Condemned (Julian Mercer Book 1) Page 13

  “Carlton Rhoade is a powerful businessman. I’m sure plenty of things happen that would require a trained investigator. And like I’ve mentioned, I work for Rhoade’s newspaper. I’ve been on his payroll for years. There’s nothing sinister about that. I’m not involved in any of this. I don’t know anything. Please, just let me go.”

  Mercer smiled. Even though Welks never said anything specific, one could make certain assumptions based upon the information. Perhaps it wasn’t the most reasonable interrogation technique, but it might just reap some rewards.

  “So someone must have approached you because of your connection to Rhoade’s newspaper,” Mercer mused and rubbed his chin, watching as Welks’ eyes grew wide. “Who wanted information on Carlton Rhoade and his personal life and business?”

  Desperate to be set free, Welks said the first thing that came to mind. “It was…um…Styler who asked me to keep tabs on Rhoade. That’s all I know, so let me go.”

  Mercer laughed. “You’re a terrible liar. I wasn’t born yesterday. There isn’t a chance in hell you’d be afraid of Benjamin Styler.” He narrowed his eyes. “But Styler has enemies. He owed debts until that blackmail scheme got him back in the black.” Mercer chuckled at the play on words. “And whoever’s paying you under the table has deep pockets. He’s untouchable. Am I right?”

  “Please, let me go. I don’t know who he is. The only thing I know is he’s dangerous. I was contacted and paid anonymously. Your partner said I could go as soon as this was cleared up. I’ve told you all I can.”

  “What happens when your benefactor goes looking for you and doesn’t find you? Do you care about nothing more than your own meaningless life? What about your wife? If this man is as dangerous as you claim, he will stop at nothing to find you and silence you. But if you’re forthcoming with me, my friends will make arrangements to keep you safe.”

  Welks laughed. “Now who’s a pitiful liar?” He rolled his eyes. “You’ll either let me go or you’ll kill me. There’s no fucking way someone like you would help me. I’ll take my chances.”

  “That’s not all I can do.” Mercer stood, towering over Welks. “Look at me.” The other man resisted, and Mercer grabbed his hair and yanked, jerking his chin up. “I’ve already encountered Isaac Armann, so your usefulness is dwindling by the second. When time is up, we’ll clear out. We don’t have to release you. It takes days for a man to starve. But the dehydration will set in first, causing muscle cramps, delusions, and insanity. It’s a horrible way to go. But maybe if you’re lucky, the stink from your decomposing corpse will lead the police here before the rats and maggots completely dismantle your flesh. Think about it.” He dragged the empty chair out of the room, slamming the door.

  “Rats and maggots, really?” Bastian asked, cocking an eyebrow. “Was he quaking in fear or fits of giggles?”

  “He wants to leave, but he refuses to help himself. You suggested I don’t resort to violence, so what was I supposed to say?”

  “I’ll give it a go.” Bastian picked up a file and went to the door. “I have some information on his personal life, his spending habits, and a few tidbits on his wife. Maybe he isn’t as cowardly as you believe.”

  “I doubt it.”

  “Honey attracts more flies, Jules.”

  Bastian opened the door and went inside the room. His voice was calm, almost friendly, as he began discussing every aspect of the man’s work and personal life that they had uncovered as if he were reading a child’s fairytale. Once it was obvious they had gotten John Welks’ full and undivided attention, Bas approached the subject of Isaac Armann. This was a different angle than asking who hired Welks, and with any luck, the P.I. wouldn’t have an issue discussing the key facts he knew about Armann. Hopefully, they’d discover who hired Armann and the identities of the two men that accompanied him into the alley. This was their best bet, and if this failed, they’d have no choice but to question Carlton Rhoade again since they were running out of suspects fast.

  “Is it true?” Welks asked. Armann was the final name mentioned before Julian left their captive to contemplate his uncertain future. And now that Bastian was breaching the same subject, Welks was becoming increasingly uneasy. “Is Armann here?”

