Rudiger in Peril

Rudiger in Peril, Rudiger #3 A Novella by David Lender
Copyright 2013 © by David T. Lender

John Rudiger sat on a rock on top of the craggy precipice where his house was being built at the far end of Blue Moon Bay.  He looked out over the Caribbean, then at the curve of pristine sand extending to the other end of the bay where the Blue Moon Hotel sat.  Everything was different from up here.  None of the sounds of children laughing in the Blue Moon’s pool, women chattering with each other from the chaise lounges on the pool apron, the clinking of glasses, the smell of coconut-flavored drinks.  From up here it was just the waves crashing on the rocks below, the occasional calls of frigate birds circling for fish, the salt smell of the ocean.

He was eating lunch with Carlen Isaacs, the local cop and Commissioner Browne’s bagman.  The lunch had become their ritual for Rudiger’s once-a-month drop of cash bribes.  Rudiger was eating his usual lunch—local seafood over salad greens—prepared by the staff at the Blue Moon Hotel, his temporary home.

Temporary, my ass.

His construction crew was over a year into the project, budgeted for 18 months, and his house wasn’t even half finished yet.  He looked at the shell of his house, built into the face of the cliff and extending 40 feet down toward the water 100 feet below.  The roof was on and the marble veneer was attached to about half of the concrete walls.  But the floor-to-ceiling windows still weren’t installed, and none of the interior electrical and finish work could start until the windows were in place.

He glanced to his right at Isaacs, silent as usual, munching the fish sandwich Rudiger had the hotel prepare for him.  It was the first time Rudiger noticed the corporal stripes on Isaacs’ pastel green uniform, just above his trademark circles of perspiration under his arms.  He figured he’d wait until the right moment to mention them.

Rudiger said to him, “So when did Commissioner Browne come up with this?”

Isaacs didn’t turn to look at Rudiger, but took another bite of his sandwich.  He shook his head and said as he chewed, “Not Commissioner Browne’s idea.  Carlen Isaacs’.”

It took Rudiger aback.  He and Isaacs weren’t exactly slap-each-other-on-the-back pals, but they’d come to a guarded friendship over the last 18 months since Rudiger had decided to make Antigua his home.  Isaacs had even introduced Rudiger to Pinky’s, his favorite local bar.  “Why?” Rudiger said.

“Carlen Isaacs see anger building in Commissioner Browne.”

“At me?”

A sideways scowl from Isaacs told Rudiger not to play dumb.

Rudiger said, “Something new?”

“Commissioner Browne don’t need something new.  More than enough of old.  You cost him plenty with your game with Celine.”

“That was no game.  It was survival.  You were there, you saw.  He was ready to double-cross me, even after I paid him off, and let Charlie Holden’s boy from the U.S. Attorney’s Office extradite me back to the U.S.”

Isaacs nodded.

Rudiger went on.  “And he handed the idea to me about using Celine to get the advantage on him.  All his talk about wanting our deal to be like a peaceful marriage, using the analogy of not creating fuss or trouble by rubbing the mistress in the wife’s face.  When he said that the light bulb went on.”

Isaacs looked off at the ocean and nodded again, took another bite of his sandwich.

Rudiger thought back to that escapade.  Everything had been going fine, Rudiger paying off Browne to arrange for phony documents to prove his alias as an Antiguan citizen.  Then Browne got cute and tried to double-cross him unless Rudiger paid him more money.  Rudiger had countered by showering extravagant gifts on Browne’s mistress, Celine—as purported presents from Browne—to rub her in his wife’s face.

Browne had caved when Rudiger threatened to continue.  Now Browne was buying his wife, Christina, new furniture and fixing up their house for her.  Probably anything else Christina dreamed up to take her revenge about Celine.  And Rudiger was still here, his alias as an Antiguan national intact, instead of sitting in a prison cell in upstate New York.

Isaacs stopped chewing for a moment, took a look at the remaining mouthful of his sandwich still in his hand.  He glanced down at the other sandwich wrapped in the cooler in front of them.

