THE CHARM OF REVENGE Read online

  Randall knew why he needed it. Stark had worked with him for years and seemed fine until one day he called in sick, and two weeks later came back to work looking like death cooled down. Turned out his liver was on the blink and he needed a new one or was destined to become rose fertilizer. The problem was, the dope had an alien blood type, so the roses’ prospects were good. Poor sod. Randall looked away as a shudder ran through him.

  Clarissa entered and placed the cup on the desk. “Your coffee, Mr. Cilcifus, oh, and happy birthday.”

  Ignoring her and the round of phony good wishes from his crew, Randall scrolled to the “Regional Bonus League” chart, the pressure behind his eyes increasing as he read the numbers. He looked from Stark to the other minions. “You’ve dropped our lead!”

  Stark’s smile vanished. “That’s impossible, boss.”

  Randall jabbed his monitor. “It’s not impossible because it says right here we’ve slipped to third place!”

  Stark slumped back in his seat. “Oh, third isn’t so bad, I thought we might be out of the money.”

  “‘Not bad!’ Has your medication given you dyscalculia? We were in pole position for a two-hundred-grand Christmas bonus, and now we’ll be lucky to get a pathetic ten!”

  “I didn’t mean it like that.” Stark straightened and glanced at the others for support. “It’s, um, just a blip. We’ll push the team to make bigger assessments and get back in the lead.”

  Randall clutched the arms of his chair. “You’ll do more than that Stark! We are the instruments of Nemesis, so hunt the thieving maggots down and make them pay!”

  “Who’s Nemesis?” Castro said.

  “Forgotten our classical mythology, have we?”

  Castro’s face was blank. “I had none to forget; my major was business and forensic accounting!”

  “Well, get your hair cut, and you might do a better job.”

  “‘In spite of Virtue and the Muse,’” Snyderman said, “‘Nemesis will have her dues, and all our struggles and our toils, tighter wind the giant coils.’ Ralph Waldo Emerson—and Nemesis was the goddess of divine retribution.”

  Randall clapped. “Excellent! We are weapons of the Gods, so fleece the bastards for all they’re worth!”

  “But we’re already fleecing them, boss,” Stark said.

  “Not close enough; remember our motto, ‘the peasant public will always pay to make the IRS go away.’”

  Snyderman rose and returned to the window. “Stark is right. We’re already juggling with our private business and can’t risk a judicial review.”

  Randall’s head rotated like a gun turret. “Been chitchatting about our little sideline Snyderman?”

  “No Cilcifus, I haven’t! But we need this as cover, so why jeopardize it?”

  “It’s ‘boss’ to you, and if you haven’t been blabbing, how will it make the slightest difference if we, the special investigators, get investigated?”

  Snyderman let out a weary sigh. “I have misgivings about further inflating the demands.”

  “Yeah, yeah, blah, blah; so, go into the system and raid the big on-account payments. They won’t notice, and you won’t have to inflate more than normal. Anyone else got something to say? Antwan? Cat got your tongue?” He thought of the spatter on his front bumper and smiled to himself.

  Antwan turned away.

  “That’s a relief!” Randall flashed a sardonic grin. “Right! Give me an update on this weekend’s shipment and where Black’s been investing our money.” He took a sip from his coffee cup. “Arghh! Clarissa! Get back here! This is goddamn tea!”

  3. OMENS

  Friday, 8:57 a.m.

  Bradley Fairweather sat in his shoebox study, mesmerized by the silver charms as he slid Daisy's bracelet between his thumb and forefinger, like prayer beads.

  Let go, forget the past, the priest said after Daisy's funeral. It was God's will, he'd reassured, but he never explained why God took his baby away, or how he could let go when she should have never left. As for the past, Brad had spent most of his life trying to outrun it.

  He looked through the doorway and across the hall as a bundle of envelopes poked through the mailbox and thumped on the wooden floor. Lilly, his four-year-old daughter, appeared from the kitchen and scooped them up in her tiny hand. Soon she would start school, and he dreaded it. Not for her, but for the dark memories it stirred; the end of innocence.

