Dead End Deal (37 page)

Fisher cut in with, “I gave Park what we know and suspect about Feist. He’s going to look again at the hospital security videos but even if they show Feist in the hospital that night, there is nothing to link him to the death of the two patients. The best we can hope for is to clear you.”

Jon shook his head. “Unbelievable!”

The room fell silent, everyone avoiding eye contact with Jon, sympathetic, yet legally powerless to do anything to alter the situation. For the final time, Jon mentally reviewed the last step of his plan. Would Stillman or Feist fall for it? After inhaling a deep breath he turned to Fisher. “I need a word with you in private.”

Fisher glanced at the others around the table, “If you’ll excuse us a moment.”

Out in the hall, the conference room door closed, Jon asked, “Got it for me?”

Fisher pulled a folded slip of paper from his breast pocket to hand him. “I suggest you call from the men’s room.”

F
EIST WAS CHECKING THE
Australian team scores on
Cricket.com
but was finding it difficult to concentrate, his mind continuously drifting back to the images of Victoria. The little queer, casual as hell, sitting on the bench flipping pages of the paperback, flashing that irritating smug expression. Like he
knew
Ritter didn’t intend to show. That was the thing: he fucking
knew
it. And that bothered him. Greatly. Made him edgy to know he had been had, yet having no idea how. Nobody fucked with him like that. No question, he’d been played. Fucked over. No idea why, but it had to be true. Just couldn’t see the angle . . .

He picked up the sheet of paper for a fresh look. The names Stillman, Michael, Ritter, and Wayne were printed in different corners, arrows connecting them from several directions. These were the only possible players except for. . . . It dawned on him: the one name not there was the FBI agent. Hmmm . . . he jotted that one down too, figured this sheet was now too messy, so started over again on a fresh one.

Once again, how did this work? Stillman knew Dobbs’s partner, Michael, planned on taking the Clipper to Victoria to meet Jon Ritter . . . Okay. So?

Michael
did
go to Victoria. But once there, only thing he did was walk off the fucking boat and perch on a park bench to read until the return cruise boarded. No shopping. No sightseeing. No meeting. Just fucking reading. Then it dawned on him: a fucking decoy was what he was.

Either someone had fed Stillman intentional disinformation or sending him on a wild goose chase was Stillman’s idea. Which begged the question: why? Who would benefit by that? Certainly not Dobbs or his boyfriend. Leaving Ritter, Stillman, or the FBI. Nothing jumped out at him. And that was what was so frustrating. Fuck!

Speaking of which, where was Ritter? One moment he’s in Canada, next moment he’s gone. Very disconcerting.

His cell rang. Before he looked at the caller ID, a premonition struck, ill formed, yet dark and ominous. The only people to know this number could be counted on one hand. Ritter wasn’t one. The display showed: UNREGISTERED. Hmmm . . . He put the phone to his ear and listened.

A voice said, “You there, Nigel?” A voice he didn’t recognize.

“C’mon, Nigel, you can talk to me. After all, we’ve been close this past couple weeks. Traveling together, meeting the same people, going to the same places. We should be old friends by now.”

Aw Jesus fucking Christ! How’d . . .?

Ritter said, “Okay, I can understand you being a little caught off guard, maybe even upset, me calling like this. But I want to warn you.”

Feist realized he was breathing too hard into the phone, so angled it away from his mouth. No upside to tipping your hand. He rolled off the bed and stood, sweating now that he was on defense. Unfamiliar territory, it was. Unnerving too. The little bugger, how’d he get his fucking hands on his cell number? Where the hell was he?

Ritter continued, “Stillman just cut a deal with the FBI; information for immunity. He agreed to turn state’s witness and testify you killed Raymore Thompson. You remember Raymore, don’t you? The dumb shit you brought with you the night Gabriel Lippmann was murdered, the one crime you committed in this jurisdiction. Wait, it gets better. He’ll testify you hired out to the Avengers to take care of me. So they’re now looking into the possibility of linking you with those other murders. Pretty smart of Stillman, don’t you think? Not really the guy you want to trust as your partner, after all.”

Ritter stopped, clearly expecting a response, but Nigel knew better. Fuck him. He needed to think, regain the advantage, if possible, extract more information while walking a tightrope.