“That’s for Elijah,” Rudiger said.

“Who this Elijah, anyhow?”

“The runt of the litter on the crew here.”

Isaacs wrinkled his brow.

“Nevermind,” Rudiger said, “just another American expression.  Elijah’s the scruffy kid who’s the runner on the construction crew.  Brings the other guys their tools.  Lugs bags of nails, cement, whatever they need.  And he used to only bring some stingy leftovers for his lunch.  So when I started coming out here most days to eat my lunch, figuring maybe my presence here would push the guys to work faster—fat chance—I started bringing Elijah a sandwich.”

Isaacs popped the last piece of his sandwich in his mouth.

“C’mon, since you’re done I’ll fix you a drink instead.”  Rudiger reached into the cooler and pulled out two bottles.  “Muscovado rum and ginger ale, with lime.  Like at Pinky’s.”  He fixed two drinks in tall glasses and handed one to Isaacs.

Rudiger smiled as he took it.  Good. Loosen him up, give himself more time to get Isaacs to talk, figure out what was going on.

At that moment he saw Elijah climb the steps that were cut into the volcanic rock of the cliff beside Rudiger’s house.  He wore his usual jeans, blue work shirt and hardhat, dusty and ragged-looking.

As he neared them, Rudiger reached into the cooler and held out the sandwich to him.

“Thank you, Mr. John.”

Rudiger saw Isaacs looking at the kid’s feet.  “Nice boots,” Isaacs said.

Elijah’s face lit up.  “Mr. John order from U.S. for me.”  He nodded to Rudiger, thanked him again and started back down the steps.

Isaacs looked over at Rudiger.

Rudiger said, “Steel-toed Red Wings, the best.  Couldn’t have the kid crawling all over this site in sneakers, lose his footing.  Until I get a railing up on the edge of that cliff down there, I’m afraid somebody’s gonna fall off.”

Isaacs’ face was blank.  After a moment he reached down into the cooler for more ice for his drink.

Rudiger said, “This month’s payments are in the plastic bag next to your hand.”  Isaacs put the ice in his glass, then reached back down and pulled out the bag.  He started to open it.

Rudiger said, “All $4,100 is there, in individual envelopes for each of you.  I’ve never stiffed you guys once, so why should this month be any different?”

Isaacs nodded, folded the bag closed and put it down next to him on the rock.

Rudiger said, “So why the increase now if nothing’s really changed?”

Isaacs turned and looked Rudiger squarely in the eye.  “Carlen Isaacs on you side.  Carlen Isaacs work for Commissioner Browne for six years.  Know his moods, expressions.  Trouble brewing if John Rudiger don’t calm him down.”

Rudiger nodded.  “Okay, so how much are we talking about?”

“At least $1,000 more per month.”

Rudiger had to stifle his annoyance.  Then he decided to let it show in his voice as he said, “That’s almost 25% more in a little over a year.”

Isaacs shrugged.

Rudiger stared him down, saw that Isaacs didn’t flinch or look away.  Rudiger said, “I don’t expect to get hit up like this every year.”

“Wouldn’t insist if wasn’t necessary for John Rudiger’s own good.”

“And what about you?”

Isaacs scrunched up his face again.

Rudiger said, “I figure your cut goes from $700 a month to about $875.  I also see you finally got your corporal stripes.  Congratulations.”

Isaacs nodded.

Rudiger said, “You’re moving up in the world.”  He paused.  “Just don’t let it be at my expense.  I hope your stripes aren’t part of some deal with Browne.”

“No worries.  Like you say, Carlen Isaacs ‘got your back.’”

“Be careful.  I wouldn’t want you to slip up and admit you actually like me.”

Isaacs smiled.  He put his glass down, picked up the bag of cash and stood.  He said, “Commissioner Browne won’t last in job forever.”

Yeah.  But then how much is the next guy gonna cost me?

