"You know the Darker guy?"
"Yes, he's in the stable.” Connell often gave Kayla information that he gave to no one else in the world, not even Barbara Yakely. Kayla was efficient, quiet, and trustworthy, although Connell was sure that would last only as long as he remained her top-paying client. She was a worthwhile investment; ex-National Security Agency operatives were tough to come by.
"Darker is on the payroll, so he'll cooperate?"
Connell thought on that for a moment. Herbert's illusion of morality might cause delays, and Connell didn't have time for delays.
"Correction. He was in the stable,” Connell said. “Do what you have to do, but get me that information. Just try and keep it under control this time, will you? No more putting people in wheelchairs."
"I understand,” Kayla said. He could hear the smile in her voice. He wondered what Herbert was in for, then decided he really didn't care. Darker had made his bed, now he'd have to sleep in it.
Better him than me, Connell thought. Dealing with Kayla Meyers seemed like dealing with the devil; sooner or later the tables would turn and you'd be on the receiving end of something painful and nasty. He wasn't afraid of her, but only because one has to give a damn about living to be afraid of death. None of that mattered — he really didn't care to know how she obtained the dirt on Sonny McGuiness, as long as she got it.
"I need this by tomorrow,” Connell said.
"Oh go fuck yourself, Kirkland! You can't ask for that and you know it. I'm in Washington, for fuck's sake. I have to do a computer search first and then probably fly to Salt Lake City. It's not going to happen."
"Kayla, this pays triple your usual fee. That's if I have something useful by 8:15 p.m. tomorrow. No excuses. Understand?"
Her normal $15,000 fee suddenly turned into a rush-order $45,000.
"Sure, Mr. Kirkland,” Kayla said, her voice tired but resigned. “I understand. 8:15 p.m. tomorrow."
Connell hung up without another word. He knew she'd find something, he just hoped it would be enough. He had to own McGuiness. Not only own him, he reminded himself, but make him part of the project. According to Herbert, Sonny knew the area's mining history better than any man alive. Such knowledge was vital to make things move quickly. Time was Connell's biggest enemy. Sooner or later word of the find would leak to the competition, but by then Connell intended to have the site locked up tight.
At 4:47 a.m., Kayla stared at the computer screen with bloodshot eyes. A recent DMV photo of Sonny McGuiness smiled back at her with his blazing white teeth and a beard that seemed electric against his pitch-black skin.
You're a real pain in the ass, Sonny-boy.
It had taken her well over an hour to dig up information on Sonny, which was twice her normal search time. She had, however, finally tracked down his Social Security number. That little tidbit of information opened up countless doors: credit ratings, Department of Motor Vehicle lists, tax info, etc.
His DMV history showed he currently owned an ‘07 Humvee, a ‘99 Grand Cherokee and an antique ‘79 Corvette. A cross-reference to his credit rating showed all three vehicles were paid off.
She again cross-referenced his credit rating to find mortgage information. One residence: a seven-hundred thousand dollar home in Reno.
Looks like a bum, lives like a king.
With a few keystrokes, she back-hacked from his credit report into his bank account. Interestingly enough, he showed only thirteen grand to his name. She'd have expected more from a man with such expensive tastes.
How about tax evasion?
She calling up his IRS records. Her eyes widened slightly as she pieced together his tax history over the last thirty years. IRS files showed his income from 1970 through 2002 at over seven million dollars. She ran a tax-fraud sniffer program created by the NSA, and it came up blank. The man was honest, at least when it came to taxes.
His exemptions and records painted a rather detailed picture of his life. For one thing, Sonny McGuiness appeared to be quite the philanthropist. Over the years he'd given $100,000 to both the United Negro College Fund and the Wildlife Fund, $200,000 dollars to the Paralyzed Veterans of America and over $300,000 to Brigham Young University's archeology department.
Kayla's anger grew. She checked her watch—5:12 a.m. She was running out of time. She had booked a 6:45 a.m. flight to Salt Lake City, and she didn't want to head out there completely empty-handed.
While Sonny's financial picture was notable, it didn't give Connell anything to work with. Connell needed blackmail information, not a report on Saint Sonny. She abandoned the financial strategy, instead setting the tax-sniffer program to hunt up information on Herbert Darker. Leaving that routine to run in the background, she moved on to see if Sonny had a criminal record. A quick scan of all national and state police databases turned up quite a list.
Bingo. Hopefully this would be what Connell needed. Her heart leapt when she saw a felony conviction, but it sank again as she noted the year. The old prospector had served a two-year stint in Ryker's for assault and battery, but that was in ‘75 and ‘76, almost thirty years ago.
She continued to fume as she read through the other seven entries on his rap sheet — all arrests for solicitation of prostitutes. For a man who listed his legal residence in Reno, Nevada, she didn't think a patronage of the world's oldest profession would provide adequate blackmail material.
Slow rage rose in her chest, a warm feeling that spread through her body. Sonny was clean, no information worth Connell's time.
The computer beeped, indicating it had finished searching Herbert Darker's file. She immediately called it up and read through the long list of tax information. Her anger subsided as her smile widened.
"Honey, hurry up or I'm going to be late,” Herbert said. He stood at the bottom of the stairs, looking into the kitchen. His wife Angie busily stuffed matching Tupperware containers into a cloth lunch bag. Herbert's company had grossed almost a million dollars that fiscal year, but he still couldn't bring himself to buy lunch. After ten years of struggling to build his own business, the frugal habits established in the early days were impossible to break.
A high-pitched scream of attack ripped through the house; Herbert braced himself as his son launched off the third-to-last stair and landed on Herbert's back. Herbert let out a small whuff and stumbled forward. Luke was getting bigger and stronger every day; pretty soon the daily Attack from the Stairs would send Herbert sprawling across the entryway's Spanish tile floor.
"Take it easy, Luke,” Herbert said with a small laugh. “You're going to kill your dad one of these days."
Luke squeezed Herbert's shoulders tightly. “I wouldn't kill you, Daddy, I love you."
Herbert smiled and lowered his oldest son to the ground. Angie hurried over with the cloth lunch sack in her left hand and his youngest son, Mark, clutched awkwardly in her right arm. Mark was also getting big-soon he'd probably be joining his brother in the kamikaze stair attacks.
"Thanks honey,” Herbert said, giving her a kiss, then planting a kiss on Mark's forehead.
The phone rang just as Herbert walked out the door. He stopped automatically as Angie answered it. She held it toward him. He checked his watch, sighed, then grabbed the phone while Luke laughed and climbed the stairs for another attack.
"Hello?"
"Hiya, Herbert,” crooned a woman's sultry voice. “On your way to work?"