The smell was overwhelming. He didn’t know how anyone could live like this. A cat vibratoed a miaow and rubbed itself against his legs. He stepped over it and followed the woman into the living room. Sure enough, the TV was on, Cesar Milan lecturing an anorexic woman about how to talk to her Rhodesian Ridgeback. So much for people looking like their animals.
‘Now, let me tell you something about these people next door to me. They don’t like my cats, y’see.’
‘And they’re such lovely creatures,’ he said, moving so that if she was to stay facing him her back would be to the door.
‘You think so?’
‘Absolutely. My favourite domestic animal. By some way.’
‘Do you have one?’
She was side on to the door now. Almost in position.
‘No, afraid I live in a co-op with a no-pets rule.’
‘That’s a shame.’
The smaller man appeared in the doorway now, the woman oblivious to his presence. But the half-dozen cats dotted around the room weren’t. With some kind of feline sixth sense they began to yowl. First one, then another.
The smaller man moved fast, taking the last few steps in under a second, flicking off the plastic cap of the syringe as he did. As she turned, he plunged the tip of the syringe into her left buttock and pushed down on the barrel.
As she started to scream, the taller man wrapped his arms around her. The smaller man clamped his free hand over her mouth. A cat hissed and jumped on to the TV set where it stared, unblinking, as its owner slumped to the floor. Her mouth was open. So were her eyes. The expression on her face was one of complete bewilderment.
‘OK, let’s get her into the chair.’
Together, they hauled her into the solitary armchair, hands resting in her lap. The smaller man folded down her eyelids with thumb and index finger, then stepped back to admire his handiwork.
‘She looks too posed,’ said the taller man.
‘You’re right.’ The smaller man bent down and pulled at her right foot so that one leg was splayed at an angle. A final check. ‘Perfect,’ he said, bending down to retrieve the plastic cap of the syringe.
‘What about the cats?’
‘What about them?’
‘Well, won’t they starve?’
The smaller man took one final look at the dead old lady in the armchair.
‘They got a good three weeks’ supply right there.’
Nineteen
Stafford Van Straten appeared to be on the edge of an aneurysm. He combed his mane of blond hair with one hand while his mouth opened and closed with all the articulacy of a goldfish. ‘You’re putting Lock in charge of this?’
His father pulled him to one side, out of earshot of his entourage. ‘I know you and he don’t get on, for whatever reason, but we can use him right now,’ he said, ignoring the fact that they both knew the reason Stafford and Lock didn’t see eye to eye. As reasons went it wasn’t one Nicholas Van Straten was likely to forget either. It was a reason that had cost him no end of sleepless nights, and a quarter of a million dollars.
‘But Richard Hulme’s not our problem.’
‘Listen to me. Whatever our problems with Richard Hulme, or whatever our lawyers are saying-’ Nicholas Van Straten stopped, lowering his voice to an urgent hiss. ‘A child is missing. What if it were you?’
Stafford smirked. ‘I’m hardly a child.’
‘Precisely, so stop behaving like one.’
Dismissing his son with a turn of his shoulder, Nicholas Van Straten waved Ty over. ‘Tyrone?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Any luck getting hold of Ryan?’
‘He’s still off comms.’
‘In English please, Tyrone.’
‘His cell’s switched off.’
‘OK, as soon as you get hold of him, I want him in here for a briefing. In the meantime, can you start actioning our other procedures?’
‘Yes, sir.’
Stafford strode into his office, picked up the putter leaning in the corner and swung it like a baseball bat, narrowly avoiding his desk. He was the heir apparent, the man who’d be running the company one day, and he wasn’t even asked for his opinion. The building’s super had more say in the running of the company than he did.
The door into the executive bathroom was ajar and he caught sight of his own reflection. He paused, pleased by his own image, by the bright blue eyes and thick blond hair, both inherited from his mother. Only his father’s weak chin let him down. With a solid chin it would have been a face for the front cover of
‘You look real pretty.’
Stafford spun round to see Brand framed in the doorway. He let the club fall into a more conventional position and mimed sinking a twelve-footer. ‘Don’t you know to knock first?’ he asked, feeling like he’d been caught with his pants down.
Brand put a hand on his shoulder. ‘Don’t let the old man get to you.’
‘This was our chance to get past all this animal rights crap. Why couldn’t he have given this to one of your guys? I mean, anyone but Lock. I hate that guy.’ Stafford kicked out at the wall with the point of his English-made leather Oxford brogues.
‘You’re not the only one.’
‘So what do we do about him?’
‘Can’t you have a word with your old man? Maybe suggest to him that it’s time Lock pursues other opportunities outside the company.’
Stafford smiled. ‘And make you head of security?’
‘Hey, that’s not a bad idea.’
‘He won’t go for it. Not after what’s happened. He thinks the sun rises out of Lock’s asshole.’
‘There’s an image. You know what I think? Lock’s probably the one who set up this interview. The broad who’s doing it, Lock was seeing her for a while.’
‘Maybe I can use that.’
Brand clapped Stafford again on the shoulder. ‘Your chance’ll come, Stafford. You and me, we’re the ones to watch. Your old man and Lock, they’ll be history soon.’
Twenty
A ‘For Lease’ sign hung like a white flag outside the Korean deli. Further down, the Meditech building looked the same as it had before the shooting, albeit with one or two muscular additions in the form of half a dozen Metalith™ anti-ram barriers. The glass frontage had been made over too, the tint of the windows, even in this light, hinting at blast-proof capabilities.
They threw back Lock’s reflection at him as he stood outside, studying the face of an ever-changing stranger. What had once been a shadow was now the approach of a full beard. His eyes had large dark half-moons
