The anger, the resentment, were not subsiding. If anything, he’d worked himself more into a dither as the evening passed. It was hard to concentrate, difficult to make decisions. One thing, in particular, had become a vexing quandary. The briefcase.
It had been delivered by courier to his doorstep around ten o’clock, marked “PERSONAL AND CONFIDENTIAL.” It was addressed to his client. The return address indicated it was from Ryan Duffy.
He was naturally suspicious. After Brent’s murder, he was at first afraid to touch it, fearing a booby trap. But the more he thought about it, the less likely that seemed. As much as he’d tried to make Ryan look like a gangster in the courtroom, he didn’t seem the type to send his wife a letter bomb. He seemed more likely to send a peace offering — a settlement.
Jackson settled into the plush sofa in his family room, staring at the briefcase on the coffee table before him. He noticed the tumblers near the latch. There were three altogether. A lock with a three-number combination. Just like the combination Liz had testified to in court. Three numbers: 36-18-11.
The realization hit like lightning. That was exactly what this was — Liz’s share of the money. Ryan had very cleverly put together a settlement offer his greedy wife couldn’t refuse: a briefcase full of cash. His instincts took over. This was his chance. Liz was trying to screw him, but he could beat her to the punch. He’d bet his life there was money inside. And he knew the combination.
He jumped forward and laid the briefcase flat. Eagerly he turned the tumblers into place, left to right. The first one, thirty-six. The next, eighteen. Finally, eleven. He flipped the latches, left and right. They popped up. His body tingled with a surge of excitement. This was it. He opened the briefcase. It opened just an inch, then seemed to catch on something, moving no farther. He heard a click. An ominous click. In a flash, he knew it wasn’t a cash settlement offer and that it wasn’t from Ryan Duffy.
Oh, shit!
A fiery orange explosion decimated the entire west wing of the Jackson estate. The impact rattled windows around the neighborhood, as a shower of glowing embers rained down on the brand-new windshield of his just-repaired Mercedes.
63
Two minutes after they met, Ryan already had a name for him: the gadget man.
Bruce Dembroski was a friend of Norm’s, a former CIA agent whose specialty had been sniping. Though life after the agency didn’t present many opportunities to use his laser range finder, suppressed weapons, or ultra-long-range. 50-caliber sniper rifle, he had found a profitable niche in offering high-tech, high-quality private investigative services to an elite clientele, mostly security-conscious corporations. His bread and butter was in the latest surveillance and countersurveillance equipment, from simple cordless phone monitors to fax machine intruders. He had all the toys and wasn’t afraid to use them. That bravado had occasionally taken him beyond the accepted limits of corporate espionage. It was Norm who routinely got him out of legal trouble. They had an old-fashioned barter arrangement. Norm got the services of an investigator he couldn’t otherwise afford, and Dembroski got a top-notch lawyer free of charge.
Norm’s garage was their meeting place. Both cars had been backed out to give them room. Norm was a bit of a gadget man himself. A long wooden workbench stretched across the back. A wide array of tools was neatly arranged on the tool board, though most of them looked like Father’s Day gifts that had never been used. The bare cement floor and white fluorescent light made the garage look cooler than it was. Maybe it was nerves, maybe it was just one of those sticky summer nights. Ryan, however, was sweating heavily beneath his Kevlar jacket.
“I’m roasting.” Ryan was dressed in long pants and a full-length ballistic jacket. It looked like something he’d wear on an autumn hike in the mountains.
Dembroski zipped him up, checking the fit around the torso. “You want safety, or you want a fashion statement?”
“If I get any hotter, the choices will be white meat or dark. Will this really do any good?”
“Heck, yeah,” said Dembroski. “You have a Kevlar lining in here that protects the full upper torso. It’s less conspicuous than a vest, and it’s better protection. Most vests don’t protect against side entry. The jacket does.”
“Let’s just hope no one shows up with a bazooka.”
“Actually,” said Dembroski, “I could probably arrange for that.”
“Stop,” said Norm. “This is crazy enough as it is.”
“I was only kidding.” He reached in his duffel bag and removed a pistol and ammunition clip. “This is another advantage of the jacket. You can easily conceal a firearm. This is a Smith and Wesson nine-millimeter parabellum pistol. Four-inch barrel. Slide mounting decocking lever. I brought one with tritium night sights, which may come in handy in the dark. Fifteen-round magazine. We’re talking serious firepower.”
“I know how to use a gun. My dad was quite the hunter.”
“Well, you can hunt elephants with this baby.” He slammed the clip into the stock and checked the safety. “Keep it in the breast pocket. Don’t take it out unless you intend to use it.”
Norm said, “I’d rather you leave it here.”
Ryan ignored him. He took the gun and placed it in the pocket.
Dembroski stepped back and checked out the ensemble. “Looks good, my man.”
“I feel like a bulletproof flasher.” He wiped the sweat from his brow. “Can I take this off now that we know it fits?”
“I’ll do it,” said Dembroski. “You have to be very careful not to disconnect your microphone.”
Ryan slipped off one sleeve at a time. A small tape recorder was strapped to his chest. The microphone was clipped inside his shirt collar.
“Remember,” said Dembroski. “The microphone is voice-activated, so you won’t be recording a bunch of dead time. Just speak in a normal tone of voice and it will pick it up.”
“It’s not my voice I’m worried about.”
“It should pick up anyone within a good fifteen feet of you.”
“So I have to get reasonably close.”
“You don’t have to stick your tongue down anybody’s throat. But yeah, reasonably close.”
Norm began to pace, obviously concerned. “Ryan, I really wish you’d let Bruce come with us. Fifteen feet is getting too damn close to someone who may be armed and dangerous.”
“I’m more than happy to go,” said Dembroski.
Ryan shook his head. “There’s a public figure involved. If you come with us, you’re likely to recognize her. Nothing personal against you, Bruce, but I don’t want you to know who she is.”
“Why not?”
“Because I don’t know you. And I don’t know what you might do with that information.”
“What?” he said, half smiling. “Do I look like a blackmailer or something?”
“In my experience, they can look like just about anybody.”
Dembroski glanced at Norm, then back at Ryan. “You know, I do most of my jobs on a no-questions-asked basis. But you guys have me totally intrigued. Who is it?”
“Sorry. If all goes well tonight, you’ll never hear another thing about this. That’s my goal, to put this behind me forever.”
“And if the shit hits the fan?”
“Then you’ll probably read about it in the newspapers.”
“Let’s hope it’s not the obituaries,” said Norm, grumbling.
“Let’s hope,” said Ryan. “You ready, Norm?”
Norm nodded reluctantly.
Ryan grabbed his ballistic jacket and started toward the door. “Let’s do it.”
64
They rode with the headlights off, invisible in the night, shrouded in a virtual tunnel of Douglas firs that lined the steep and narrow road to Cheesman Dam. Jeb’s van climbed slowly toward the summit, zigzagging up the switchbacks in the road. Scattered clouds dimmed the light from the waxing crescent moon. Clusters of bright stars filled the pockets of night sky that weren’t hidden by the clouds.