Trained by Sansa Rayne
Chapter 20
“So why do you think Anarchy, Inc. hasn’t issued a statement about the incident in New Jersey?” asks Matthew Ryan. “Ann?”
“It’s confusing,” Parada says. “They’ve never been shy about taking credit for their acts. It would stand to reason that maybe this wasn’t connected to their past attacks.”
“Or that they failed in their goals,” suggests Michelle Cross-Yarrow, “and don’t want to admit it.”
“But what would that be?” Ryan asks. “Destroying an old barn? According to property records, it was unoccupied — recently foreclosed on.”
I can see why Kate hated him. What an idiot.
“Which makes it a perfect place for illicit activity of some kind,” counters Parada. “Clearly something went down there and someone wanted to keep it a secret.”
“But who, what and why?” asks Cross-Yarrow. “For all we know, this was a government operation to take out Anarchy, Inc.”
Like the government wouldn’t take credit for that immediately. Moron.
“Well for now we don’t have much to go on,” says Ryan. “That’s our show for today. Thank you for tuning in to Kate Atwood Live. I’m Matthew Ryan filling in for Kate while she takes some time off. We’ll see you tomorrow.”
The show will be back with these dipshit hosts, but they won’t know anything new. They won’t be breaking any new developments. My people have seen to that.
And Kate won’t be returning to her time slot for the foreseeable future, if ever. Betting pools on the internet have guessed anywhere from next week to six months to never.
Did Kate overdose? Concerned public calls for her safe return, reads one trending article.
Atwood likely back in rehab, rumors suggest
Potential Atwood spotting in Vegas draws mockery
She’s going to be the next Elvis, isn’t she? Or maybe Jimmy Hoffa. Sure, they’ll put together the fact that Kate disappeared the same day as that explosion in New Jersey, but they won’t be able to explain what she was doing there, or why anyone wanted to kill her. She’ll be an unsolved mystery, the subject of conspiracy theories and a fascination for amateur sleuths. They’ll never get close to the truth, though, try as they might.
I turn off the TV and look out at New York. As much as I hate this place, it’s a lot nicer from a distance. None of the noise and smells and chaos. Still, the sooner I can leave here, the better. Once Anarchy, Inc. is finished.
Assuming they don’t finish me first.
My phone rings. It’s Nick.
“Yes?”
“We’ve analyzed the wreckage from the barn. Not much survived. High-heat incendiaries were used to burn nearly everything. We found Kate’s implants, but there was something strange.”
My phone dings from receipt of two photographs: the first depicts three metal cases, all partially melted. In the second, the cases are open, revealing the activated chips.
“What the fuck is this?”
Nick doesn’t answer right away.
“Tell me!”
“We think they’re meant to trick the implants,” he says. “An initial examination shows they have heating elements, they’re not electromagnetically shielded and they’re full of some kind of gelatin. They could have… allowed for the implants to be removed… without us knowing.”
Holy fuck.
Kate’s alive.
Probably.
Death has her. But what does he plan to do with her? Considering the effort he went to helping her escape, he must have known the truth about her connection to me. Otherwise why go to the trouble?
I lean back in my easy chair. If Death can extract the implants, that opens up many very problematic possibilities.
Perhaps Kate was a test case, to see if it could be done. That way when someone like Merwin Locke or Franco Silvestri or Evo Griekin tries to have their implants taken out, they’ll know it works. Are they planning to betray me? I would, if I were in their position. But they’re all being watched. If they were in contact with Death, I’d know.
If I was him, what would I do now? There are a million ways Kate could be used against me, if that’s the goal. But if they wanted her to go to the authorities with her knowledge, what’s taking so long? Why wait?
“Get the tech division to acquire all the computing power we can buy and run facial recognition on everything you can,” I tell Nick. “Traffic cameras, ATMs, social media — find Kate.”
“Yes, sir.”
Now, what would she do if she’s alive, assuming Death would let her? Probably what she’s wanted to do since the day Ingram abducted her: tell the world what she knows. She could go to LPN, except I’d know where to find her. That’s too risky. She could make contact with her old boss, John Howell, and tell him everything; but would he believe her?
If not him, though, there is someone else. He may know nothing, but it’s worth a shot.
—
Brendan Zimmerman leaves the Ellman Media office trailed by a security guard. Dressed in plain clothes and following at a distance, the guard does a good job of not looking obvious, but the cameras identify him immediately as a known professional.
Why would a reporter for a small news outfit need protection? Is he scared Anarchy, Inc. would make him a target, or does he have a specific reason to be concerned?
If Kate’s made contact with anyone from the outside world, it would be Brendan, who frequently glances over his shoulder as he walks up 3rd Ave. toward Union Square. He keeps his hands deep in the pockets of a heavy, black sweater, as if he could be clutching a phone or a can of mace. He’s definitely nervous, and not especially subtle about it. Is he watching for someone specific, or just generally apprehensive?
Time to find out.
“Intercept the target’s security detail,” I tell Nick. “Then bring him to me.”
I listen to the audio feed, smiling as Nick pesters Brendan’s man.
“Hey hey hey, come to our show tonight! Just twenty dollars, two drink minimum — two-hour stand-up show. Just over on 4th Ave.”
“Get the fuck away,” the guard growls.
“You ever hear of Dominic Yaz? Funniest guy in the city, he’ll be there. They got a full bar upstairs, and I’ll give you a coupon if you’re interested.”
“Fuck off! Oh, fuck. Shit!”
Out the limo’s rearview mirror I see the guard fall, likely tripped up by Nick.
“Hey, someone help this guy!” Nick shouts.
