The Dominic Wolfe Tales- The Complete Series Page 4

  Inside, a heavyset man dressed for the office approached with a snicker. “Well, I suppose we didn’t come home completely empty handed,” he said. “The woman is nicer on the eyes, but…” He threw up his hands, like, what can you do?

  I glared a dagger through his head.

  He smiled. “Are you familiar with the game Truth or Dare?”

  Before I could think to respond, the triplets wrangled me into a chair and secured me there with long strips of duct tape. One of them pilfered my pockets and collected my wallet and phone. The former was passed on to the boss. My phone? The guy broke it in half like a communion cracker. Asshat. I was at least six months shy of an upgrade on my wireless account.

  “How about I start us off?” the businessman offered. “Get the ball rolling, break the ice. Sound good, mister…” He teased the driver’s license from my wallet. “Wolfe, is it? You can call me Guinness, by the way.”

  I snorted. “Like the drink?”

  He frowned. “Well, I prefer the world record authority, but I suppose if the shoe fits.” He crossed his arms expectantly. “So go ahead, shoot.”

  He looked at me expectantly.

  I set my jaw and looked away. He had told me his name, let me see his face. No matter how I played this, I was a dead man.

  “Okay, okay,” he sighed. “I’ll go with truth. Ask me anything, Mr. Wolfe, and I’ll answer honestly.”

  My eyes narrowed, but I held my tongue.

  “Don’t believe me? Try me. Anything at all, I’ll answer the God’s honest truth. And believe me, Mr. Wolfe—you really don’t want to dare me. I can promise you that.”

  I gave my restraints an experimental stretch. I wasn’t going anywhere.

  “Fine,” I seethed. “How many times a day do you fart? Give or take, I mean.”

  The smile on Guinness’s chubby face twitched.

  “I’ve counted like ten so far, but that might’ve been you talking. Hard to tell the difference.”

  He looked off to one side and gave someone a chin nod.

  Abruptly, a small cart was wheeled into place next to me, on which a laptop computer was glowing in the dim space. It took a few seconds to understand what I was seeing. The closed-circuit security footage of the parking garage was grainy, but clear enough to recognize my own likeness step into view and slip into the back seat of Lyle Jenson’s BMW. A minute or two passed and the back door opened; I relocated to the front passenger seat with a paper bag in hand. The windows were tinted and the awkward angle of the camera obscured whatever was going on inside—small favors—but there was no denying that it was me.

  “That could be anyone,” I scoffed. “You can admit it—us black folks all look alike to you, don’t we?”

  Smiling faintly, Guinness reached over the laptop screen; with a single keystroke, we were now watching a different set of footage. This one showed some camera movement—enough to betray that a person was filming rather than a mounted security camera. The view of an alleyway wavered onscreen, filmed from the vantage of a car across the street from my apartment building. The camera zoomed in just as a mass that could only be a body wrapped in plastic dropped from a window and hit the pavement between two dumpsters. I watched as my digital likeness—a handsome devil, I must admit—sprinted from the front door of the building into the mouth of the alley. A minute or two passed; then Otto’s Suburban backed into the alleyway. He could be seen exiting the vehicle, his front license plate clearly visible. Soon after, Otto and I fled in his truck. Guinness paused the video as the Suburban was nosing into traffic, with my face—and Otto’s—clearly visible.

  “You, Mr. Wolfe have a problem. A very big problem. You see, the man you murdered—never mind your motives, I’m not one to judge—he might very well have saved a young girl’s life. So little was asked of him in return, you know. With him out of the picture though, I’m afraid the onus is on you to make things square.”

  “Uh, did you just say your anus is on me?”

  Guinness ignored the gaffe.

  “Feel like I’m wasting all my good material on you.” I slumped against my restraints, defeated.

  “I must confess, Mr. Wolfe, that it confounds me why you would murder a man in cold blood only to seek out the attentions of his daughter. Surely one of those dating services would be more apropos?”

  I gave him a sidelong glance.

