“What’s up?”
“Remember the print you pulled yesterday off the railcar down in the tunnels?”
“Yeah.”
“It came back with a match.”
Porter walked over to his closet and pulled off his jacket, then started on the buttons of his shirt. The coffee was cold and sticky and went halfway up his arm. He’d probably have to toss it.
“Sam, the print belongs to Watson. Only it wasn’t Watson. The name on the ID from ViCAP was Anson Bishop. I just got off the phone with the crime lab—at first glance his file seems legit, but once I started digging I found some holes. His ViCAP record is a fake. There is no Paul Watson. It’s an alias for this Anson Bishop. I’m still trying to piece things together, but he touched that railcar sometime before you and SWAT got down there. That means he’s somehow involved. This is bad, Sam. Real bad. Whoever this guy is, he’s not law enforcement. Where did you say you and Nash found him?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Shit. He’s with you right now, isn’t he?”
“Yep.”
“Where are you? Are the two of you alone?”
Porter poked his head out the bedroom door and glanced back down the hall toward the kitchen.
“Sam, are you there?”
“Watson?” Porter said loudly. “Do I have any beer left in the fridge?”
“Your apartment? You’re home?”
“Yes, sir. That is so true.”
He could hear Watson in the kitchen or the living room, but the man didn’t answer.
Porter removed his shoes and stepped silently out his bedroom and into the hallway, his eyes dancing quickly over the empty living room, then toward the open kitchen door.
“Watson?” Porter slowly reached up and unsnapped his holster’s leather strap. His fingers coiled around the grip of his Beretta as he drew the weapon. “I know it’s early, but I could really use something to take the edge off.”
He heard Klozowski faintly barking orders on the other end of the line. “Keep him there, Sam. I’ve got units on the way.”
“Sure, Kloz. Come on over. Watson and I are heading to his uncle’s watch shop after this; you can ride with us.”
“Closest car is four minutes out. Where is he? Do you have visual? Can he hear us?”
“Watson, if you’re eating all the leftover pizza, I’m not going to be happy.”
With the gun at point, Porter burst through the door into the small room.
Empty.
The large knife slipped into his thigh a moment before he saw Anson Bishop from the corner of his eye. “Don’t move,” Bishop whispered into his ear from behind. “The knife is right on your common iliac artery—that’s one of the largest in the pulmonary system. You attempt to pull out this knife, and you’ll bleed out in seconds. I’m going to help you to the floor. Drop the gun.”
“Who are—” Porter managed to say, the words slipping out from behind gritted teeth.
“Drop the gun. The phone too.”
Porter did as he was told and remained still as Bishop kicked the gun away, then stomped on his phone, crushing it under the sole of his shoe.
“Watson?”
“Shhh, don’t speak,” Bishop said. “Now, easy. Knees first, then lie down on your stomach . . . that’s it. Mind the knife.”
Porter let the man help him down. He could feel the weight of the knife in his leg, but Bishop held the blade still with his free hand until Porter was facedown on his hardwood floor.
“I imagine your friend has help on the way, so you won’t have to wait long. If you notice, there isn’t much blood. It will stay that way as long as you leave the knife in the wound. Wait for the professionals; they’ll know how to take it out. Then a couple of stitches and you’ll be right as rain. I’m sorry I had to hurt you, I truly am. I hoped we would have more time together; I was having such fun. As with all good things, though, they must come to an end at some point, and we are fast approaching the endgame.”
“Where is Emory?”
Bishop smiled. “Please give my best to Nash and Clair. For what it’s worth, I am very sorry about your wife.”
Porter twisted his head just enough to watch him round the corner and disappear into the hallway. In the distance, sirens wailed.
60
Diary
“Well, that was the plan, anyway. Steal it all and get away. I don’t know if he pulled it off, though. Simon talked a big game, but his follow-through left a little something to be desired.”
“They found a beige metal box under your bed. Is that where he put it?” Father asked.
Mrs. Carter shrugged. “Dunno.”
Mother charged at her again, and this time she was faster than Father. Her hands reached for the woman’s hair, grabbed a handful, and pulled hard. Mrs. Carter squealed and swatted at Mother’s arm with her free hand, her nails leaving a quick red slash across Mother’s forearm.“Enough!” Father bellowed, pushing his way between them.
Mother released her grip and snorted, taking a step back. “This woman is going to get us all killed.”
“What specifically did he take?” I asked. This was a valid question, and one I hoped would break the tension.
Mrs. Carter touched her scalp tenderly and winced. She narrowed her eyes at Mother. “We’re all good as dead now.”
Father pushed her down onto the cot. “Answer my boy’s question.”
She smirked at him. “Aren’t you tough, shoving around a woman handcuffed in your basement.” Some blood had dried on her fingernails, and she began picking at it. “Simon knew their business better than they did. If they think he’s run off, they’ve got to be worried.” She gave Father and Mother an accusing glance. “Sounds like the two of you did an excellent job of making it look like he’s in the wind, so I’m sure they’re worked up plenty. You brought them right to you.”
“What did he steal from them?” Father asked again, the anger rising in his voice. He wouldn’t ask a third time, not nicely anyway.
Mrs. Carter gave up on her fingernails and drew a deep breath. “About a month ago, he said the two owners of the firm began acting strange, secretive—more so than usual, anyway. They left him out of a few meetings he felt he should have attended. They began working odd hours. A few times he thought someone had gone through his things. He felt like people were whispering behind his back, preparing to force him out, or worse. He began taking files home and making copies. I told him he was crazy. If they caught him, there was no telling what would happen, but he did it anyway; dozens of them. He told me it was insurance. If they tried to hurt him or cut him out of the business, he’d go public with the records.”
Father ran his hand through his hair. “That sounds like a very dangerous game.”
Mrs. Carter nodded. “Last week, when they pulled him from his largest account, he said that he was going to use the information he had gleaned to embezzle money into an offshore bank so we could run off, just disappear.”
“But you don’t know if he did it?”