Barney Tomlinson sat at his desk in his office at the back of his warehouse, blearily staring at the P &L statement on his computer screen. Blindly he reached for the glass on his desk and, finding it empty, reached for the bottle he kept in his drawer.
It was empty, too. With a throttled oath, he chucked the bottle across the room where it bounced harmlessly against the wall. Cheap liquor in plastic bottles.
That’s what his life had come to. Cheap liquor, and no more of that. I’m ruined.
His wife had put a hold on their funds. Some fancy lawyer was going to become rich… on my money. He dropped his head to his hands. “My goddamn money.”
I hope the little whore was worth half your money, his bitch of a wife had sneered. She’d probably get what she was asking. Half of his money. His own lawyer didn’t seem hopeful. When there were pictures involved…
Those damn pictures. He’d sent them. That damn blackmailer. Who ruined my life. He peeked between his fingers to look at the pictures her lawyer had given his lawyer. Barney remembered that night. The sex had been good. Not great, but good. More than anything, Shondra had listened to him. Made him feel… important. Young.
Now that his money was gone, Shondra was gone, too. His bitch of a wife had gotten a good chuckle out of that. He wished she were dead. Shondra and his bitch of a wife. He’d thought it through, looked at all the angles, but every way he looked at it, he’d be the first suspect. At least when the dust cleared, he’d have half of whatever was left.
“Excuse me.”
Barney looked up, brows crunched. A man stood in his doorway, hands in his pockets. He looked familiar, but Barney couldn’t place him.
“We don’t allow soliciting here,” Barney said. “You’ll have to leave.” He started to stand, then sank back into his chair when the man casually pulled a very large gun from his pocket. He was wearing black gloves. Barney’s heart began to beat like all hell. His eyes darted around, finding the phone at the edge of his desk. Too far away to grab.
No one was here. His employees had gone home. Nobody would hear him scream.
“W-we don’t keep cash here,” Barney stammered. “B-but I have a watch.” He started to take it off but the man lifted his gun higher.
“I don’t want your watch, Barney,” the man said mildly. He rounded the desk, shoving the gun’s barrel against the back of Barney’s head.
“Who are you?” Barney demanded, then he knew. “You. You took those pictures. You fucking black- mailed me.”
“Well, technically it was only attempted blackmail. You never paid me, after all.”
“What do you want? I have no more money. You ruined me.”
“No, Barney. You ruined you. You stick your cock in places it ought not go, you gotta accept the consequences.” The man actually sounded amused. “Buh-bye.”
Buh-bye. He’d heard it before. Now he knew who this guy was. “You’re-”
He stepped back from Tomlinson’s body, now face-first on the desk. What was left of his face, anyway. He searched Barney’s pocket, finding keys, his BlackBerry, and the disposable cell he’d provided. Pocketing the keys and BlackBerry, he walked around the desk, careful not to step in any of Barney’s brains. Pausing at the door, he snapped a picture with the disposable cell, then checked to be sure he’d gotten a good one.
He had, indeed. Barney was well centered and the blood contrasted well with the white papers strewn over the desk. It would make a nice visual aid for the next bozo who ignored him. And for the College Four Minus One if they balked.
He hoped the cops would find the hollow-point bullet that had exited Barney’s head and tie it to the dead cop-turned-security-guard. It would let him pull the noose a little closer around the necks of Eric and his friends.
He pulled Barney’s office door closed and, pulling the ski mask over his face, left the way he’d come in. He wasn’t too worried about the cameras. After listening to Albert and Eric discuss their plans, he’d concluded the two had the cameras covered. Besides, the only video that would matter after tonight would be the video he took.
On his way out he unlocked the cage that held Tomlinson’s dog, just as Tomlinson did every night when he left. The dog didn’t like Tomlinson at all. The warehouse manager handled the hound, feeding it and putting it back in its cage where it would pace all day. He hoped Eric and Albert didn’t plan to kill it. It was a beautiful animal.
He closed the back gate and yanked on the twine Tomlinson kept tied to the door of the dog’s cage, just as Tomlinson did every night. The dog bounded out with a ferocious growl, jumping at the fence, teeth bared. Truly a magnificent animal.
Buh-bye, he thought as he got into Barney’s car and drove away. He’d park it a few blocks over, then retrieve his own vehicle. That way when Eric and the gang arrived, they wouldn’t see the car and think anything was amiss-like that Tomlinson was dead inside. They’d start the fire, and by morning, his grip on them would be even tighter.
Monday, September 20, 8:57 p.m.
“I’m in.” Eric was hunched over his laptop, staring at Tomlinson’s company server.
“About time,” was all Albert said, his gaze glued to the television set. He’d been watching the news to get a feel for where the cops were on the condo investigation.
Eric let Albert’s words roll off his back. He couldn’t worry about the two of them right now. He had to figure out how to get past the alarm or there would be no “them” to worry about. It had taken a lot longer than he’d expected to break into Tomlinson’s server, but he was nervous and not thinking, which explained most of the delay.
Opening a folder labeled “Maintenance,” he nodded. “The alarm’s an old design. The documentation here is from a system they bought ten years ago.”
Albert’s jaw clenched. “I don’t care about the make and model. Can you turn it off?”
“Yeah. It’ll be easy. I just have to-”
Albert held up his hand. “Shh. It’s nine.”
On the television, the anchor looked grim. “Good evening. We have an update on the fire that destroyed the lakefront condo last night. Police have identified the female victim as Tracey Mullen. Tracey was just sixteen years old.” The screen split, a photo of a pretty young girl with big brown eyes appearing next to the anchor’s face.
Eric’s stomach turned inside out and he was glad he’d eaten nothing for hours. Tracey Mullen. He stared at the face on the screen, but what he saw was her face pressed against the glass, her mouth open on the scream that echoed in his mind. Next to him, Albert had tensed and Eric wondered if the guilt was eating him like acid, too.
The screen changed to a video of a woman with bright red-orange hair wearing a jacket with SAR printed on the back and holding the leash of a German Shepherd. The woman and the dog entered the burned-out condo while three others looked on-a blond woman, a dark-haired man, and a tall guy wearing a fedora. Hat Squad, Eric thought. The guy with the hat was a homicide detective.
“This was the scene this afternoon as a cadaver dog searched for additional remains in the building,” the anchor’s voice said. “Fortunately, they found none.”
Eric released a breath. At least they’d killed no one else. The girl was a tragedy, but she shouldn’t have been there to begin with.
The video changed abruptly, now grainy and far away. “News 8 has obtained this video, taken with a bystander’s cell phone. You’re looking at the cadaver dog, who, after searching the burned building, continued tracking on the other side of the property, ending up at this stretch of beach. Police captain Bruce Abbott had no comment as to the relevance of the dog’s find on the ongoing investigation.”
The anchor reappeared. “In other news, a fatal car accident claimed the life of Joel Fischer early this morning. Joel’s car ran off the road between his home and the university, where he was a prelaw student. No one else was injured. Funeral services will be tomorrow afternoon…”