Graveyard Bay Page 15

  Get to the point.

  He continued. “They possess twenty-four eyes. Supposedly, they are one of the few animals that possess a three-hundred-and-sixty-degree view of their environment. Maybe that’s their evolutionary advantage. Eyes in the back of their head, as it were.”

  “Tell me about Bogdan.”

  He tipped the glasses back onto the top of his skull. “Two days ago, he went missing. We don’t know where he is.”

  “What was he doing?”

  The hint of a sneer played on the attorney’s thin lips. “He was looking for someone.”

  “Who?”

  He hesitated for a moment. “Merlin Finn.”

  I’m going to make you model these for me.

  Fear rolled through my extremities again. Bogdan was one of the scariest people you’d ever not want to meet.

  And now there’s someone even scarier?

  “So why are you telling me this? Shouldn’t you be talking to the cops?”

  He lifted his chin and scratched his long neck. “Yes, well, the Tolbonovs and the police don’t have a good working relationship.”

  I unzipped my parka. “I heard that the FBI has been keeping a close eye on Wolfline Contracting. Maybe the feds know where Bogdan is.”

  A sudden flash of anger passed across his face, and his voice grew stern. He hissed, “The FBI has an overly inflated opinion of itself. They serve no purpose other than to harass law-abiding citizens.”

  “What does Valentin think?”

  He took a breath, calmed down. My remark about the FBI hit a nerve. When he spoke again, his usual voice was back, restrained, soft-toned. “This is all off the record, Miss Chase. And if it comes up in a court of law, I’ll deny what I’m telling you.”

  Of course it is.

  “Okay. Off the record.”

  “Because of the attention being lavished upon the Tolbonov brothers by federal law officials, Wolfline Contracting has been shedding all operations that might be interpreted as being outside of normal legal parameters.”

  “What?”

  He sighed in exasperation. “Wolfline is going legit.”

  I frowned. “What does that look like?”

  “No more escort services, no gaming, no pharmaceuticals.”

  “No prostitution, sex trafficking, gambling, and drugs? Is that what you’re telling me?”

  He slowly nodded, glancing around to make sure nobody else was within earshot.

  “How about murder, extortion, and blackmail?”

  Eric’s nostrils flared. He answered, crossing his arms, and his eyes bore into mine. “Plus, there was always the specter of the Caviness notebook finding its way into the wrong hands. Better to be proactive.”

  The notebook again.

  “What’s their new line of work?”

  “Property development. The new name of the company is Wolfline Management.”

  “So again, why are you telling me all this?”

  He turned back to staring at the hypnotic movements of the jellyfish. “Mr. Tolbonov is convinced that his brother is dead. He knows that the new owners of your newspaper don’t like you very much. He fears for your job. He knows that you’re raising a teenager and money is important. Mr. Tolbonov is willing to pay you fifty thousand dollars if you can find his brother…or locate his remains. And another fifty thousand if you can find Merlin Finn.”

  How does Valentin Tolbonov know I’m having problems with Galley Media?

  I hadn’t yet told anyone at the newspaper that I was taking a new job.

  Is there a mole at the Sheffield Post?

  And even with the new job with Lodestar, a hundred thousand dollars would go a long way for Caroline’s college fund.

  I squinted at the attorney. “How do I know I’ll ever see the money?”

  Eric smiled. “Valentin Tolbonov always pays his debts.”

  * * *

  He left before I did.

  Not in any particular hurry, I stopped by the massive shark tank and sat down. Watching as sand tigers, nurse sharks, and sandbar sharks gracefully but slowly maneuvered in circles around the edge of the glass, surrounded by schools of grouper and other reef fish, I tried to relax and consider what had just happened.

  This exhibit was much larger than the jellyfish room, and it too was dimly lit, the light emanating from above the tank. People were drawn to the big predators. The voices of the audience were hushed, the patrons mesmerized.

  Whenever I’d been in that exhibit and taken a few minutes to appreciate the slowly moving tableau, the question would come up. Why don’t the sharks eat the other fish in the tank?

  The answer was, “Because the aquarium keeps the sharks well fed. There’s no need for the sharks to attack and eat the other fish.”

  Yes, but what happens if the sharks get hungry again?

  Eric Decker had offered me a hundred thousand dollars to find what was left of Bogdan Tolbonov and locate the murderous Merlin Finn.

  I didn’t say no.

  This was a breach of ethics, a conflict of interest to the newspaper. But how much did I owe them now?

  I didn’t say yes.

  By not saying anything, had I tacitly agreed to the bargain? Was I working for the Russians?

  I stayed for a few more moments and then went to the exit. I was going to call John Stillwater and tell him about the meeting I’d just had with Eric Decker but decided it would be better done in the warmth of my car.

  I trotted back across Water Street, used the kiosk to pay my parking fee then took the elevator up to the second level where my car was parked. I patted myself on the back for remembering the floor and the location of the Sebring. Even sober, I often forget where I park.

