Zero Sum, Book One, Kotov Syndrome (16 page)

His spirits rose. Not a bad start to
the day. He stuck the wad of hundred dollar bills into his front
pocket, checking that it didn’t make a noticeable bulge.

Snagging his list from last night, he
grabbed his cell phone and room key and headed for the restaurant
at the bottom of the hill. He dialed Peter’s number as he made his
way down the drive. An unknown voice answered the phone. He hung
up, redialed the number. Same voice picked up.

“Hello,” said the voice, older female,
probably seventies.

“Hello, I’m trying to reach the
Valentine residence.”

“This is it. May I help
you?”

“Um, yes, I’m trying to reach Peter. Is
he there?” Steven asked. Strange. Maybe a neighbor was watching the
house while they were off on an impromptu vacation?

“Who’s calling?”

Now this was a problem. Maybe nothing,
but he was getting that feeling in his stomach again.

“Tell him
Rich Guy
is on the
phone.”

“One moment, please.”

Several minutes went by, making him
increasingly uneasy. What the hell was going on here?

Then Penny’s voice came on the line.
“Oh God, Steven. He’s dead, Steven, Peter’s dead…” Her voice broke
in anguish as she spoke the awful words. Her sobs of sorrow twisted
Steven’s gut.

“Penny, stop. What happened?”
No.
This can’t be real. It has to be a nightmare.
He bit his
tongue, tasted blood with the numbed-out pain. God, it was really
happening…

Penny’s voice cut him deep a she sobbed
out the anguished account. “He...last night...went out to meet
somebody...didn’t say who...I got a call two hours later...a car
hit him...hit-and-run...someone saw a dark SUV. Oh God, Steven,
he’s dead...”

“I’m so sorry, Penny.” Words were
completely inadequate at moments like this. Inside, his devastation
swelled, threatening to become an all-encompassing primal scream.
Peter dead. Impossible. It wasn’t supposed to be like
this.

“I’m so, so sorry. Is there anything I
can do?” His words echoed stark and empty in his reeling mind.
Is there anything that I,
dead-guy-running-from-the-law-and-who-knows-what-else, can do for
you, who have just lost your lifelong mate and are no doubt in
shock, not to mention also facing an empty future of
loneliness
? Do the questions get any more insipid?

“No. I know he loved you. He would have
done anything for you.” She choked up again.

He closed his eyes. “And I loved him.
And you, Penny.” He struggled for more words, but none would
come.

“I need to go now, Steven. I’m not
doing so great. I’ll call and let you know when the service will
be.”

Shit. He had to tell her. He struggled
momentarily with alternative explanations, but realized that only
the truth would excuse him for missing the funeral – even though
the truth would likely burden her more.

He swallowed his grief. “Penny, I know
you’ve been through a lot, but you need to listen to me. I can’t
come for the service. I’m in trouble with some bad guys who are
making my life complicated. It’s not good, and I don’t know when
I’ll be able to get out there next.”

“...I don’t understand...trouble? What
kind of trouble? Are you all right?”

The worry in her voice increased his
remorse.

“Penny, it’s hard to talk about. You’ve
known me forever. You have to trust me on this. If anyone asks, you
haven’t talked to me. Not for weeks. And if anyone calls you or
comes to see you, no matter what they say, you haven’t heard from
me. Even if you hear stories about me being dead. I’m not, but you
have to play along. I wish I could say more, and I wish I didn’t
have to do this now, with Peter...”

“Peter told me you were involved in
something that might be dangerous. He seemed agitated the last
week. I know he was worried about you, even though he tried to
pretend nothing was wrong. Steven, how bad is it?” Even in her
grief, Penny wasn’t stupid. You couldn’t be married to Peter
forty-plus years and not hear the stories.

“It’s bad. Very bad. Bad enough so I
can’t come out to see you. Bad enough so you haven’t heard from me.
I’ll call you in the next few days and tell you what I can, once I
know more. But you have to do this for me. Promise me. Please?”
Steven implored.

“Oh God, Steven. I...all right, if you
say so. But be careful. I can’t lose any more men in my life. I
know Peter had times when he couldn’t talk about what was going on
with his work, so I’m used to that. But I don’t like it.” She
paused. “When will you call again?”

“Soon as I can, Penny. I love
you.”

“I love you, too. Be careful. I’ll pray
for you.”

The woman who answered the call came
back on the line. “She’s having a really rough time right now. I’m
staying with her for the next day or so. I’m Nora, I live next
door. And you are…?

“Steve...Steve Radcliff. One of Peter’s
friends from New York. I’m sorry to hear about the accident. He was
too young.” Steven disconnected.

He was standing in the middle of the
sloping driveway between the motel and the restaurant, staring at
his phone like it had bitten him.

A horn honked behind him, making him
jump. A pickup truck was trying to exit the motel. Steven stepped
to the side and got a glare from a burly guy wearing a confederate
cap; no doubt one of his new neighbors.

As he sat at a booth in the almost
empty restaurant his mind raced. Peter had been run down, his life
ended in a few seconds as steel intersected with flesh in a
no-contest exchange, which meant from a pragmatic standpoint, any
help or info from Peter’s sources within the FBI or at the other
agencies he’d had clout with were effectively terminated. So now he
was left with only his cyber connections and Stan for support and
any investigative requirements.

His thoughts were interrupted by the
waitress, who not unexpectedly wanted to take his order. He nodded
yes to coffee and asked her for a few more moments. After the news
about Peter, his appetite had deserted him.

