Fatal Exchange (Fatal Series Book 1) Read online

  More than five minutes late and customers didn’t care what the excuse was. They weren’t paying top dollar for a messenger so things could be late. Her issues weren’t their problem.

  She almost got taken out by a double-parked van on Broadway that backed up just as she was swinging around it, and then narrowly missed a roller-blader shooting out a side street—a bald sixty-year-old man wearing silver spandex bike shorts and suspenders, bopping along to something blasting in his headphones.

  What a city.

  Steam blew out manholes, road crews worked in the middle of intersections, jaywalkers fearlessly stared down rocketing vehicles, and yellow and red lights were more suggestions than imperatives.

  She never felt more alive than when she was on the job.

  As she rolled onto the sidewalk, panting from the sprint, she glanced at her watch. One minute to spare. Damn, she was good. She locked her bike, adjusted the messenger bag on her shoulder, and ran for the closing elevator door. A hand shot out and held it. She laughed when she saw who it was: Paco, another one of the Red Cap crew.

  “Whatchu doing here, girl?” Paco asked.

  “606, deposition. One minute to spare. You?” Tess replied.

  “905, drawings. Better late than never. I got held up by a cop, nabbed me running a red. He let me off, but that ate ten minutes. Prick.” Paco was clearly annoyed.

  “No biggie. What are you doing after work?” Tess genuinely liked Paco, an impossibly handsome, somewhat effeminate twenty-two-year-old Puerto Rican man built like Adonis.

  “I’ll probably stop at the Corral for a beer, then go find myself Mr. Right-Now in the Village. You going tonight?” The Corral was a dive bar near the messenger depot on Spring Street.

  “Yeah, why not? I’ll probably catch you there.” The elevator opened at the sixth floor. “Be good, Paco.”

  Paco pursed his lips and gave her a “yeah, right” look.

  Tess approached the reception desk with the package and sign-off sheet. Two men in their late twenties were having a discussion by one of the offices. They stopped when they saw her.

  “Delivery from Red Cap. On time for four o’clock. Please sign on the blue line,” she announced to the girl behind the desk, who dutifully scribbled on the release and dropped the package into a wire basket. “Is there any way I can get a glass of water?” Tess asked. “I’m dying here.”

  “Sure, just go back by the kitchen area.”

  Tess moved to the water chiller at the rear of the small suite and filled a small paper cup. She drained it quickly. Again. And again.

  She removed her helmet and shook out her hair, enjoying the respite from the blistering summer heat. After blotting her face with a paper towel, she lifted her long black mane to reveal a tattooed sun at the base of her hairline and a well sculpted, tanned bicep. She closed her eyes and relished the air conditioning on her skin. Flashing a smile at the two workers, she offered a glimpse of white teeth and a silver tongue piercing.

  Re-hydrated and refreshed, Tess returned to the front desk and thanked the receptionist before exiting the office. She was parched at the end of another brutal day on the streets, and it was a nice gesture to let her cool off before she went back into the swelter. Not everyone was so accommodating to messengers.

  The two men exchanged a look and shook their heads. The younger, an intellectual property attorney, let out a low whistle.

  “Don’t even think about it. She’d chew you up and spit you out before you knew what hit you,” the taller man, a litigator, advised.

  “Yeah, but what a way to go.”

  ~ ~ ~

  Across town a figure stared at the output of his computer printer, tracking the movements of eight different currencies, looking for trends. At 46, Gordon Samuels was at the top of the heap of currency speculators and commodity traders. Well, almost at the top. He wasn’t George Soros, but he was wealthy by virtually any standards, closing in on a net worth of over sixty million dollars. His firm, Meridian Trading, specialized in currency arbitrage and commodities brokering for high-net-worth accounts, and he controlled many billions of dollars for his clients. He had two royal families, an ex-president, and seven governments as trusted investors, not to mention three of the Forbes top-ten list.

  His phone rang.

  “Gordon, there’s been a wrinkle. We lost control of a test batch—almost perfect, but still with a few microscopic imperfections. We’re working on location and containment as we speak.” The caller spoke in a singsong Asian-accented English, with an almost feminine tone to it.

