Marcus Sakey - The Blade Itself - v4.0 Read online

  27

  Shrapnel

  The walk from the fenced parking lot into the back corridor, past the stale-cigarette reek of the break room, through the double doors that separated the blue-collar portions of the office from the posh bleached-wood-and-stainless-steel lobby the clients saw, and up the hall to his office with its modular desk and narrow window took maybe thirty seconds. A brief enough time, but this morning, Danny’s first back in the office, it felt like an eternity.

  He held his smile up like an ID, pointing it this way and that, nodding at Richard’s assistant, muttering something noncommittal in response to a question he hadn’t quite caught. His stomach felt buoyant, crowding upward into his chest.

  Blue flecks dotted the gray carpet in his office. He’d never noticed that before.

  Danny took his appointment book from his satchel, set it on top of a stack of architectural magazines and trade show invitations, and dropped into his high-backed chair, one of those office store jobs designed without sympathy for the human body. They were standard issue to everybody but Richard, who sat in a seven-hundred-dollar Herman Miller throne.

  Good reason to kidnap his son, he thought to himself, then, immediately, Stop it.

  After everything had gone down yesterday, he’d still had to make an appearance on the job sites, and it hadn’t been easy. He’d felt a fraud, moving through the buzz of honest labor, giving directions like he deserved to be there. The whole time knowing that he was poison, the worm in the apple. But somehow, it had been easier than sitting in his own office. He used to take great pride in it, the idea that Danny Carter, from Bridgeport, was the senior project manager, an invaluable, trusted member of a team. He’d enjoyed worrying about the delicate budgets of half a dozen jobs, the work schedules of forty men. He used to know that he could put in an honest day, and that when he went home, he would have earned the life that awaited him there.

  Now, all he could think about was a construction trailer, and Evan with a gun, and the teetering structure of lies that had become his life.

  Stop. This will all be over soon. Tomorrow we make the second call, Thursday we get Tommy back to Richard, Friday everything goes back to the way it was.

  He wasn’t sure that was true, not 100 percent convinced, but it was what he had. So he picked up his pencil, opened his papers, and started working.

  The morning dragged by in a morass of paperwork and blank periods when he found himself staring at the wall. He had an embarrassing moment at his lunch meeting, when a client had to repeat a question three times before he heard it. “Jesus, Carter, where were you?” the man had asked, holding his gaze, then deciding to let it go, saying, “Must be better weather than here. Can I come next time?”

  That had burned. Not the client’s smart-ass comment, but the idea that he couldn’t hold it together. That with his skills and experience and goddamnit, brains, he was simply not pulling through. The anger at himself surged quick and hot enough to keep his nerves humming through the rest of lunch.

  As he walked back into the office, he held onto that glowing ember, fanned it, urged it to scorch. Forget this nonsense of moping about. If he wanted to rebuild his life when this was over, he couldn’t succumb. No more. He would throw himself into work. Hit the phone hard, check in on the bids they’d shipped last month. Get some things accomplished. And when the day was done, go home to Karen. Better pissed off than helpless.

  Jeff Teller, one of their foremen, was walking a guy Danny didn’t know through the lobby, giving him the grand tour. Danny nodded hello, and Teller stopped him, introduced the man as an electrician new to the team. “He’s going to be helping us this winter.”

  “Hey, welcome.” They shook hands, the guy’s grip firm.

  “Danny,” Teller said, “is one of our project managers. The one you hope is running your job.”

  “Hey, Teller, we already have you on contract. You can stop kissing up now.” The trash talk coming easy, a rhythm he knew.

  Teller laughed. “Seriously. He’s a good guy,” making the two words into one. “One of the ones in management you can trust.” There was no trace of irony in his eyes, and Danny found himself touched, wondering how Dad would have felt to hear that.

  “Danny.” Richard stood half in, half out of his office door. “Could you join me?”

