Apex Predator Read online

  Downstairs, the ABC Movie of the Week began, drowned out by Andrew’s cries of pain as Jimmy swiped the rag back and forth. The blackness took over. A strange smile creased Jimmy’s face. He stared off, open mouthed, eyes glazed over as he fell into a dazed hypnotic state equaling the numb pleasure he felt when beating off to the Penthouse magazine he had found in his dad’s underwear drawer.

  Andrew’s stubby arms and legs flailed as Jimmy sanded at the baby’s shiny cheeks as if trying to strip paint from a plank. Streaks of light zipped behind Jimmy’s fluttering eyelids, lips drawn back so tight that his teeth ached, his brother’s shrieks pushing him on. It was the first time he had experienced such a delicious energy. He didn’t want to let it go. He couldn’t—

  The screaming cut off.

  Jimmy jumped. Panting he caught his breath, the blood throbbing in his temples, his blurred vision only slowly coming back into focus. What he saw sent a bolt of terror slicing between his shoulder blades.

  Andrew’s eyes were closed.

  Have I…What I have done?

  The room swirled around him.

  Then he noticed his brother’s chest shallowly rising and falling. Jimmy exhaled in relief as he shook his sore wrist. He glanced at the clock on the top of the dresser. It had been fifteen minutes since he first set foot in the nursery. Silvery moonlight streamed in through the window. He flipped the switch on the wall, chasing away the darkness. Only then did he see the white cloth, pink streaks of blood smeared on it.

  Oh, Jesus!

  He bent to examine his brother, anxiety turning to relief as he saw that though fire-engine red, the sores appeared as they had before. He grabbed up gobs of Vaseline, shaky hands slathering it on, panicky at first, then with more assurance. He would get away with it.

  He smiled a cruel thin lipped smile that just managed to cover his canines.

  Life was good again for Jimmy Donnelly.

  ------------------

  August 2016 – Detroit, Michigan

  Brody’s brain spun in a loop as he adjusted the rental car’s seat. He cruised east on the highway, passing the landmark eight-story high Uniroyal Tire serving as the southwestern gateway to Detroit. Four days ago his bureau chief, an affable agent named Hiller had provided the first good news he had heard in ages; he was being transferred from exile in Cincinnati and back to the big leagues. Something was going down and the Bureau needed every agent they could get with Wall Street experience, including Brody.

  Upon reporting to Quantico, Brody learned that a bank vice president had gone missing from his yacht while anchored off the Hamptons. That came from Brody’s new boss, a slick looking man named Wilson who seemed even more put off by the fact the banker’s savings and brokerage accounts had been drained and handed over to Occupy the SEC, Habitat for Humanity, and other such hippie organizations. The Bureau’s first impulse was that the banker had been kidnapped and extorted.

  Then a letter arrived at the missing banker’s estate. It came in an unmarked envelope, weighty in the hand of the Guatemalan maid who found it. Inside nestled a single sheet of creamy archive quality paper, the page blank but for a single jarring question handwritten in pigment-based ink.

  “Why no jail?”

  One day later the CFO of another mega-bank vanished. His accounts also emptied. Another letter turned up. Delivered on the same old world stationary, in the same beautifully penned cursive, and asking once more: Why no jail? This time a deep red seal had been pressed into the paper. However, the seal’s crest had not been inscribed from wax, clay, lead or any of the other traditional material used to authenticate a document. Forensic analysis subsequently determined it had been made from the missing CFO’s blood—

  The mind numbing voice coming from the car radio shifted in tone, shaking Brody from his reverie with the news that the world’s biggest banks had colluded to fix yet another supposedly inviolate and trusted market, this time commodities. It would be one of many topics to be covered in today’s anticipated hearing on Capitol Hill. He punched the radio off, staring out the window at the bankrupt city through which the highway ran. Six decades of population loss had been capped by a corrupt mayor who teamed up with the CEO of Wall Street’s biggest bank to restructure the city’s debts, a decision akin to getting sex advice from a pedophile.

