Condemned (Julian Mercer Book 1) Page 7

  “And what do you want in return?”

  “The opportunity to keep the death toll down.”

  Mercer snorted. “Who said anything about a body count?”

  “This isn’t a kidnapping and ransom recovery,” Rowlins continued, demonstrating his familiarity with Julian and his team. “Nor is this a black ops mission. There are only two reasons why Carlton Rhoade would hire you. And obviously, if you’re spending your nights alone in a hotel room, it isn’t because you’re the newest addition to his personal security team.”

  “Strangely enough, we might have been hired to investigate,” Mercer offered, hoping to cast doubt on Rowlins’ inclination that they were employed to carry out the wet work.

  “So share your findings since we’re both investigating. I’ll apprehend the shooter, and justice will be served.”

  “That’s such a simplistic view of this world.” But before Mercer could launch into a tirade about the ineffectualness of the so-called justice system, Bastian barged into the room. “Fuck it,” Mercer cursed under his breath.

  “Jules, I–” Bastian stopped midsentence, noticing the unfamiliar presence in the room, but he recognized the man from the photos in the CPD’s personnel database that he analyzed earlier. “Detective,” he nodded and extended his hand, “Bastian Clarke, I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure.” They shook, and Bastian cast an uneasy glance at Julian. At least the handgun was on the dresser and not pointed at the policeman. “Is there something we can help you with, mate?”

  “I was hoping we could work together to identify the shooter,” Rowlins said, his gaze focused on Mercer. “We can trade leads. I’ve looked into Jack Pierce, but he alibied out.”

  “Did you speak to his co-workers? Hart and Anastaz?” Bastian asked.

  “I spoke to Ethan Hart and ran through some credit card statements. Hell, Hart even showed me his copy of the receipt.”

  “That saves us some time,” Bastian said, mainly to himself. “We’ve been considering the possibility the shooter intended to act in a manner that would ensure Ms. Rhoade’s safety.”

  “Bastian, silence,” Mercer snapped.

  “Pish,” Bastian replied. “We’re running short on leads. Perhaps Katia has some romantic entanglements in her past that could be to blame,” he offered, sharing Mercer’s latest insight with the detective. “We aren’t aware of all the possibilities. Is there anyone we haven’t considered that the police department might be checking out? It’s been brought to our attention that Mr. Styler might have owed some crooks an indeterminate amount of money, but we have yet to establish who his debt collectors could be.”

  Rowlins bit his top lip, briefly resembling a pug with an underbite. “Are we really gonna do this? Because I don’t want my balls to end up in a sling if our sharing time turns into a one-sided thing. My lieutenant is tight with Mr. Rhoade, and I’m sure between the two of them, someone will have to pay if things go sideways. And that someone won’t be me.” He shifted his gaze between the two former SAS. “And you gotta promise that I get the collar. I refuse to stand for any vigilante bullshit on my watch.” He narrowed his eyes at Mercer. “But then again, you said you aren’t a hired merc, so that won’t be a problem, right?”

  “Right,” Mercer replied, even if his promise to Katia meant walking a fine line.

  Twelve

  Det. Rowlins didn’t have much to offer beyond what Hans and Bastian already discovered when they pulled the police records, but at least the team knew what leads led straight to dead ends. It was unlikely Jack Pierce and his associates were responsible for the shooting, but someone obviously was.

  “Have you accessed building security? Katia mentioned seeing two of Styler’s alleged business partners leaving his place a week before the incident. She thought one of them might have been Jack, but clearly, that’s been proven false,” Bastian said, pondering if it’d be easier to get the information from the police instead of having to procure it in some other manner. “And the general consensus is Styler owes someone money.”

  “No,” Rowlins shook his head, “we had no reason to check the security cams at Ben’s apartment since the attack occurred in public. The official story was a mugging gone wrong, even if the muggers never even entered the alley.”

  “Then why the bloody hell would you buy into such bullshit?” Mercer asked.