  Danny’s mouth went dry, the good feeling evaporating in an instant. What was going on? Could Evan have screwed up somehow, gotten caught? Could Richard know? Was there a roomful of cops waiting? Part of him wanted to turn and run, just bolt.

  Stay cool. You’re hitched to the whirlwind, and the only way to land safe is to keep your head.

  “Sure. Let me just drop my things.”

  His boss nodded and stepped back inside his office. No police officers boiled out to replace him. There must not be any in there; what kind of a cop would give him time to climb out the window? Though that didn’t mean that Richard didn’t suspect something himself. Danny shook hands again with Teller and the new guy, then walked into his office, willing his pulse to calm. He dropped his bag in the chair, glanced around the room without knowing what he was looking for, then put on his work face.

  Richard sat in his expensive chair, leaning forward to rest his forehead in his palms as he stared down at financial statements. The usually neat mahogany desk was crowded with paper, binders with the Merrill Lynch logo on them and a notebook covered in Richard’s neat, feminine handwriting. Danny rapped on the wall with his knuckles, and his boss jumped a little, like he’d forgotten he’d asked anyone to join him. Then he gestured to a chair. “Get the door, would you?”

  That did nothing to quiet the alarms in Danny’s mind. Richard rarely closed his door. It wasn’t a hippie, open-concept kind of thing; he just liked the whole office to know when he was in a rage. Danny took a seat, keeping his face neutral as he studied his boss.

  Richard looked like hell. Dark circles carved canyons under both eyes. Generally capable of a five o’clock shadow by ten in the morning, today he looked like he hadn’t shaved at all, and the salt-and-pepper stubble made him look older, more frail. His tie was impeccably knotted, and gold dice secured French cuffs, but with his left hand he fiddled with a pen, spinning it nervously between his fingers.

  His boss’s evident distress sent a stab through Danny, but he quickly closed it off. Everything would be fine. It had to be.

  Richard looked at him, rubbed his eyes, and then leaned back. He opened his mouth, stopped himself. Though he looked like a man with something important to ask, what came out was, “How’s the progress on the restaurant?”

  “It’s fine. They’re running electrical this week.”

  “They know they need extra breakers for the kitchen? Morris wanted every cook surface on its own.”

  Danny nodded, waiting for the man to get to the point. They sat in silence for a moment, Richard gazing out the window at the convenience store across the street.

  “And the wiring, they know to use the—”

  “It’s under control. What’s on your mind?” He knew, of course, but didn’t dare give any indication.

  His boss turned back from the window and began shuffling papers around. “Right. Well, I’ve just been going over the financials, and I wanted to see if yours were up to date.”

  “As of last week.”

  “Anything change since then?” Was that a note of hope in Richard’s voice?

  “No. Everything is pretty much on schedule.”

  “We haven’t gotten the advance from the Cumberland people, have we?”

  Danny shot him a perplexed look. Work on Cumberland Plaza, a strip mall in Joliet, wouldn’t begin until at least March. It was their big spring job, and would come with a healthy advance for materials and manpower — but not in October. “No.”

  Richard nodded, slumped back in his chair.

  “Should I call them about it?” Danny asked.

  “Yeah, why don’t you do that.”

  “Any reason I can
give them? For wanting the money this early, I mean?”

  Richard peered at his notebook, not looking at Danny. “Tell them we can swing a twenty percent discount on materials.”

  “How are we going to do that?” The question sprang from habit, the project manager side of him trying to protect Richard from the pitfalls he liked to dig in front of himself.

  “I’ll negotiate a ten percent on a preorder. And the rest we’ll make up by running a tight project.”

  “This bid was already tight. There’s no pad in it.”

  “Look, we’ll figure it out when the time comes. Right now, we just need the money.”

  “For what?” The moment the question left his mouth, he realized he knew the answer. The puzzle pieces had been in front of him all along, he just hadn’t put them together. Oh God.

