In His Line of Work
In His Line of Work
By Tinnean
Published by JMS Books LLC
Visit jms-books.com for more information.
Copyright 2016 Tinnean
ISBN 9781634860796
Cover Design: Written Ink Designs | written-ink.com
Image(s) used under a Standard Royalty-Free License.
All rights reserved.
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This book is for ADULT AUDIENCES ONLY. It may contain sexually explicit scenes and graphic language which might be considered offensive by some readers. Please store your files where they cannot be accessed by minors.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are solely the product of the author’s imagination and/or are used fictitiously, though reference may be made to actual historical events or existing locations. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Published in the United States of America.
* * * *
As always, this is for Bob. Also, many thanks to Gail Morse for her help.
* * * *
In His Line of Work
By Tinnean
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 1
Deuce Pettigrew entered Lacey’s Café on 14th St. SW. When he’d first come to DC, back in ‘93, it had been known as Java Joe’s.
The place was mobbed, filled with men and women who were taking a break from work or from class. It looked like he’d need to find another coffee shop to frequent.
He shook his head and got on line.
“So what’s the skinny, Dix?” the young man ahead of him asked his companion.
“I’m at loose ends right now. Charles has gone down to Disney World to see a friend of his.”
“A male friend?”
“No. Jeanette Van Orden and her kid are down there.”
Deuce made every muscle in his body relax. He knew that name. He’d looked for the woman and her son for most of the past year.
“I haven’t been to Disney World in ages,” the young man observed.
“It’s not a vacation. She’s working there.”
“So was I, last time I was there.” He bumped his shoulder against Dix’s. “Is she one of the characters?”
“No, she’s at the Contemporary, in housekeeping.”
“Well, since Chuckles isn’t here—”
“You’d better never let Charles hear you call him that,” Dix warned.
The barista gave them their coffees then, and they paid her and wandered off.
Deuce didn’t hear the rest of their conversation, but that wasn’t important. He knew where the woman and the kid were, and that would give him leverage with his boss. And since she was up in New York just then, he’d have plenty of time to make his plans.
“This one’s on me, handsome.”
He accepted the cup of coffee the barista offered him and gave her an absent smile. She’d been trying to flirt with him since she’d started working at Lacey’s Café. She was persistent; he’d say that for her.
“Thanks very much,” he murmured. It wasn’t that she wasn’t pretty, because she was; it wasn’t because she was too young, although she was that also.
The thing was, Deuce was already attracted to someone. And okay, so that someone was probably the barista’s age, but as it happened, he was also male.
Deuce retrieved the morning’s copy of the Washington Post someone had left lying around and retreated to a chair in the corner, where he wouldn’t be noticed. He made himself comfortable, took a sip of the coffee, and grimaced. It wasn’t sweet enough. Dammit, just because he was a guy and a tough one at that, it didn’t mean he had to take his coffee black and strong enough to float a horseshoe.
He set aside the cup, snapped open the newspaper, and thumbed the pages to the obituary section. Most men read the sports section first, but he always checked out the obits. In his line of work, it paid to know if someone you were on the hunt for no longer needed to be dead, because they already were.
“Son of a bitch!” He ignored the startled looks his exclamation caused. The first obit at the top of the page was for Eric Jameson, the man he’d done some odd jobs for the year before.
Of course, what Jameson hadn’t known was that Deuce actually worked for Dr. Pandora Gautier and had for the past twelve years, since he’d left the military. It was under her direction that he and his team—Ace, Stan, and Trip—did those jobs for Jameson. Last year the job had entailed getting their hands on a seven-year-old boy, but damned if the kid and his mother hadn’t managed to slip through their fingers. Although now it seemed they were in Florida.
He never asked why Dr. G. wanted something done. She paid well, and if you lived long enough, the benefits were decent.
That was the problem. Sometimes you just didn’t live long enough.
He studied the obit thoughtfully.
Eric Jameson, 38, suddenly. A native of Washington, DC, he worked for the CIA from the time of his graduation from George Washington University in 1987 until he left to pursue his options in the private sector in 2002. He was predeceased by his parents, Elizabeth and Bernard Jameson, and is survived by his brothers Bernard, Jr. (Christine) and Andrew (Samantha), his sisters Beatrix (John) Merrill and Isabelle (Forest) Pollard, and numerous nieces, nephews, and cousins. Services will be held privately for the family.
Suddenly? Jameson had been healthy as a horse. He’d been a supercilious major pain in the ass, but he should have had a lot of years ahead of him.
It would pay for Deuce to look into what had really happened to Jameson.
Absentmindedly, he took another sip of coffee. “Jesus.” He rose, dropped the paper cup into the trash can, and then headed out the door.
* * * *
Hit by a bus? By a fucking Westbound 36 bus? How the hell did a grown man who’d lived his entire life in DC do something so asinine?