  “Why? Does that worry you?” Bastian asked.

  “It should worry everyone. Do you have any idea who Isaac Armann is or what he’s capable of doing?”

  “Why don’t you enlighten me?”

  “He’s a cleaner. He makes problems disappear, and they never come back. There was an article about men like him a few years ago in one of the papers.”

  “Rhoade’s paper?” Bastian asked, playing dumb.

  “It was before Rhoade had a paper. But Isaac Armann was an unidentified source for the article. At least that was the rumor floating around the precinct. He was the only one with cojones big enough to confess to his crimes and career without fear of repercussions. He’s one sinister badass, and he isn’t afraid of anyone squealing on him.”

  “I take it his reputation precedes him,” Bastian said, and Welks nodded. “And you discovered that he was hired to conduct the hit on Benjamin Styler. Which means whoever wants Styler dead wants it done right and with no fallout. Do you have any evidence that might point us to the man who hired Armann?”

  “No.”

  “But the same person who hired Armann needed you for something. What was it?”

  “Just some basic information concerning Carlton’s interest in Styler. Nothing heinous. At least, that’s what I thought at the time,” Welks admitted.

  “Who asked you for this information?”

  “I can’t tell you.” Welks looked grim. “I’m not saying this is the case, but if this alleged client of mine can afford to hire the best mercenary in town, do you honestly believe he would even bother to blink before extinguishing me if he thought I posed a danger to him?”

  “You really don’t know who he is, do you?” Bastian asked.

  “It was in my best interest not to find out.” Welks bit his lip and stared at the floor. The only thing the P.I. knew for certain was that he should fear this unknown man.

  “Aww, bloody hell. We’re gonna have to do this the hard way.”

  Twenty-three

  “It would have been faster to beat the answers out of him,” Mercer muttered as he tore through John Welks’ home office.

  “Bugger,” Bastian hissed, still attempting to access Welks’ computer. Each individual file was password protected, and John Welks had different passwords for everything. “He must have a list written down somewhere.”

  “Like I said, we should persuade him to give us the information instead.” Mercer’s head was still throbbing, and he rubbed his face, wincing when his hand came into contact with his battered temple and cheek.

  “Shut your mouth.” Bastian was frustrated as well. “I’d like to believe you wouldn’t actually beat a man into a bloody pulp for no good reason. And I’m assuming what John said is true. He’s being paid, but more than likely, it’s been anonymous. As soon as I can get into these bloody files, I might be able to trace the source of the communications back to the puppet master.”

  “Just because Welks doesn’t know his client’s identity, that doesn’t mean there will be an electronic trail for you to trace. Don’t you think that this twisted genius would be smarter than that?” Mercer asked. They’d been arguing ever since the break-in. “Welks is a bloody P.I., so whoever contacted him would have been careful enough to avoid detection.”

  “There’s only one way to know for certain. And once we finish here, we’ll have to devise a method of getting into his office at the investigation firm.” Bastian glanced at the clock, aware that Teresa Welks would be at work until six, so they didn’t have much time. “Check for hiding places, removable walls, false bottoms, that sort of thing.”

  “Bastian, I know what I’m doing.”

  “Well, after that hit to your head, I wasn’t sure your brain was still capable of functionin
g.” It was obvious from Mercer’s earlier wooziness that he had a slight concussion, not enough to stop him, but a traumatic brain injury, even slight, was still a traumatic brain injury. Or at least that’s how medical professionals regarded all concussions. “Now stop distracting me,” Bastian snapped.

  Mercer left the office and went into the bedroom, searched the closets, and then dumped the contents of the dresser into the floor. He searched through the scattered clothing, the few satchels that contained jewelry and other expensive possessions, and ran his hands along the bottoms of the drawers and the frame of the furniture. Either John Welks was brilliant at hiding things, or there was nothing to be found.

  Repeating the process in the living room, he tore through the furniture, finally coming across an envelope taped underneath the sofa. Inside was nothing more than a bank account number and transaction sheet. That was a strange place to file financial information, and Mercer tucked the envelope into his back pocket and continued searching for something damning.