  Richard looked up, his eyes watery. The normal type-A arrogance was nowhere to be seen. “I… we have some things we need to cover.” He looked back down, his shoulders low. “Just do it, okay?”

  It was clearly a dismissal, and Danny rose slowly, feeling numb. A memory of dropping by Richard’s house flooded through him. The den, with its modern art paintings and drug-dealer leather couch. The grim, defeated expression on Richard’s face as he hurried to shut off the computer monitors. Telling Danny he’d been getting worked in the stock market. That shrapnel from the bursting tech bubble had cut him badly.

  How much had he lost?

  Enough, came the answer. Enough that he can’t pay the ransom himself.

  And as a small business owner, if you find yourself in a desperate situation, like, say, trying to find the money to pay the ransom on your son, where do you go?

  He’s going to burn the company.

  The bottom fell from his stomach as he walked out. Richard didn’t watch him leave, his attention buried in the company balance sheets, as though a solution might be written within them. But Danny knew the numbers as well as the old man. Better. He knew what Richard was discovering. The money was there, sure. But it was the support structure of the company. It covered rent, kept the lights on, bought materials. It paid salaries and health insurance. If you tugged it out, the whole structure collapsed — and everyone who’d thought their footing was safe was suddenly scrabbling at air.

  Teller’s earlier words rang in his ears: “He’s a good guy. One of the ones in management you can trust.”

  Oh God.

  What had he done?

  28

  Rough Times

  After thirty minutes in front of the mirror, Karen had decided to wear her hair back to show off her neck, and gone with lipstick two shades bloodier than normal. The dress was new, a soft, fitted black thing too thin for this time of year. She’d even strapped on a pair of heels. Never let it be said that she didn’t know how to do date night.

  Unfortunately, her date was nowhere to be found.

  “Another?” The bartender gave her that flirty look reserved for women who’d been stood up.

  She started to shake her head, remembered the phone call, the mysterious message that’d had her nerves jangling all afternoon. “Why not.”

  A server bumped her chair in passing, the rich smells of marinara and basil making her stomach growl. The hostess looked over, and Karen shook her head. The woman smiled sympathetically, girl to girl, and called out someone else’s name for the table that was supposed to have been theirs forty-five minutes ago.

  Out of professional habit, she watched the bartender make her drink. A little heavy on the vermouth and a lot heavy on the ice and the shaking. Bad enough to charge ten bucks for a martini; criminal to bruise it that badly. He set it between the votive candles that lined the black lacquer bar and gave her the look again. “You waiting for someone?”

  “Not for much longer,” she said, and turned away.

  She’d come in from the gym that afternoon to find the answering machine flashing three. One call from a bar back saying she couldn’t make it to work that night. A computerized voice from Walgreens, telling her a prescription was ready.

  And sandwiched between them, that other message.

  What had it meant? She hadn’t recognized the voice, but the guy spoke like he knew all about them. She told herself it wasn’t important, that it probably had to do with Danny’s job. The icicle stab of fear she felt was probably just because she’d been anxious lately. That asshole in the alley had scared her more than she liked to admit. Normally she would have used Danny to help her get over it, let him serve as the mirror to reflect her own fear back until she could see it for what it was, until she’d dealt with it. But since that night, they’d hardly been in the same room. It was like he was running from her.

  Ebb and flow, girl. Every relationship has trouble spots.

  Sure. But if he didn’t ebb-and-flow in here in the next five minutes, she was changing the locks.

  She spotted him fighting his way through the crowd with two minutes to spare. He wore a black jacket over a soft gray oxford, and when he glanced at his watch, she could see him grimace and swear. Her heart caught a little bit, even after all the years.

  He smiled at her, boyishly contrite. “I’m sorry, Kar.”

  “You’d have been sorrier in two minutes,” she said, standing and thumbs-upping the hostess, her voice mock angry. “I look good.”

