Full Ratchet: A Silas Cade Thriller Hardcover (14 page)

I
dropped Dave at the police building, an unprepossessing block of 1960s public architecture. Not in front, but a hundred yards up the street—he had to do a second, formal interview with the chief, and I didn’t feel like getting drawn in.

“I’m surprised he didn’t have you in hours ago,” I said. “Or yesterday.”

“It’s the fracking. All these drillers everywhere, pockets full of cash every weekend. Gator spends most of his time breaking up bar fights and arresting drunks.”

“You ever think about doing that?”

“Drinking and bar fights?” He laughed. “On occasion.”

“No. Working on the rigs.”

The grin faded. “Naw. But I might have to now. The money’s good.”

He got out of the car and walked off. Back drooped a little, like he was tired. I knew the feeling, but I was sorry to see Dave that way.

Nothing I could do. After a moment I turned around, pointed the Aveo north and got back on the road to Pittsburgh.

Brinker and I hadn’t been able to finish our conversation the previous night.

—

Clay Micro looked closed down when I arrived, a little before five
P.M.
, and the small parking lot was not close to full. I drove around, scouting routes and exits, reminding myself of the layout. Yes, I’d been here twice already, but refreshers never hurt. The lot had only two entrances, both onto the street along the canal. The iron trestle spanning the waterway was illuminated in stark outline by the late-day sun behind it, two hundred yards down.

I couldn’t wait in the lot itself—it would be too easy to get boxed, not to mention seen. The best surveillance location was clear—a driveway opposite the bridge, leading to a locked-down loading bay in the grocery wholesaler. It dead-ended against the building’s dock, and a low wall concealed the Aveo from the Clay Micro lot.

I backed in, killed the engine.

I’d kept the binoculars from the forest cabin, and they brought the cars in the lot into sharp focus. I wasn’t sure what Brinker was driving now, but the CFO’s Cayenne was visible, still in the row of executive spots near the front door. I wondered if he’d ever driven it again.

Nothing but country and ranting on the radio—kind of like you get on AM, back home, but this was FM. Not so many stations. Maybe with all the industrial iron around, it was a broadcast dead zone.

Maybe it was because civilization’s edge was three hundred miles east. I gave up and sat in silence—and ran out of patience after five minutes. I
hate
surveillance.

Time to move things along.

“Good afternoon, Clay Micro Technology. How may I help you?”

It sounded like Sharon. At least
someone
was working a full day. I shifted the phone away from my mouth and put some phlegm in my voice. “This is Detective Trotsky from the zone two police, miss. I’m trying to reach Gerald Brinker. Is he there, please?”

“Um, police? Mr. Brinker is, he’s not available right now.”

“Is he in your office, miss?”

“No, he’s not here. He left for a meeting, um, at three-thirty.”

And maybe not coming back. In the offices I usually visit—corporate and Wall Street—people are at their desks until long after dinner. I guess not everyone works like that. “It’s important we talk to him as soon as possible.”

“Yes, um, I’ll tell him as soon as I see him. Just like the other detective asked me to.”

“Other detective?” I realized Brinker might have called the police after all, after the attack at his barn. It might come in handy if I could find out who the investigating officer was. “Was that Harrison, miss? He and I have been working separate today, and I apologize if we crossed wires on you.”

“Um, no, it was a lady officer, she said her name was Short, maybe?”

“Of course, Detective Short. I’ll check in with her right now.”

“Like I told her, Mr. Brinker did say he was planning to return to the office, but I don’t know.”

“I’ll try later, then, but have him call me as soon as possible.” I gave some imaginary contact details and hung up.

Then I called zone two. This one I routed through the Canadian proxy, for obvious reasons.

“Pittsburgh Police Department, you’re being recorded.”

“Detective Short, please.”

“Do you know which station he works from?”

“She, and I think she’s in your zone two.”

“There’s no detective by that name here. May I ask your reason for calling?”

“I’ll try later, thanks.” I hung up.

Well, well, well. Harmony and I seemed to be on the same trail.

I hadn’t seen any obvious stakeouts when I circled the company thirty minutes earlier, but that didn’t mean much. I started to feel paranoid and exposed.