  Going from room to room, Mercer ripped the entire house apart. There would be no way of concealing the intrusion. They didn’t have the time to be methodical and neat, so instead, he wanted it to look like a home invasion. And by the time he was finished, not a single drawer or closet was left intact. Inside the linen closet, Mercer discovered a camera bag containing a few rolls of film and multiple memory cards. After a final perusal of the remaining rooms, he went back to the office to see how much progress Bastian had made.

  “I’ve copied the files. Nothing was seriously encrypted, and after I found the password list, it didn’t take long. From what I can tell, not much is relevant to the Rhoades or Benjamin Styler, but I copied everything just in case. Should we clean up?” Bastian inquired, but instead of responding, Mercer simply grabbed the computer monitor and slammed it into the floor. “I’ll take that as a no.”

  “We need to get out of here and check his office at Piper Investigations before Teresa arrives home and reports the intrusion to the police.” Mercer glanced at his watch. “We’re on a time crunch.”

  “Well, it’s a good thing I found this.” Bastian held up John Welks’ I.D. card. “It has an access strip, so with a little snip and some paste, I should be able to get in and out without anyone questioning me.”

  “Let’s get to it,” Mercer ordered, leading the way to the door. “Worst case, you could ask Gladys for a favor.”

  Bastian diverted to an office supply store, removed one of his numerous falsified identities, and while Julian kept watch, his second-in-command found an X-Acto knife, cut out Welks’ photo, pasted his own on top, and laminated the entire item at one of the self-serve kiosks. Back in the vehicle, the pair continued to Piper Investigations.

  “I’ll just be a minute,” Bastian said, stopping Julian before he could make it out the door. “With the way you look, mate, I don’t think it’d be wise for both of us to go in together. They are investigators, and your appearance might ping something in their clue savvy brains.”

  Mercer let out a growl but remained in the vehicle, watching as Bastian went to the trunk, pulled out a suit jacket and a pair of glasses, ran a hand through his hair, and darted inside. It wasn’t much of a disguise, but if Bas wanted to perfect geek chic, he was doing a damn fine job. Beginning a countdown, if Bas wasn’t out in the next ten minutes, Mercer would go in.

  Bastian went through the front door and headed for the elevators at the back of the lobby. The receptionist paid no attention to him, and he cautioned a quick glance at the directory on the wall while he waited for the elevator. Welks, John – Office #502, he read. Taking the elevator up to level five, he ducked his head down, keeping his face obscured from the security camera. When the doors opened on the proper level, he stepped out and almost collided with a man who was getting on the elevator.

  “Pardon,” Bastian muttered, sidestepping.

  “Sorry,” the man responded automatically. At least he didn’t seem very interested in Bastian.

  Turning right, Bastian went halfway down the hall before he realized he was moving in the wrong direction. Turning, he headed back the way he came, hoping that the people inside the two offices he passed wouldn’t take notice. He should have performed a more thorough exam of the building’s layout before attempting this feat, but he had only examined the security measures and weaknesses, not the arrangement of the office numbers.

  Despite his best efforts, he had been unable to break into the majority of the server data from off-site because his attempt to plant a trojan on his earlier trip failed due to Gladys, the overly friendly receptionist, returning to her station far too quickly for his liking. So now Bastian would have to break into Welks’ office and personal computer the old fashioned way. Hopefully, that password list he found printed and taped to the bottom of the locked desk drawer would serve a purpose here as well.

  Swiping the card through the reader, he stepped into the small office, flipped the blinds closed, and set to work behind the computer. As he waited for the ancient, decade old contraption to boot-up, he opened the desk drawers, rifled through the contents, and set to work picking the locks on the nearby filing cabinet. After the resounding startup ding, he logged into the network using Welks’ password and plugged in his flash drive in order for the brilliant computer worm he created to infiltrate the network. As it began copying and downloading the relevant files and metadata, Bastian returned to the filing cabinet, removing numerous folders that pertained to Carlton Rhoade. He didn’t locate anything labeled Katia or Ben, but he was having trouble believing that Welks had clients named John and Jane Doe. Grabbing everything that was suspicious, he dropped them on the desk and flipped through the files.

