Ramsey's Gold

Chapter Six

The sun was setting by the time Drake landed at the San Jose airport, the afternoon flight from Seattle having been delayed for two hours. He exited into the parking lot and made his way to his car, anxious to spend some serious computer time running down the right Jack Brody, which he’d failed to do on his tablet, adding to the frustration of being stranded at the airport.

Pink and orange ribbons of high clouds marbled the twilight sky as he pulled out of the lot. When he rolled down his window to pay the attendant, the air felt heavy and moist with the approach of a springtime storm. The ride home was typically slow as the tail end of rush hour clogged the freeways, and he was seized by an unexpected bout of melancholy as he inched past endless anonymous strip malls and car dealerships, altars of commercialism in a land that worshipped consumption.

Two days of newspapers had collected on the stoop of his apartment when he eventually made it home. He kicked them aside and pushed the door open before stepping inside and glancing around. Drake paid too much rent every month for his one-bedroom unit in Menlo Park, where the local economy was driven by Silicon Valley economics that had spread like a metastasizing tumor, making the entire southern peninsula impossibly expensive for those not involved in software or the development of specialized electronics. He flipped on the light and moved into the laughably small section of the apartment allocated to dining.

Drake retrieved the three bundles of hundred-dollar bills from his pockets and set them on the table, pausing to consider how little space almost thirty thousand dollars occupied. Eyeing the princely sum, he was struck by how inconsequential the pile of currency appeared. It seemed like a cheat. It would have taken him six to eight months of skip-tracing and apprehending felons to make that much — the better part of a year risking his life, and that’s all it looked like.

He left the money and walked into the kitchen. After a quick scan of his bare cupboards, he pulled the refrigerator open and studied the contents with dismay: a loaf of moldy wheat bread, four high-caffeine sodas, a bag of leftovers from an Italian meal from four days ago, and seven bottles of Rolling Rock beer. He retrieved the white polystyrene container and eyed the half lasagna inside skeptically. After a few cautious sniffs he slid it into the microwave with a shrug and opened one of the beers.

The damned journal had put him in a morose mood he couldn’t seem to shake. Compared to his father’s life, his was as mundane as a fry cook’s. While Dad had been planning a journey into the Amazon jungle every night after work, what did Drake have to show for his efforts? A dead-end job chasing derelicts, a car on life support, and a nonexistent love life. A fine state of affairs for a promising student who’d graduated near the top of his class, ‘a gifted writer with a keen analytical mind,’ as one of his professors had enthused. All that had done him zero good in the real world. He couldn’t even get a job writing copy for one of the ad agencies in the Valley, and his freakish ability to spot patterns hadn’t translated into any career advantage, even if it had enabled him to coast through his math and science classes.

The ping of the microwave pulled him from his reverie, and the odor of questionable Sicilian surprise wafted through the space. He unceremoniously pushed the money on the dining room table aside and sat down with his feast, which he consumed with plastic utensils provided by the Lebanese couple who’d bafflingly chosen Italian cuisine as their specialty.

He chewed the tough layers of suspect pasta with mechanical determination, his mind elsewhere. As he swallowed the last bite, he checked his watch and considered his options for the evening. The choices were hitting one of the local watering holes and throwing some of his newfound wealth around in the hopes of attracting female company, or settling in for a long evening of plodding research as he attempted to triangulate his father’s friend. An image of himself standing in a darkened bar, hundred-dollar bills plastered all over his naked body, sprang to the forefront of his imagination. Perhaps he could construct an elaborate fan of hundreds, like a strutting peacock’s tail, announcing his mating availability to the willing hens…

The visual convinced him to opt for research, although he rewarded his diligence with another beer, the green bottle his companion for another tedious night of solitude in front of a flickering screen.

Lynch yawned as he finished with the pile of paperwork on his desk and stared at it like it was toxic waste — always a reliable indicator it was time to call it a day. He’d attended to all his pressing matters, having arranged for an automatic transfer to Drake and executed the remainder of the instructions in Patricia’s will.

He’d been less than forthcoming about his relationship with Patricia, true, but he saw no reason to complicate a simple transaction with irrelevant personal history. The truth was that he and Patricia had been an item two decades ago — a long time by any measure.

It had been forever since he’d seen her. He’d helped her change her name when she’d moved to a small town in Idaho after her brother had died. But maintaining their long-distance affair had grown increasingly difficult over the years, made more so by Patricia’s dawning awareness that Lynch was never going to leave his wife and children for her, and that any hope he would was as misguided as many of the other choices that had sculpted her life. He’d been surprised that she’d kept him on as executor of her will, but it made a certain sense, he supposed. He was good at his job, even if possessed of considerable moral elasticity in his personal affairs.

His secretary ducked her head in to say goodnight, and he admired the fit of her skirt as she left, as he found himself doing more often — always a dangerous sign, he knew from prior entanglements. No matter how tempted, he wouldn’t poach in his employee pool. It was one rule he made sure to never break, even if she did have the easy glide of a tigress with the smoldering looks to match.