Excellent.
“Zimmerman! Run!” the guard shouts, but it’s too late.
A moment later, two of my men shove Brendan into the limo. My driver slips into traffic, and then we’re off.
“What the fuck is this?” says Brendan. He reaches into his pocket again, then looks down at it, as if something’s missing.
“We took a taser off him,” Nick says, holding the device aloft. “We’ll give it back soon, don’t worry.”
“Let me out right here and maybe I’ll consider not reporting you to the police,” Brendan snarls.
Despite his brave talk, sweat shines from his forehead.
“We only need a few minutes of your time, Mr. Zimmerman,” I say. “Just relax.”
His eyes dart to the door handle, even though Nick sits in the way.
“Do you know who I am?” I ask.
“Of course, Anton Ford. Everyone knows who you are. If you wanted to talk to me, you could have just called my office.”
I fake a chuckle.
“You wouldn’t want that. A telecommunications mogul in talks with an independent media outfit would raise some questions, wouldn’t it? It would be a headache you don’t need.”
“Oh, this is for my benefit?” Brendan scoffs.
“I’d rather not waste time going through assistants and secretaries,” I say. “Mine is very valuable. So let’s talk and I can send you on your way.”
“What about?” he asks, still looking out the windows. Does he expect the NYPD to pull us over?
“Is this about our coverage of Innovative AF? I think we’ve been very fair.”
I wouldn’t know one way or another.
“Your exploitation of Southeast Asian labor might be industry standard but it’s still a practice condemned by human rights organizations around the world,” he adds.
I suppress a grin; the line sounds practiced. Has he been waiting to get chewed out by an angry industrialist like me, ready to riposte with a snappy zinger? Does he think men like me care what he thinks?
“I don’t give a fuck about that. I’m sure your audience eats that crap up… and half of them still wait in line to buy my new phones.”
He glares at me, lips curling in a sneer.
“I’m here because I want to know what you know about Kate Atwood.”
Brendan grunts.
“Why?”
“Aren’t you her friend?”
“Was,” he says. “Maybe you haven’t noticed, but she’s gone off the deep end. She stopped taking my calls months ago. And now she’s probably in rehab somewhere.”
I lean forward, studying his expression. He should know that in an interrogation you say as little as possible. You answer the question directly. You don’t volunteer anything that hasn’t been asked. If he was hiding something, wouldn’t he have been coached on what to do in this situation?
Then again, I’m used to dealing with professionals who stay cool under pressure. Judging by the sweat dripping down his neck and the evasiveness of his eyes, Brendan Zimmerman isn’t telling me everything he knows.
“Rehab is what they’re saying on Twitter. I want to know what you think.”
“Do I look like a private detective, Mr. Ford?” he asks. “My money says they’re right — Kate’s likely drying out at some pretend-spa with other rich celebrities. If it’s not that, I don’t know what to tell you.”
“I’d like you to get in touch with her,” I say.
He laughs.
“Yeah, I’d like that too. I told you, she doesn’t take my calls. You have as good a chance at reaching her as I do.”
Oh, if he knew how wrong he is.
“Why do you even care?” Brendan asks. “Is Innovative looking to start a media wing? You think you could lure her from LPN?”
“Reporters never miss a chance at a scoop, do they?”
His laugh comes out high-pitched and unconvincing. He’s trying to change the subject. There’s definitely an element to his responses that speaks to preparation — he has a line for everything, and he denies his knowledge of Kate particularly well.
He could just be nervous because I had him grabbed off the street and he’s stuck in a car with armed men — or he could have some idea of why I’m really interested in Kate. Perhaps I’m not the first person to approach him about her? Maybe Death beat me to the punch.
“The reason I care is that I’m fond of her. If you haven’t heard, we’re sort of dating. It’s nothing really official, but she’s been avoiding my calls too, ever since her run-in with those terrorists. I’m worried about her. I’d like to help her, if she needs or wants it.”
“That’s very kind of you, Mr. Ford,” Zimmerman says. “But if what you say is true, you’ve confirmed that you’ve been in touch with her more recently than me. I promise I can get in touch with you next time I talk to her, if there is a next time.”
“What does that mean?”
“Like I said, she’s dropped me. For whatever reason, we don’t talk anymore. Odds are you’ll hear from her when she gets out of rehab.”
I turn to Nick. He nods to me.
“Okay, Mr. Zimmerman,” I say, knocking on the glass, telling the driver to pull over. “Thank you for your time. Definitely call me if you hear from Kate. And please let her know I’d like to see her again. You may not be a private detective, but if you hear anything credible about her whereabouts, I’d be grateful. The work of dedicated journalists doesn’t receive its due; I’d be happy to make Ellman Media a significant donation.”
“Thank you, Mr. Ford. That’s very kind. If I hear anything, I’ll be in touch.”
“Great.”
Nick lets him out of the car and hands him back his taser.
“Be careful with that thing,” he mutters.
Brendan nods, then goes, jogging toward a subway entrance.
Once we drive off, I turn to Nick.
“What did you get?”
“Zimmerman had two cell phones on him,” he says.
Interesting, but not necessarily earth-shattering.
“Personal and business?” I ask.
Nick shakes his head.
“Unlikely. He had a smartphone and a burner. We cloned them both.”
“Good. Monitor them both personally, Nick. That’s a priority. Update me about any developments immediately.”
“Yes, sir.”
We’ll see Brendan’s calls and texts from now on. Whatever he’s doing, we’ll know what it is soon enough. It’s entirely possible Brendan Zimmerman is a dead end — but I don’t think so.