But wait. Harmony was looking for Brinker—not
me
?

Or was she following Brinker in the hope that he’d lead her
to
me? I closed my eyes for a moment. Too many possibilities here.

I had the advantage, having stumbled into someone else’s surveillance, but I wasn’t sure what to do with it. Harmony was better than the Russians—at least we spoke the same language—but for all I knew they were here, too.

I looked around quickly, but still didn’t see anyone. What the hell—I could give it another thirty or forty minutes. If everyone showed up again, we could continue the discussion that had been cut short at Brinker’s barn.

The time dragged slowly past. Now and then a vehicle drove down one side of the canal or the other, heavy trucks mostly. Clay Micro sat blank and silent until five-thirty, when a woman came out. Through the binoculars I confirmed it was Sharon, and she went straight to a small silver car, got in and drove away.

I was hungry. The sun set and dusk settled in. I didn’t have any better ideas, so I continued to sit there, watching security lights buzz on as darkness fell. Finally, around seven-fifteen, I’d truly had enough. I checked my phone once more, put it away and turned the ignition.

Clay Micro’s CFO walked out the front door.

I didn’t need the binoculars—Nabors’s slicked-back hair was clear, even in the sodium glare of the parking lot lights. He was wearing a dark sport coat over a white shirt. I watched him walk to the Porsche, taillights blinking as he beeped it on from thirty feet away.

As long as I was leaving, I could see where Nabors might be going. Also, he might attract the attention of any other surveillants, and bring them out where I could see them.

I started the car and waited while the Porsche eased through the exit. Then I waited longer, as long as I could without losing Nabors completely.

Nothing else happened. No cars, no vehicle sounds, no lights clicking on or off in nearby windows.

I saw Nabors’s turn signal at the far end of the block, and moved out to follow.

A complete mismatch, you’d be thinking, and you’d be right. Nabors was driving a machine German engineered to go seventy mph in first gear, and I had a six-year-old economy car with a hinky transmission. Also, I had to keep an eye not just on him but behind me, too, in case another team dropped into the train. But Nabors stayed well under the speed limit. The roads were cracked and potholed and generally of post-deindustrialization vintage, true, but he was being even more cautious.

We crawled along, past raggedy commercial buildings and undeveloped land run to seed, stopping at every yellow light, pausing before every turn. Even after we’d got on the Parkway, busy with homebound commuters, the Porsche stayed in the far right lane. Not too slow, not too fast.

People have criticized my audit methods, but one thing for sure: you don’t see this kind of deep, newfound respect for the law after PricewaterhouseCoopers walks out the door.

It was like tailing a driving-school student. I kept a hundred yards back, occasionally switching lanes and drifting closer or farther—the best you can do solo. But if Nabors noticed, he didn’t let on, just maintained a nice grandmotherly pace.

At the Canfield exit he pulled off the highway, waited through a red light at the ramp’s end, and turned right onto a wide avenue. Then the turn blinker came on again, he slowed, and we entered a strip mall.

“Mall” might be generous. A badly paved parking lot fronted a row of small stores bookmarked by Frank’s Discount Liquors at one end and Mighty Dollar at the other. Night had fully overtaken day while we were driving, and of three light poles in the lot, only one was working. Fluorescent tubes under an overhang illuminated the sidewalk in front of the store. The Toyota dealership across the street, already closed for the day, was better lit than the mall.

The lot was maybe one-tenth full but Nabors, a busy man with important things to do, parked on the fire lane directly in front of Frank’s and got out, leaving the engine running. He was inside only for two or three minutes and came out with a clinking paper sack in one hand and a six-pack in the other.

Then he drove the Porsche about fifty feet to stop again, this time in front of a dry cleaner’s. Inside, engine running.

The laundry had sheet-glass windows covered in painted signs—
SHIRTS IRONED NO CHARGE
,
DOWN COAT SPECIAL,
and so forth. The view was further obscured by racks of clothing inside. I could barely see the top of Nabors’s head.

Hmm.

When Nabors emerged two minutes later, he held a stack of plastic-sheathed suits and shirts by their hangers, using both hands. He strode to the sidewalk’s edge, stopped abruptly and stared around, mouth open.

The Porsche was gone.

