Ghosts of the Past (10 page)

“Fuck you old man!” Syron jumped to his feet, his face twisted in pain. “That’s all there was!”

“Calm down Jimmy.” Nieron stood and grabbed him.

“No, you don’t understand there was more than just this!” Karl shook the paper at him.

“No, you don’t understand you old fart!” Syron exploded. He came over the coffee table, disregarding any pain, and slammed the end of the cane into the nose of Karl, sending him back into the chair as both flipped backward into the wall.

“Take it easy Jimmy!” Nieron stepped in between the two. “This ain’t gonna get us our money.”

Karl crawled out from behind the chair, stood up, and slowly backed away toward the dining room entryway. He was starting to realize the seriousness of the situation. These two miserable boys were big trouble and he wondered why Irwin Jones was associated with them. He tried to think of a way out. He would try Jones on the number he had given him, since these two most certainly had to answer to him. He was bound to have some control over their actions.

“Please! Please, calm down!” Karl implored. “Let me get in touch with your boss. I have his number… right here.” Karl stumbled through the dining room into the kitchen, picked up his briefcase off the kitchen table knocking the cold bagel to the floor, and retrieved the card with the phone number from his Daytimer.

Syron drug himself to his feet, staggered through the foyer, and entered the kitchen from the other door, “If that’s anybody else, you’re a dead man!” He produced another stiletto knife similar to the one he had lost at Ferguson’s, and flicked open the blade.

Karl had already entered the number into the phone and Jones answered on the second ring. “Mr. Jones, Dr. Karl here. We have a problem.”

Syron reached over and snatched the phone out of Karl’s hand. “Who is this?”

“I’m sorry, who is this?” Jones retorted.

“This is Jimmy Syron you stupid fucker! Now who’s this?”

“Mr. Syron, this is Walter Smith, what seems to be the problem?”

“The problem is we got the letter like you wanted. We didn’t get Ferguson, but we will. This old turd here in front of me tells me we didn’t get the entire letter. No one told me there was more than one page. You said, ‘The letter with the Riechsmarshall Goering head on it’. Shit, I don’t care. All I know is we got what you wanted us to get, now we want to make sure we get paid.”

“You will be paid, Mr. Syron, please calm down. I’m on my way now, and we can discuss payment when I get there. Let me speak to Dr. Karl please.”

Syron turned the phone back to Karl. “Yes?”

“Dr. Karl, I’m in route to your house, I’m only a few minutes away. Please remain calm and review whatever they brought you and tell them it should be sufficient. I will deal with those two punks when I get there.”

“Thank you.” Karl hung up the phone and turned to Nieron who was holding the crumpled up letter. “Let me see that again. It may be enough.”

Mr. Jones entered through the front door of the house unannounced.

“We’re in the kitchen.” Syron called to him.

Jones entered the kitchen to find Karl seated at the kitchen table with Syron seated in a chair next to him. Nieron was standing behind them, leaning against the counter next to the refrigerator.

“We’re having a party I see.”

“This ain’t no fuckin’ party Mr. Smith, Jones, whatever your name is. You asked us to do a job and we did it. Now we want to get paid.”

“I told you that you would be paid when you got the letter and took care of Mr. Ferguson. You completed the first order of business, however we have some problems that still remain. The second item has yet to be fulfilled. You will be paid in full, through the account as we agreed, when the job is completed.”

“Well, that’s where we have a difference of opinion.” With that, Syron pulled his hand out from under the table and plunged the stiletto into the side of Karl’s throat. Karl’s mouth opened and his eyes bulged in shock, his hands clutched at his chest for a brief instant and then he fell forward. Syron slid the knife out while Karl’s life bled away onto the table. “We’d like our money… Now!”

“That was a very stupid thing to do Mr. Syron.” The whole sequence had caught Jones off guard. He thought he was prepared, having tucked the silenced Walther PPK into the waistband behind his back before entering, but he did not anticipate them to act irrationally and kill Karl. He had made a grave mistake picking these two to handle this particular job. He thought they were ready, but he was wrong. They were nothing but insignificant, second-rate losers, and always would be. He had screwed up, now it was time to correct the mistake.