After several seconds, Ritter continued, “As you know, the FBI’s been working the Avenger thing for months. What you don’t know is that two days ago they busted their website. Guess who submitted my name and personal information?”

In a flash, Feist realized his mistake. He should’ve picked an internet café across the fucking country, say, Boston or New York instead of Stockton. Any big city would make it impossible to single out one user. Wait! If they narrowed in on a specific computer, so what? Didn’t prove a thing. That Ritter. . . . a sly little bastard, alright. Almost canny enough to trip him up, trick him into saying something incriminating.

Ritter said, “But the FBI is smart. They figure you probably don’t have any strong feelings one way or the other about abortion. I mean, you? C’mon. From what they say, you don’t give a shit about kids and haven’t set foot in church since being confirmed at St. Marks. So, I mean, why would you give a damn? Know what I’m saying?”

Fuck! They knew all that?
St. Marks, the church in Cairns his family forced him to attend. How’d they learn something so miniscule, unless . . . did he ever mention it to Stillman?

“So they figure someone put you up to it. Makes sense, doesn’t it.”

Severely tempting to say something, but he thought better of it. So far, speculation was the only thing to come out of Ritter’s mouth. Proved nothing. Not a damn thing. Thought about that a moment . . . Was this being recorded? Nothing more than a cheap trick to get him to say something incriminating?

“Heard of FinCen? Surely, in your line of work you know of them. They find bank records like you wouldn’t believe. They know, for example, that Stillman’s made several deposits in an offshore account of yours. I mean what a coincidence, huh?”

His breathing was back to normal now, the initial shock subsiding. Been in worse situations, he had, and always prevailed. Would this time, too. Just needed to know precisely what Ritter knew. The more the better. So best to keep the bloke talking. Feist said, “I do business with any number of firms, mate. Means nothing.”

“Perhaps, but bear with me. All the evidence just keeps getting better. Like you being booked on the same flight to Seoul as me.”

“Coincidence, mate, pure coincidence.”

“What about all the calls between you and Stillman?”

Feist laughed. “If, as you suggest, I allegedly work for his firm, I just might have need to chat with him, now wouldn’t I.”

“True, but how do you explain your trip on the Clipper?”

Fuck! There it was. He fucking knew it. A set up.

Ritter said, “The reason I know about that is I was the one who called Wayne last night to arrange it. No one else knew about that call. Unless, of course, Wayne’s phone was being monitored. Soon as the call was over, you talked to Stillman. He told you to follow Michael to get to me. But it didn’t work out that way, did it?”

Feist’s mind was racing now, putting together details.

Ritter said, “I suppose you wonder how I know this. Well, the FBI followed Michael, using him as bait. They recorded you stalking him, everything from when you picked him up.”

Feist said, “Know what, mate? This all sounds like a pile of rubbish. No fucking way the FBI would give you any real information on an active case. And if they did, why would you tell me?”

“Because, much as I despise you, none of it would’ve happened if Stillman hadn’t put you up to it. I want that son of a bitch to fry for it. Understand?”

Feist knew better than to admit anything to anyone under any circumstance. “No, mate. I don’t. Fact is, I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about. This conversation is over.”

Feist ripped his coat from the hanger and beelined out the door.

61

N
IKKI SHEPHERD WAS STRADDLING
Stillman, moaning and grunting all the guttural sounds that got him off. Better yet, the doofus across the street was watching, making little attempt to be discreet about it. Stillman had Nikki stretch out on the bed so he could sight past her left hip, out the open doors, over the balcony railing, across Third Avenue, to the darkened condo window where a glint of streetlight reflected off the binoculars. Man, did he love watching being watched. Got him hard. A neighbor with expensive Bushnells trumped a full bottle of Cialis. Not that he needed much when Nikki cranked him.

“Oh gawd. . . .”

The phone rang.

Nikki lunged forward, pinning his shoulders to the mattress, a drop of sweat dripping from the tip of her nose. “Don’t you dare!”

Perfect! Always the right reaction. Any other time he’d love it. But, tonight he worried about not hearing from Feist all day. Made him edgy in spite of great sex. Had to be him. “Hold that thought,” he said, gently moving her aside.

She sighed and flashed a pouty face before immodestly spreading out on the sheet, giving doofus a full-on beaver shot. Which, she shamelessly admitted, turned her on.