I coasted the Aveo to a stop in front of him. The passenger window was rolled down, Nabors about two feet away. I leaned over the seat so he could see me.

“Yo, Nabors, need a lift?”

“Wha—you! Y-y-you . . . where’s my fucking
car
?” So angry he was tripping over the words.

“Hop in.” I pointed the Sig at him. “Get in right now, or I’ll shoot you and drive away.”

He hesitated. Still keeping the pistol aimed at his face, I used my left hand to yank the door handle and shove it open.

“You’re not a runner, Nabors. Try it and die, or get in.”

He did as told. I switched the pistol to my left hand and held it cross-body—I’m not a lefty, but you don’t need precision aiming from three feet away, and I didn’t want the handgun so close he could think about grabbing for it.

“Close the door.” The pile of clothing was slippery in the flimsy plastic bags, sliding around on Nabors’s lap, which kept his hands occupied.

“What do you want?” he said.

I drove slowly away, one hand on the wheel, one holding the gun. Really, this was about as stupid a position to put myself in you could imagine—a professional would have either killed me or bailed in about two seconds.

Fortunately, Nabors was no professional.

“Follow-up interview,” I said. “Dotting the i’s, crossing the t’s.”

“I don’t know anything.”

Of course not. As we exited the lot I glanced across the street toward the Toyota dealership—the Porsche was parked at the end of one row, close to the showroom, nearly invisible among all the other shiny cars. It was still running, because I couldn’t figure out how to turn it off with no key in the ignition—those all-electronic remotes make things complicated. But I’d left the lights off, and the slight exhalation of exhaust from its tailpipe was unnoticeable.

Nabors didn’t even look in that direction, instead hypnotized by the barrel of the 226.

“When we talked earlier,” I said, “you forgot to mention something.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“The acquisition?”

“That’s secret!” He actually looked shocked.

“Secret?
Secret?
” I shook my head. “Nabors, I’m your
auditor
. I’m like a doctor. You have to tell me everything.”

“You’re not—”

“Or the relationship just doesn’t work.”

I drove back the way we’d come, toward the highway. Halfway there I’d noticed an out-of-business car wash, weeds in the paving, fixtures stripped from the vacant bays. The only light came from a street lamp across the road, leaving plenty of shadow. I killed the headlights and drove around back. I didn’t switch off the engine.

“I know, I know—
Consumer Reports
says you shouldn’t idle more than thirty seconds.” I twisted around to face him directly. “A waste of gas. Not to mention kind of foolish if you get out of the car. Anyone could come along and steal it.”

“I don’t know what you
want
.” His voice was strained.

“Aren’t you listening? I’m the auditor, and that’s all. I don’t even work for Clayco. This should have been a simple little job.”

“You got what you needed.”

“That’s what I thought, too. But suddenly people are pulling out automatic weapons and RPGs.” I lowered the pistol and pointed it at Nabors’s groin. “Tell me about the fucking acquisition.”

He caved immediately, just like our last interview. “I don’t know! Brinker never lets us in on anything—I might as well be an invoice clerk, for all the responsibility I have.”

“You must have heard you were on the block. Not even the Chinese would buy a company without talking to the chief financial officer.”

“Chinese?” He looked puzzled. “They weren’t Chinese.”

The oldest trick in the interrogator’s book. “You
did
meet them.”

“Only for an hour. They wanted to go over the statements. Especially cash flow—they were real interested in cash flow.”

That didn’t necessarily mean anything. The income statement is notoriously easy to rig, and even the balance sheet can be less than useful if someone’s playing games. If you really want to understand a company’s books, cash is king. As always. But there are reasons other than fundamental stock analysis to be primarily interested in cash flow.

Tax avoidance, for example. Money laundering. Misappropriation.

Absconsion.

“Did they notice your missing seven mil?”

“No.” Disdain mixed with defensiveness in Nabors’s expression. “They walked right over it. Never saw a thing.”

Kind of suspicious that Clayco headquarters hadn’t noticed either—not until the serious due diligence was queued up. But that happens in private companies. Without the sunshine of public-market oversight, as flawed and compromised as the regulators are, the corporate chiefs can run their fiefdoms any way they want.