  “Because that’s what Ms. Rhoade insisted,” Rowlins spat. “When we brought her to the station to take her statement, she didn’t have any I.D. with her. It made her story about the mugging seem believable.”

  A thought crossed Bastian’s mind, and he stopped chewing on the end of his pen. “Were any of her personal effects recovered?”

  Rowlins shook his head. “After she reported her wallet and phone missing, we had no basis for questioning her story about the mugging, even though it seemed more likely that she was pick-pocketed. It’s possible her phone and wallet were lifted before the couple made it to the alleyway which would explain why Katia couldn’t use her phone to call for help. A couple of uniforms canvassed the area, but nothing was recovered. The lieutenant was more concerned with finding the gunman than figuring out what happened to Ms. Rhoade’s phone and wallet.”

  Bastian eyed Mercer, not ready to share his thoughts in front of the policeman, despite the give and take. “Was her father present when she gave her statement?”

  “Yeah. He showed up with some lawyer.”

  “And so your boss took every word she said like it was gospel. But why would she need a solicitor?” Mercer asked. “She was a victim, not a suspect.” He thought back to the morning he encountered Katia outside the precinct. Even though she appeared to be alone, he remembered a few men in off-the-rack suits lingering nearby. If they were dressed nicer, he would have assumed they were legal representation. Perhaps they were part of the personal security team that Carlton Rhoade employed. But he didn’t recall seeing Carlton nearby. “Tell me everything that happened the night of the attack and the following morning.”

  “We received an anonymous tip of a woman screaming. Dispatch sent a couple of unis to check it out. They came upon an armed man in a dark alleyway, a single victim with a gunshot wound to the chest, and a hysterical newspaper heiress. You were arrested. Styler was taken by ambulance to the E.R. Katia went with him. The responding officers questioned her. She was in shock, but she explained who she was and why she didn’t call for help.”

  “On account of the alleged mugging,” Mercer interrupted, and Rowlins shrugged.

  “After the doctors said Styler was in stable condition, we took her to the precinct. Her father and legal counsel were waiting. She filled out an official police report, offered the vaguest description imaginable of the men responsible, and said you must have shown up to help since she didn’t recognize you as one of the assailants.”

  “And there was no evidence to indicate Jules was responsible,” Bastian added.

  “Right. The bullet was from a different caliber weapon than your handgun.” Rowlins’ eyes darted to the dresser. “And after you were released and Katia thanked you, you officially fell off our suspect list.”

  “Except you followed me.” Mercer’s eyes grew cold. Maybe he no longer distrusted this particular cop, but he still didn’t like him.

  “In case you haven’t caught on, I’m not great at following the official line of bullshit. Corruption happens. Palms get greased, and sometimes evidence disappears. It’s been going on for a while. There are people with extensive amounts of money that control aspects of the system.”

  “So why are you opposed to letting us handle this matter ourselves?” Mercer asked.

  “Just because the system is fucked doesn’t mean I shouldn’t do my job. Not all of us are scumbags,” Rowlins said defiantly.

  “I’ve yet to see that proven,” Mercer replied, opening the door. “I’ll let you know what we find, but I better not regret it.”

  “Detective,” Bastian said before the man could leave, “
I’d wager the men who accompanied the shooter and the men who visited Styler a week ago are the same. It’s what we’ve been led to believe. Names or, at the very least, the surveillance feed from Styler’s apartment would be beneficial.”

  “Yeah, I’ll get back to you on that.” Rowlins went past, offering his hand to Julian. They shook, and an uncomfortable alliance was formed.

  After the detective left the hotel room, Mercer locked the door and sat on the bed. His posture remained rigid, and he shut his eyes to sort through his thoughts. When he opened them, he found Bastian analyzing the contents of the mini-bar.

  “Take what you want,” Mercer offered, “and pass me the bourbon.” He took the proffered individual sized bottle, unscrewed the top, and downed the contents in a single swallow. “So what did you come here to say?”

