick in the gallery owner’s mind. Frederick gave a light laugh. “Bingo. I’ve spent the last four months in my house in Cabo San Lucas. Came up to Portland for some investment opportunities. Speaking of opportunities, I have been looking at some property here. Took a tour of the penthouse of the Sorenson Building.”
Backstein’s eyebrows rose. It was by a factor of ten the most expensive residential building in the city. The penthouse was valued at fifteen million dollars. Condo costs were $20k a month. Frederick had checked.
“So, I was thinking of looking for a decorator and it looks like I just might have found one.” He tapped the show’s brochure with the photograph of Suzanne Huntington on the cover. “Judging by the interiors on the walls she is very talented.”
Backstein smiled. “That she is. This gallery provides a lot of artwork for her interior designs. She’s brilliant. It’s a pleasure to work with her.”
Frederick waved at the gallery walls. “And I will definitely commission artwork of the finished decorations.”
A small frown appeared between Beckstein’s eyebrows, then he smoothed it away. “Ah, yes. That would be an excellent idea.” He drained his flute. “And now, if you’ll excuse me, I have some work to do. Take your time enjoying the artwork. Pleasure meeting you.”
Hmm. Interesting. Something there…
For form’s sake, Frederick spent another ten minutes perusing the artwork on the walls, then called for his car and walked from the heated gallery to the heated backseat of his towncar in three steps. His driver was holding it open for him so he wouldn’t have to do that himself. He was exposed to the cold for about a second and a half. Rich guy tourism.
His next stop was an actual visit to the penthouse apartment of the Sorensen Building in the presence of a young and pretty real estate agent practically quivering with eagerness. Her conversation was peppered with ‘yes, Mr. Andrews’ and ‘no, Mr. Andrews.’ Not too many of the latter because though the property was stunning, it was still the tail end of the recession and there were probably not more than a thousand people in the country able and willing to pay fifteen million dollars for an apartment.
If he had a spare fifteen million dollars, which he didn’t, and if he wanted to live in Portland, which he didn’t, he could do worse than this penthouse. It was over 7000 square feet with five bedrooms and two fireplaces. He was certain it had views to die for when the sun came out. There was even a deck for the three warm sunny days a year during the summer.
She’d obviously done her homework because she kept dropping references to Stonewell Financial. Pity it didn’t exist. And pity he was going to have to disappoint the agent, who was truly attractive.
She was nearly panting with excitement. He doubted she got a commission—that would be for the owner of the realty—but she’d definitely get a bonus. She looked almost sexually aroused as she ran through the penthouse’s amenities. Eyes bright, color high, mouth moist and open.
Hmm. Really attractive.
But no.
This was a business trip. In and out. In empty-handed and out with an unconscious but alive Anne Lowell.
Priorities, priorities.
He tuned out the estate agent’s babblings and turned to the floor to ceiling bullet proof windows. It was pointless telling the eager young agent that bullet proof didn’t exist unless it was a foot of concrete or several inches of steel. Windows could only be bullet resistant.
It was probably a rehearsed selling point given the fact that top members of the Russian Mafiya were moving to Portland and were going to want high-end real estate. A vor would definitely want bullet resistant windows.
But Paul Andrews wouldn’t worry about that until the 99% rose up and revolted. By which point Paul Andrews would definitely have decamped on his private jet to Barbados.
Frederick really liked Paul Andrews.
It had been snowing on and off since he arrived. It had stopped, leaving a pristine snowscape, no colors, just shades of white to gray to black. Quite beautiful.
One of the pictures in the Beckstein Gallery had been a collection of four seasons of a country mansion, the winter version a stunning play of chiaroscuro.
He’d seen something like that somewhere. It had niggled at him in the gallery, too. Where had he?—
He caught his breath.
God. Could it be?
“Oh!” Frederick tapped a nonexistent earbud and took out his cell. “Sorry,” he said, turning his back on the agent, her pretty face startled. “Have to take this.”
He moved into another room, took out his tablet from his briefcase and opened a couple of files, flicking through them. He was extremely thorough with his background research and inside of a minute he had what he was looking for.
Anne Lowell had a degree in museum curation but she’d also taken art classes. And she’d taken part in an art show collective. Forty young artists, mainly conceptual. She was the only one of the four who’d entered figurative art. Three watercolors, all landscapes. One a snowy plain. Pristine, shades of white through gray, no colors.
He carefully studied the four works of art, looking at shape, balance, color scale. Yes.
The person who’d done the landscapes and interior decors of the show at the Beckstein Gallery was the same person who’d exhibited four works in the collective art show. Same color palette, same architectural sense of proportion, same hand.
