Authors: Jason Dean
Bishop woke up on Jenna Falstaff’s couch with the previous evening’s conversation running through his mind. The vodka seemed
to have made him a lot more talkative than usual. Or maybe, after spending so much time in his own head, he’d just needed
to offload on someone. Either way the damage was done and there was no point going over
it. Instead he thought through what
he’d learned on his first day as a fugitive.
Adam Cortiss. Brennan’s connection to him. The papers stuck behind the bookshelves. The hidden cameras. The shoe imprint on
the chair. He got the Cortiss and Brennan connection, and how the vault fitted in; he guessed the motivation had been the
money. What he was still
left with was who’d gotten him involved. Who out of his team had enough issues to bother setting
him up?
Thorpe had come through with the info on Cortiss, but that wasn’t sufficient reason to rule him out just yet. He was still
a suspect. And there were still Tennison and Chaney to check on. Confronting them would be a lot riskier, especially if Thorpe
had decided to cover his ass by reporting yesterday’s encounter to the cops. In that case, they wouldn’t have to work too
hard to guess Bishop’s next move and prepare for it. Nevertheless, a little surveillance couldn’t hurt. He could check out
the situation for himself before making a decision. And there was still the matter of Cortiss, of course. He needed to make
inroads on finding him before he did anything else.
Pulling the blanket off, Bishop swung his legs round and sat up. He ran his palm over his scalp and listened to sounds of
cutlery and crockery from the kitchen. The thin drapes were still drawn but sunlight made its way into the room. His watch
on the coffee table read 10.37. He’d been out for over eleven
hours, and despite the pain in his abdomen felt refreshed for
the first time in months. Years, maybe.
He pulled on his pants and T-shirt and followed the sounds.
Jenna stood at the breakfast bar, pouring coffee into two mugs on the counter. She was wearing a short white bathrobe tied
at the waist, and her damp hair was brushed back from
her face. Bishop could practically taste the caffeine from the doorway.
She looked up and said, ‘Perfect timing.’
‘Day off?’ he asked.
‘What’s the point of sick leave if you don’t use it up?’ she said with a shrug. ‘I assume you take your coffee black, as well?’
He nodded, sat on the same stool as last night and took a few sips. It was
strong, almost too strong, but the buzz it gave
him was worth it. Jenna sat opposite him and added sugar to hers.
‘That couch
must
be comfortable. You slept like the dead.’
‘Guess I must have needed it.’ He turned to look at the Power Mac. ‘You mind if I borrow your computer this morning?’
Jenna smiled as she raised her cup and drank.
‘If you’re planning on searching for Cortiss, I think that’s one problem you
don’t need to worry about any more.’
‘Is that right?’ He had a bad feeling about where this was going.
‘I found him, already,’ she said. ‘Or at least, the next best—’
‘Jenna,’ Bishop interrupted. ‘Stop.’ He put his coffee on the counter-top and moved off his seat.
She looked up in surprise.
‘I said I didn’t want you getting involved.’
Without waiting for a response, he walked back to the living room and grabbed his sweatshirt and his gun. He’d underestimated
her, and he’d made the wrong choice last night. It had been a mistake to give her a glimpse of Cortiss. He shouldn’t have
even come here. But sitting
in the taxi at Jamaica he’d been fresh out of options. And when you’re out of options, you make
mistakes. Idiot.
He went over to the window, pulled the drapes apart and was looking out when he heard her enter the room behind him. Without
turning round, he said, ‘Who else have you told?’
‘About you? Nobody, of course.’
‘About
Cortiss,’ he said, facing her. For a second she looked like she might break but her eyes remained defiant. ‘You must
have had help to locate him so fast.’
‘You mean it’s impossible that I managed to do it all on my lonesome? You know they disproved that theory about us having
smaller brains than men quite a few years ago.’
‘That’s
not what I meant and you know it. I need to be abs—’ He stopped and frowned. A comment about Jenna’s employers from
the night before came back to him. ‘Just where is it you work, exactly?’
‘You ever hear of the New York State Office for Technology?’
‘Not that I can recall.’
‘Not many people have. It’s a government agency over at Empire
State Plaza that provides IT services to other agencies. I’m
in their information security department.’
Bishop rubbed his face. ‘Did I just hear you right? You’re saying you work for the
government
?’
‘Kind of.’
‘You do or you don’t?’
‘Don’t tell me prison turned you into an objectivist; nothing’s black and white, you
know. I’m just an independent contractor
with the health plan and holiday pay, but without the job security or the pension. Okay?’ She shrugged and perched on a corner
of the coffee table, sensing his shift in mood. ‘Besides, I’m not sure I’d be right for full-on legitimate government work.’
‘Why not?’
