“Near as I can tell, he’s setting up a con,” Rassmussen decided. “I’m reading lips and I think he’s making some kind of ‘business proposition’ that I expect is designed to con the guy out of a fair amount of money – without being so much that the guy would be inclined to go after him legally if he’s caught out.”
Rassmussen kept up with the con in progress, while explaining to the security manager about Beckham’s record, and was assured that the irate manager would talk to Mr. Ching in private at a later time, to warn him off of Beckham’s machinations. It took some doing to talk him out of banning Beckham from the club, but finally he got the manager to understand the need to prevent flight. Meanwhile, Jones and Osborn kept a watch on the exits from the private club.
After a couple of hours of expounding on the wonders of his fake business proposition, the men appeared to strike a deal. Beckham rose, bowed, and shook hands with Ching, then departed the club with a smile, heading several blocks over, and carefully shadowed by Rassmussen’s team.
There, he entered a four-star restaurant and met with yet another wealthy businessman.
Colonel Peterson had grasped what was happening upon Rassmussen’s urgent call from the club, and now Adrian Mott showed on the scene with his duffel. He grabbed Osborn and Rassmussen, pulled them into a nearby mews, and proceeded to re-dress them in expensive business suits, while Jones kept an eye on the restaurant. He hit them with a whiff of the most expensive men’s colognes on the market, then pointed.
“Go,” he said. “Find out what’s going on in there. I’ll stay out here with Jones and keep watch.”
“Damn,” Rassmussen cursed in voice comm to the others. “Same song, verse two, only this mark is somebody named Stewart. It’s even the same con.”
“Well, sure,” Mott pointed out. “That way, if this guy and the previous guy happen to talk, they’ll be talking about the same supposed business proposal, and not only will it sound legit, it’ll look like a great deal. They’re getting in on the ground floor and all that, see.”
“We need to make sure this Stewart knows,” Osborn said.
“Nah,” Rassmussen demurred. “As soon as we nail this guy and he stops showing up, his marks will either forget all about him, figure he was the crook that he is, or decide the whole deal fell through. In any case, they won’t worry any more about it. Now, any previous marks that he’s conned, that’s a different story; we’ll need to try to get any names and numbers, and see if there’s anything left to be reimbursed…though I doubt it, given this guy’s tastes. A huge fraction was probably literally pissed down the drain.”
“True, I guess,” Osborn agreed. “On multiple points.”
The pair watched Beckham wine and dine Stewart with fine food and drink, while pretending to discuss business over drinks themselves, and putting their drinks on the expense account for the department.
After a couple of hours, Beckham and Stewart shook hands. Stewart paid the tab, and Beckham departed in a chipper mood.
Beckham’s next stop was another restaurant, somewhat closer to home, but still a fairly expensive proposition. This time, Mott and Jones entered, dressed in classy slacks and sport coats with ties, while Osborn and Rassmussen kept watch outside.
As it turned out, Beckham was only there for dinner. He met no one, but had a very nice four-course meal with wine… and an after-dinner dessert coffee, along with…tiramisu.
“What is it with Nick’s investigations and coffee?” Rassmussen wondered in disgust. “I like the stuff, but I’m starting to get sick of it.”
Finally Beckham meandered back to his apartment.
The scenario repeated itself the next day, and the day after that, at different clubs and restaurants, with different rich targets.
Surveillance Time – Team Ashton
According to the information Ashton had teased out over the years, Bronze tended to be much more irregular in his habits than either of his accomplices. His day apparently depended on whether or not he had a call or an assignment from IPD Headquarters. If he did, he would be up early, either checking in with Headquarters, or scouting out his target.
For the time being, and so soon after the Medved murder, he appeared to be laying low. Which meant there was no way to tell exactly what he might be doing, except to go watch.
His dwelling was far posher than even Beckham’s; these days, Bronze owned a condo in Imperial Park East. It was in the south-central part of that district, but far closer to the commuter train line than Beckham’s apartment. Ashton’s investigations into Bronze’s finances in the course of his profiling – having hacked his various accounts – indicated he could now afford it; after proving himself on the early assassinations, he was currently paid a premium for his skills as an assassin, as well as extra for any lookouts he felt he might need, and it looked to Ashton like he skimmed from that extra, not paying those henchmen all he was given for the cost of hiring them.
Ashton ensured his team was dressed suitably for the area, which was fairly well-to-do, then they headed straight for the building in which Bronze lived.
A quick check with the management of the condominium tower ascertained that he tended to call down to the café on the arcade level for a pot of coffee and a couple of Danishes to be delivered to his condo.
“Of late,” the manager said, “It’s been closer to noon when he calls. He seems to be sleeping in.”
“Do you know how he’s employed?” Ashton wondered.
“He’s a free-lance artist and analyst of some sort, according to the application he submitted when he bought the condo a couple of years back,” the
