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I’m shivering too hard to recognize the device in Trap’s hand. It’s a black plastic case, with a couple of dials and a hard rubber extension. “Wh— what’s that?”
“A receiver,” he says.
I blink and the thing makes sense. It was only my terror that transformed it into another tool for torture.
Trap picks up another rectangular box—more dials, more gauges, another antenna, and an electric plug that runs into the wall. “And here’s the transmitter.” He hefts the receiver in his hand. “He picked up the signal from the bugs with this. And he boosted the signal with that.”
“But why? If he knew I was going to kill him, he would have stopped me before I ever had a chance.”
“He didn’t plan on getting video of his own death. He was monitoring to get leverage against me. Blackmail, maybe. Trade secrets from the Diamond Ring. Whatever he thought he could sell.”
It makes sense, in a terrible, twisted way.
“So what do we do now?” I ask.
“Youare going to research those paintings. See if any others were stolen.”
“And you?”
“I’m going to build a fucking bonfire and get rid of this shit.” His gesture takes in the chair, the lamp, and all the garbage on the shelves. “And then I’m tracking down Herzog’s asshole brothers.”
4
TRAP
* * *
One good way to measure your Chief of Security: See if he has any questions when you ask him to torch a chair that looks like it was on the set for one of thoseSawmovies. Extra points if he doesn’t blink when you toss in a pile of used BDSM gear. And if he starts the fire with a cattle prod before destroying that evidence too, give him a fucking raise.
Mac carried out the destruction in the back parking lot. I didn’t bother pointing out that metal wouldn’t burn, but I did tell him I didn’t want Alix seeing any residue left behind. I’m sure he put one and one together, but he’s kept his mouth shut about a lot more since Diamond Freeport opened.
Herzog’s paintings couldn’t stay in his gallery, not with the door torched. I could have ordered warehouse staff to move them to an unused room, but I figured the fewer people who knew about the Vermeer, the better. I moved them myself, into an unused gallery.
I haven’t decided what to do with the painting yet. A Boy Scout would hand it over to the museum as soon as possible. An everyday guy would figure out how to spend his ten mill reward.
But I’m a billionaire who can afford to look the other way, even for an eight-figure payout. And I’m running a tax haven where more than a few of my clients are engaged in shady dealings.
Handing over the Vermeer will just invite a visit from some of my old friends—the IRS, the FBI, and fuck-all other government agencies. I owe it to my clients to keep the authorities from breathing down all our necks.
Speaking of debts to my clients…
Alix is the star of the video that arrived this morning. But there are more than enough supporting roles to put plenty of people in the line of fire. The camera caught me full-face, but if I go through frame by frame, I bet I’ll find mugshots for the rest of the Diamond Ring.
Every guy who was there that night got a million-dollar bump in his freeport account for his silence. But the existence of the video changes the equation. Money is hard to balance against hard time in federal prison. And if the Herzog assholes are willing to blackmail me, I doubt they’ll refrain from going after my clients too.
So I need to track down Jonas and Ansel Herzog. Find out where they’re living. Pay them a little visit. I’ll try negotiating, getting their absurd demands down to something I can afford. And if that doesn’t work, I’ll take care of them the same way Alix handled their brother.
Maybe with a little less blood spatter.
Or not.
It’s the least I can do to protect Alix. The freeport. My fucking clients. My entire goddamn life.
Once I’m safely behind my closed office door in the freeport tower, I take out my cell. Harry Asher answers on the first ring.
“I’ve got a rush project,” I say.
“Sure thing, boss.”
