‘I helped Jackson to his feet, but he . . . well, he threw up.’ A slight grimace. ‘He had a fever and I wasn’t sure what to do with him, so I dialed “one” to get Mr Blackwell’s cell phone, but all I got was voicemail again. So I left a message with Blackwell, cleaned Jackson up, called him a cab, and sent him home. When I was cleaning him up, I found a bottle of cough syrup in his pocket. That could have been the alcohol I smelled on his breath. I saved the bottle in case you wanted to see it.’
Ken let out a slow breath, counting to ten. ‘And you just . . . sent him home.’
‘Yes, sir. In a cab, sir.’ A slight hesitation, then Decker barreled forward. ‘Jackson is a good man, Mr Sweeney. He’s loyal. I worked a few shifts with him when I was in personal security. We weren’t exactly friends, but we did share a few meals. I didn’t think he’d drink on the job. I was glad to find the cough syrup. Maybe it reacted with another medication he’d taken, I don’t know.’
‘I’ll send someone to check on him.’ And someone else to check on Blackwell. ‘I take it that you took it upon yourself to go to IT?’
A single nod, no regret on Decker’s face. ‘Like I said, the computer was still blinking with the 501 code. I assumed no one had taken care of it, and you’d made it clear you didn’t want to be called back, so I went to IT to find out what was going on. I was part of security before I got hurt. I didn’t think this was a huge issue.’
And that was where Decker was wrong. He’d been part of the legitimate security arm. The tracker wasn’t. But he had been right about one thing – the tracker alarm needed to be attended to, and quickly. Someone had escaped and could even now be revealing all to the police.
The escapee could not identify Ken, but he or she would probably report their owner. While the vast majority of the owners knew better than to identify Ken as their distributor, sometimes a customer tended to be less discreet when questioned by the authorities. Sometimes those customers needed a little reminder to keep their mouths shut. Some reminders needed to be stronger – and more permanent – than others.
‘All right,’ Ken said calmly. ‘What did you learn in IT?’
‘Not much. As I said, Sean told me that the 501 code meant tracker tampering. He brought the tracking map up on his computer and swore when he saw the tracker’s last location.’
‘Last location?’
‘Apparently the battery died, sir, at the corner of Fourteenth and Race.’
That was two blocks from CPD headquarters. Ken’s gut convulsed, but he managed to suppress his agitation. ‘I see. Did Sean identify the tracking unit?’
‘No, but the number on his screen was 3942139-13.’
Ken’s brows lifted. ‘You have a good memory.’
‘Not really. I wrote it down.’ Decker held up his left hand, showing the number he’d scrawled on his palm with a black Sharpie.
Ken unlocked his desk drawer and ran his finger over the spines of the notebooks stored there, checking the dates. These notebooks held all his most personal notes and records. As much as he loved gadgets, he did not trust any computer system to keep his personal data secure. The only way anyone was getting access to his notebooks was by taking the key from his cold, dead fingers.
He chose the notebook he’d used three years before, found the tracker’s serial number in the index, then flipped to the correct page. The tracker had been assigned to Charles ‘Chip’ Anders, who lived with his wife and daughter in Hyde Park.
I remember him. Anders was a tall, thin man who’d made his first million honestly enough, but for whom a merely comfortable lifestyle had not been enough. He’d been spurred to earn more by his brash wife, who’d grown up solidly middle class. Mrs Anders had wanted diamonds and furs, a vacation home in France. Servants. She’d wanted to hobnob with the rich and famous.
Ken inwardly winced. Her words. Certainly not his own.
Anders himself had craved the power he could broker among that same crowd. So he’d expanded his businesses, riding a swell of prosperity, until the market tanked and Anders’s factories were no longer churning out the profits he required to support his new lifestyle.
Which was when Ken had stepped in, offering him a way to keep it all. To have his cake and eat it too.
Anders personal fortune had rebounded and he’d returned to giving his wife and daughter everything their greedy little hearts had desired. The daughter drove a luxury car and attended an Ivy League school. Anders and his wife had bought a house in an exclusive Cincinnati community where they’d partied with the wealthy elite, “hobnobbing” until the cows had come home.
There had been costs involved, of course. And responsibilities. And consequences for carelessness.
‘The customer received five trackers,’ Ken said. He had the serial numbers for all of them recorded in this notebook. ‘Did Sean in IT tell you which wearer had triggered the alert?’
Gene shook his head. ‘I don’t even know . . .’ He pursed his lips, apparently having edited himself. ‘No, sir. He didn’t tell me. I only saw the number.’
Ken’s brows lifted. ‘You don’t even know what?’
‘What you’re tracking.’
‘Didn’t you ask Sean?’
‘I did. He told me I should ask you.’
‘Just like that?’
‘Well, no, sir. He looked a little alarmed, then looked me up on his computer. Apparently I do not have clearance to view this information. I supposed that by asking, I revealed my position on the need-to-know totem pole.’
Score one for Sean in IT, Ken thought, satisfied. Ken’s son with wife number two shouldn’t have talked to Decker to begin with, but unlike Alice, Sean didn’t spend much time with the employees, preferring to stay holed up with the computers. Most of the employees weren’t even aware that he and Ken were related, as Sean had kept his mother’s last name, which had also been an alias. Sean’s mother had been no angel herself.
Decker hadn’t been cleared to see or know anything other than the legitimate side of the business. That he had even known about the alert had only been because the man on duty – who had had top clearance – had been derelict in his responsibilities.
Jason Jackson better be sick. He’d better be so sick that he was dead, or close to it. Otherwise he would be punished accordingly.
Perhaps it was time to reward Decker’s creative accounting and initiative with a bit more responsibility.
Ken filed the notebook, then locked the drawer. He looked up to find Decker watching his every move. ‘Do you want to know what we’re tracking?’
Decker didn’t even blink. ‘Yes.’
Ken’s lips curved. ‘If I tell you, I might have to kill you,’ he said lightly, but Decker’s gaze didn’t waver.
‘I figured that,’ he said quietly. ‘I’ve figured that for some time.’
Ken tilted his head, genuinely intrigued. ‘How?’
Decker’s chin lifted a fraction, just enough to be assertive without being arrogant. ‘Because I see the books and I’m not stupid.’ One of those big shoulders shrugged. ‘You sell children’s toys. You make a respectable amount of money with it. But your organization is far too big to exist on what you bring in from video games and stuffed animals.’
Ken wasn’t sure if he should be angry or more intrigued. The video games covered their illegal porn distribution, and stuffed animals were one of the best ways to hide the pills that, even though not as big a business as they’d been a decade ago, were still one of the company’s biggest money-makers. ‘I see.’
‘Do you?’ Decker asked, his expression intensely serious. ‘Do you really? If I can see that the legit profits don’t balance with the visible spending, don’t you think others can?’
Ken drew a quiet breath. ‘Others . . . like who?’
‘Competitors. Law enforcement.’ Decker exaggerated a grimace. ‘And even worse, the IRS. Trust me, you do not want the IRS noticing you.’
Ken suppressed a shudder. No, he certainly did not. ‘I suppose you have a solution?’
‘Yeah. I do. But you’re going to have to let me see more than I see now.’