Ramsey's Gold

Chapter Seven

Drake came to with a start, a metallic taste in his mouth from the dubious cuisine and the beer, and realized he’d fallen asleep at his computer station at some point. He coughed as he sat up, ignoring the pain in his sacroiliac and the tingling as blood and feeling returned to the arm he’d rested on. He stood and stretched before padding to the kitchen to get a glass of water and some aspirin — a commodity he always had on hand, no matter how barren his larder.

He eyeballed his watch and blinked. It was seven a.m., so he’d slept for three hours. No wonder he felt like the floor of a rest-stop bathroom. He took a cautious sniff of his armpit and winced. Time to clean up, no doubt.

The warm spray of the shower revitalized him, and his mind began replaying where it had left off. He’d narrowed the field to twenty-two men who were in Jack’s probable age range. Now it was a matter of doing the grunt work, calling each to see how they reacted to a few key questions. A process he was more than familiar with.

Ignoring the pungent odor of fish rot from the prior day’s disastrous chase wafting from his dirty clothes basket, he pulled on a fresh shirt and a pair of dark brown cargo pants. In the kitchen, he double-loaded his coffee maker and stood like a contrite penitent waiting for it to spurt forth alertness.

After his second cup of coffee, he munched on a stale breakfast bar he’d been avoiding for months and returned to his computer, where he pulled on a headset and opened his voice-over-IP software.

The first Jack he called was in Trenton, New Jersey, three hours ahead, so it was more than past wake-up time. The man answered on the third ring.

“Hello?”

“Yes, hello. I’m Frank Lombard, with the Nellis law firm. How are you this morning?”

“Who?”

“Frank Lombard. With the Nellis law firm. Is this Jack Brody?”

“Uh, sure. Whaddaya want?”

“I’m handling an estate, and I’m looking for the Jack Brody who’s named in the will.”

“Will?”

“Yes. If you wouldn’t mind, can I ask a couple of questions?”

“That’s one.”

“Yes, it is. Thanks for helping out. Do you know a Patricia Ramsey?”

Drake listened attentively, every fiber of his being keying in on tone, word choice, volume, breathing, timing.

“Who?”

“Patricia Ramsey. Or does the name Ford mean anything to you?”

“I drive one. Hell of a truck. Although I’ve had a few crap ones the first model year.”

“Thank you for your time, Mr. Brody.”

Drake hung up and scratched the first name off his list. Forty-five minutes later, he struck pay dirt. A woman’s voice answered the phone, and he asked for Jack. Her voice sounded young.

“Who’s calling?”

“Frank. Frank Lombard. Is he there?”

“I don’t know any Frank Lombard.”

“No, I wouldn’t expect you to. Who am I speaking with?”

Long pause.

“His daughter.”

“Ah. Very good. Is he home?”

“What can I tell him the call is regarding, Mr. Lombard?”

Drake sighed, hoping the exasperation of the long-suffering cog in the machine carried over the phone line and engendered sympathy, or at least kinship. “It’s a personal matter. A legal matter, actually. I’m with the Nellis law firm.” He paused. “Long distance,” he added, hoping to hurry the process along.

“You should get a calling plan. Hang on,” she said, and then the phone clattered as it struck a hard surface and bounced. A minute later a gruff male voice picked up.

“Yeah? What’s this about?”

“Jack Brody?”

“You got him. Now answer my question.”

Drake went through his introduction and began his interrogative. At the first question, he got what he was looking for. A hesitation. An instant too long to be innocent.

“Patricia? Mmm, no, can’t say as that rings any bells. Where was she from?”

“Idaho.”

“Idaho? Son, Texas is a long way from Idaho. Sorry I can’t help you.”

“You’re sure you never heard of her? The estate’s rather significant.”

“Story of my life. You got the wrong Jack, Jack. Good hunting,” he said, and hung up.

Bingo.

Drake had been doing skip-tracing long enough to recognize the subtle tells. This was his Jack. Drake checked the address on his computer screen and executed a Google Earth search to find the nearest airport to Flatonia, Texas.

Which was Austin.

Fifteen minutes later he’d packed an overnight bag, stuffed all his money in his pockets, and called the airline to book a flight departing in three hours, which he could just make out of San Jose if traffic wasn’t bad. He took the stairs to the parking area two at a time, energized in spite of his lack of sleep. As he started the car and let it warm up, he called Harry.

“New Start Bail Bonds,” Betty answered, her voice perennially cheerful.

“Betty. It’s Drake. Harry there?”

“He just got in. Hang on a moment, mmkay?”

Harry’s voice came on the line after a brief pause. “What — are you in jail?”

“No. I’m taking your advice. Heading out of town for a few days.”

“Wow. Look at you. Where you going?”

“Texas. I’ve never been there.”

“Why Texas?”

“Looking up old friends around Austin. Taking some time off. Wasn’t that what you advised?”

“Yeah. Have a good time.”

“I will. And I wanted to ask you straight. Will there be a job for me whenever I decide to return to lovely Menlo Park?”

The extended silence on the line said everything.

“Look, kid…”

“No problem, Harry. We had a good run, didn’t we?”

“Sure. Sure we did. Hey, when you get back, I’ll buy you a beer. We can talk about it. That’s all I can promise. I gotta see what happens in the meantime.”

“Yeah. Absolutely. Hopefully you don’t get sanctioned or investigated or anything.”

“Too late. They’re already nosing around.”

“I’m sorry, Harry. Really.”

“Goes with the territory. Safe travels, okay? Have a couple for me.”

“You bet.”

The freeway flowed like cold molasses, cars creeping forward in fits and starts. Drake was reminded of his lowly position in the food chain as Teslas and Mercedes sedans battled for advantage in the migration south, the late rush hour the province of the wealthy and privileged making their way from multimillion dollar estates in Palo Alto and Atherton, long after their underlings had migrated lemminglike in pursuit of their daily bread. A neon billboard announcing a sporting event at a corporate-named stadium caught his eye, and he wondered absently whether there had ever been a time when things had just been things, and not advertising opportunities.

He parked at a discount lot and rode the shuttle bus to the terminal. After being frisked, X-rayed, and eyed suspiciously, he was on the plane, waiting to take off, his seatmate a hirsute woman of generous proportions who was reading a romance novel with all the intensity of a mullah studying scripture.

Then the engines kicked in with a roar and he was pressed back into his seat as the plane leapt forward, rocketing down the strip of black and vibrating like it was going to come apart before hurtling into the cloudy sky.

Sasha and Vadim sauntered down the concrete path toward their destination. The grounds of the complex were deserted, everyone at work or at school. When they arrived at the unassuming door, they knocked and affected pleasant expressions. Nobody answered. They tried again, and when their second attempt met with silent indifference, Vadim blocked the exterior patio with his bulk while Sasha went to work on the lock. They were in thirty seconds later, and after a quick glance through the condo, Vadim shook his head — their target wasn’t there.

“Search it,” he growled in Russian.

Sasha took the bedroom while Vadim went through the living area, but neither found anything.

“We missed him,” Sasha said, his voice quiet but intense. He moved to the kitchen and opened the fridge, then snorted in disgust. “This place is a right dump. Are you sure this is our boy?”

“You saw the contact information. It’s him all right. What kind of a name is Drake, anyway?”

Sasha removed a soda, eyed the ingredients, then put it back. Vadim raised one eyebrow and pointed at the computer. He moved to it and sat down, and then opened the Internet browser with a black-gloved hand.

Ten minutes later they left the apartment as silently as they’d entered, their pace unhurried, to any observers two gentlemen without a care in the world, their suits out of place for the casual chic of the area, but not so much as to draw close scrutiny.