  His laugh made her think that maybe date night would work out after all. As they walked to their table, he rested a hand on the small of her back. He didn’t pull out her chair — she hated that — but waited to sit down until she had, and smiled at her again.

  “So,” she said, “they let you out of your cage.”

  He nodded. “Thank God.”

  She folded the napkin in her lap and sipped her water. He looked around the room as if taking it in. Their eyes met for a moment and then skidded away, like they were on an awkward first date.

  “Good evening, folks.” The waiter stepped forward with an obsequious smile. He handed her a menu, then one to him, and set the wine list in the center. “We have several specials this evening.”

  They’d been coming here for years, and though Danny teased her for it, she always ordered the same thing. So instead of listening to the specials, she watched Danny fidget with his silverware. His shoulders were clenched. He nodded thoughtfully from time to time, but never in response to anything the waiter said. Truth be told, despite the sharp clothes, he looked wrecked, and her optimism about date night began to evaporate.

  “You want another?” She gestured at the scotch he’d already drained.

  “Guess I was thirsty.” His smile didn’t quite fit.

  “I’ll catch his eye.”

  He nodded absently, and turned back to the menu.

  “Want to get an appetizer?” she asked.

  “Sure. Whatever you want.” It would have sounded sweeter if he’d been looking at her.

  “How about the shrimp?”

  “Okay.”

  “Danny.”

  He looked up at her, dark craters under his eyes.

  “You’re allergic to shellfish.”

  “Right.” He blew air through his mouth, not quite a laugh. “Sorry. I’m not all here tonight.”

  “Where are you?” When he didn’t respond, she sighed. “What’s going on? And don’t tell me work.”

  He looked at her, then looked away. “I don’t know what to say.”

  “You know,” she said, her voice sharp, “a lot of women would start to get suspicious if their boyfriend was suddenly working late every night. Start wondering if ‘working’ was a way of saying ‘sleeping with somebody else.’”

  That got his attention. He turned, his eyes firm on hers. “Of course not.”

  She felt ashamed. That had been a cheap shot. “I know.”

  He nodded, looked away again.

  “Danny…” Her voice trailed off. Everybody had rough times. She wanted to believe that’s all this was. But the signals he was giving off were all wrong. In the past they’d always
worked through things together, but now he seemed to be pulling away. “Is it me? Something I’ve done?”

  “No,” he said quickly. “It’s not you.”

  Somehow that was scarier. “Then what?”

  “Look.” He leaned forward, hesitated, like he was searching for the right words. “Right now is just a crazy time. I have a lot of things going on, and it’s starting to get to me. But this will all be over soon.”

  “When?”

  “By the end of the week. Things will be back to normal. I promise.”

  It was the kind of answer she should have hoped for, but somehow, it wasn’t comforting. She held up her glass and spun it idly, watching the wine swirl. She felt the grip of one of those weird moments when the physicality of the world — the noisy bar, the art photographs on the wall, the wine rolling red and glinting along the bowl of her glass — overwhelmed any sense of meaning. Left her feeling stranded. Without stopping to consider, she tossed the question like a grenade, hoping they wouldn’t be wounded in the blast.

  “Why did a detective call our house today?”

  Silence. She looked up to find him staring.

  “What?” he asked.

  “A Detective Nolan. He left a number. It’s on the machine. He said he had some things he wanted to ask you about.”

  It was only an instant. But for a ragged fraction of a second, she saw clear through him. Past what he called his game face. Saw his mouth hanging open and his mind scrambling for a lie.

  And then it was over, and his mask slid back into place. “We’ve had some break-ins. Vandalism, some tools stolen. It’s probably just kids, you know, but I have to go through the motions.”

  She nodded. She didn’t know what she’d seen, didn’t know what it meant, but she knew she wasn’t going to sit still for it. She’d always pitied women — people — who chose to blind themselves to what was right in front of them. Better to deal with things, even if they were painful. She looked at him again, took in his friendly expression and calculated look, and then she finished a last sip of wine and stood up.