The offices of Kruger Investigations were situated on the seventeenth floor of an office block in downtown Miami. This was the fourth relocation of the business which had begun its existence in a one-roomed grot-office above a rent-a-car place in Wynwood, north Miami. Each move had been to a larger premises, but never quite large enough to house the ever-expanding business. Finally Kruger had decided on impulse to take the whole floor of the current premises some two years earlier. It had proved to be a good move but once again, business had boomed to fit the available space. Another move was imminent, something in the business plan for the next year. He hoped to be able to take some space in the floor above as the company installed at present looked as though they were going bust. The only drawback to the place was the lack of spaces available in the underground parking facility, which was presently hogged by the finance company on the first two floors.
At midday Steve Kruger walked nonchalantly around the various offices, chatting to staff and laughing whilst munching a baguette packed with beef and sipping a Diet Coke.
He was pleased to see there were only a couple of people sitting around in the department which conducted what he termed ‘real investigations’. This meant they were busy on the streets, following adulterers, compiling reports for insurance companies, and doing all the stuff connected to real detective work. The department dealing with the recapture of bail jumpers was also sparsely populated too, indicating that a few unfortunates would be in the custody of the courts that night.
The offices which were busy were the ones dealing with the sales of specialist security equipment. Kruger sold anything connected with bomb disposal and search equipment, any sort of kit — excluding firearms — for police and special forces, surveillance and counter-surveillance, communications, personal and property protection.
On being invalided out of the cops, Kruger had originally intended to set up a one-man operation. Having been introduced at an early stage to the scope and potential profits associated with security and surveillance (albeit illegal) he decided to move forwards in two directions — the private investigations side and the security side.
Although the detective side was moderately profitable, its drawback was it was manpower intensive. The sales side, however, only needed a bank of phones, faxes, e-mail facilities and a nucleus of highly trained sales executives to bring in millions for very little effort. It was also fairly safe, whereas there was always some danger associated with being a detective.
Having been a cop, Steve loved that side of the business because it was in his blood and he would never downsize it. Besides anything else, it enhanced the reputation of the firm and kept him in good with the local cops and Feds.
He finished his Coke and sandwich, ditching the bottle and wrapper in a trash can. He nipped into a restroom, freshened up. Then he made his way to the conference room where three people waited for him. Not impatiently, just talking quietly to themselves.
Kruger entered and seated himself at the circular table.
They shut up.
‘ Mario Bussola,’ he announced, instantly getting their full attention.
Trent queued up for his evening meal, plastic tray in one hand, plastic cutlery in the other. Coysh was serving. He paid Trent no more heed than any other inmate, slopping the watery food onto his plate and handing it across the hatch with no more than the merest of nods.
Trent collected his chocolate pudding and mug of tea, then wandered to a dining table where some others were eating. He wanted to be in a crowd. He slid the plate off the tray, placed it on the table and surreptitiously removed the four-inch kitchen knife Coysh had loosely taped to the underside of the plate. He looked around cautiously, relieved no one seemed to be taking any notice of him. The two screws on duty in the dining hall were having an animated conversation with a couple of old lags, probably about football. None of his fellow inmates were remotely interested in him. This was not unusual because few people actually ever spoke to him, a manifestation of the low regard in which he was held in the prison hierarchy.
He ate with his usual lack of gusto, leaning on the table with one elbow, forking the food into his mouth. His other hand rested on his thigh, fingers touching the slim blade. One edge of it was serrated, as he had requested. With his index finger he touched the tip of the knife. It was sharp. He pushed the pad of his fingertip harder down, almost to the point where he was about to draw blood. He stopped before this happened. Yes, it was sharp. It was only a small knife, but if used swiftly, accurately, it would be deadly.
Trent quivered with pleasure. He grasped the blade in his fist and held it tightly, knowing that if he drew his hand upwards very quickly, the blade would slice the palm of his hand wide open.
It was an ideal weapon.
Coysh had done good.
Trent put another unappetising forkful of corned-beef hash into his mouth. He glanced triumphantly around the dining room as he ate it.
Using only one hand, Trent eased the knife inch by inch up his sleeve and placed his watch strap over the blade to keep it in place.
He continued to eat his meal, feeling very, very happy. So happy in fact he rocked on his chair, but not so much that people might see him. After all, he was suicidally depressed and people like that don’t go about with stupid grins on their faces.
After returning his empty plate and plastic cutlery to the appropriate pile and bucket, he nodded discreetly to Coysh who was now eating his own meal and wandered back to his cell. He tried to look as though he might kill himself at any moment.
His pillow was foam-filled. He had prepared a hole in the foam into which the knife slotted perfectly. He bunged some foam back into the hole to plug it and slid the pillowcase back over. It was, he believed, good enough to withstand a cursory check by a screw.
Bursting with happiness, Trent sat on the bed and delved into his pile of magazines. He picked one called Girl Power which was aimed at thirteen- to sixteen-year old girls — a little old for his tastes, but beggars couldn’t be choosers. It was full of photos of young girls and often contained articles about sex, some of which had caused uproar in the national press for their explicitness. Trent settled back to read about fellatio, dreaming that very soon this would be a reality for him.
One of Kruger’s company directors was a woman called Myrna Rosza. She was a trained lawyer, but Kruger had known her originally as an FBI agent. He had offered her a job once Kruger Investigations got kick-started and she had grabbed it with both hands, having had her fill of endless FBI bureaucracy. She was black, in her early forties, married to a surgeon, no kids. She was also wiltingly beautiful and possessed more assertiveness than all Kruger’s employees put together. She was his conscience and wasn’t frightened of saying no to him.
Kruger paused.
He had told the three members of the board his story, obviously leaving out certain elements, and knew he had them eating out of his hand — emotionally, if not intellectually… with one exception. The fly in the ointment, he noted glumly as his and Myrna’s eyes fused across the table.
‘ No,’ she said stubbornly. Her perfect mouth pursed into a little ‘o’. Kruger had often thought he could have kissed that mouth. Right at that moment he would have preferred to drive his fist into it.
And with that single word, Kruger saw she had unleashed everyone else from his spell. He cursed her big brown eyes.
Although technically he could have made any damned decision he wanted — after all, it was his company — the reality was that he needed the backing of the board on any controversial issues. Which is what this was.
‘ We have agreed time and time again that we will never become involved in any way in any sort of investigation or work which smells remotely of the mob. And Steve,’ Myrna said patronisingly, ‘you of all people should know why.’
Kruger winced. The memory of the slug tearing into his thigh just above his right knee jolted him vividly. Yes, he should know why — because he almost got himself killed once over. But he had good reason for going against company policy on this one.
‘ I understand what you’re saying, honey,’ Kruger responded, ‘but we’re talking about my ex-wife here, a woman I still have deep feelings for.’
‘ Not what you once told me,’ Myrna rumbled.