Steven’s mind went back to times during
his youth Peter had been there to steer him the right way. He
remembered his dad’s death, unexpected and mercifully quick. Peter
by the side of the hospital bed with Steven’s mom and Penny, Steven
sitting in the corner of the room, not completely comprehending
what was happening. The day before, his father had been walking
around, laughing, joking with him; then suddenly he’d been through
emergency surgery and was a pale shell, the doctor cautioning that
he’d lost a lot of blood before they’d gotten the aneurysm, and
that his outlook was poor.

Peter had been there the entire time,
and had acted as an anchor for the family after his dad succumbed
to the trauma.

Peter took him to the first dojo he’d
ever seen, encouraging his interest in martial arts and introducing
him to his first teacher, Sensei Fujiko-San. It was Peter who
provided the impetus to keep working at his skills when his
motivation lagged or he became discouraged. Peter always in
attendance during competitions or sparring bouts.

All through his developing years, Peter
was there. High school graduation. Moving into his first apartment.
Advising him to join the Marines, see the world, develop some
character. Loaning him money when things got unexpectedly
tight.

At his mother’s funeral four years
ago.

Peter had even helped get him his first
job in the computer industry through one of his contacts. That
choice for a career path came at a time when Steven was floating
directionless, killing time in college with no real objective after
four years in the service, two of which were spent in ugly
situations during Desert Storm.

After returning to the States he hadn’t
been too concerned about things like the future, or much of
anything but the here and now, martial arts, girls, and the
obligatory college courses to appease his mom. That had changed as
he’d gotten older, and Steven had even gone on to get a doctoral
degree in math from UC Irvine while building his company, but
during Steven’s formative years Peter had acted as his moral
barometer.

What had he unintentionally done? What
forces had he put into motion, and what chance did he stand of
success against a group of unknown antagonists willing to kill on a
moment’s notice?

Peter had been one of his closest
friends, who’d died under mysterious circumstances, mere hours
after his boat had burned to the waterline – leaving another
innocent soul dead. Steven’s little interlude to stimulate an
otherwise orderly existence had turned deadly, and now he found
himself running for his life, with those around him dropping like
flies. Peter had committed to help him, and after a life of
successfully cheating the grim reaper, suddenly he was
gone.

Just like that.

A hit-and-run. He wanted desperately to
believe it wasn’t connected. Peter was just a fringe player in
this, doing peripheral nosing around into some arcane financial
matters. That wasn’t something people would run you down
for.

Was it?

His head swam with the terrible
implications, which if true, meant everyone he’d been in contact
with could be in danger – they were all potential
targets.

Oh God. How had this spun out of
control so quickly? Who else was vulnerable? What other slip-ups
had he made? Would anyone tracking him relax now the boat was
history, assuming he’d been dealt with? But that was a temporary
fix. They’d figure it out. And then they’d come for him. This time,
they’d make sure the job got done right.

He didn’t even know who ‘they’ were, or
what ‘they’ looked like.

A busboy dropped a plate on the other
side of the restaurant, jarring him out of his fugue state.
Think, Steven. You need to snap out of it and begin processing,
taking action
. The pity party would have to wait. The sick
feeling in his stomach and the recriminations needed to go on
hold.

Scanning the restaurant, he saw none of
the customers were aware of or gave a shit about his personal
drama. They were engrossed in their own struggles. He wasn’t in
their movies.

That was strangely reassuring. At least
for now, he was invisible, if not bulletproof.

All right.

Plan.

Take the
offense.

So, what was the priority for the day?
He needed a car and a laptop. Without a car he couldn’t get up to
Los Angeles, which is where he’d have to go to sell the watch;
Beverly Hills was the ideal place for that kind of transaction, and
he knew a shop on Rodeo Drive that trafficked in Pateks and would
have the reserves to buy it on the spot – he’d purchased from them
before, and had a good enough relationship to request cash without
raising any eyebrows.

And then there was his overall
appearance.

Perhaps it was time for a comprehensive
makeover.

He thought about the options. Probably
a buzz cut or at least really short, some hair dye, and a goatee or
a mustache. And maybe some glasses. He hadn’t shaved for two days,
so had a good running start on the facial hair thing. He extracted
his list from the previous night and scribbled. It was turning into
quite a project template.

When the waitress returned with the
check, Steven asked if there was anywhere in town people parked
cars they wanted to sell. Sure enough, she knew of a spot on
Pacific Coast Highway.

He cut through the side streets that
led to PCH. On the right hand side, about a quarter mile past the
intersection, stood a row of destitute vehicles parked along the
road with various For Sale and
Se Vende
signs in their
windows. He perused the frozen procession of tired transportation,
looking for something suitable – he finally settled on a little
Mazda pick-up truck; a 1989 extra cab in pretty good condition;
five-speed with A/C, and ‘only 111,000 miles, rebuilt clutch at
70,000’. The tires looked relatively new, nothing leaking. Asking
$1800. He called the number in the dirt streaked window.

“Yeah, this is Tony.”

“Hey, Tony, I’m looking at your Mazda
truck, and wanted to get some more info on it. How does it run? Are
you the original owner?”

“Oh, the truck. Uh, yeah, I’m the
original owner. Runs like a charm. No problems with it, just tuned
it up a few months ago, always changed the oil every three thousand
miles.” Tony sounded quite proud of the truck’s
condition.

“Well, it’s what I’m looking for. Would
you take sixteen hundred for it, right now?”

“Make it seventeen hundred and you got
a deal. I can be there in ten minutes with the keys and the pink
slip. You got the money on you?”

Tony was hot to trot. That was
good.

“I’ll go get it. Meet you at the truck
in ten minutes.” Problem solved. And under budget too.

Tony showed up two minutes early, a
soiled Harley Davidson T-shirt and shorts struggling to contain his
stocky frame. Like Steven, he hadn’t troubled himself with shaving
recently. He offered a folder with receipts that was surprisingly
organized given his appearance.