Now Deuce really needed to find out what was going on.
Chapter 2
Deuce always figured he was a lucky guy. Unless it came to love. Or family.
But lucky, yeah.
He threaded his fingers through his hair.
Since Dr. Gautier had gone up to NY for more plastic surgery, as usual, she’d taken Finchley, her right-hand man, personal assistant, and virtual guard dog, with her. That left the DC offices of BIMOS—the Biederman Institute of Meteorological and Oceanographic Studies—untended; she always gave the staff time off when she went to have work done.
This turned out to be one of those lucky things for Deuce—it gave him the perfect opportunity to do a little snooping.
Her private offices were buttoned up tight, but that didn’t matter. He chuckled to himself as he took a kit from his jacket pocket, selected a lock pick, and let himself into the outer room, which was Finchley’s office.
What he needed wouldn’t be in there. He let himself into Dr. Gautier’s inner sanctum.
It was a little after eleven, but instead of turning on the lights, he fished a flashlight from his other pocket, turned it on, and gripped it between his teeth.
Of course the file cabinet that interested him was locked. He manipulated that lock, pulled out the drawer, and began looking through the files. It didn’t take him long to find the one
he wanted.
He opened the folder and began to thumb through it.
* * * *
Well.
He took the flashlight from between his teeth and swallowed, his mouth abruptly desert-dry.
Well. Wasn’t this fucking special?
He put the folder away, locked the file cabinet, then backtracked out of the building, locking doors behind him.
He needed a drink.
There was a small bar, the Six Nine, a few blocks away. It would still be open, and it shouldn’t be too crowded on a Thursday. He shrugged to settle his denim jacket more comfortably on his shoulders, then began striding down Mass. Avenue.
* * * *
The sound of a pool cue striking a ball greeted him as he entered the Six Nine, and he looked around. A few men sat at the bar, while a man and a woman were in one of the booths, holding hands across the table.
Two men studied the lay of the balls on the pool table at the rear of the bar.
On the TV above the bar, a muted black and white movie played—something he recognized from the 1930s—while music on the jukebox blared, and the song wasn’t something familiar.
The bartender grinned at him and gave him a nod as he approached the bar. “What’ll it be?”
“Let me have a Jack, straight up.”
“You got it.” The bartender reached for the bottle of Jack Daniels and poured a shot. “Do you want to run a tab?”
“Thanks, but no.” As much as he needed this, he didn’t want to go overboard. It was always a good idea to stay on his toes. That was one of the reasons why he was still alive. “What do I owe you?”
“Five bucks.”
He took a five from his wallet and handed it to the man, then placed two singles on the bar. A decent tip, not too much or too little, either of which would cause the bartender to remember him.
“Thanks.” The bartender rang up the sale, and when the cash register slid open, he tucked away the bill. The singles he put in the tip jar beside the register.
“Welcome.” Deuce put away his wallet, picked up the glass, and found a booth in a secluded corner. He needed to do a lot of thinking, and he needed to do it in peace.
He slid into the booth, tuned out the background noise, and stared into the amber depths of the whisky before taking a sip. God, he was in deep shit.
This was like six fucking degrees of Kevin Bacon.
Deuce had been ordered to bring that seven-year-old boy to Dr. Gautier. The kid’s mother had been friends with Delilah Carson, who Deuce had worked over for Jameson in January of 2002, only to have her die before he’d gotten the information he’d needed. Jameson insisted neither of them had to worry about her kicking the bucket—somehow Jameson had been able to locate the woman and her son. Cocksure of his success and so fucking smug with it, Jameson had been fucking positive no one would care what happened to a whore.
Seemed he’d been fucking wrong.
Delilah had worked occasionally with a rent boy who went by the name of Sweetcheeks. All of this would have been immaterial, except for one more connection: as it turned out, Sweetcheeks was a good friend—and Deuce would have liked to know how the hell that had happened—of Mark Vincent, the deadliest agent the Washington Bureau of Intelligence and Security had ever produced.
And not only was Vincent deadly, he was fiercely loyal as well. It had taken some digging on Deuce’s part—okay, a lot of digging—since this information hadn’t been privy outside certain factions of the intelligence community, but Vincent had decimated a drug cartel in Columbia after they’d tortured and slaughtered his partner.
The odd thing was Vincent hadn’t even liked his partner much.
Deuce could understand Vincent’s reaction, though. You looked after your men, even if you didn’t have much use for some of them.
And that meant Vincent could very well be coming after the people who’d been responsible for this entire fubar, starting with Delilah Carson’s death.
Okay, that left him with one option: get the fuck out of Dodge. Dr. G. wasn’t going to be happy, but he had that bit of information that might appease her. He’d prefer to have Trip get in her good graces by being the one to give it to her, but it remained to be seen.
As Deuce nursed his drink, he formulated his plans…
* * * *
Yeah, he was pretty certain what he’d come up with would work.