  I pulled my scarf up over my chin and mouth. I was parked on level two, and because the garage was essentially open to the elements, the cold air off Long Island Sound whipped through the parking area like a wind tunnel. As I walked from the elevator toward my car, I could hear the sound of my boots clicking against the concrete floor and echoing off the walls.

  What’s that?

  I stopped dead in my tracks.

  There was a white square planted under my driver’s side windshield wiper.

  What the hell?

  I quickly scoped out my surroundings. Only parked cars. Not another soul to be seen.

  I stepped gingerly up to my car and with a trembling hand gently plucked the folded-up piece of paper out from under the wiper. Surprised at how my hand shook, I opened it. The handwriting was identical to the note that had been hidden in my panty drawer.

  Put your nose in my business, little girl, and I’ll slice it off.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Something inside me snapped. I put a hand up to my mouth to keep from crying out. My eyes darted everywhere at once.

  Is he hiding somewhere, watching me?

  I unlocked my car and slid into the driver’s seat, locking the doors.

  For all the good that’ll do.

  Hands shaking, I reached into my bag for the phone to punch in Mike Dillon’s number.

  No.

  I started to punch in John’s number.

  The phone chirped and buzzed in my hand. My heart pumped even harder.

  “Genie?”

  “John?”

  “Genie? Are you okay?”

  How does he know?

  He answered my unasked question. “What are you doing at the aquarium?”

  The GPS in my bag.

  My words came out in a tumble. “I met with Eric Decker. Bogdan’s missing. Tolbonov wants to pay me to find him. And find Finn too.” I stopped for a beat.

  “What?”

  I took a deep breath to steady my voice. “I came back to my car and found a note on my windshield. I think Finn wrote it.”r />
  “What? When? Where are you?”

  Holding my cell phone to my ear with one hand, I leaned over and rummaged through my bag, looking for the half-empty bottle of Absolut.

  In my bedroom, damn it.

  “You know where I am.” I snapped my answer. Stress was taking a toll.

  Calm down.

  “I’m in my car in the parking garage across from the aquarium.”

  “Get out of there. Meet me someplace public.”

  I thought for a moment of where the best place to meet him was. “Brick’s. It’s a pizza place that has a bar in the back. It’s just a few blocks from here, in South Sheffield. Meet me there.”

  “I’m on my way.”

  I put the phone down and backed the Sebring out of the parking spot. Just before I put the car into drive, I glanced down at the sheet of paper, open on the passenger’s seat. I brushed it off like a spider onto the floor.

  Then, attempting to stay calm and not gun the gas, I gently moved forward, down the ramp to the first level, heading for the exit.

  Wait, get a grip.

  There must be video. Security footage. I parked in a spot close to the office where I’d just paid the fee. Turning off the car and locking it behind me, I rushed toward the office in the lobby facing Water Street.

  Consistent with the outer facade of the building itself, the walls were red brick, decorated with photographs of the city and Long Island Sound taken from the top level of the garage, five stories above the street. The floor in the lobby was simple black-and-white tiling. Two red kiosks were embedded in the wall where people inserted their parking voucher and paid their fee, either in cash or by credit card.

  There was an anteroom where the security guard sat. I saw him behind a sliding glass window overtop a counter cut into the wall. I judged him to be in his late sixties, most likely retired from his full-time career and discovering that without at least part-time employment, his Social Security check wouldn’t be enough to keep the cable bill paid and the lights on.

  He was dressed in a white shirt, blue cardigan sweater, and tan slacks. Seated at a gray metal desk, he was nearly hidden behind three large computer screens. But his attention was riveted to the paperback book he was surreptitiously holding in his hands, just below the level of the desktop.

  I rapped on the window.

  He glanced up, looking slightly embarrassed. He shouted, “Is the kiosk not working again?”

  I pointed to the computer terminals. “Do you have video?”

  He stood up and blinked at me through bifocals. Moving to his side of the window, he slid it open. “What did you say?”

  I saw by the badge pinned to his shirt that his name was Phil.

  “Someone just left a threatening note on my windshield. I’d like to look at your security footage to see who it was.”

  He appraised me for a moment. “Did you ding somebody’s car?”

  “No, someone’s stalking me. I want to see who it is.”

  “Well, young lady, best you should call the police. I’m not supposed to be lettin’ people back here to look at the videotapes.”

  I crossed my arms and locked my attention on his left hand. He was still holding the paperback, a Michael Connelly mystery. “Cops are going to ask why you didn’t see what happened. You going to tell them you had your nose in a novel?”

  He chewed on his lip for a moment and squinted at me. “I was just takin’ a short break.”

  “Please?”

  He heaved a heavy sigh. “Okay, but let’s make it snappy. Don’t want somebody from the parkin’ authority to walk in and see you back here. I could get fired.” He reached down and pressed a button under the counter, and I heard the lock in the metal door snap open.

  The office, not much bigger than a closet, was dominated by the single desk, one chair, and three computer screens sitting on the desktop. Phil seated himself, and I stepped behind him. The three screens were segmented into four rectangles each, different scenes from different locations inside the garage and on the rooftop.