  “She’s a very pretty young lady, is she not? Are the two of you… friends?” He air quoted that last word, as if the innuendo wasn’t clear enough.

  I tried to keep my cool, but my breathing was beginning to accelerate.

  “What do you suppose the beautiful Alexis would make of this video, Mr. Wolfe?”

  My breath was piling up at the back of my throat.

  Guinness chuckled merrily. “That would be entertaining to witness, indeed. Perhaps she and I will munch on popcorn and watch it together, once I get my hands on her.”

  Somewhere in my periphery, I heard a scuffling sound, followed by the squeaking of a spigot. One of the triplets shuffled to my side, dragging a garden hose that terminated in a spray nozzle.

  “And believe me, Mr. Wolfe,” Guinness was saying, “despite your efforts today, my finding Alexis is a foregone conclusion.”

  He sighed, glanced at his watch. “As for you, I’m afraid my patience has run dry. The incident at the bank this morning makes twice you’ve interfered with my business. Important business, Mr. Wolfe. More important than you can possibly wrap your feeble little mind around. So you need to show me some cooperation. Otherwise Alexis and her poor little sister will be the least of your problems. So let’s try this again. Truth or dare?”

  That got the juices flowing. I swallowed. “Where’s Ellie? Is she still alive?”

  Guinness clapped his hand against his thigh. “Excellent! You’re really supposed to say the word truth first, though. And technically you asked two questions, but we’ll just call it a compound question just to keep things moving in the right direction.” He swiveled the laptop so that it faced him, flurried across the keys for a moment and then swiveled the machine to face me once more.

  Onscreen, a little girl was playing with a pile of Legos. The sound of her humming could be heard over the clinking of plastic pieces. I recognized her immediately from the pictures on Lyle’s phone; her location was vague, though—carpeted, dimly lit. The wall behind her was blurred beyond the shallow depth of field, but it had a corrugated look to it. A shipping container, perhaps? Tough to say.

  “Cute little thing, isn’t she?” Guinness chuckled. He dialed a number on his cell phone and from the laptop feed, a ringtone could be heard. Once, twice—then a mumble of greeting.

  “Do it now,” Guinness said, the sound of a grin bleeding through the timbre of his voice.

  When a man reached into view and pulled Ellie her to her feet by the arm, I felt my body tense. A pair of garden shears glimmered in his free hand.

  “Oh, shit!” I blurted. “No-no-no… Please don’t. Please, I’m begging you—don’t do this!”

  But he did. And until the day I die—once and for all, that is—I’ll carry that image with me, wishing to God I could somehow wipe it away.

  Guinness made a sympathetic hissing noise, which could only just be heard above the screams of poor Ellie. Blood gushed from her hand, from the spot where a dainty pinky finger had been only moments ago. Crimson dribbled uninhibited from the wound, splattering onto the Legos.

  And there wasn’t a damn thing I could do about it.

  One of the triplets shut the laptop and shoved the cart off to one side. The businessman stepped to my side now, crouching to position his mouth mere inches from my ear.

  “You really need to consider your questions more carefully, Mr. Wolfe,” he said reasonably. “For example, you might try something like: ‘What can I do to make this right, Mr. Guinness?’”

  I closed my eyes to squeeze off a tear. Poor Ellie. The sound of her screams echoed in my ears. Yet as much as I wanted to
save her, I knew there was nothing I could do for her. Not now, anyway. Not here.

  “So,” Guinness whispered, “here it comes—last chance. Truth or dare?” He stood and clasped his hands expectantly.

  I turned to face him, gritting my teeth. “Dare, you piece of—”

  The water hit me like a brick, full in the face. I tried to hold my breath, writhing for all I was worth against those loops of duct tape. But it was no use.

  CHAPTER 8

  I returned to the land of the living well past sunrise, buried in a dumpster under a mound of garbage bags. I coughed and vomited up water for what seemed like a long time. Long enough to drain what little energy I had in me. I found a capped bottle of something in the bin and swallowed the bitter dregs. Ate what I sincerely hoped was a pizza crust. However revolting, the sustenance helped. Even still, it took an hour or more to muster the energy to climb out of there.