  “That you might be right.” Bastian shut the fridge without selecting anything. “And now it seems even more likely after speaking to the investigator. I’ll scrub some more camera feeds and see if this pick-pocketing theory pans out. If it does…” Bastian waited a moment, letting the implication hang in the air.

  “That means the shooter wanted to make sure they had the proper target. Perhaps Katia’s belongings were meant to be verification of the kill. Which means either of them could have been the intended victim.” Mercer shook his head. “But that was an amazing shot. I don’t believe for one second that the shooter missed his target.”

  Bastian ran a hand through his hair. “I’ll get started on the surveillance feed. I’m thinking of a way to chart movements, and I’ll map it out on the aerial views I’ve printed. Assuming Katia and Ben had a similar routine, it might be possible to approximate locations for a strike. Once Donovan reports in on his findings concerning private military contractors in the area, we may end up having some solid ground to stand on.”

  “All right, get to work. And stop being so friendly with the copper. I don’t care for him.”

  “You don’t care for anyone.”

  Once Mercer was alone in the room, he considered his options. He could conduct his own reconnaissance, attempt to have another chat with Benjamin Styler, or get piss drunk. They were fast approaching the fifth day since the attack, but this wasn’t a kidnapping with a limited window for recovery and extraction. Although, the longer this went on, the farther away the assailant could run. Dragging his heels on this wasn’t the way to go. If he did that, he’d be no better than the London police, and that thought was sickening.

  Tucking the Sig into its holster, he left the hotel, unsure of his next destination. It was nearly midnight as he strolled down the block. His eyes swept the street, and he was conscious of the sights and sounds surrounding him. It was a city, like most other cities, and people could be found out and about at all hours of the day and night. Traffic was lighter now, and the streets were lined with parked cars. Halting his procession at the mouth of the alley, he scanned for visual confirmation that would have made that single gunshot possible.

  Parked in the space right before the opening was a large delivery truck. In the dark, with the streetlights serving as the perfect backlight, the windshield acted like a mirror. Mercer rubbed his chin, contemplating the chances of this vehicle being present the night of the shooting. He didn’t remember seeing it, but parked cars were something he had paid little attention to. Circling around, he checked for other vantage points, but nothing else showed a reflection of the inside of the alley.

  This was planned. It had to be. There were too many moving parts for this to not have been an orchestrated hit. This was premeditated and anything but accidental. Styler was the target, but that meant someone had to force him into this particular spot or else the conditions wouldn’t have been perfect. The only name that came to mind was Katia.

  Determined to find another possibility, Mercer backtracked to the restaurant the two had left before reversing course and mimicking the path they must have taken. He searched the street, remembering the surveillance footage Bastian had shown him of the three men tailing the couple. There were cross streets, large intersections between the restaurant and here, but this was the first narrow, enclosed alleyway. It was dark, but the area was commercial and not sketchy like the less trafficked areas of the city.

  “Still lost?” one of the hobos from a few days ago called.

  Mercer ignored him the other day, but now, he was intrigued. “Perhaps,” he said, cautiously approaching.

  “With that accent, it’s no wonder, buddy,” the homeless man said. He shook his metal coffee can at Mercer. “Whatcha searching for?”

  “Answers.” Mercer dug into his pocket and found a twenty. “Were you out here four nights ago?”

  “I live here,” the man practically spat. “This is my house, and I suggest you wipe your feet before stepping inside.”

  “My apologies. Do you remember a woman screaming?”

  “Goddamn, that bitch was loud. I thought I was gonna enjoy the show like usual,” his eyes flicked across the street, and his hand traveled into his pants, “but then she just starts wailing. I had to pack it in.”

  “How often does she put on the show?”

  “Every four or five days.” His eyes lit up, and he adjusted himself. “It’s better than Cinemax.”