Syron stood shakily, while Nieron leaned over to help him to his feet. That was all the time Jones needed. He reached expertly behind his back, retrieving the Walther and bringing it up immediately. He clicked off one round that landed just over the right eye of Nieron sending the majority of the back of his head splattering against the white refrigerator door. Nieron wobbled slightly, and then hit the floor with a thud. Syron froze in shock, panic stretching across his face.

“Very stupid Jimmy.” Jones was slowly shaking his head back and forth.

The last sound Syron heard was the ‘cough’ of another round discharging into his forehead.

Soft, filtered rays of early morning sunshine radiated through the half-open blinds. Ferguson wasn’t sure if he had been to sleep at all, except for the faint remembrance of it having been dark the last time he had looked over at his sleeping companion. The Browning 12 gauge was clearly visible lying on the top of the sheets, and the LED readout on the alarm clock confirmed that he had been asleep for the last two and a half hours.

He struggled mightily with his eyelids until there was enough lubrication to his contacts to bring things into respectable focus. Lying on his back in the big king-size bed, his head propped up on two down-feather pillows, he was sure he hadn’t moved during the brief period of sleep. Unfortunately, it didn’t take long for all the events of the last 48 hours to come rushing back into his consciousness.

God
Almighty,
what
have
I
gotten
myself
into?

He looked around the room and felt again the wave of disgust over someone having encroached upon his personal space and property. He was proud and protective of his home. Even as a bachelor, he had taken great pains to have a designer’s flair to his house and accessorize it accordingly. There were also distinct signs of a woman’s touch, the result of having lived with Whitney for over two years.

The time with her had been fun and exciting, but unfortunately, it had been self-evident to both of them that they were not compatible for the long haul. They arrived at the decision to go their separate ways almost simultaneously, and she moved back to Tampa shortly thereafter to resume her career in broadcast television.

That was five months ago, and now, the only beautiful woman he had met in that time was probably responsible for the destruction his house endured last night. He had wracked his brain late into the morning hours, searching for someone to fix the blame on. He was determined to confront Courtney Lewis and find out what her, or her father and his friend’s involvement might be, just as soon as his mind and body had two Advil, a hot shower, cup of coffee, and breakfast… in that order.

He also couldn’t discount Dr. Karl as maybe having been involved, but why would an old college professor have an interest in a potential art discovery. No, with the Lewis’ background, Ferguson reasoned the art connection lay with them or them. He rolled out of bed and stripped off his boxers as he headed to the medicine cabinet and the shower.

The combination of Ibuprofen, steaming water, liquid caffeine, and food had worked wonders mentally, physically and emotionally. Ferguson had rummaged through his briefcase and found the business card to Courtney Lewis he had saved from their meeting at Dr. Karl’s office. He went to the other bedroom that functioned as his office, picked up the phone, and suppressing his anger dialed the number on the card.

“Speed Art Museum, Miss Lewis’ office,” came a very pleasant voice.

“Is she in please?”

“No, I’m afraid she’s out of the office until about two o’clock. Can I take a message please?”

“Yes please. Tell her that Matt Ferguson will be in her office at 2:01 to discuss the results of our meeting yesterday.” Ferguson was short, but cordial.

“Mr. Ferguson, she has some other meetings this afternoon that may prevent her from being available, I doubt she’ll be able to fit you in today.” The smooth voice was doing her best to cover for Courtney, having sensed the tension in Ferguson’s voice, and not recognizing his name at all. “Why don’t you leave a number and I’ll…”

Ferguson cut her off, “She’ll see me! Thanks!” He hung up before another word was uttered.

1400 Willows Tower was one of Louisville’s premier addresses. Located in the heart of Cherokee Park, it was one of the oldest and most affluent residential towers, in one of the oldest and most dynamic areas in town. Courtney loved living in the Willows, which offered her the cosmopolitan setting she had become accustomed to in her years of travel, and placed her conveniently close to the city’s most prolific restaurant and bar scene that lined nearby Bardstown Road for several blocks.