  The bank, while in the midst of conning the city into interest-rate swap deals, was also knee deep in handing out subprime loans to anyone who could fog a mirror. These loans were securitized and promoted to investors who, not knowing the rating agencies were in on the scam, believed in the triple-A seals of approval assigned to anything pushed by the banks. The bullshit stopped when Lehman became the sacrificial lamb and interest rates soared on the city’s swaps. Detroit’s emergency manager ended up asking big finance to take a haircut. All had refused, but for one intrepid hedge fund manager out of Connecticut.

  Rutherford Cameron’s lustrous G6 jetted into Detroit the day before Brody debouched from his coach class misery. He glanced toward the car’s passenger seat. There, a manila envelope contained transcripts of Cameron’s communications documenting his offer to take a hit on his investment in hopes of helping the city get back on its feet. To celebrate, Detroit’s emergency manager had met Cameron in a downtown entertainment district known as “Greek town.” Cameron’s final call home to his wife and kids had described a lavish celebratory dinner, the thought of which made Brody’s mouth water. Flaming cheese; olives soaked in citrus zest, garlic, and oregano; tangy barrel-aged feta; lamb; spinach pie; and a plethora of sides served with hot bread and washed down with bottles of Xinomavro, and Assyrtiko.

  Dinner had rolled along a little too well for Cameron, however, dizzy from more than the praise bestowed upon him. He had been last seen chatting it up with a couple at a casino blackjack table; drink in hand, his silk tie hanging askew from his well-tanned neck; vicuña wool jacket sleeves rolled up, and having the time of his life.

  Just after daybreak they found Cameron’s body in an abandoned lot.

  Brody grimaced, thinking of his first job with the Bureau. He had been assigned to one of the few task forces scrutinizing Wall Street. Then, America’s biggest banks blew themselves up. He had hounded his department head to investigate, but was reassigned for his efforts.

  At least this time he was finally searching for justice, albeit in a world that rendered the term meaningless for most. Nonetheless, cracking open this case could earn him another shot at the system and maybe chase away the depression that had settled over him like a heavy black cloud.

  Chapter 5

  August 2016 – London, England

  Detective Inspector Desmond Cusick braced his body against the wind cutting across the rooftop. Honking drifted up from below; drivers stuck in London’s rush hour gridlock. He turned to scowl at his new partner.

  Ian Hume straightened at the sight of Cusick’s craggy face.

  “Come here!” Cusick roared. The wind tore the words from his throat.

  Hume edged forward, stopping several feet behind Cusick’s perch.

  “Goddamn it, don’t be such a wanker!” Cusick said. Why he had been given such a wet behind the ears partner had initially befuddled him. However, staring out over the towering building’s cliff-like edge, it began to make sense.

  Twenty floors below the ninth floor rooftop jutted out from the massive structure’s side. There, the pancaked body of a Vice-president from America’s biggest bank had been found one week before. The initial investigation chalked it up as a suicide. Even so, no note had been found from a man otherwise at the peak of his career. Nevertheless, the authorities had closed the case. Then another senior banker took a dive, this time plunging off the roof of the same American bank’s Hong Kong offices. The Mayor of London, recognizing he had a bloody cock-up on his hands, demanded they reopen the VP’s file. Scotland Yard sent in Cusick.

  His preliminary
investigation showed nothing supposedly understood about the VP’s death proved accurate. The initial Metropolitan Police report had been the dodgiest document he ever saw. Only because of a local reporter’s work had Cusick discovered that three of the jumper’s immediate co-workers were under investigation for rigging commodities markets. However, no one from the police had questioned them. Movement below interrupted his musing.

  A bearded man shuffled through the alley’s trash cans, one of the unfortunates left behind by the waves of globalization and financial innovation that had made London the richest city in the world. The homeless chap balanced a paper plate in his left hand. His right hand combed through the refuse picking out food scraps. Not fifty meters away the dark alley emptied into the bright, spotless street. Fresh faced junior bankers in tailored Saville Row suits hurried past, oblivious to the underworld a stone’s throw away.

  Meanwhile, a tentative presence inched closer on the rooftop’s narrow edge.

  “Look down,” Cusick said. “Anything funny strike you about where our jumper landed?”