  “Why are you telling me this? How does this affect our plan?” Gordon didn’t like surprises.

  “We want you apprised. No other reason. We’re not worried; we believe we are only hours away from solving the problem.”

  “You know what’ll happen if anything hits the market with a flaw? Especially before we’re ready? Game over.” Gordon sounded menacing, which was intentional. He’d put his entire fortune on the line for this play. It had better go off without a hitch—he was already counting himself among the planet’s billionaires, and he was not, repeat not, going to let anything stand in his way.

  “Of course. Which is why we’re handling this with the utmost seriousness. Again, this is a courtesy call. Nothing more.” Everyone had a lot at stake here.

  “Keep me posted and let me know if you need anything. I’ve already started positioning the oil futures for next month. Let’s not blow this.” Gordon disconnected, deep in thought.

  His ingenious and hugely risky venture involved oil, the integrity of the U.S. economy, and most importantly, his personal fortune multiplying exponentially. One play, three or four months tops, and he’d net over a billion dollars, while his clients amassed many more billions. He’d have to stay on top of this; those idiot peasants couldn’t be trusted not to screw up the simplest things. Christ. How hard could it be?

  ~ ~ ~

  Robert Gideon wheeled down the arrivals ramp at San Francisco International Airport. Back on terra firma, he made his way to the first class lounge, which was appropriately outfitted for airport meetings. Airport wheelchairs were terrible but at least they got the job done. He’d brought no luggage but a carry-on bag, holding it in his lap as he sat in the lounge lobby area waiting for his customer.

  This was a big sale—one of the largest in his life.

  The client had contacted him over the Internet, through his store, and expressed interest in several extremely expensive pieces: four Patek Philippe wristwatches from the 1950s and 1960s, complicated moon phase models that were hot on the auction market. The whole deal had come to $1.1 million dollars; after haggling they’d agreed on a purchase price of one million for all four watches, and to meet in San Francisco. The customer, a collector with an appreciation for fine timepieces, was flying in from Korea for the transaction.

  Gideon Watch Gallery was one of five premiere previously-owned watch shops in New York, and one of very few in the country with multiple pieces of that rarity and price range. He’d been surprised when the collector had agreed to take all four watches, but not that surprised—in the good old days of the early eighties, when the Japanese yen had been king, he’d routinely had customers buy two- and three-hundred-thousand-dollar watches while on vacation. Lately Korea was a hot spot for fine timepieces, as was China. He’d been in the business long enough so that very little surprised him anymore.

  Robert sat patiently awaiting the arrival of Mr. Kiu, a member of the diplomatic team from South Korea. Kiu’s credentials had checked out and he’d indicated he’d bring cash.

  That had caused Robert a bit of pause.

  Dealing in cash used to be routine, but ever since the Clinton administration had commenced the steady criminalization of using it in the U.S. in any quantity, he had dealt mostly in wire transfers. The Chinese loved their cash, though, as did the Russians, and he supposed a million dollars was beer money to a wealthy industrialist from Korea.

  An older Asian g
entleman walked into the lounge and looked around before his eyes finally settled on Robert. Evidently Mr. Kiu, Robert thought, as the newcomer approached and introduced himself.

  “Mr. Gideon?”

  “Mr. Kiu, I presume.”

  “Yes. I apologize for running late, but the flight experienced some head winds and we were delayed. Shall we find someplace private?” Mr. Kiu hadn’t batted an eye over Robert’s wheelchair. Then again, he was a politician, or at least a diplomat, so he probably had a good poker face.

  “I reserved a meeting room. I trust you’re ready to consummate?” Robert wanted to make sure the deal was closed.

  “Of course. Lead the way.”

  They entered one of the smaller rooms and closed the door. Robert pulled four dark wooden boxes from his carry-on bag and placed them on the table.

  “You’ll note they’re in mint condition, with full paperwork and histories. One million is a very good price—I can’t imagine any other collector having this combination.” Robert liked to reassure customers of the astuteness of their selection. No one ever minded being complimented on their acumen.