That was why Beckstein’s forehead had scrunched. Suzanne Huntington hadn’t done the artwork.
Anne Lowell had.
Jesus, he’d already found her.
He sent the signal to his driver to bring the car around to the monumental front entrance of the Sorensen Building.
“Sorry,” he told the pretty agent, “something very important has come up. I am very interested in the property. I’ll get in touch tomorrow.”
Tomorrow he wouldn’t be coming back but he would definitely be five hundred thousand dollars richer. Peanuts for Paul Andrews but good enough for him.
His cell rang in his pants pocket. Christ, the pants were all the way across the room.
Jacko was neat. He emptied his pockets and folded his pants and his cell was always within reach. Just like his gun. Lauren really messed with his head because he couldn’t remember leaving pants in a heap on the floor across the room. He didn’t remember much about getting naked, though he remembered every second after he’d got naked. Oh yeah.
He should be leaping out of bed and grabbing his cell. You never knew, it could be important. Was probably work, and work was number one priority in his life. Had been number one priority.
But right now? Right now he was in bed with Lauren’s head on his shoulder and his arm around her and he didn’t want to move one single muscle.
She stirred, looked up at him, smiled. “You should get that.”
Yeah, he should.
The cell stopped playing the refrain of Cee Lo’s Fuck You and went to voice mail. Then it started ringing again. Whoever it was was a persistent fucker.
“You really should get that,” Lauren said, lifting her head off his shoulder.
Oh man. The moment was spoiled.
Jacko had been lying there with half a boner, thinking of when Lauren woke up. And now she was awake but someone wanted to talk to him, even though Jacko didn’t want to talk to anyone except Lauren.
The cell stopped ringing for a moment then started again. And something like situational awareness pinged to life in Jacko’s sex-saturated brain.
It could be news concerning Lauren. He could have missed vital news because his blood had gone from his head to his woodie. Christ.
He scrambled out of bed just as the cell started ringing again, looking at the display. Bud. Bud Morrison. Who’d promised to look into the fuckhead who was threatening Lauren.
“Yeah?” he barked into the cell. “What?”
“Took you long enough,” Bud growled. “Go to your computer and link to KWXX. Local TV station in Palm Beach. Stay on the line.”
“Jacko?” Lauren was sitting up in bed, propped on her elbow and oh Jesus, the temptation to crawl right back into bed with her, slide right into her and start moving…it was almost too big to resist. Just look at her , he thought. Shiny hair slanting across her face, falling onto her shoulders, slender hand holding the blanket up, covering one breast, but not the one he’d kissed on the couch.
She’d felt like silk, tasted like salty strawberries…
Damn. The woodie was growing.
“Yo, Jacko!” Bud sounded impatient. “You seeing it?”
Jacko did the only thing he could do—put his jeans on and hope they kept the worst of the boner down. He looked away from Lauren as he pulled his jeans up, going commando as usual, wincing as the zip caught a few hairs.
He switched on his Mac, googled the link and frowned at the feed. It was a helicopter shot, shaky footage of a big fancy mansion, swimming pool looking like a basin of Scope from on high. SHOOTOUT at Palm Beach read the chyron. Then the feed switched to a Latino bimbo journo sporting a lot of tanned cleavage.
No sound.
Jesus. He was slipping. His headset was connected. He yanked out the jack and heard the bimbo’s breathless voice. “To recap, a SWAT team is now surrounding a mansion in Palm Beach?—”
“Oh my God!” Lauren shot out of bed, naked. He looked over and couldn’t help the smile.
“That’s my mother’s house!” she exclaimed.
“What?” For just a second, the news knocked a naked Lauren out of his head.
She picked up a tee shirt of his and slipped it on. It billowed around her, coming down almost to her knees. But at least it covered her up so he could concentrate on what she was saying.
She pointed a shaking finger at the monitor. “That—that’s my mother’s house. Jorge’s house.” She shook her head. “Technically, my house. Oh my God, a shootout! Turn the volume up, Jacko.”
He did, putting the cell to his ear. Bud was still there. He put Bud on speakerphone.
“Sitrep,” he said, putting Bud on video on another monitor now that Lauren was covered up.
Bud’s face was grim. “What a fuckup. I sent some guys I met at an LEO conference to ask some questions of Jorge Guttierez. They’d already looked at the murders Lauren told us about and saw signs right away that there’d been a coverup. Evidence lost, interviews misfiled. The guy who covered it up is retired, has $500,000 in his bank account, right there for anyone with a warrant to see. Moron. Anyway, a warrant to search the premises of the Guttierez household was easy to obtain. And the bad cop is no longer enjoying golf but is now under indictment and if found guilty, which the fucker is, I’d bet my pension on it, he’ll spend the rest of his miserable life behind bars. So PBPD sent two officers to question our guy Jorge, who apparently was coked to the gills. And the fucker opened fire, can you believe that? An officer down, he’s now in surgery. There’s a chance he can make it. The other officer called it in and there’s a SWAT team there now.”