Lynch shook off his mental meandering and rose. The work could wait. He was tired, and his longsuffering spouse would be waiting at home, a delicious meal prepared, a passable Bordeaux open on the table. He ran his fingers through his hair, thankful that unlike his father he still had most of it, and moved to the door, where his tailored suit jacket hung on a hook.

The offices were still as he walked through the suite. He was turning off the last of the lights when the front door opened and two men entered. Lynch regarded them, his briefcase in hand, taking in their cheap suits and rugged features.

“I’m sorry. We’re closed,” he said.

The taller of the two, around the same age as Lynch, perhaps a little younger judging by the amount of gray in his crew-cut hair, offered a smile as warm as a cadaver’s.

“Michael Lynch?” he asked, the two words thick with an accent — Russian, Lynch thought fleetingly before responding.

“Yes, that’s right. But I’m afraid you’ll have to come back during business hours.”

The shorter man moved surprisingly quickly, covering the distance between them in a blink, and Lynch barely had time to register the blow to his abdomen before a wave of nausea washed over him and the room spun.

When he regained consciousness, it was dark. It took him several moments to realize he was in the conference room. His stomach felt like he’d been hit by a car. He tried to move, intending to probe the tender area, but found himself immobilized. He heard a rustle to his left, and turned his head to where one of the intruders was sitting, staring at him. The man leaned forward and cleared his throat.

“Mr. Lynch. This is not a robbery. I am here to obtain certain information. As you may have guessed, I am willing to do whatever is necessary to get it.”

The accent was definitely Russian, the voice cultured but menacing. Made more so by the fact that Lynch had been tied to the chair. Testing his bindings, he quickly calculated the time: The cleaning crew would be there by nine; he’d been preparing to leave at seven thirty. So depending on how long he’d been out, if he could stall them…

He looked at his captor. “I’m an attorney. There’s no money here other than a petty cash box. No stock certificates, no bonds,” he sputtered.

“Perhaps my English is not as good as I imagine it to be. I said this is not a robbery.”

Lynch looked at him, confused, noting the scarring on his face, the nose broken numerous times, his eyes wide set, the cheekbones high, typically Slavic. “Then I don’t understand.”

The man scowled and shook his head. “I will attribute your confusion to having lost consciousness. This one time. But I must warn you that my associate here will not display such patience. So again. I am here for information, not to rob you.”

Lynch felt a stab of fear. Whatever he was, the man was clearly dangerous — as if his current predicament wasn’t sufficient evidence.

“Information?”

“Yes. You are handling the affairs of a Patricia Marshall. Or should I say, Patricia Ramsey?”

Lynch tried to control the flit of his eyes, but couldn’t.

The Russian nodded. “I see the name is familiar to you. Let us dispense with any further games, Mr. Lynch. I know you are handling her affairs. I require information about her. Everything about her. What she bequeathed, and whom she left it to.”

“I…Patricia Marshall? I don’t…that’s a nothing case. A simple will. Winding up her business and her leases on her home and shop. There’s nothing to tell.”

The conference room opened and the shorter man entered carrying a paper cutter and a pair of scissors, the blades glinting from the hallway light. He set them on the table.

“Mr. Lynch, allow me to introduce ourselves: I am Vadim and this is Sasha, who you met earlier, but I fear not under the best of circumstances. Sasha is expert in interrogation. And after twenty years in the Siberian prison system, more so than any man on the planet. Sasha and I have experienced things I will not burden your soul with.” He paused, allowing his words to sink in. “I mention this because I do not want our discussion to be more unpleasant than it has to be. You will tell us what we need to know. Everything. You will beg to tell us things we have not even asked for. Your deepest secrets. Those of your clients. Passwords, account numbers, crimes. In the end there will be nothing between us.”

Lynch refrained from commenting, the blood draining from his face.

“Da, you will talk,” Sasha echoed with assurance.

“This is your opportunity to make things easy on yourself. Tell us everything about the will. Start with telling me where it is. After I have read it, I will know exactly what questions to ask.”

“What do you want to know? Tell me, and maybe I can help you,” Lynch tried, hoping to drag out the discussion.

“As I just spelled out to you, I want the will. Where is it?”

“I…it’s in a safe deposit box at the bank.”

The Russian sighed, an exhausted sound like a winter wind, containing the weariness of the world. “It is obvious you do not fully comprehend your situation. Sasha? Start with Mr. Lynch’s left hand. When he has lost those fingers perhaps he will think twice about trying to delay the inevitable.”

“No. Really. I’m not lying,” Lynch insisted, his tone now panicked.

“Perhaps. But perhaps you are still playing games with us. Say goodbye to your little friends. It is regrettable that it has to come to this. Because you will tell everything.”

Twenty minutes later, Lynch had.

Sasha rooted in the office refrigerator for a bottle of cold water then moved to the sink to rinse the blood splatter off his face, taking care not to touch anything — not that it would have mattered much, since his fingerprints weren’t on any records in the U.S. Still, it was better to be prudent than foolhardy.

Vadim glanced at his watch and spoke softly in Russian before gesturing to the entry doors. After a final sweep around the suite, they slipped out of the office and down the emergency stairs, soundless as wraiths, leaving the unlucky attorney’s mangled, lifeless body to be found by the janitor.