Isaacs said, “But until then you need to trust Carlen Isaacs.”

Rudiger glanced down at his house, heard the waves on the rocks below, then looked across the expanse of Blue Moon Bay again.  He sensed the view and sounds taking the edge off him.  He looked over at Isaacs and said, “Okay, done.  Another $1,000 a month.”

Isaacs nodded and started to walk back to his police jeep.  A few steps away he turned, smiled and said, “And you friend Carlen Isaacs wear size 11 boot.”

#

Jim Stevens rode downtown in a New York City cab, nearing the end of the FDR drive.  He couldn’t help muttering to himself.  It’d been two and a half years of this, since he’d invested five million bucks in WGC Technology Fund a month before the NASDAQ crashed in early 2000.  It was just about all he’d been thinking about ever since.  He still hadn’t seen a nickel of it back from the fund’s receivers after it went bust and the manager went on the lam, and the current estimate was that he’d be lucky if he got $2 million.  He needed it all back, and then some.  He was getting squeezed from all directions with his big real estate developer clients going into hibernation since 9/11.

Walter Conklin.  Some wunderkind technology stock picker. The slimeball had been cooking his books, falsifying his investment returns to suck in guys like him.

He wanted it over with, anything to keep the bile from rising as his mind went on infinite loop about Conklin.  Five million bucks. This guy Conklin was ruining him.

The cab pulled off the down ramp of the FDR, did a 180 and headed up Water Street toward the warehouse.  The warehouse where George Trask, Conklin’s CFO and partner was stashed, waiting for him.  It’d been a long wait to get to Trask, who copped a plea, told everything about Conklin’s operation and got a slap on the wrist sentence of one year in a cushy minimum-security prison.  But now this was the beginning of the end, because based on Brit Lasker’s reputation, he’d already pulled whatever information he needed out of Trask to help him find Conklin.

The cab was driving back uptown underneath the FDR drive now.  “Slow down, it’s just ahead on the right,” Stevens said to the cabbie.  Then a moment later, “This one right here.”  The cabbie pulled over to the curb and let Stevens out in front of the warehouse, the wind blowing dust up into his eyes, the smell of garbage and urine from the homeless guys who hung out there making him gag.

He walked to the door and knocked.  A minute later the door opened and Brit Lasker faced him.  Lasker nodded and motioned with his head for Stevens to come in.  It took a moment for Stevens’ eyes to adjust to the dim light inside the deserted warehouse.  Lasker walked him across the cement floor of the cavernous main room through puddles—Stevens wondered if they were from a leaky roof or leaky plumbing—and up to a door in the back.  Lasker stopped and turned around.

He said, “Get yourself ready, because it’s not pretty.”

Stevens said, “Before we go in, tell me what you found out.”

“Conklin’s living under an alias in the Caribbean.  I’ll let you hear it directly from him.”

Stevens felt a flash of surprise.  “I’m impressed.  You got all that out of him so fast?”

“This guy’s a pansy.  All I had to do was punch him in the face a half dozen times, and them let him sit alone for two days strapped to a chair.  After that when I walked in with a car battery and jumper cables he started talking without me even asking him any questions.”

“How do you know he’s not lying?”

“He said he found out through this Assistant U.S. Attorney guy that prosecuted him.”

“Charlie Holden?” Stevens said.

“Yeah, that’s the name.”

Stevens could hardly believe it.  Either Holden or somebody on his staff must’ve screwed up to trust Trask with that kind of information.  Not that he was complaining about it.  Sometimes things just fell in your direction.  Then he had an awful thought: if Holden knew where Conklin was, he was probably in the process of extraditing him back to the States to prosecute him and send him to jail.

Not at all what I’ve got in mind.

Stevens nodded and said, “Okay, let’s get this over with.”  Stevens took a deep breath, held it, then exhaled.

Lasker opened the door and turned on the lights.  The lights blinded Stevens momentarily, and then the overpowering smell hit him.  He felt his stomach turn over, thought he’d puke, then took a step back.