Lauren was watching the computer monitor intently. “Jorge’s crazy, Bud. Please tell the team to be careful. He’s got an army in there.”
Jacko hooked an arm around her shoulders, kissed her hair. Telling a SWAT team to be careful was perfectly useless. “These guys know what they’re doing, honey. Don’t worry about them. They’re trained for this.”
The feed switched to the helicopter footage. An army of SWAT team members, looking like heavily armed ants, crouched in a perimeter surrounding the house. No sound could be picked up but Jacko could write the playbook for them. There was a fusillade which barely registred as distant pops over the noise of the helicopter and Jacko knew it would be covering fire for flashbangs.
There you go. Two black-suited helmeted SWAT guys in front and two in back lobbed what looked like tin cans into the ground floor. A flash of light and streams of heat-distorted air and the SWAT guys rushed the place.
The feed switched to the bimbo anchor woman whose expression had sharpened— live fire! Maybe dead bodies! Live, on air! She was in anchor heaven, bleating. She had nothing to say but was saying a lot of it.
“Please, let the officers be safe,” Lauren whispered. She looked up at him, face pale. “Jorge’s such a whack job. And he takes drugs. No telling what he’ll do.”
Jacko didn’t answer. The SWAT team undoubtedly knew what it was doing. They’d be really competent guys, really well-trained. But shit happens. For all he knew a drugged-out paranoid fuckhead could even have the place wired to blow.
It wasn’t over until it was over.
So he didn’t try to reassure her again. They simply watched the monitor, listening to the pop pop of small arms fire and the ziipp of automatic weaponsry.
Suddenly, there was silence.
“It’s over,” Bud said over the speakerphone. He was clearly on a direct feed with PBPD. “Asshole thinks he’s in some kind of movie like Scarface or something. Wait.” On the video feed Bud pressed a finger to his ear, suddenly breaking out in a smile. “Fuckhead’s down. Sorry about the language, Lauren. Jorge Guttierez is dead. Caught thirteen bullets. Couldn’t happen to a nicer guy. They found two underage girls tied to a bed and enough cocaine in the room to choke a horse. Three of his henchmen are down, another two surrendered and are going away for a long long time. You don’t shoot at cops and walk. And my guy inside PBPD really has a jones for pedophiles. Likes to put them away forever. So, Lauren, looks like your troubles are over. I’ll meet you guys at ASI in half an hour.”
Jacko turned to Lauren, who looked shocked, a hand over her mouth. Her face was pale, dark blue eyes huge. She sobbed, choked it back. She was used to suppressing her emotions. Well, that was going to change.
He kissed her. “It’s over honey. It’s all over. Your running days are over, you’re free.”
She breathed in and out looking stunned, as if she’d been hit. Jacko frowned, surreptitiously placed a forefinger over the outer corner of her wrist. Her pulse was racing fast and shallow, pupils dilated. She was in shock.
They wanted him and Lauren at ASI, but first he had to tend to her. He led her to the couch, pressed lightly with his hand on her shoulder. She dropped as if he’d shoved her and he sat next to her.
He waited patiently as she cycled through her emotions.
She shook her head sharply, as if getting rid of something. “I can—I can hardly believe this. Jorge is dead. I’m not on the run any more. I don’t have to hide anymore. I can walk around freely, no need for special makeup or funny hats.” For the first time a smile crossed her face. “Would it have been a stylish hat?”
Jacko sighed. What he’d seen in catalogs had been like a Marine’s beanie hat. She would have hated wearing it. “No. Sorry.”
She giggled and the sound zinged through him. “I think the first thing I’m going to do is go to the theater. I haven’t dared go to a concert or go to the movies in two years. And of course I want to buy myself a pair of high heeled shoes.”
“Yeah?” Jacko tried to suppress the image of a naked Lauren wearing only heels. Man.
“Oh yeah.” She lifted her bare foot. “I haven’t worn heels in two years. I need to be able to run at a moment’s notice. Correction. I needed to be able to run at a moment’s notice. Now I don’t have to think that way any more.”
“Nope. And you can walk in and out of here any time you want without me freaking if I don’t know where you are.”