  Skimming the pages led to unrelated cases and clients. He replaced a stack of useless files and narrowed the remaining pile down to information that dealt with Carlton Rhoade and the newspaper. Returning to the computer, he checked the progress. Forty-two percent and counting. Bastian searched the rest of the office, but there was nothing else to find. Taking a seat behind the computer, he gave the screen another glance. Fifty-seven percent.

  “C’mon, love, hurry up,” he purred. Just then, he heard voices in the hallway and approaching footsteps. “Bugger.” It was stupid to assume they were coming to check Welks’ office, but just in case, Bastian considered his options. He could either duck under the desk and hope they didn’t notice, or he could remain working and insist he was tech support.

  The footsteps stopped, and he waited. The office door was locked, and unless they were from building security or maintenance, then no one should be able to get in, right? Shutting his eyes, he took a breath and recalled the data on the security system. The codes were different for each office, so he should be safe.

  The conversation continued just feet away, and Bastian could hear muffled words about Welks’ disappearance. Did his absence prompt some curious co-workers to check for a clue as to Welks’ whereabouts inside the office? Shit.

  Bas tapped his fingers lightly against the desk, willing the computer to work faster. As soon as it hit the hundred percent mark, he removed the drive and powered down the computer. He had what he came for, but there was a new chink in the plan. He had no way out. Collecting the folders and placing the drive in his pocket, he took a deep breath and silently approached the only exit.

  Bastian cracked the door open a smidge and peered into the hallway. One woman and two men stood about ten feet from the doorway, directly between the office and the elevator. There would be no slipping past undetected. Just as he was about to send a text to Mercer to provide a distraction, the commander emerged from the stairwell at the far end of the corridor.

  “Where the bloody hell is he?” Mercer yelled, storming down the hallway and rattling the first office door he spotted. “I want answers. And I want them now.”

  The raucous caused the group assembled to abandon their position in the hallway, and Bastian waited a few beats before he exited Welks’ office, pulling
the door shut behind him. Mercer spotted Bastian and gave an almost imperceptible nod.

  “What’s the matter, sir?” one of the men asked while the woman phoned for security or perhaps the police.

  “I hired you jerks to find out who’s been screwing my wife, and you still don’t have a name. I want to know who he is. Did he pay you to protect him?”

  “Sir, I’m sure we can get this straightened out. Please, calm down. What’s your name? Who was working on your case?”

  Apparently situations like this arise often enough, and as soon as the elevator car arrived, Bastian stepped to the side, allowing the security personnel to get off the lift. They were heading for Mercer, and Bas wasn’t sure how this would play out. He stepped inside the elevator, pressed the lobby button, and then put his arm against the door just as it was about to close.

  Leaning into the hallway, Bas took a breath. “False alarm. Sorry for the inconvenience. There’s no need for security. I have the paperwork on your case right here, Mr. Jones,” Bas said, doing his best American accent. “Why don’t we go downstairs and discuss this like civilized human beings?”

  “Sorry for the commotion.” Mercer nodded curtly to the gathering group and headed toward the lift. As soon as he was close, Bastian pulled his arm away from the door, letting Mercer slip inside moments before the doors shut. The baffled security personnel and investigators tried to follow, but they were too slow. “They’ll probably be waiting for us in the lobby since I had to disable one of the security guards who didn’t want to let me through.”

  “I’m guessing the gang from the fifth floor will be taking the stairs down to meet us,” Bastian muttered, keeping his head down and away from the camera. Mercer had already been spotted, so he yanked the cable out, disconnecting it. “We’ll have to make our own exit.”

  “Plan B it is,” Mercer agreed, pressing the number two to redirect the lift to another floor.

  Twenty-four