  “I was on Level 2. This happened about five minutes ago.”

  He moved the mouse until the pointer on the middle terminal rested on Level 2, then backed the video up. Time in reverse, I watched my Sebring slide from its present location going backward up the ramp, then slightly past an empty parking place, then pull in, front end first.

  I was disappointed to see that the camera was on the opposite side of the wide expanse so that my car was partially obscured by a GMC Yukon. With the video still running in reverse, I could barely see myself get out of my car, glancing around the area, looking for bad guys, then read the note, put it on the windshield, and walk backward toward the elevator, disappearing behind the doors.

  Moments later, we both watched as a large, black Lincoln Navigator rolled backward and parked in front of my car.

  Phil made the video skip ahead so when he hit the button, we were moving forward in time instead of going backward. The Lincoln, also obscured by the GMC SUV, pulled up to my back bumper. It sat idling for a few moments, then a door swung open, and a man got out of the driver’s side.

  Too small to be Merlin Finn.

  He was dressed in black slacks and a black winter coat, the hood pulled over his head, a scarf hiding the lower half of his face. The man glanced furtively around the garage, then quickly went to my windshield and deposited the note.

  Somebody other than Finn had written it?

  Then, as if to answer my unasked question, the rear door swung open, and another man stepped out of the SUV. Massive, tall with broad shoulders, he was also in black slacks, black coat, hood pulled up, dark scarf pulled up over the lower half of his face. All I could see were his dark, piercing eyes.

  An uncontrollable shudder shook my frame.

  Merlin Finn.

  I’m going to make you model these for me.

  Bastard.

  He stepped to one side so that the Yukon wasn’t hiding him. He knew where the camera was. He was staring dead at it. Finn ran a single finger across his throat.

  Son of a bitch is warning me, threatening me.

  Phil glanced up at me with a worried expression on his face. “That the guy who’s stalkin’ ya?”

  I nodded.

  Phil’s voice was barely a whisper. “He’s scary.”

  I felt my heart quicken again as fear slid through my veins. “How many exits are there in this garage?”

  “Just the one.”

  “Is there a camera there?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Can we see if we can get the license plate?”

  He scrabbled at the keyboard, and then we went through video time-stamped from the second the Lincoln left Level 2 to the point where we watched the white-and-yellow exit gate rise and the Lincoln pull out onto Water Street.

  Phil whispered, “There’s no front plate. Connecticut, you gotta have both a back and front plate.”

  I straightened up. Finn wasn’t stupid. He’d taken the front plate off, knowing that there’d be a camera at the exit.

  But how did he know I’d be at the aquarium?

  Either he was following me…or he was following Eric Decker.

  Chapter Twenty

  There are plenty of fancy restaurants and trendy dance clubs in South Sheffield, but Brick’s isn’t one of them. It’s your basic neighborhood pizza joint with a tiny bar tucked away along the back wall. It’s dark, it’s quiet, and it’s a good place to talk.

  Plus, it’s a place where it’s unlikely any corporate types from Galley Media might walk in at that time of the day.

  Brick’s was only a couple of blocks from the aquarium and I could have easily walked there. But it was cold outside, and I wanted to get my car and myself away from that cavernous parking garage.

  Where the hell
is John?

  I glanced at my watch.

  He should have been here by now.

  I breathed slowly in and out. The rough edges of the last fifteen minutes were starting to flatten out, nerves settling back down, heart pumping normally, hands steady. I raised one to signal the young man behind the bar for service.

  “A little early in the day, isn’t it?”

  I turned when I heard the familiar voice. It was John standing behind me in his insulated leather coat, his longish hair tousled by the wind, peering at me through his black-rimmed glasses.

  I answered him. “Not for me, not for what I found on my windshield.” I turned to the kid behind the bar. “Vodka tonic.”

  “What can I get you?” The bartender directed the question to John.

  “You got any coffee back there?”

  “Yes, sir. We’ve got a fresh pot on.”

  When the young man rushed off, I felt slightly embarrassed that I’d ordered a drink during the middle of the day while John was caffeinating.

  While he stripped off his coat and hung it on the back of his barstool, I caught his eye. “Where have you been? I was starting to think something happened to you.”

  He sat down and adjusted his glasses. “I circled the block a couple of times to see if anyone was watching this restaurant or your car.”

  “See anything?”

  He shook his head. “Let me see the note.”

  I took it out of my coat pocket and quickly handed it to him. I hated even touching it.

  He unfolded the sheet of paper, flattened it against the bar, and studied it. “Block letters. Looks like the same handwriting as the note you found in your house yesterday.”

  “Yup.”

  The young bartender came by with my vodka and John’s cup of coffee. “Cream or sugar?”

  “Black is fine.” John held up the note and looked more closely at it. “Huh.”

  “What?”

  “The paper.”

  “What about it?”

  He put it down on the bar again and took a sip of his coffee. “For bar coffee, this is pretty damned good.”

  “What about the paper?” I took a hit off my drink.