  “Yes, yes, I’m pleased to have been fortunate enough to find them.” Mr. Kiu opened each box and inspected the watches for a few minutes. He nodded, and then placed his briefcase on the table. “They appear most satisfactory, Mr. Gideon.” Kiu opened the locks and raised the lid, turned the case so Robert could see the contents. Stacks of hundred-dollar bills, neatly arranged in rows.

  “Well, congratulations. Let’s begin the counting, shall we? I presume you won’t have any objection if I verify the authenticity of a few bills at random?” Robert planned on stopping at one of the currency exchange booths to have the bills checked.

  “Not at all. Be my guest.” Mr. Kiu was smiling amenably.

  Robert extracted a portable currency counter, plugged it in, and loaded the first stack. All he had brought with him was a bottle of water, some pills, a small fabric valise for the watches, and the currency counter.

  He was scheduled to return to New York in two hours. The counting took less than ten minutes. One million dollars. All there.

  “Would you be kind enough to accompany me to the currency exchange?” Robert asked, and replaced the four watch boxes in the small fabric satchel and returned it to his bag. He handed the cash-filled briefcase back to Mr. Kiu, while holding several bills in his hand.

  Robert wheeled himself to a window several hundred yards from the entrance of the club, accompanied by the Korean. He’d felt comfortable doing the transaction at the airport because of all the protection; there were police everywhere. It was safer than a bank, and no one made it to the club area unless they carried a ticket and cleared security.

  Robert handed the currency exchange clerk four crisp hundred-dollar bills, and asked for euros. The agent behind the counter scrutinized the cash, ran an iodine pen across each, held them up to the light, and compared them to others in his drawer. He extracted the appropriate sum in euros, and passed them through the slot at the bottom of the bullet-proof glass window.

  “Here you go. Anything else I can help you with?” The clerk was bored.

  “Nope, I think we’re done. Thanks a million.” Robert couldn’t resist.

  They returned to the lounge area, where Robert extracted the fabric bag and swapped it for Kiu’s briefcase. They shook hands and exchanged pleasantries—nice meeting you, etc.

  “I must return to my delegation, Mr. Gideon. The watches are beautiful; I shall treasure them. Thank you again.”

  Robert wheeled himself back to his departure gate and bought himself a vodka tonic. He’d just made almost two hundred and forty thousand dollars on one deal; he figured a little celebration was in order. He had the time, and heck, he had the money.

  But something about the transaction nagged at him. Kiu hadn’t examined the watches the way an aficionado would have, and his eyes hadn’t lit up like a covetous collector’s. He was probably buying them for investment. Not a bad one, either, Robert mused.

  Oh well.

  A deal was a deal.

  Chapter 3

  A row of police cars blocked the alley on East 123rd Street, the forensics van active as the crew prepped for duty. The NYPD had pretty much seen it all, but this was a strange one even by Manhattan standards. Female, mid-twenties, Hispanic, cause of death unknown, stuffed into a dumpster in back of a Cuban Restaurant. She’d been there at least one night, possibly two. It wasn’t pretty—the rats had gotten to her.

  They’d run prints and were waiting for a preliminary ID, but who knew how long that could take? Her eyes had been cut out, she’d been scalped, and her breasts were gone—cut off, crudely but efficiently. Sex crime? No indication of rape. Trying to make a routine murder look weird? Anything was possible.

  The forensics team was carefully swabbing her fingers, going over the scene, as the detective in charge spoke with the forensics director, Amy Silva.

  “What do you make of it? Psycho? Boyfriend trying to fake a crazy? Or a girlfriend?” Detective Ron Stanford had been with homicide for nine years, and in that time had seen enough death for a whole career. He enjoyed catching the bad guys, but hated the bodies.

  Especially the girls. And really, really especially in summer, when it got hot and decomposition was almost instantaneous.

  “Don’t know what to think. We need to determine the cause of death. I’ll tell you one thing, she was in remarkable shape. Almost solid muscle, like a gymnast or a dancer or something.” Amy had a world-weary air to her. So many bodies. So much tragedy. So much violence.