  Hume eyed the chasm. His face pale, he glanced back to the sheltering rooftop door and then peeked again over the building’s side. “How did that guy end up here,” He jerked his thumb behind them, “and then down there?”

  Cusick smiled for the first time all morning. Maybe young Hume wasn’t as daft as he had suspected. No one other than senior security and maintenance personnel could access the roof. Immensely bulky and massive cooling machinery virtually blocked off this side of the building. Only after much effort had they figured out how to reach where they stood. In contrast, the roof’s open opposite side featured a helicopter landing pad conveniently jutting out over the abyss.

  “Either our banker wormed his way through the mess behind us to avoid being seen when he plummeted arse over tit,” Cusick said, walking through it, “making sure to land on the projecting part of the roof below and guarantee that not until the next morning at the earliest would he be found or—”

  “Somebody bloody well helped him along.”

  “It’s that simple?”

  “It’s that simple,” Hume responded.

  Cusick frowned as he peered into the darkness below.

  Nothing was ever that simple.

  Chapter 6

  February 1973 – New York City, New York

  Jimmy glanced at the clock for the tenth time in the last two minutes. What was going on in there?

  He sat on a hard plastic chair in the vice-principal’s outer office. The gray-haired secretary pounded away on a typewriter, oblivious to the teenager wringing his hands.

  He had started the fight. No doubt about that. The only question was how long would he be suspended?

  The vice-principal’s door opened. A red faced student stepped out, one hand pressing a bag of ice up to a swollen lip. The teenager, named McHenry, glared at Jimmy as a heavy set security guard pushed him forward.

  “It’s your turn Donnelly.”

  Jimmy jumped at the sound of vice-principal Fitzpatrick’s voice. With a shock of red hair, and tired green eyes “Fitz” as everybody knew him, was a walking Irish stereotype in more ways than one, including his temper. Jimmy squeezed into Fitz’s claustrophobically small office, the vice-principal waving him into a rickety chair in front of the comically large hickory desk taking up virtually the entire room.

  Fitz fell into a plush leather chair opposite Jimmy.

  An envelope sat open on the desk. Jimmy gulped when he saw his name affixed to the protruding tab.

  “I cannot figure this out,” Fitz said, leaning forward, his suit jacket bunching up around his shoulders. “McHenry told me that one of your buddies hit him in the head with a French fry at lunch. He says that when he complained about it, you sucker punched him. Here’s the thing…”

  Fitz’s hand drifted over to rest on a fat file emblazoned with McHenry’s name. He paused, making sure Jimmy watched.

  Jimmy stared, his mouth dry. I’m so fucked. That’s exactly how it went down.

  “McHenry is a jackass,” Fitz announced. “If it weren’t for his father’s donations, he would have been kicked out of school years ago. On the other hand, you’ve never been in trouble. Though I’m not surprised, bet you didn’t know that I used to work with your dad. How is he? Still holding down the fort at Salomon Brothers?”

  Fitz waved off Jimmy’s attempt to reply, “Why don’t you tell me what really happened in that lunch room today.”

  Jimmy froze, his mouth open in an ‘o’ for one painfully long second before he realized what was happening. He tried his hardest to look earnest as the lies spilled from his mouth. “Yes sir. McHenry swung at me first…”

  Thirty minutes later Jimmy strolled out of the office, a smile creasing his face. He wasn’t getting suspended. His father wouldn’t be called. What’s more, and courtesy of Fitz’s orders, McHenry was taking the rap for everything.

  Jimmy Donnelly had learned much about how justice worked in his world.

  Life was good.

  ------------------

  August 2016 – London, England

  Cusick and Hume hustled into the skyscraper’s interior, winding their way to the elevator. At Cusick’s request their escort, a powerfully built Pakistani security guard, marched them to the exit into the alley. There the detectives plunged outside, the alley’s rank smell slapping them in the face. As a teenager working in a restaurant, Cusick remembered the godawful task of taking the fryer’s rancid oil out for disposal. Combine that with the dead air hanging heavy between the huge buildings, the grime and human waste permeating the dark, narrow alleyway, and—

  “C’mon man. What’re we doing out here.” Hume muttered through his right arm mashed up across his mouth and nose.