  He smiled as she skipped across the squeaky floorboards and trotted over to him. Smacking the faded wallpaper that had come free, she added the letters to the blanket of construction drawings covering his junkyard desk.

  “Thank you, sweetie, does Daddy get a kiss as well?”

  She planted a loud one on his cheek.

  “That's wonderful. What are you doing this morning?”

  “I'm helping Mommy wash dishes.” She performed a pirouette and wafted away.

  Brad stared at the mail, immobilized by the unmistakable font. A knot formed in his stomach as the study walls moved closer. They were back!

  A frigid gust rattled the single-glazed windows behind his battered leather chair, sending a shudder along his spine.

  He grabbed an envelope, slipped his index finger along the top and with hands trembling, slid out the wad of papers. He forced his eyes to focus on the dozen tax demands. The first time it had happened, the accountant blamed clerical errors, though it took a year to get them rescinded. The second time, Lola believed it was a vendetta, and it had been hard to argue, though Brad had done so. Even then, the pattern was unmistakable; ludicrous demands for hundreds of thousands, of every tax imaginable, capped off with thousands more in interest and penalties.

  It didn't take an accountant to tell him you should make money before the IRS steal it away, and he'd made none. Just keeping food on the table had been a struggle.

  The third time, Lola wanted them to move away, but he told her no Fairweather ever runs; besides, he knew no one from the Internal Revenue Service. Now here he was, staring at the fifth declaration of war since Daisy’s death, and Lola's words were ringing in his ears. A knock on the front door startled him. He pushed back from his desk as Lola, her long dark hair flowing behind, went to answer it. Brad’s vision transformed into two heavyset, dusty builders, his eight a.m. meeting, late as usual.

  Lola stood aside, and the men stalked toward him and stepped through the doorway of his study. Brad remained seated. “Morning, gentlemen.”

  They grunted in unison. Jakub, the shorter man, unrecognizable beneath his paint-splashed hair and face, leaned against the wall. His vodka-glazed eyes roamed the faded architectural drawings pinned to the walls, while he scratched his groin.

  Good thing I didn’t shake his hand, Brad thought.

  Henryk, the self-proclaimed leader, in a tough-guy leather jacket and combat fatigue pants, took two steps closer to Brad’s desk, widened his stance and folded his arms.

  Brad felt the hairs on his neck prickle as the adrenaline pumped. Henryk had seventy pounds on him, but he'd locked horns with plenty of angry builders over the years, and they didn’t faze him.

  “Give me a minute,” Brad said, turning to the demands. This was what frightened him; nameless, faceless enemies that worked in the shadows, tracking your every move. Still, it made no sense; how could it be personal when half the damn population worked for them, and you could never speak to the same person twice?

  Henryk cleared his throat, dragging Brad back to the battle at hand, as Jakub stopped scratching and began rapping his knuckles against the drywall.

  Brad placed the papers facedown and met the threatening looks of the two men. “I haven’t got time for another argument guys, so just tell me when you'll finish the bloody house?”

  “I tell you before, it not so simple,” Henryk replied in his thick Polish accent. “In the beginning we—”

  “Don’t start that again! Three years ago you promised it'd take eighteen months, so how long?”

  The builder broke eye contact.
“Five weeks more.”

  “For what! You only need to touch up the paintwork and empty the garage.”

  “You ask, then you argue, so why bother?”

  Brad returned Daisy's bracelet to the pouch. “I expected you'd say a day or two, max.”

  Jakub’s tapping intensified.

  “Look, we sick of this bloody job, so pay, or we quit!”

  “Don’t try it on, Henryk, you’re up to date.”

  “You owe expenses.”

  “Bullshit!” Brad slammed his fist on the desk.

  “Why you treat me this way when five years I slave for you.”

  “Jakub! Stop banging that bloody wall, and Henryk, treat you what way? Thanks to you and that damn house, we're an inch from going under, so you’re not getting another cent until it’s finished.”

  Henryk clenched his jaw, fists tight by his sides as he stepped to within two feet of Brad. “You fucking pay, or I swear God I make you!”