Lasker walked inside.  Stevens took a moment to follow him.  When he got inside Stevens could see Lasker was understating it when he said it wasn’t pretty.  Trask’s face was a bloody and swollen mess; Lasker had also understated that he’d only punched him a half dozen times.  Trask was strapped to a chair all right, and his pants were soaked and stained with his own urine and excrement.  On top of that Trask had obviously vomited all over himself and the floor.  He was jerking his head around as if by moving it he could somehow see through his blindfold.

“Who’s there?” Trask said, his voice cracking.

“Who do you think?”  Lasker said.  “Your new pal.  And I brought along an old friend of yours.”  Lasker walked behind Trask and removed his blindfold.

Trask blinked his eyes, and then Stevens saw him focus on his face.

“Remember me?” Stevens said.  “Jim Stevens.  You and Conklin sucked me in for $5 million just before the market collapsed in early 2000.  I have to admit you guys put on a good show.  Modern art on the walls of your splashy offices at Lever House on Park Avenue, fancy private dining room with a Cordon Bleu-trained French chef.  Serving me great French burgundy over lunch.  Doublespeak about managing your downside risk with deep-out-of-the-money puts and options collars.  And all the while you slimeballs were cooking the books to falsify your investment returns.”

Trask’s mouth was hanging open and his lower lip began to tremble as if he might cry.  “I turned him in,” Trask said.  “And I did my time.”

“I don’t want to hear it,” Stevens said.  “All I want to hear is you confirm where Conklin is, and how you found out, like you told your new pal here.”

“He’s living in Antigua under the alias of John Rudiger.”

“Who told you that?”

“Charles Holden,” Trask said, his voice quaking.  He paused.  When he spoke again his voice was almost inaudible.  “I had turned states’ evidence and was working with him for early release to try to find Conklin and help Holden bring him back to stand trial.”

“What happened after Holden found out his alias and that he was in Antigua?”

“The local cops wouldn’t play ball. . .”

“Speak up,” Stevens shouted.

Trask snapped his head up.  He said, “They said this guy Rudiger was the real thing, an Antiguan citizen with documents to prove it, so they wouldn’t agree to turn him over.  Holden and his guys are convinced Conklin paid off the Antiguan cops and that this guy Rudiger is Conklin.”

Stevens’ heart rate increased.  So Conklin’s still in Antigua.  That meant that once Lasker had dispensed with Trask, it couldn’t be that hard for Lasker to find somebody named Rudiger in a country as small as that.

“You have anything else to tell me?” Stevens said to Trask.

Trask gave a rapid shake of his head.

Stevens looked up over Trask’s shoulder at Lasker.  He nodded.  “Okay, do it,” he said.  “We’ll talk outside when you’re done.”  He turned and pulled the door shut after him as he left the room.  He’d only taken a few steps across the main floor when he heard a muffled sound like an aluminum bat hitting a softball, obviously Lasker’s silenced pistol putting an end to George Trask.

Stevens only had to wait about two minutes out front for Lasker.

Stevens said to him, “I realize you didn’t use the battery and jumper cables on him before, but I want you to now.”

Lasker’s face was unreadable, but he had incredulity in his voice as he asked, “Why?”

“Because when you dump the body someplace where the cops can find it, I want it to look like you really worked him over to get the information out of him, or maybe even had some fun with him for sheer pleasure.”

Lasker didn’t respond, just looked at Stevens, still with no expression.

Stevens said, “Maybe Conklin reads the papers, or maybe he does a Yahoo search on the Internet and finds out about Trask’s body, then freaks out that he’s next.”

“Why would you want to tip him off somebody’s coming after him?”

“Because I want him to sweat.  Tear him up inside, like I’ve been these past few years.  And when you find him, we’ll talk, because I’ll want you to get creative.  He has to suffer, both mentally and physically before you finish him off.”

Lasker still showed no expression, but said, “Whatever you say.  You’re the one footing the bill.”