He tossed back the remainder of his drink, then got out of the booth, brought the glass to the bar, nodded at the bartender, and walked out into the May night.
* * * *
He called Dr. Gautier’s cellphone at eight the next morning. It was early, but she was one woman who didn’t hang around in her pajamas.
“Dr. Gautier’s phone.” Finchley answered.
Shit. “It’s Deuce. Can I speak to Dr. G.?”
“She’s still in recovery.”
Still? He’d been sure the procedure would have been done by now.
“Do you want to leave a message with me?”
No, but it didn’t seem he had any choice. “Tell her I’m tendering my resignation.”
“What? You can’t…Just a second, I’ll get her. She’s going to want to hear this.”
Well, fuck. He could have told Finchley that to begin with.
“Deuce? What’s this talk about resignation?” Dr. Gautier’s voice sounded hoarse, possibly from being intubated while she’d had that last round of plastic surgery.
He could have told her he’d gotten a call from home, that his family needed his help for one reason or another, but she wouldn’t have believed him. And besides, he didn’t even want her to realize he had a family.
So he told her the truth. “If I don’t get out of town, I’m gonna have Mark Vincent on my ass.”
She was silent for a moment, and he held his breath. Would he have to fill her in on who Vincent was? Would he have to give her vital information?
Before he could start, she said, “I’ll accept your resignation with extreme reluctance.”
He blew out a silent breath.
“Where are you?”
“I’m at the Garland Rooms on Tenth Street.”
“All right. I’ll have Finchley express your severance package to you. You’re a good man, and I’m sorry to lose you, but at this point, I don’t want Mark Vincent involved in this.”
“No, ma’am.” He had no intention of asking what this was. And somehow, he wasn’t surprised she was familiar with Vincent.
“Where will you go?”
“I think it might be best if you didn’t know.” Frankly, he didn’t want her to know.
“Very well. Good luck, Deuce.”
“Thank you. It’s been a pleasure working for you.”
“It’s been a pleasure having someone of your caliber working for me. Unlike some I could name.”
“No, ma’am.” He hoped she didn’t mean his men. Had she learned of Jameson’s death? Well, he had no intention of going there. “Good-bye.”
He was talking to dead air. He closed his phone and looked around the room. It was shabby and small, and it wasn’t likely Vincent would come looking for him—for anyone—here. Low-end rent boys used the rooms at the Garland.
He put his phone on the dresser. It was too early to call Trip, who mostly worked on the West Coast now. He’d recovered well from the bullet wound he’d received the previous year, although it had left a noticeable scar.
Deuce’s fingers twitched to trace the ridged line, but he knew he never would.
He took his duffel bag from the closet, and began packing.
* * * *
FedEx dropped off the envelope just before noon. Deuce took it up to his room and tore it open. Inside was a brown manila envelope. He shook out the contents.
That was one good thing about working for Dr. G. The benefits were pretty good. And the check for six months’ pay wasn’t too shabby either.
He folded the check and tucked it into a breast pocket—he’d close out his b
ank account, then go to Dr. Gautier’s bank to cash the check. The last thing he wanted was to leave a paper trail. That included charging airline tickets to his credit card. He had a friend, Galatea Jones, who ran a chop shop. She should be able to point him in the direction of a good used car without a lot of mileage. He slid the paperwork back into the envelope and put the envelope into his duffel. Then he picked up his cell phone and dialed Trip.
“Hey, Boss,” Trip said. “How’s it going?”
His insides clutched at the sound of Trip’s voice. “It’s going, Butch.” He wished there might have been a future for them, but that wasn’t likely. He was too old, and Trip wasn’t his type. And if he kept telling himself that, maybe he’d come to believe it.
“What’s wrong?”
“Never mind about that. I have some intel for you, and I want you to pay attention. Get in touch with Ace and Stan and head down to Orlando.”
“Florida? Why?”
“You’re going to Disney World.”
“Okay. I’ve never been.”
Damn, Deuce wished he could take Trip there. “The boy and his mother are there. She’s got a job working at one of the hotels.”
“Got it. Do we know which one?”
“The Contemporary.”
“What name is she using?”
Smart kid. Deuce was going to miss him, miss working with him. He hoped Dr. G. would realize just what she had.
“Marybeth Wilkins.” He’d done some sleuthing and discovered the identity she was using.
“Okay. Will you meet us down there, Boss?”
“I’m not your boss anymore, Butch.”
“What?”
“I gave Dr. G. my resignation. It’s not safe for any of you if I continue to work for her.”
“I don’t understand.”
It was important that Deuce explain the situation. Vincent could just as easily go after Trip, and Deuce didn’t want that.
“There’s an intelligence agent who might be coming after me. I need to cut loose everyone I…I work with.”
Deuce could hear Trip breathing over the phone.
“Butch?”
“Where are you going?”