  Brad tucked the velvet pouch into the breast pocket of his fleece. “God left this family six years ago, Henrick, and now you should follow his lead, both of you.”

  “No! First, you pay expenses! Then maybe I help fix garage floor.”

  Brad leaned forward, dumped his elbows and rubbed his face. “What?”

  “Ha, plumbers screwed underfloor heating and concrete cracking. Bet you're sorry now!”

  Brad bolted from his seat, scattering papers onto the floor as the chair caromed off the wall. “Get out! Out of my house!”

  Henryk stepped backward, barged Jakub into the doorjamb, and stomped away. “You wait!” he called over his shoulder. “I get you, fucker!

  “Revenge doesn't pay, Henryk,” Brad called as the door slammed. “Jakub, you'd better go too.”

  Jakub snorted, stalked away, and another slam and rattle followed. Brad slumped into his chair, kneading his aching chest.

  Lola peered around the corner. “Are you okay, Hon?”

  “I've been better; damn builders won't complete the house.”

  She stepped into full view, planting her battered pink running shoes in a fighting stance. “But you paid them.”

  “He claims he's due expenses, but they planned to retire on this job.”

  “So, what are we going to do?”

  Brad stared at the facedown papers, searching for the courage to tell her the unfinished house was the least of their problems.

  4. THE GAUNTLET

  Friday, 9:24 a.m.

  Brad dropped the phone into its charger and considered the tax demands. How could he tell Lola it was happening again? He hadn’t the strength to go through it himself, let alone deal with her meltdown.

  Pushing back from his desk, he heaved himself to his feet and shuffled into the kitchen.

  Lilly’s toys littered the floor, but she was nowhere in sight. Lola stood at the sink with her back to him, looking onto the garden. Her hair was now in a bun, and her arms moved rhythmically, filling the room with the slicing sound of blade sharpening blade.

  She turned, and he sensed she was reading his expression. His eyes fell to the yellow rubber gloves on her hands, each holding a twelve-inch chopping knife.

  He slumped onto one of the small wooden chairs at the round breakfast table as the blades remained poised.

  “You don’t look good.”

  He resisted the urge to make eye contact. “Chest hurts.”

  “We should have sued those cops for shooting that Taser at you.”

  “Wasn’t our top priority back then, was it!”

  “You shouldn’t let that Henryk threaten you either.”

  “They were just words, Babe.”

  “The same as when the investors said they’d sue us—those sorts of words?”

  Brad pressed his palms against his temples. “Let’s not go there again, okay?”

  “It’s not just the other house, is it?” Lola resumed the sharpening.

  Brad let out a sigh. “They’re at it again.”

  “Who?”

  “Guess.” He murmured, picking crumbs off the table.

  Lola stopped again. “You have got to be shitting me! The IRS! Why? And how? We’re surviving by the skin on our teeth!”

  “We don’t owe a dime.”

  “Well, I know that! I thought your fossil of an accountant had got them off our backs. How much is it this time?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “Course it matters!” Lola sliced the knives against each other. “I said they’d do this!”

  Brad stared at the blades flashing back and forth amid a blur of yellow.

  “Well?”

  “What do you want me to say?”

  “How much is it this time?” The blades sliced harder.

  “A dozen pages worth! Hundreds of thousands, and yes, you saw this coming, but will you please stop sharpening those bloody knives so I can figure out what to do!”

  Lola slammed them on the countertop. “There’s nothing to figure out Brad! I told you, it’s personal and we should have taken the fight to them years ago.”

  “But who do we fight? Even if we found out, we’d need money we don’t have. Lawyers need paying in advance, and the accountant’s a useless sack of shit, so I’ve got nothing. I’d shoot myself so you’d get the insurance, but I couldn’t pay the premiums.

  “And we don’t own a gun.”

  “Right, thanks for that.”

  “Are you saying we’re broke?”

  Brad pretended to survey the toys on the floor.

  “What about the money your father loaned us?”

  “Paid to the builders.”

  “Everything!”

  He pretended to pick more crumbs. “I thought they’d finish the house and that something might turn up to save the day.”

  “Something has, the damned IRS—again! Will your father loan us more?”