  They approached the corpse again. Amy knelt down and peered at the chest area.

  “I’d go with psycho for now. Everything’s been removed very carefully. Definitely a very sharp instrument. Maybe surgical. Our boy’s been practicing and sharpening, thinking about this for a long time.” She stood up. “I think he’s collecting, taking trophies. Eyes, breasts, scalps. Question is why, and has he done this before, and will he do it again…”

  “What do you think?” Ron hated to even ask.

  “Oh, I think it’s safe to say if it’s a psycho he’ll do it again. Like I said, he knew what he wanted and what he didn’t. I’d say he’s a collector.” She considered the mutilated corpse. “I hope I’m wrong.”

  Ron glanced at the body, rubbed his face, and sighed.

  “I hope so too.”

  ~ ~ ~

  The flight was on time, and Robert had a car service drive him into the city. It was too late to stop by his shop, so he went to his apartment on the Upper West Side. He’d left his wheelchair with the doorman, who obligingly came out with it when he arrived.

  Robert had lost the use of his legs thirteen years ago when he’d been run down while crossing the street to his shop. A shard of bone had severed an important bundle of nerves, leaving him wheelchair-bound for life. He was philosophical about the resultant change—he was still alive, which was better than many who’d been hit by a car.

  His wife had died one year after his accident, at forty-four years old, from complications arising from recently developed multiple sclerosis. She’d had a seizure and struck her head in the bathroom, and then drowned on her own vomit while he was at the shop. No rhyme or reason to it. She’d never harmed a fly, always wished everyone the best—and was now gone from this earth. Those were the breaks, sometimes. Lousy, but what could you do?

  Robert carefully placed the cash into a brown paper bag, and then locked it in his bookshelf safe. He’d put it into the safe deposit box tomorrow, keep it safely squirreled away until he needed to buy more inventory.

  After reviewing his messages and preparing for bed he clicked on the late night news, feeling every one of his fifty-eight years weighing heavily. Having clocked almost six thousand air miles in the last fourteen hours, his last thought as he drifted off to sleep was that he was too old for this shit.

  ~ ~ ~

  The Corral had been full earlier that evening, with all t
he bike messengers stopping in after work to dull their pain and socialize. By eleven it had pretty well cleared out. Some had gone clubbing, others to score, and some had gone home to work on books or art or sculpture. It was an eclectic mix, the messenger crew, and you never knew what the next biker’s story was.

  Tess had been a computer programmer, gifted, working for one of the Silicon Alley firms. One afternoon she’d gotten up from her workstation in the middle of a line of code, glanced around, and had a meltdown—started crying, and hadn’t been able to stop. She’d walked out and spent the next three weeks in bed, despondent; it was a major depressive episode that ended with a bungled suicide attempt.

  She’d felt like she’d been trying so hard to live up to everyone else’s expectations, she’d constructed a life she hated, and was stuck. A fistful of pills had seemed like a pretty good idea at the time.

  After a trip to the ER where she got her stomach pumped, she was admitted to a mental facility for observation for a week, where she was put on a cocktail of anti-psychotic meds and forced her to “share” her feelings with a parade of casualties. Upon release, she was directed to a therapist and wished the best of luck.

  She had spent the next month trying to figure out what she wanted to be when she grew up. No answers had been forthcoming, so she’d decided to take a year off from computers and do something mindless, where she could keep in shape while she got her act together. On a lark she’d applied for a job at Red Cap Courier. That was two years ago.

  She was still working on figuring things out.

  The depression was always lingering at the periphery, but she had successfully held it at bay by adopting a new, less demanding lifestyle, and focusing on self-actualization rather than impressing people.

  One of the hot topics at the Corral had been that Loca hadn’t shown up for work the last two days. Not a rare occurrence in the messenger world, but not expected from her—she’d never missed a day in her year with the company. Policy was that after one unexplained absence you were history, no exceptions. Red Cap accepted orders based on available staff, and if you were down for a shift and flaked, the company was materially harmed. You only got one chance.