  “There,” Cusick pointed up the alley. Derby shoes splashed through puddles of filth as he headed for a homeless man digging through a trash can—the same man he had seen from the roof. Badge flipped open Cusick stopped in front of his fragrant target, careful not to stand too close.

  “We’re not here to harass you. Just a few questions okay?”

  The man’s eyes showed white in his dirt streaked face. He nodded, crumbs scattered through his beard.

  “You got a name?”

  “Patrick.”

  “This your regular hunting grounds?”

  Patrick cleared his throat, a death grip on the paper plate’s bread crusts, half eaten chicken wings, and rotting celery. “As soon as it gets light and until they,” He jerked his head toward the bustling street outside the alley, “are out.”

  “Ever miss a day?”

  “You kidding? This’s one of the best alley’s around. You wouldn’t believe what gets thrown away.”

  “Notice anything strange lately? Maybe in the middle of the night? A few weeks back?”

  “Piss off.”

  “It’d be a shame if someone else jumped your claim.”

  Patrick met Cusick’s stare, saying nothing. A sharp intelligence danced behind his soft eyes.

  After several seconds he gave in with a sigh, “You mean the jumper.”

  “Anybody come talk to you?”

  “I heard a thump one night. The next day they pulled a body off that lower roof,” Patrick said, pointing. “That’s all I know.”

  Cusick frowned. Patrick’s jumpy eyes far from jived with his words.

  “How’d you end up here?”

  “I worked as a consultant for fifteen years.” A weary smile tugged at the corners of Patrick’s mouth. “Then I got me P45.” He eyed Cusick’s hand as it flipped open a billfold. “Couldn’t find work, ran down my accounts. Hit the bottle.”

  Cusick held up a ten pound note.

  Patrick’s pupils dilated, but he paused as if he faced a real decision.

  Cusick dug a few more pence from his pocket.
“You got three seconds or—”

  “You bloody well better know what you’re doing,” Patrick said, snatching the proffered money. “I heard a weird sound right after the jumper fell. It came from up there.” He pointed toward the rooftop. “Before I say anything else – I’m not crazy. I used to bring home a regular paycheck before the troubles hit.”

  Cusick didn’t know what to believe. He lived in a society built on lies. Even so, once in a while the ugly truth of what London had become slithered free. He liked being there when it did.

  “About that sound…”

  “It damned near scared me to death,” Patrick said, coughing and glancing down.

  Cusick waited, a strange feeling life was about to change teasing a dark corner of his mind.

  Finally, Patrick spoke in a voice barely more than a whisper. “It was something howling.”

  Chapter 7

  August 2016 – Detroit, Michigan

  Brody merged onto the trash strewn highway off ramp. A red traffic light hung listlessly above the potholed service drive. Shattered shells of old buildings, once housing bustling stores, formed a lifeless concrete canyon.

  To his left a beggar slouched against a torn chain link fence. His tattered t-shirt read: “US Third Infantry Division.” Dirty fingers gripped a cardboard sign: “Iraq War Veteran. Please Help.” The grimy McDonald’s coffee cup in front of him was empty.

  Brody fished in his pocket and tossed a couple of wadded up dollars out of the window.

  The man scrambled to life, waving his thanks.

  The light turned green.

  Brody wound his way into a labyrinth of side streets marking Detroit’s east side; meaning everything east of Woodward Avenue. A one-time symbol of technological progress, Woodward featured the first mile of paved concrete laid down in the United States. Now it drove like a dirt road after a hard rain.

  He turned the corner. Where homes once stood weeds swayed waist high in the hot breeze. Jarringly tilted telephone poles resembled old pictures of Nazi obstacles guarding the D-Day invasion beaches. Burned out buildings punctuated most blocks, the carcasses of torched cars blighted the worst streets. In the few occupied homes faces appeared between narrow gaps in shades otherwise drawn tight. His vehicle, a Chevy, a symbol of everything the people once had. In the street, the occasional piece of paper blowing in the random wind came up haltingly as if it were too much effort in the summer’s heat. Not a single kid played on the sidewalks.