Montaro Caine A Novel

6





“MORNING, CHIEF,” LAWRENCE AIKENS SAID AS HE PICKED UP his phone. He had been listening to a report from his security officer Curly Bennett when he saw Montaro Caine’s name appear on his caller ID. At that very moment, he told Curly that his report would have to wait. When Montaro called him directly, Aikens knew that there was an important matter he had to attend to immediately. Not only was Montaro his boss, but Aikens was a Nebraska Cornhusker, and Montaro came from Kansas City, and Aikens felt that, in New York, men from the Great Plains needed to stick together.

“Hi, Lawrence,” Caine said. “How’s the family?”

“Oh, everybody’s fine, chief,” Aikens said. Then, alluding to Fitzer’s internal situation, he asked, “How goes it with you?”

“We do what we have to do,” Caine said. “Speaking of which …”

“What can I do for you, chief?”

“I need some information.”

“You got it.”

Caine had first met Aikens sixteen years earlier, when Caine was manager of operations at Mosko Chemicals, a pint-size chemical company where Aikens was head of security. Over the years, Aikens had become both a good friend and a strong ally. And Caine, who valued Aikens’s loyalty, his honesty, and his plainspoken Nebraska ways, had brought him to Fitzer. Caine appreciated the straightforward nature of his security officer, a profession that seemed to attract a fair number of men more interested in throwing their weight around than actually solving problems. Even now, despite all the turmoil and turf wars going on at Fitzer, Aikens was one man who Montaro trusted completely.

“I need to find out everything I can about a man named Herman Freich,” Caine said. Aikens listened, jotting down pertinent information. “He’s about fifty, fifty-five years old—and a woman, maybe twenty-six, answers to Colette Beekman.

“I want to know who they are,” said Caine. “I want to know where they’re from, where they go when they leave Suite 2943 at the Waldorf Towers, what they do for a living, and who they work for. Get me a business and a financial sheet and anything else you can come up with.”

“How fast do you need it?”

“This afternoon.”

“I’ll do my best. Just hold on for a second.”

Aikens finished scribbling on his memo pad, then looked up at Curly Bennett, who was waiting to resume his report. Aikens had chosen Curly as his personal assistant over several other candidates, all with more experience, because he recognized Bennett’s instincts as those of a born investigator. In less than two years at his post, the young man had exceeded all of Aikens’s expectations.

“Curly,” he said, “Sorry about this. But everything else will have to wait. There’s an emergency situation and I need you to get on it right away.” Aikens ripped the top sheet from his pad and handed over the information. “The CEO needs this info in a hurry. Put as much manpower on it as you think necessary and get back to me—yesterday.”

Curly stood quietly studying what his boss had written.

“Get to it, kid,” Aikens said.

“Yes, sir,” the young man replied with a smile as he dashed out of Aikens’s office.

“I need it in hand by this afternoon,” Aikens called after him. When Curly was gone, Aikens returned to Caine, who was still waiting on the other end of the phone. “I’ll have something for you in a couple of hours, chief,” he said.