  My wallet was gone, but there was a roll of tens and twenties stuffed into one of my pants pockets, along with a handful of miniature plastic baggies loaded with what might’ve been meth, or even crack. I didn’t have much frame of reference. Had nature been allowed to take its course, I would undoubtedly have been reported as just another victim of a drug deal gone bad. So kudos for their creativity. Of course, one would expect to find turned out pockets in that situation, so pardon me if I take those kudos back.

  Actually, when I later realized where I was, I considered it a minor miracle that someone hadn’t come along to pick me clean during the night. I was in Prospect, after all—not exactly the safest part of town, especially in the cloak of darkness. Not even a dumpster was safe, if the rumors were true.

  A few blocks away, I found a liquor store that was already open. The clerk wouldn’t let me use his phone, but he did direct me to the nearest bus stop.

  It took two bus connections and a fifty-five dollar cab ride to get home.

  Natalie was gone when I got there. I had no idea how she spent her time in my absence; only that she was always there for me when I needed her. Right now I needed a hot shower to clear my head. And food, followed by a stiff drink. I opted to rearrange the order with a phone call to Otto in the middle.

  It was barely noon when I shuffled into the Corner Pocket with half a dozen Bagel Bites burning holes through my stomach lining. Even this early, the place was half full.

  I seated myself at the bar and waited to be noticed. When that failed, I called out, “Hey, Pete.”

  The bartender turned to me with a grin. “Hey, Dom. What’s shakin?”

  “Oh, you know. My soul in the wind.”

  “What can I get you? An Appletini, maybe a Fuzzy Navel?”

  The nearby regulars chuckled over their frothy drafts and snooty lagers.

  I took it on the chin. “How about a nice Pina Colada?”

  Pete laughed. When my expression remained serious, he shook his head. “You and your damn chick drinks.”

  What can I say? I deplored the taste of beer, as well as the bloated feeling that seemed to accompany holding the stuff down. I didn’t mind whiskey so much, except that it had a tendency to push me past my limits rather quickly and without much ado.

  Pete slapped a drink on the bar before me and I folded my arms, sulking. “Where’s my umbrella?”

  The bartender scratched his chin. “Hosted a bachelorette party last night. Musta run out.”

  “My luck, huh?”

  My drink didn’t look right, but I chalked it up to a half-drunk barkeep whose cocktail repertoire generally didn’t venture beyond draft and lite. I tossed a five his direction and took a sip. It wasn’t a Pina Colada. “Not bad. What is it?”

  “That, my friend, is a perfectly respectable White Russian.”

  I took another sip. “Huh. Why didn’t I think of that?”

  Seated to my left, a regular named Franco offered his insight. “Prob’ly cause you’re black,” he cackled. He was built like a roly-poly with a moustache that seemed to flow from his nostrils. I gave him a hard stare until his smirk pruned.

  From behind the building, a train blared a rude hello as it clickety-clacked by on tracks as old as the town itself. Glasses tinkled, conversation lulled.

  Franco laughed nervously. “No offense, Dom. Just teasin’ with ya’.”

  I relocated to the back where the idiots were less hungry for a beatdown. Otto came through the door and made a beeline in my direction, slapping the bar along the way. I took a swig from my drink and caught an ice cube, crunched it to bits. Otto plopped into the chair beside me.

  “Hair of the dog, huh? First time for everything.”

  “Nah. Just recovering from an impromptu walkabout over in Prospect.”

  Otto gave me the same look he once gave me when I confessed that I knew all the words to Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go. “You went footing around Prospect alone? You crazy?” He stared at me with mouth agape, head shaking in consummate disapproval. “Please tell me you were packing.”

  I frowned. “I would love to tell you that, but I really like these pants. I’d hate for them to spontaneously combust.”

  “Did you at least get that safe deposit box thing taken care of?”

  “Not exactly. But I may be a wanted fugitive now—that’s gotta count for something, right?”

