John Locke - Lethal People

I sipped some whiskey.

There’s something special about high-tone Kentucky bourbon. My favorite is the twenty-year-old Pappy Van Winkle, but Maker’s Mark is easier to come by and is plenty sumptuous in its own right. Bourbon is not a pretentious drink, although there’s a movement underfoot to make it so. Experts have started organizing tasting groups to explain the “softness” of the quality bourbons and the elegant flavors you’re likely to encounter when tasting them, including such exotic notes as orange peel, licorice, almonds, and cinnamon.

In my opinion, listing all these flavor and aroma components leads to snobbery. As they might say in Kentucky, “Don’t go around talking metric to decent folk.” All a good Kentucky bourbon needs to show you is a smooth, mild burn on the tongue and the hint of a caramel taste. You drink bourbon straight, without mixers or ice, and if you’ve chosen a good one, it will taste like bourbon and not medicine or rubbing alcohol like most other spirits do.

I sipped some more.

I wanted to call Kathleen, wanted to work things out. I thought about calling her, wondered if humor might be the best approach. I thought about that awhile but decided she wasn’t in the right mood to find any of this amusing. I could apologize, but what sense would that make?

First of all, I hadn’t done anything wrong. I’d been investigating a crime someone else had committed, a crime that had permanently disfigured a darling little girl and caused the brutal murder of her entire family—a crime that caused the loss of her house and her inheritance, and would certainly have an impact on her future mental stability. And did I mention this was a little girl Kathleen was very fond of? And did I mention I had done all this while putting my own life in danger? And did I mention I had done all this for free?

Hell, she should be apologizing to me!

Second, because I had taken it upon myself to help Addie, three professional killers nearly destroyed a wonderful diner and traumatized an excellent cook and wait staff while attempting to whack me.

Third, Kathleen’s life hadn’t really been in that much danger in the fi rst place. I thought about that and decided I might have to rethink being with a woman who could be so drastically affected by such a minor event. If someone attacked her on the street while we were out for a stroll, would I refuse to see her again?

Of course not.

Then again, if things worked out between us—even if I quit the business—there would always be the random murder attempt to deal with. After all, there were plenty of husbands, wives, parents, brothers, sisters, sons, daughters, business associates, and friends whose lives I had impacted by whacking someone close to them. Most of these people would pay to see me dead. Whether they come after me by themselves or in groups, or pay someone else to do it, I’d be a fool to assume they wouldn’t even try.

Fourth, the violence at the diner could have been avoided altogether had Kathleen not driven out to the house, uninvited, to question my motives.

I was running out of whiskey in the glass so I added a couple inches and then dialed the number on the card Aunt Hazel had given me a few hours earlier. I sipped from the glass as Greg and Melanie’s lawyer, Garrett Unger, told me he refused to discuss the details of Greg’s estate with a nonrelative.

“Even if you were a relative, I wouldn’t discuss a sensitive topic like this over the phone,” he said.

“I’m a relative by extension,” I said. “I’ve been asked by Melanie’s sister to look into the details regarding the structured settlement.”

“Then you’ll have to set up an appointment through the proper channels,” Unger said, “and that will take some time. You’ll have to file the proper documents as well.”

“What documents would those be?” I asked.

“I’m sure you can appreciate it’s not my job to explain the law to you. If you don’t understand the procedures involved, I suggest you hire your own attorney.”

“You don’t appear to be very supportive of the family,” I said.

“Terrible tragedy,” Unger said, “but there’s nothing anyone can do about the annuity. Believe me, I wish I could, but the language in the contract is quite precise and has stood the test of time.”

“Aunt Hazel said Greg only received one payment before the accident.”

“Not true,” he said. “The family received three payments.” Then he said, “Wait, you pulled that out of your ass just now, didn’t you?”

I admitted it. Then I said, “Let me see if I can save us both the trouble of a visit. I have a theory.”

“I’ll entertain a hypothetical,” Unger said, “provided it’s a short one.”

“Suppose I win ten million dollars in the state lottery.”

“Go on.”

“I get a lump sum payment of ten million and use one million of it to pay off my outstanding loans. I look for a way to invest the balance. My attorney tells me about an annuity he’s found that’s offered by a privately funded group of investors from California.”

Unger had been saying, “Uh huh,” to move me along, but when I said, “California,” he suddenly became silent. I continued, “The lawyer says the return is astronomical, three times what I can get anywhere else. Not only that, but I’ll get this huge monthly payment for the rest of my life! If I die before receiving the first month’s payment, my wife gets the annuity payment for the rest of her life. But somewhere in the fine print, the contract says if my wife and I both die after receiving at least one payment, the entire principal is forfeited to the company. That sound about right?”

We were both silent awhile until I said, “How much did they pay you?”

“I beg your pardon?” Unger asked, working to put on a show of great indignation.

“Joe DeMeo,” I said. “How much commission did he pay you to place the contract, to sell out your own client?”

“I don’t have to listen to this!”

