“Pretty much,” I say with a slight shrug. “That’s kinda how we do things. I don’t have time for hesitation or doubt. That shit will get you killed. Now, this is your last chance, Frank. If you take us to this Bernstein guy, there’s no going back. You’re in this with us until the end…”
He stands and steps in close to me, holding my gaze for a moment.
“Come on, you’re wasting time,” he says.
He strides out of the door, leaving me standing there.
“The game is on,” I murmur to myself as I throw a couple of twenties down on the table for the food we ordered and join them outside. Josh is leaning against the trunk of the car. Frank’s already behind the wheel waiting for me; the engine’s idling.
Without a word, I climb into the passenger seat and Josh gets in behind me.
“Let’s go,” I say.
Frank presses play on the CD player and sets off, turning right out of the parking lot.
“Hang on, hang on — what the hell is this?” asks Josh, gesturing to the stereo in disbelief.
“It’s the Beach Boys,” says Frank, in a tone that clearly indicates he can’t see a problem with it.
“Oh no, that won’t do at all. We’re on a mission now, Frankie! We need mission music. We need to feel inspired, motivated, alive! This makes me feel like I’m a depressed stoner in a rowing boat…”
I smile to myself as Josh reaches into his laptop bag and pulls out a CD, passing it through to the front and handing it to me.
“The emergency music?” I ask, having heard the CD he keeps on him at all times only a handful of times in the past.
“I can’t listen to this shit, I’m sorry.”
I change the CD over and press Play.
“Sorry, Frank. Rules are rules.”
He shakes his head in disbelief as the opening chords of Ace of Spades by Motorhead sound in the car. “What the fuck have I got myself into?” he mutters.
I laugh. “Welcome to my life, Frank.”
26
The drive didn’t take long and, apart from the loud music, the twenty or so minutes past mostly in silence. Frank’s pulled up across the street, opposite the accountancy firm where Joseph Bernstein works.
O. B. D. Accountants is a modest building on Center Avenue. It has a glass front with the name of the firm printed across it. The closed blinds give the impression they’re not open for business, as it’s Sunday, but I know any firm who has clients like Wilson Trent will be open twenty-four hours a days, seven days a week.
We sit in silence for a moment, all looking across at the office.
“What’s the move?” asks Josh.
“Worst case is that the office is full of accountants doing overtime,” I say. “But I’m not worried about that, really. What are they going to do? Attack me with their calculators?”
Josh chuckles, but Frank shifts uneasily in the driver’s seat at the comment. I turn and look at him.
“What’s on your mind?” I ask him.
“Bernstein manages the books for the biggest crime lord in the state,” he replies. “Do you honestly think there won’t be any security in that building?”
Huh. He has a point, but it still makes very little difference to me. I can see why the idea would make him slightly apprehensive though.
“Good point,” I say. “You wanna wait here? Me and Josh can go in, find Bernstein, and get the information we need.”
“And how are you going to do that, exactly?”
“Frank, don’t ask questions you don’t want to know the answer to, okay? You had your chance to walk away from all this and you decided you were with us all the way. Don’t be getting cold feet on me now.”
He sighs heavily, torn over what he should do.
“I get it, Frank, I really do,” I continue, before he has chance to speak. “I’ve spent eight years coming to terms with what happened and what I’ve become as a result. You’re trying to do the same thing in twenty-four hours, and it won’t happen. I can’t offer any words of comfort or advice on how to make this whole thing less awful, but I can promise you this: Wilson Trent is going to die. His world is going to turn to ash, and when it’s all said and done, we will all have some much-needed closure. But until that happens, we have to be prepared to get our hands real dirty.”
I feel Josh punch the headrest of my seat behind me. “Fuck yeah, Boss!” he yells. “That’s the inspirational, ass-kicking Inner Satan shit I’ve been waiting to hear from you all week!”
Frank looks over his shoulder at Josh, then back at me. He holds my gaze longer than most people would, before the nods. “Just don’t kill anyone, okay?”
“I’ll do my best,” I reply, holding up my right hand as if swearing on a bible.
Frank gets out of the car and stands on the sidewalk, staring across the street.
“You think he’ll be okay?” asks Josh.
“Vengeance is a powerful tool,” I say. “I think he’ll be fine.”
“It’s kinda sweet that he thinks you’ll be able to do this without pulling a trigger,” he says with a smile.
“Kiss my ass, Josh,” I say, getting out of the car.
He makes an exaggerated smacking noise with his lips as he climbs out behind me.
We all cross over and stand in front of the building, looking somewhat conspicuous. I take a quick look around. No surveillance that I can see. I glance through the window, but there’s no one on the front desk. Maybe admin staff isn’t required for weekend work.
I try the door, but it’s locked.
“Kick it down or try the back?” asks Josh.
Before I can answer, Frank pushes past me, reaches into his coat, and retrieves a lock-picking kit. He crouches down, puts the two long, thin metal pins into the key hole, and moves them expertly for a few seconds. The door clicks open and he stands, pausing for a moment to put his kit away, and pushes the door open. He faces us both and winks, gesturing for us to walk in, like a doorman.
“Nice,” says Josh, smiling as he heads inside.
I take one last look up and down the street and follow him in. Frank comes in behind me and shuts the door quietly.
Inside is very standard. The carpet’s a neutral color, the walls are white, and the desk and chairs look like they’re from IKEA. Two sofas form a reverse L-shape in front of the window and against the right hand wall, acting as the waiting area. The front desk covers the top right corner of the room, with a door leading to the offices beyond in the top left, facing the entrance.
Frank walks over and listens at the door. “Seems quiet,” he says.
“Let’s go,” I say.
We head through and into the main office area. A central bank of empty desks stretches to the far wall. Along the right hand side are four small offices, all of which are empty. They have floor-to-ceiling windows and fitted blinds, with a door to the left.
“So far, so quiet,” whispers Josh.
I point to the staircase in the back left corner. “I guess we go up,” I say.
We cross the office space and climb cautiously up the stairs. Halfway up, they wind to the left and as we turn, I hear voices. They’re low and relaxed, with the occasional chuckle of meaningless conversation. We creep up the rest of the way, pausing just before the staircase opens out in the middle of an open-plan vestibule area on the second floor. The layout is identical to downstairs, except there are offices against the left wall too, on either side of the staircase. Also, before the main office area starts, there’s a circular desk, like a security station, dead ahead in the center of the room. Three men are behind it, two sitting down, with one standing and resting his crossed arms on the counter.
I peer around the corner. From where I’m standing, I can almost see beyond the desk into the office. The main floor is deserted, and every door along both sides is standing open. All except one, against the far wall in the left corner.