‘And submit myself to a
complete
background
check?’ She snorted. ‘No, thank you.’ She leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees. ‘Look, James, I’m sorry
I went behind your back, but I’m definitely not working with anybody else on this. I just like solving puzzles, that’s all.
I can’t help it; it’s what I do. And let’s face it, yours is a real doozy.’
Bishop leaned against the window frame and
moved his palm back and forth over his scalp. ‘You realize you could have told
me all this last night, Jenna, instead of springing it on me now. It all comes down to trust in the end and I’m beginning
to think I shouldn’t be here. That I made a mistake.’
Jenna pursed her lips and looked at the framed sketch on the wall to his right. The one that was supposed
to be of a woman
sleeping. ‘About four years ago,’ she said, finally, ‘there was a major news story about how a five-member team of hackers
called the Phonebeasts got into the telephone networks and grabbed credit reports, criminal records, and other data from the
databases to sell on to third parties.’ She turned her gaze to Bishop. ‘You remember reading about it?’
Vaguely, he recalled. ‘They gave themselves code names, didn’t they? I heard the feds caught them all in the end.’
‘They caught four of the five and they each earned long stretches in a federal prison. But there was a sixth member they don’t
even know about who called herself Electra, and I know for a fact the feds would be
very
interested to
learn of her existence before the Statute of Limitations comes into effect in a year’s time. Especially her
real name and what she’s doing now.’ She raised both eyebrows at him. ‘All it would take to get an investigation launched
is one phone call.’
Bishop understood what she was giving him. A way of making amends by throwing the ball back into his court.
It was a start,
at least, and he appreciated the gesture. After all, trust always works best when it’s shared.
He moved forward and sat down on the couch a few inches away from her. Her thighs peeked out from the robe and her deep brown
skin glistened in the morning sun. Everything was close enough to touch and it took all of Bishop’s restraint not to.
Knowing it was too late to go back, he said, ‘All right, so tell me what you found.’
She smiled, held up a finger and walked back to the dining room. A few seconds later, she came back holding some notepaper
which she passed to him. He read,
Box No. 46533, NY
.
Bishop looked at her and said, ‘Are you serious?’
‘Now and then. That number’s located at the Little Neck post office just north of
here and it’s a yearly rental, which means
he’s still active.’
Bishop nodded at the paper in his hand. ‘I’d be interested to know how.’
‘I told you I had a murky past,’ she said. ‘After I saw his old address, I started thinking about inherited properties and
found my way into the New York Land Registry server. I searched for Adam Cortiss and
got three hits. The first two were strike-outs
but the third is a four-bedroom house in a nice area of Nassau County. It was owned outright by a Kenneth Cortiss until his
death in 1996, whereupon it was passed down to his son, Adam. He immediately sold the property to a company called Siren Associates,
whose director goes by the name of Joseph Armitage.’
Bishop frowned and scratched at the stubble on his cheeks. ‘Okay.’
‘So I phoned the current tenant and told her I was from the Realty Regulation Commission and that I was asking tenants in
the area how satisfied they were with their letting agencies. Once she gave me the name, Ashford Properties, I called them
up.’
‘So I’m guessing
Cortiss is still the owner and rents it out,’ Bishop said. ‘Siren’s a ghost company he set up to act as a
buffer between him and Ashford.’
Jenna smiled. ‘A few thousand every month for doing nothing must be hard to pass up, no matter how wealthy you might be. So
anyway, at Ashford I get this self-important little dickweed, and after a lot of wasted energy
he finally gives me the name
of the property lawyer who handles all matters relating to the house: an Alexander Stillson of Kennington, Hartford & Taylor.’
‘A lawyer? He can’t have been too talkative.’
‘Probably not, but I’ve learned you don’t always get the best results by tackling a problem head on. And the fact I’m a woman
doesn’t
hurt.’
Jenna started to knock her knees together like an excitable kid. Her legs had been distracting enough motionless, but this
was too much. Bishop forced himself to stand up and move back to the window so he could concentrate on her words.
‘I asked for his secretary, a Ms Eileen Turnbull, and said I was a new temp from Accounting. I told her
we needed to invoice
Mr Armitage for the last quarter, but that I’d labelled his file a dead account by mistake and deleted his billing address
from the system. Since he was Mr Stillson’s client, would she have it in her address book up there on her PC? And, by the
way, could she keep this to herself as I might lose my job if my lapse ever got out? Eileen knows us girls
got to stick together
and got me that box number in a matter of seconds. She was nice. I liked her.’
Bishop smiled. ‘What’s not to like?’ He nodded at her. ‘You’re quick on your feet, Jenna.’
‘Another echo from my misbegotten youth, although these days they call it “social engineering”.’
He thought for a moment. ‘So if it’s a box number,
it means Cortiss has to be contacted somehow when mail arrives, right?’