“You signed their death warrant,” I said.

“I’m going to hang up now,” Unger said.

“Before you do, I want you to give DeMeo a message for me.”

“I don’t know any DeMeo,” Unger said.

“Of course you don’t.” I gave Unger my cell phone number and said, “If by some chance you happen to cross paths with DeMeo, have him call me before six tonight. If he fails to do so, I’m going to call the FBI and see what they think about my hypothetical theory.”

CHAPTER 16

Ihung up and waited to hear from DeMeo.

Joseph DeMeo lived in LA, which got me to thinking about Jenine, the young model and potential body double from Santa Monica I’d told Callie about, the one I’d been sharing e-mails with for a couple of months. Listen to me: model . At best she was a model hopeful, and I was nearly twice her age. We both knew what this was. We’d shared a couple of photos and text messages, she’d invited me to visit her, and I’d said I’d try, next time I was in the area.

I took a cat nap and woke up and waited for DeMeo’s call. While waiting, I challenged myself to remember all the plates I was trying to keep spinning in the air. I was testing the ADS weapon for the army. Okay, that’s one. Two, I was trying to keep Janet from marrying the shit bird from West Virginia. Three, I was trying to start a romance with the shit bird’s ex. Okay, well that plate had already fallen and crashed, but I was going to have to deal with the effect it had on me, so maybe that’s four. Maybe the model from LA could help me get over the feelings I had for Kathleen. I’d make that one plate number five.

I spied the empty tumbler by the phone. There was plenty left in the bottle. I poured another shot into the glass and worked it around my tongue, thinking, Now let’s see, where was I? Oh yeah, plates in the air . Number six: I had started accepting murder contracts from an angry, quadriplegic midget with dreadlocks. Seven: I was still taking contracts for Sal Bonadello, the crime boss. Eight: I was trying to set up a face-to-face with Joe DeMeo, a meeting that would almost certainly result in my death. And of course, I still had my day job of killing terrorists for the government. So that made nine plates.

I was as out of control as the Looney Tunes conga line. It was time to wrap up some of these loose ends. I called Lou Kelley.

“You got my information yet?”

“If you’re referring to the age progression on Kathleen, I e-mailed it to you an hour ago.”

“What about the match profile on Lauren?” I asked.

“Well, I didn’t know her name till just now, but you were right. If her picture is current, our guys can get her up to 91 percent.”

“So that’s a powerful resemblance,” I said.

“It is.”

“If I wanted to pass Lauren off as Kathleen, who could I fool?”

Lou thought about that a bit. “You wouldn’t fool her spouse or a close friend or relative. Beyond that, you’re probably okay.”

“Good. That’s what I was hoping to hear.”

I asked Lou about getting me a jet. He put me on hold a few minutes while he made the arrangements. He got back on the line and said, “Got one. It’ll be waiting for you at the FBO in White Plains, at the Westchester County Airport.”

“How far is that from where I am?”

“Depends on where you are,” Lou said.

I told him. He hit a few computer keys and said, “Fastest way is to get you a chopper. The flight is only ten minutes, but it’ll take me about forty to set up. If you’re not in a hurry, you can use a driver, but I’d wait a couple hours before heading there, since it’s rush hour now.”

I looked at my watch. “If I leave the hotel around seven?”

“You’re looking at an hour’s drive to White Plains, maybe more.”

I told him I could live with that. I hung up and started packing my gear. My cell rang.

Joe DeMeo.

“You’ve been busy,” he said.

“Jesus, Joe, where’d you find those guys?”

“Ah, what can I tell you? Short notice and all. Look, sorry about today. Your whole thing caught me off guard, pissed me off . You shoulda called me first instead of poking around out there. I’d have cut you in. Now the whole thing’s turning into a mess.”

“You get my message about setting up a meeting?”

“Our phones are secure. We can work this thing out right now.”

“I’d rather meet face-to-face.”

“You got some balls, my friend. I always said so.” He sighed. “Okay, Creed, we’ll meet. You say when, I’ll say where.”

We worked it out for Saturday morning in LA, which gave me plenty of time to do some other things, including having another Maker’s while waiting for my seven o’clock drive to White Plains.

And flying to Cincinnati to meet my good friend, Lauren.

And making plans to meet a certain young model wannabe at a beachside hotel in Santa Monica on Saturday afternoon—assuming I survived my Saturday morning meeting with Joe DeMeo.

CHAPTER 17

Lauren Jeter had been an escort since the early days of the internet. Over time, she’d built a clientele that included a dozen of Cincinnati’s most prominent public figures, most of whom managed to spend quality time with her several times a year. Add the income from these wealthy regulars to her hourly outcalls and Lauren was pulling down more than a hundred grand a year, all cash.

Not a bad business, but not without risk.

This particular morning, around ten o’clock, she knocked on the door of the upscale hotel room in downtown Cincinnati where I was staying. I handed her a quarter-inch stack of hundreds, and she smiled and said, “You’ve always been way too generous with me.”