  “I thought you lived out here,” Mercer replied, losing interest and digesting this new tidbit. He turned, looking straight across the street and directly into the alley, but he knew from the CCTV footage that no one was acting as a spotter that night. Instead, the assailants must have been familiar with Katia and Ben’s routine.

  “That doesn’t mean I don’t know about Cinemax. I’m still a man with working parts.” The hobo exposed himself, and Mercer walked away, uttering an endless string of expletives.

  Thirteen

  “We need to talk,” Mercer announced, barging inside.

  “Mr. Mercer, do you have any idea what time it is?” Carlton Rhoade asked, pulling his robe closed. “This better be important.”

  “Where’s Katia?”

  “Asleep.” Carlton rubbed his eyes and went into the living room. “I’ll ask you again. What is this about?”

  “Someone’s been stalking your daughter.” Mercer studied the expression on Carlton’s face. “And you don’t seem surprised.”

  “It’s been taken care of.”

  “Are you sure about that?”

  “Of course, I’m sure.” Carlton glowered, standing up. “And that situation does not concern you.”

  “Well, it should concern you.” Mercer scanned the room, but the place was empty. “After all, she’s not my daughter. But it’s reasonable to assume the shooter was well-versed on Katia’s habits and routine. And based on the few facts I’ve gathered, I’m assuming her stalker probably hired the assailant to extinguish his competition.”

  “He said it was taken care of,” Carlton mumbled to himself, heading across the room. “But since you’ve identified a threat, you will protect her. It’s that simple.” Carlton went to his desk and pulled out his checkbook. “Name your price, Mr. Mercer. I want you to remove the problem and anyone associated with this dangerous man.”

  “But you just said that issue was resolved.” Mercer fought to remain neutral and detached. “And a few seconds after that proclamation, you’re trying to hire me to provide a solution. I want names. Who threatened your daughter?”

  “I don’t have a name.” Carlton signed the bottom and tore out the check, leaving the rest blank. “I’m sure you can decide on a fair fee.” He tried to hand it to Julian, who scoffed at the notion.

  “Explain,” Mercer growled.

  “Two months ago, I received an envelope with a few photos of my daughter. They were taken of her while she was asleep inside her apartment. The next day, I received a letter asking for twenty thousand dollars. I paid, but I needed assurances that Katia was no longer in any danger. So I asked one of the investigators at my company to look into the matter quietly. He was already checking into a few other
personal matters and knew that discretion was of the utmost importance.”

  “What did he find?”

  “Nothing. He said it was a dead end, claiming Katia was safe and that I wouldn’t be receiving any more demands, but that answer was far from satisfactory. He left me no choice but to take matters into my own hands. That’s why I offered to renovate Katia’s apartment as an engagement present, so she’d have to move back here while state-of-the-art security was added in addition to whatever upgrades and cosmetic changes she wanted. I hired additional building security, and there have been no other communications since. Like I said, it was resolved.”

  “Until Benjamin Styler was nearly killed.”

  “Are you positive there’s a correlation?” Carlton asked. “Styler’s a bad seed. I’m sure he has plenty of his own enemies, and thankfully, Katia wasn’t harmed, despite her proximity to him at the time of the shooting.”

  “You are a fool.” Mercer sneered, turning and heading for the door. “And I can clearly see the family resemblance.” Ignoring the protests of his employer, Mercer slammed the door. On the bright side, he felt certain Katia was not to blame for the failed assassination attempt, nor was she the intended target. At least not yet. Pulling out his cell phone, he dialed Donovan. “I want a progress report regarding the local contractors.”

  “I’m still looking,” Donovan replied, letting out a sigh. “It’s been slow going on account of trading off with Hans to guard this bloke, but I’ve identified a handful of men that have the necessary skills to make the shot. It could be one of them or someone else. Didn’t Bas tell you I passed him the list and he has been monitoring their movements and activities?”

  “No.” Once again, Bastian failed to disclose something important because he was afraid of what Mercer would do with only partial knowledge of the situation. “Has anyone been to see Styler?”