He picked up without a word. Jon Ritter said, “We need to talk.”

Interesting
.
Where the hell’s he now? Canada?
Probably. Couldn’t have made it across the border . . . could he? . . . So far the little bastard proved more resourceful that he would’ve imagined. This again, raised the question of Feist’s whereabouts. Hmm . . . how to handle this? Especially with the handicap of not knowing what Ritter knew. Probably best to maintain appearances and act the role of friend. Stillman said, “Yo dog! Am I relieved to hear from you. You okay? Where are you?”

“News flash, Richard: Cut the crap. You know that I know you’re lying. We both also know the only thing you’re interested in is the formula.”

Deny it? Probably best. Yeah, deny deny deny. “Not so, I care about you. Don’t forget I want you on our team here. But since you bring up the issue, yes, I want it. But that’s not what
you
called about. What do you want to talk about?”

“A deal.”

Maybe Ritter wasn’t as dumb as he looked. “Such as?”

“A trade. The formulation in exchange for Feist not trying to kill me. How does that sound?”

Ah, so Ritter did know . . . so, no use continuing the charade. After all, the formula—and Trophozyme’s salvation—was the whole point of this little game. Time was running out. But no discussions about any of this over the phone. Especially with Ritter proving to be such a slippery little bastard. Stillman said, “I understand how you might feel, ah, irritated . . . but all I can say is I had nothing to do with what happened to you. That apparently was the Avengers’ work. However you do raise a point worth considering: if we release a statement to the press stating that I now own the technique, perhaps those crazy bastards will give up and go away.”

“Got to hand it to you, Richard, always looking out for self interests. Well, whatever . . . just have Feist lay off.”

“When can we discuss this in person?”

“I’m in Canada at the moment having problems getting across the border, but I think I found a way. It’s going to take a couple hours. I can’t possibly meet before . . . say seven tomorrow morning. Your office. Does that work for you?”

A deep-rooted distrust warned him not to trust Ritter, that, impossible as it might be, he’d already made it across the border. Call his bluff and demand he hand over the formula now? But what if that was exactly what Ritter was counting on? What if this was nothing more than manipulation? And what about Feist? Why hadn’t he heard from him? Something wasn’t right . . . it definitely felt like a manipulation.

He began pacing, temples pounding. Yes, he saw straight through Ritter’s thinly veiled manipulation.

Or was it a manipulation? What if he really did want to trade personal safety for the method?

Then again, what if Ritter was trying to make him
think
it was manipulation so he wouldn’t. . . . Yeah, maybe tomorrow would work best. Least that would give him time to track down Feist and clarify a few thing. But, what if . . .

No, that would be capitulating to Ritter, giving him the upper hand.

But was that what Ritter was counting on?

Stillman said, “No, not tomorrow morning. You want to talk with me, do it now. My choice of where.”

“Then there’s nothing to say. Any agreement needs to be done in person and I’m not there. I won’t even have a passport for several hours. But I’m almost a hundred percent sure I can be there by morning. What’s it going to be, your place at seven or nothing?”

Stillman’s mind was spinning through options, rejecting some, refining others, honing down a plan, Feist being the wild card. Needed to talk to Feist before any meeting took place, so maybe morning would be best. By then a security company could sweep his office for listening devices, just in case Ritter’s FBI buddy was somehow in on this. Feeling more comfortable now, he agreed, “The morning then. Seven a.m.”

Not one minute after disconnecting with Ritter, the phone rang and Feist’s name popped up on the display. A wave of relief swept through him as he picked up: at least he could settle a few questions. Stillman asked, “The fuck are you, dog?”

“Outside your building, mate. We need to have a little talk, you and I.”

“Fine, I’ll buzz you in.”

“Bullocks. Outside. Now.”

What?
Then he got it. And scanned the room, suddenly aware of all the places a listening device could be hidden. An empty feeling dropped into the pit of his stomach. Fuck! His condo was under surveillance. How long had it been going on? Wait a minute . . . the voyeur . . . yes, of course, the binoculars . . . an image of the Asian’s room formed in his mind: recorders, telephoto lenses, parabolic directional microphones with enough sensitivity to pluck conversations from incredible distances. . . . His discussions with Nikki, what exactly had they talked about? Fuck! Everything.