‘Sure. I’d imagine he’d use their text alert or automated call system. I know
I
would. If I knew a cheque was waiting for me, I’d want it now, not later.’
‘I agree. So you think a letter will reach him by morning if we make the afternoon post?’
‘Should do. Little Neck’s only
a stone’s throw from here. Hold on.’ She stood and went back into the kitchen, returning with
a pen, a legal pad and some envelopes. Handing them over, she said, ‘I’ll take it down to the mailbox while you shower. What
are you going to write?’
‘Nothing,’ he said. He tore off four blank sheets, folded them over twice and inserted them in an envelope, sealed
and addressed
it, and dropped it onto the table. ‘I’m kind of glad you’re so into puzzles now.’
‘Well, I don’t
just
like puzzles.’ She gave him that half-smile and said, ‘I kind of thought you were smarter than that.’
Danny Costa sat in the thirteen-year-old grey Volvo in a corner space of the residential parking bay behind the apartment
building, and waited patiently for another sighting of Bishop or Jenna Falstaff. The man for professional reasons, the woman
for more personal ones.
Last night, when Danny had reported to Hedison
after the cops’ invasion of the Ambassador, Hedison had looked very interested
when Danny brought up the presence of the woman. And her hesitation outside the house before driving off. When Costa had handed
over the notebook containing the Honda’s licence number Hedison had smiled and said, ‘You know, Danny, I’d put even money
on Bishop seeking this girl out now he’s
run out of places to hide. Leave this with me and I’ll get her address over to you
so you can check her place out.’
Hedison had been true to his word and since then it had been just a matter of keeping watch. Just before midday, the Falstaff
woman had come out to her car and driven off. The target had appeared at the living room window shortly thereafter
with a
towel around his waist. Costa texted Hedison with the news, expecting him to be happy. Instead he was almost indifferent when
he called back, as though it was no surprise that events had played out the way he’d predicted. Danny could hardly blame him.
In all the years they’d known each other, Hedison had rarely put a foot wrong. He told Danny to attach the tracking
equipment
he’d supplied to the woman’s vehicle when she returned, just in case. They didn’t want to lose Bishop a second time.
Costa had done as instructed and all was now well again, for the time being.
One thing was for sure, life always became a lot more exciting when Hedison called. Of course, Costa knew Roy Hedison was
merely the alias
the man had been using when they’d first met ten years ago. But it still felt natural to think of him under
that name, rather than his real one.
When they first met, Hedison was making a name for himself in the Cattrall drug organization for his ability to extract information
from just about anybody put in front of him. Instead of the usual brutal
interrogation methods, his favoured technique was
to kidnap a young female relative of the suspected informer, ply her system with narcotics and then take her in all manner
of ways right in front of the subject. The psychological effect of seeing the girl actually seem to be
enjoying
the rigorous physical invasion was usually more than the informer could stand and he’d soon be
desperate to tell everything
he knew. Once the information was gleaned, Hedison would finish off the subject and either send the girl to join him or arrange
for her to be carted off to one of the organization’s countless prostitution offshoots for additional training towards her
new career. Nothing got wasted.
When Hedison told Costa he needed a
right hand he could trust, he hadn’t realized how loyal a partner he’d found. That their
interests overlapped in so many areas only cemented the relationship and Costa soon became an enthusiastic participant in
their subsequent interrogation sessions, offering suggestions and fine tuning their technique in ways that startled even Hedison.
But then, Costa had always thought
that work should also be fun.
Four years later came the mass arrests of key personnel that signalled the end of Cattrall’s dominance in the market. Hedison
disappeared just before that happened, then showed up at Costa’s door months later, clean-shaven, with his black hair back
to its original colour. Whereupon he’d admitted to being an undercover DEA agent
all along. He said he’d been forced to make
a career change when his bosses had unearthed some of his less orthodox practices while on the job. And that he’d resisted
giving them Costa’s name since loyalty was a quality he valued above all things. There was always work for loyal people.
He’d kept his promise. In the years since, Costa had always been happy
to help out with anything Hedison needed doing. It
was a pleasure to work with someone who planned ahead and always had an answer for every problem. And Hedison always paid
more than he needed to, especially when things got bloody. The jobs often provided their own little bonuses, as well, like
this Jenna Falstaff. A whole range of possibilities loomed there.
Looking up at the apartment windows through the lightly tinted glass of the windshield, the watcher’s thoughts turned to what
Hedison
might have in mind for Bishop. If it were merely a case of removing him a simple 911 call would have done the job, so he was
being kept under surveillance for a specific reason. Apparently, there was something Hedison wanted Bishop
to do, although
Bishop didn’t know it yet.
Costa just sat in the vehicle and watched. And wondered what that something could be.