‘Up yours, Oliver, you mean old bastard,’ he muttered, as he climbed over the boundary fence again. It was a still, clear moonlit night, and the house and its belongings were all his.
9
Jesse McLeod looked across the table at the man sitting opposite him.
Killian had worried him from the moment they first met. It wasn’t the man’s general appearance he found intimidating, just his eyes – black, dead eyes, seemingly able to pick apart your very soul and lay bare your thoughts. And there was a kind of suppressed energy about him, like a tightly coiled spring, that always seemed about to explode into sudden violence, probably extreme violence.
But McLeod knew he had something Killian wanted, and this gave him a powerful lever to use in his negotiations. He didn’t see why Killian would baulk at the fairly modest payment he had in mind. And the consequences of him
‘I want it now,’ Killian growled, referring to the information McLeod had accessed.
‘I can give it to you right here, on a memory stick,’ McLeod suggested.
‘You have it with you? On your laptop?’
McLeod nodded. ‘It’s right here,’ he confirmed, patting the leather bag beside his chair. ‘There’s just the matter of payment to discuss.’
Killian’s face clouded. ‘I’ve been paying you a retainer for two years. Why do you think this information entitles you to more?’
‘I think when you see it you’ll realize why it’s so important.’ McLeod was choosing his words with enormous care. ‘It’s directly related to the previous data I gave you – that stuff about the “treasure of the world” – you remember? That article in the magazine about the old guy in England, and how he thought he’d finally worked out where the treasure had to be hidden?’
Killian stared at McLeod for a few seconds, then nodded for him to continue.
‘I found a report in a county newspaper. It seems somebody croaked that old man, whipped him until his heart gave out. That means somebody must have read that article, and maybe they’re looking for the same thing as you.’
Killian still said nothing.
‘There was one detail in the story that I thought was real interesting, so I did a little more digging. I hacked into the local police database and checked out the forensic reports and a bunch of other stuff. I downloaded it all, and there’s a couple of details there I think you need to see.’
‘OK,’ Killian said slowly. ‘Let me have it and then we’ll talk figures.’
McLeod nodded and pulled a small laptop computer from his bag. He switched it on, and a few minutes later extracted a slim memory stick from the USB port on the side and put it on the table in front of him.
‘That’s it?’ Killian asked.
‘Yep. That’s the whole thing. It seems like the old man didn’t die too quietly. The forensic examiners found quite a lot of blood in his mouth – blood that wasn’t his own, I mean, and traces of flesh. The investigating officers guessed he might have bitten his attacker. They’ve got samples of that blood and tissue and they’re just waiting for the DNA analysis results to come back from their labs, which will give them a DNA profile of the killer.’
He let his gaze rest for a few seconds on the bandage wound around Killian’s head, and the heavily padded area over the man’s left ear, then switched his attention back to the screen of his laptop.
‘You told anyone else about this?’ Killian demanded.
McLeod shook his head. ‘No, but a guy has to take precautions, if you know what I mean. So there’s more than one copy of what you got there – just in case that data gets lost or corrupted, that kind of thing.’ He leaned back in his chair, trying to look relaxed and in control. ‘So how does fifty grand sound for the data and all the copies?’ It was, he thought, a reasonable enough figure.
Killian’s smile didn’t get anywhere near his eyes. ‘Like about fifty grand too much, McLeod. I’ve got a much cheaper, and a whole lot more permanent, solution.’
He pulled a small semi-automatic pistol out of his jacket pocket, the weapon made ugly by the bulbous suppressor attached to the end of the barrel.
McLeod’s eyes bulged in terror, and he strained backwards in his seat. ‘Hey, man, don’t do this,’ he said, his voice shrill with panic. ‘I’ll deliver everything to you. You can have it all for free.’
‘You should have stuck to computers,’ Killian said, his eyes dark, his face expressionless. ‘You’d never make a blackmailer in a million years. You’re just an amateur, and not even a good one.’
‘But the other copies of the data – if I don’t make contact, my friends will—’
‘I’ll risk it, McLeod, and if your friends come knocking I’ll kill them too. This isn’t about the money. This is about security, about sealing loose ends. I have to make sure you won’t talk to anyone else about this.’
‘I won’t, I promise,’ McLeod said, standing up.
‘I know you won’t.’
The report of the pistol was little more than a cough, but McLeod’s body was flung backwards by the impact of the shot. His chair toppled over and he crashed to the floor, limbs splayed, his mouth opening and closing, his eyelids flickering.
Killian stood up and walked around the table to where his victim lay. The shot had taken McLeod almost in the centre of his chest, probably just missing his heart, but it was still a fatal wound.
Taking careful aim, he fired again. The bullet smashed into the left side of McLeod’s chest and bored straight through his heart. His body twitched once, then lay still.
Killian slipped the pistol back into his jacket pocket, and almost without thinking he touched his forehead lightly and then his chest three times, making the sign of the cross. He bent down and emptied the dead man’s pockets, then he turned away, picking up McLeod’s computer bag and the memory stick.
He had a lot to do, and now the clock was ticking.
10
‘Do you know this man?’
JJ Donovan shivered, and not just from the chill of the mortuary. Lying motionless on the table in front of him was a sheeted figure, only the head and face visible.
‘For the record, sir, can you please identify him?’
‘His name is . . .’ Donovan paused and swallowed. ‘His name was Jesse McLeod. He worked for me. At NoJoGen.’
‘And that’s what, sir? Again for the record.’
‘NotJustGenetics Incorporated. It’s my company, here in Monterey. Why did you call me? He’s not a relative of mine. He just works – worked – for me.’
‘A business card bearing your company details was found in his possession. Calling you seemed a good place