Courtney’s ninth floor apartment was decorated remarkably like a contemporary art museum. Other than the two bedrooms and baths, there were no walls to speak of. It was one large open floor plan with whitewashed walls, and light colored hardwood floors. The walls were dotted with a wide variety of paintings, each highlighted spectacularly by various cannoned lights that were controlled by a large panel next to the front door. The furniture was sparse and contemporary, and was broken into spaces, defined by rugs and structural columns with ornate Romanesque moldings. Interspersed, in no particular pattern, were a half dozen incredible sculptures, including one bronze nude that was at least two times scale and had to be assembled at it’s present location.

Courtney stood in her robe behind a large granite counter that separated the kitchen from the rest of the open space, finishing her espresso and listening to Joan Bullock on the speakerphone explain the strange phone call she had just received from a ‘Matt Ferguson’.

“. . . if you don’t want to come in today, I’ll make up some excuse for you.” Courtney’s secretary finished up.

“No, no. I do want to meet with him. It’s okay, really! I’m sorry, I should have told you before, but that’s the fellow I flew to Chicago with yesterday. I’ll be in there a little before 2:00 in case he shows up early.”

“He was really short, he sounded upset or angry. I’d be very careful.”

“Thanks Joan. Really, he’s fine. I’m not sure why he would come across that way with you. He’s been very polite. He’s actually very cute.”

“Well, not on the phone he isn’t!” There was a slight pause for effect. “I’ll see you this afternoon then.”

“Yep! Thanks again Joan for watching out for me, I appreciate it. I’ll be fine. See you after lunch.”

Courtney could barely control her exuberance as she hung up the phone.
What
additional
help
does
he
need?
Does
he
need
my
help?
This
could
be
the
find
of
a
lifetime!
I’d
love
to
discuss
it
further
over
dinner.
He
is
quite
attractive.

She picked up her cup of espresso and headed to the shower
,
her head pounding from yesterday’s marathon day in Chicago, followed by an evening of dinner, drinks and dancing with Sheikh Makmoud and his entourage
.

The shower and espresso had provided their magic and Courtney felt like a new woman. She had pranced around the bathroom naked while she administered her make-up and dried her hair, periodically examining her reflection in the mirror over the sink and analyzing the small flaws in her body that didn’t seem to be there a few short years ago. She slipped on a silk robe and went out to the nook in the living room that served as her office. She sat down at the glass-topped table and turned on the laptop computer, determined to finish up some work and answer e-mails before heading to the museum.

Two hours later, she entered her walk-in closet and went right to the outfit she had decided upon in the shower. She pulled from the hanger an Escada two-piece suit, sophisticated, but tailored and low cut enough to accentuate her feminine assets. She slipped on a pair of Gucci pumps, teased at her hair for some body, and re-examined herself in the full-length mirror. That ought to get his attention, she thought to herself.

She returned to the kitchen, called her office, punched in the appropriate numbers, and listened to the four voicemail messages. Nothing of any consequence. She headed out the front door and took the elevator to the parking garage. She climbed in, turned over the black Porsche 911 and headed out of the garage into traffic toward what she believed was going to be a very interesting afternoon, and hopefully evening.

Julio Bolivar closed the detective mystery book he had been reading to kill time while he waited for Courtney Lewis to emerge from her residence. When the black Porsche appeared out from under the Tower, a single beep on the one-way phone alerted Carlos Garagua in the white
Taurus
rental car parked thirty feet away in front of one of the park’s multitude of children’s playgrounds.

Bolivar stood up from the park bench, tucked his book under his arm, and signaled to Garagua as he pulled away from the curb and settled in comfortably behind Courtney as she sped away. Bolivar slipped his suit coat onto his broad-shoulder frame, straightened up his hand-made silk tie, and ran his fingers straight back through his thick black hair. He had been sitting on the bench, in the shade for the better part of two hours. He had been in town less than twelve hours.