  I brought Otto up to speed on the whole miserable experience. He cringed when I got to the death-by-garden hose part, and I had to admit that it was a particularly unpleasant way to go.

  “So what are you gonna do?” he wanted to know. “About the little girl, I mean.”

  “I wish I knew.” The truth was that I understood very little about what was going on.

  Otto sighed. “Well, we gotta do something. What was his name again?”

  “Guinness.”

  “Like the drink?”

  A curt nod of futility.

  Otto whipped out his smartphone and began to poke the screen in earnest.

  “Seriously? Your addiction to Bejeweled is really becoming a problem.”

  “Man, you’re hilarious.” He ignored me for a few minutes and then froze. “This the guy?” he asked, passing me his phone.

  My heart skipped a beat. There the bastard was—surrounded by other executive-types—shaking hands with a couple of fogies in tweed suits. I followed the image trail to its link source, which turned out to be some kind of industrial gazette. It took some scrolling, but I eventually found the image buried in an article at the bottom of the page.

  Published months before, the article identified Borelli—a world renowned manufacturer of high-end sports cars—in one of the industry’s largest class action civil suits ever filed. Loren Guinness was listed as Borelli’s chief legal officer and was quoted more than once in the article.

  More than a year before, Borelli had issued a recall on one of its newest and best-selling models after a series of fatal accidents revealed a faulty component in the braking system. The story bled dry from there, so I did a few searches on Borelli. More recent coverage explained that the lawsuit hinged on charges of gross negligence, which were backed up by a slew of leaked emails; the content of these betrayed a general corporate awareness of the problem long before Borelli handed over the first set of keys. The trial itself was pending, but the public forum seemed to have conducted its own trial already.

  On one hand, this little stint of research had me bored half to sleep. On the other? It struck me as curious; why would the CLO of such a prestigious company—especially one under such scrutiny—dirty his hands in a kidnapping scheme? It didn’t make any sense.

  I was about to bounce this off Otto when I noticed that his mouth had widened to a Cheshire grin. I followed his gaze to the entrance, where Alexis Jenson stood just inside the doorway.

  “Heel, boy,” I muttered. “This one’s mine.”

  CHAPTER 9

  Pete placed a Berry Cosmo on the table and I handed him a twenty.

  Alexis bit her lip. “Oh, um… I ordered a beer?”

  Pete nod
ded. “On its way, Miss,” he promised, then hesitated, raising his bushy eyebrows in a rather unconvincing act of surprise. “Oh, you mean this? This here’s for the little lady.” He scooted the martini glass in my direction and headed back to the bar.

  Stupid asshat. “Still waiting on that umbrella!” I hollered after him.

  Otto groaned, shook his head at the shame of it all. I gave him the stink eye and sipped my drink without picking it up. It tasted like watered down Kool-Aid.

  “So how’d you find me?” I had to ask.

  Alexis shrugged with a half smile. “I have my ways.”

  “I wasn’t sure if I’d ever see you again.”

  “That makes two of us. I thought you were… you know.” Her cheeks flushed. “They just killed that poor man at the bank, like he was—like he was nothing.”

  Pete returned with two beer mugs and placed them before Alexis and Otto. Then—to my utter amazement—he produced a pink and blue umbrella from his shirt pocket and hung it from the edge of my drink. “Here you go, Miss.”

  I was too excited to do more than glower.

  When he was gone, I decided to change the subject. Alexis deserved to know the truth about Ellie, but I needed to learn all I could before dropping that bombshell in her lap. Not to mention that I hadn’t exactly figured out how to spin the whole thing in a way that made sense for me to have walked away alive.

  “Alexis, I’m doing the best I can to piece together what’s happening, but I need your help.” I declared this with confidence because she wouldn’t have been there if she didn’t need my help, too. Right?

  “I’d tell you to stay out of it,” she said, “but I guess it’s a little late for that.” She took a gulp from her beer and fixed me with a gaze, tired and scared. “Are you familiar with Borelli?”