She sobered instantly, turned to look him full in the face. “About that. About living here. I don’t know…”
And though he knew his face wasn’t showing anything, Jacko’s stomach dropped to the floor. He could kick himself in the ass. What the fuck was he thinking—that they had a future? That she’d just continue staying here with him, that they’d be a couple? He’d promised to keep her safe and he had. With a little sex thrown in.
That was what it had been for her but it had been a lot more for him.
This was the first time his heart had been involved and that had messed with his head, making him think things that just weren’t true. Of course they weren’t a couple, together forever. What would someone like her be doing with someone like him? And yet—how the fuck was he supposed to have seen the signs when everything had been so mixed up and stressful? So yeah, the sex had been off the charts, but that didn’t mean?—
She reached out to cup his face, searched his eyes. “Do you think you could stand living in my house instead of here? I need my skylight.”
Frederick’s cell buzzed when he walked out of the shower. He’d stayed under the rush of water at the hottest possible setting for over half an hour. Short of going to a spa to get that flushed rich-man look, a scalding hot shower was the next best thing.
He stepped out of the shower, made full use of the fancy moisturizer the hotel provided and gave himself a close shave, happy that he’d recently had one of those $200 haircuts by a stylist who knew what she was doing.
Solemnly, like a knight donning armor, he dressed rich from the skin out. Nothing that wasn’t silk, Egyptian cotton or cashmere touched his skin. The real estate agent had not been discerning. She’d been told he was rich and that was that. But Frederick was certain that Suzanne Huntington would be able to sniff out the real deal.
Well, Frederick was used to social engineering. And he was rich, after a fashion, just not billionaire league. So it was a question of degree not of kind. Plus, he could go gay. Muddy the waters a little.
Billionaire gay guy. Not so easy to read.
He was lacing up his thousand dollar Barker Blacks when his cell buzzed. An alert, not a call. He’d designed a nice little bot that scoured news feeds for about 50 key words, most pertaining to ongoing jobs.
The screen showed ‘Jorge Guttierez’ . Which meant he was on the news somewhere. Frederick switched to the newsfeed with the most hits and his eyebrows rose.
The screen was too small. He turned on his computer and watched the monitor. He had to sit down to do it.
Jesus. This surprised even him.
Jorge finally proved what a moron he was. And a cokehead. What a combo.
Listening to the news anchors Frederick could easily piece together what had happened. For some reason the cops had come to the door while Jorge was hopped up. Of course lately, that was always. Jorge got mean when he was stoned. Crazy mean. And crazy stupid. It was a lethal combination.
From what Frederick could make out, Jorge had fired at two cops, wounded one. Seriously, apparently, because the officer was in surgery.
Well, no one fires at cops with impunity. From the feed from a news helicopter, Frederick could see the mansion surrounded by SWAT.
Alfonso would have been appalled.
This could only end one way because Jorge was too bone-headed stupid to give up when he saw himself surrounded. He’d watched Scarface way too many times. Right now, in his little pig brain, he saw himself a heroic figure, fighting off an army of cops. Going down fighting, like a man.
Pinhead. Really, too stupid to live.
Frederick sat on the edge of the bed, filing his nails, waiting it out. Watching events unfold on TV, as predictable as any cop TV series. SWAT, hunkered down. Two officers throwing something in to the mansion from the front and and two from the back and a second later, a bright flash of light, a sound that could be heard over the helicopter rotors, smoke billowing out.
With anyone but Jorge, the next act would be the men holed up inside walking out with their hands up, told to kneel, hands on their heads. Flexicuffs, the perp walk, an officer putting a hand to their head to get them inside the cop car.
But this was Jorge, who probably had fevered dreams of glory sprouting in his drug-addled brain. Sure enough—by the time Frederick was buffing his nails, three body bags were being carried out of the house. Jorge and two of his goons, loyal to the last, poor dogs.
Well, there went his retainer. But, on the whole, it was for the best.
Jorge was becoming so very tedious as a client. Money talked, of course, but just seeing Jorge once a month had become a chore. Something very unpleasant and really—what was the point of being successful if you had to do unpleasant things?
Unpleasant was for the peasantry. A saying of Alfonso’s, and quite right he was, too. Alfonso had had people to do the unpleasant things for him.
So, all in all, a very satisfactory ending. With Jorge out of the way, Anne Lowell would be lulled into a feeling of complacency, of safety.
How could she know he was about to deliver her to someone who would extract what he wanted from her and would then dump her body like a piece of trash?
She wouldn’t. Couldn’t. Anne Lowell’s death was in the cards, it was just going to be by a different hand now.
Just like in that great story by whosis he’d read in college. Appointment in Samarra .
What was that saying? Karma is a bitch.