  Brad shook his head. “Has hell frozen?”

  “Do we have a choice?”

  Brad locked eyes with his wife. “There’s no way, and you know why, so don’t go asking him, okay? I’ll get us through this.” He looked away as the knot in his stomach told him he wasn’t fooling either of them.

  5. BOURBON

  Friday, 10:36 a.m.

  Donatello reached the upper west side and parked behind Ronnie’s Bar, mourning the three people he cared about most and had laid to rest in the past six years. First had been his partner, Jonah, then his beloved wife Allegra, and now it had been his mother’s turn.

  He strode around the front of the building, pushed open the heavy brass-framed glass door and approached the shiny curved bar. Sliding onto his familiar chrome bar stool, he grabbed two beer coasters, laid them side by side six inches apart, and perched his feet on the brass footrail, waiting for Ronnie to appear.

  Ronnie had been the barkeep at the last cop hangout Donatello had frequented. The man had grafted for years, scrimping and scraping until he’d pulled together enough to get his own place and, feeling he needed a change, Donatello had followed. Now having laid to rest the last person to understand what made him tick, he wondered if Ronnie might become more of a friend than a barkeep. Anyway, friend or not, if Ronnie couldn’t pull him out of this funk, at least he’d help him drown it in Bourbon.

  The kitchen doors swung open to reveal Ronnie, struggling with a crate of beer bottles.

  “Morning, Ronnie.”

  “Oh, hey, Don, how are you holding up?” He dumped the crate on the floor, next to the tall display fridge. “Funeral go okay?”

  Donatello shrugged his massive shoulders. “She’s out of pain, so, I guess it did.”

  “Get you a coffee?”

  “Any chance of something stronger? Donatello caught Ronnie’s eyes flick to the clock on the fancy flat screen above the till.

  “Sure Don, usual?”

  Without waiting for a reply, Ronnie grabbed the Bourbon, placed a glass on the coaster and poured a medicinal measure. “Get any grief about taking time off?”

&
nbsp; “Compassionate leave—Colby doesn’t get a say.”

  “Good to hear.” He stowed the bottles in the tall fridge. “Have you thought about moving on?”

  Donatello slugged his drink without it touching the sides. “I’m a cop, Ronnie. What else will I do—write poetry?”

  “I meant from Allegra, and caring for your mother.”

  “You tell me today I should find a new woman?”

  “Sorry, that came out wrong.”

  Donatello waved it away, looking toward the door as Detective Lance Jacobs entered, clad in red and yellow motorcycle leathers.

  “Morning, Big D. Figured I’d find you here. You didn’t answer your cell.”

  “My mom’s funeral, remember?”

  “My bad, how’d it go?”

  “It’s done. I take it you didn’t come here for a coffee.”

  “No, thanks.” Lance’s eyes darted to Donatello’s glass as he laid his crash helmet—also red and yellow—on the bar. “Colby wants you at the precinct.”

  “What part of ‘compassionate leave’ doesn’t he understand?”

  “Um, the compassionate part.” Lance grinned. “Anyway, he got a call from a couple whose child has gone missing.”

  “So, they should file a missing-person report with the local precinct.”

  “Did that, two weeks ago. They got squat, and the captain wants us on it.

  “Is there a body?”

  “Course not Big D—he’s missing.”

  “Okay, so no corpse, no crime. Kids run away, and we’re homicide.”

  “Colby said the boy’s five years old, and he wants us to make like we’re doing something.

  Donatello swiveled on his stool. “Why, Lance? Why does Colby want us on this? If there’s no evidence of a crime, it goes on the missing-persons list, end of story.”

  “Maybe he knows the parents, I dunno.”

  Donatello let out a weary sigh. “Okay, I surrender. What’s the report say?”

  “Um, I haven’t seen it. Colby sent me to—”

  “I know, to get me. So, find out what we have on the family, criminal records, history of violence, spousal abuse, did anyone canvass the neighbors, check school reports, absenteeism, where was he last seen, etcetera. Oh and see if Carlson knows why Colby wants us on this—only don’t say I asked.”