up close. We'll have much to discuss. Does she know about that spot under your left ear?'
'She knows them all,' I said. 'There's only going to be the two of us, so maybe call your friends at Longstreet and tell them they can leave their Hecklers at home for the night shift. We'll move the money and then I don't intend to ever see you again, correct?'
'It depends,' Natalya said. 'You seem to be doing well in business. Maybe you'd like to extend your reach?'
'Six o'clock,' I said and hung up.
Now, all I'd need was the money, Dixon Woods and Eddie Champagne.
I looked at my watch. 'Let's go,' I said to Sam.
'What about Dixon?'
'He'll follow the money,' I said. 'That's what assholes do. Plus, he knows I took care of Eddie. Or at least that I told him I had.' The truth was that I thought by the time I heard from Dixon that Eddie would no longer be a problem. 'My guess? He's just taking some time to find out what Eddie has been doing. When he finds out he's been using Dixon's name, Eddie might stop being our problem entirely.'
'Where to?'
I pulled out Stanley Rosencrantz's card and handed it to Sam. 'Here.' If I was going to get Cricket's money back, I was going to make sure I saw it happen.
12
If you decide to involve yourself in economic malfeasance, even on a small level, you should pay attention to the people you're doing business with. The odds are fair that if you've surrounded yourself with people willing to commit high-level subterfuge, there's a good chance they are actively planning their own exit strategies.
It would also be wise to think about keeping a low profile. Limit the number of business cards you print, and never give a spy your business card, even if you think the spy is a gun-toting maniac who shot one of your friends and beat the other down. This is particularly true if you intend to actually go to your office and attempt to conduct business as usual when your friends are in the hospital.
White Rose's offices took up the fifteenth floor of a steel-and-glass thirty-three-story office building on Brickell Avenue, which means rents were high and the kind of people coming in to do business with the principals of the company very rarely carried guns.
'When you open your own security firm,' Fiona said as the three of us rode up in the elevator, 'you should definitely look into space in this building.'
'I'd never have my own security firm,' I said.
'Of course you wouldn't,' Fiona said. 'You'll be the world's oldest spy. Ninety-nine years old and still trying to figure out who burned you and why.'
'Every day I'm closer to knowing,' I said. If anything, what this Natalya situation informed me of was that I was making headway in D.C., enough that there were people fighting to keep me quiet without too much involvement of their own. In the last year, I'd seen so much, learned that every lead, even in failure, provided something: Phillip Cowan, the man who wrote up my dossier and filled it with lies? He was just a clue, and he was already dead. And who before him? Agent Jason Bly, who'd come to Miami to silence me, and whom I eventually had to blackmail, using my own bad reputation as the grist. And of course the others: the assassins from my past, alerted to my location and my lack of support; the assassins from my present, sent to portray bureaucrats like Perry Clark, who came to Miami to get me off the books, just a signature was all he needed… while he attempted to garrote me. What was he left with? A gut shot, a nameless death.
And now Natalya. At least she came at me with evidence first, probably out of unwarranted respect. Maybe she didn't want to believe any more! than I wanted to die.
'You and Sam can take on jobs finding lost dentures and libidos to fund your search. One day,' Fiona said, 'you watch.'
'Day my pension comes through,' Sam said, 'I'm on a boat. Change in latitude. Change in attitude. Did you know, Mikey, that there is very affordable beachfront property in Nicaragua now? I'd have to keep my hat down in case any Sandinistas recognized me, but it would be a risk worth taking-'
The elevator doors opened, and the three of us stepped out into the reception area of White Rose Partners. I still had my sunglasses on. Kept things mysterious.
As per usual, there was a receptionist sitting behind a desk prepared to greet us. As per usual, the receptionist was a young woman who looked like she'd be appearing on a reality show about a tanning salon with three of her wacky stripper friends before next Christmas.
In the last week, I'd dealt with more receptionists than in the previous ten years. Most terrorist organizations, warlords and assassination targets worked without receptionists, so I still didn't have the method of dealing with them down to a precise science, but I figured I'd give this one my best game. So when she asked if she could help me, I flashed her a grin as wide as the sea and said, 'Could you tell Mr. Rosencrantz that the gentleman who shot his friend Burl and permanently disfigured… uh…' I couldn't remember the third fellow's name. I'd have forgotten him entirely if I hadn't had to pull bits of his tooth and bone from my skin using tweezers that morning.
'Mr. White?' the receptionist said. Her expression belied no fear. No comprehension, either.
'Danny?' I offered.
'Oh, yes,' the receptionist said, eminently cheery. 'I know him as Daniel, but yes, same person.'
'Great,' I said. 'So if you could tell Mr. Rosencrantz that the man who shot Burl and beat up Danny is here to see him, that would be excellent.'
'And your name, sir?'
'Hank Fitch,' I said.
The receptionist picked up her phone. 'Mr. Rosencrantz, I have Hank Fitch to see you. Okay. I'll tell him.' She hung up and smiled at us sweetly. 'It will be just one moment, if you'd like to take a seat.'
'How do you do that?' Sam said once we were sitting aside one another on a plush leather sofa.
'What?'
'That simple declarative bit where you say exactly who you are, what you've done and who you'd like to see. I mean, you told that girl you shot one of her bosses.'
'I smile a lot,' I said. 'The sunglasses help.'
'He smells nice, too,' Fiona said. She was flipping through a brochure detailing precisely what White Rose had to offer its clients.
'That helps?' Sam said.
'It's all sensory,' I said. 'Posture. A sense of confidence. That receptionist doesn't really think I shot her boss.' To prove my point, I shouted across the lobby to the receptionist: 'Any word on who shot your boss?'
'No, nothing yet,' she said. 'Can I get you coffee while you wait?'
'Beer?' Sam said. He tried with the smiling and the posture, which was met with a coy hair flip in return. 'Perky girl.'
Fiona handed me the brochure she was reading. 'This sounds like a very enticing package,' she said. In a glossy brochure featuring the stylized photos of representative properties, I learned that White Rose specialized in preforeclosure properties, which would mean, in essence, any property, and that they used funds derived from equity partners of which, if you were reading the brochure, you could now become one of. And what was promised? Securitized first mortgages. Interest above market rates. A full equity balloon payment and bonuses on resale of properties.
Basically? Horseshit.
Stanley Rosencrantz stepped into the lobby then and filled it with unbridled enthusiasm. 'Hank,' he said. 'A pleasure. Won't you and your associates come into my office? I was just thinking I needed to contact you.'
'Of course you were,' I said.
After the next great plague, or after the ice caps melt and the world floods, or after the sun superheats our planet to 145 degrees in the shade, the only humans left standing to tend to the roaches, rats and flesh-eating
