Brady Hawk 18 - A Deadly Force Page 4

Hawk leaned forward, his elbows resting on the table. “Where’d you dig this one up?”

  “Perfect choice of words, Hawk,” Blunt said with a grin. “It all started with an obituary.”

  “Who died?” Alex asked.

  “Nancy Coleman, the filthy rich New York socialite,” Blunt said.

  “Are we supposed to know who she is?” Black asked. “If she was on one of those reality shows, I sure as hell have never seen her or know anything about her.”

  Blunt shook his head. “No, she wasn’t one to step into the limelight, other than her one major indiscretion, which was having an affair with married U.S. Senator Richard Antley.”

  “That was all over the news,” Alex said. “I’d almost forgotten the woman who was involved with him.”

  “Yeah, well I didn’t,” Blunt said. “Turns out, Antley blabbed about Firestorm to Nancy and not-so-subtly urged her to talk with one of her journalist friends about it. Nancy’s daughter just so happened to go to college with Camille Youngblood.”

  “Now that’s a name I’ll never forget,” Alex said.

  “Me either,” Blunt said. “Though we shut down Firestorm before Camille wrote anything about us, starting over has been a pain in the ass. And I never forget those who cause such pain.”

  Hawk chuckled.

  “What’s so funny?” Blunt asked.

  “You’ve built a team of people who all cause you varying degrees of pain each day,” Hawk said. “I’m starting to wonder if you’re a masochist.”

  “That’s what it feels like sometimes,” Blunt said. “Now, Coleman’s death wasn’t anything I celebrated, but her obituary had a bit of information that I took a keen interest in.”

  “Inheritance issues?” Black asked.

  Blunt shrugged. “In a sense, yes. It wasn’t anything crazy like a Grisham novel where everybody’s scrapping over a five billion dollar inheritance. Nancy didn’t have any children. However, she was quite a prolific philanthropist and chose to leave her entire fortune to just one non-profit called A Hand Up.”

  “A Hand Up,” Alex said, furrowing her brow. “I’ve never heard of them.”

  “Neither had I,” Blunt said, “but they’re no small player. According to their website, they have offices all over the world in places like Paris, Geneva, London, Frankfurt, Madrid, Chicago, and New York.”

  “Impressive,” Hawk said.

  “That’s what I thought,” Blunt said. “But then I started digging through news articles about them. And you know what I found?”

  All three of Blunt’s employees shook their heads.

  “Nothing,” Blunt said, answering his own question. “It was like A Hand Up didn’t even exist. At first, I thought this was an obvious front, but they have legitimate offices in all those countries and supposedly do good work according to one watchdog website. However, the people heading each one of those branches gave me reason to pause and consider what might be going on.”

  Blunt stood and paced around the room as he continued.

  “Each branch had ties to a prominent financial guru in each of those countries,” he said. “So, I called in a few favors with one of my friends at the NSA and asked him to compile a dossier about each one of those men. And what he found was something that reaffirmed my suspicions.”

  “What was that?” Alex asked.

  “Each one of those men made a fortune on the stock market on days coinciding with different tragic events worldwide,” Blunt said. “It’s almost as if they all knew about it in advance and adjusted their portfolios accordingly.”

  “Want me to delve deeper into this guy running the New York City branch?” Alex asked.

  Blunt shook his head. “I want you and Hawk to go there and investigate on site. Hack their financials and find out what’s going on.”

  She nodded. “Sounds better than the last time we went there to diffuse a dirty nuke.”

  “Just think of it like this,” Blunt said. “Your last trip made this trip possible.”

  “And are you sending me to Bourbon Street?” Black asked.

  “Just in time for Mardi Gras,” Blunt said. “Just stay focused.”

  “Roger that,” Black said.

  Blunt dismissed the team and waited until Alex was at the door before asking her to come back in for a short word.

  “What is it?” Alex asked as she eased into the seat next to Blunt.

  He hunched over and spoke softly. “Have you made any headway into your investigation of Richard Joseph, the pro-tem of the Senate from Virginia?”

  “I’m still putting together a profile of him, but I’m finding it difficult to dig up much stuff. He must have one hell of a cleaner swabbing the deck of his digital misdeeds.”

  “He does, but keep working on it,” Blunt said. “I have a feeling he might be more important than we know.”

  CHAPTER 5

  HAWK STRAIGHTENED HIS designer sunglasses and adjusted his tie once he settled into his seat in the limousine. His stylish suit was one Black had recommended. Looking the part of a multi-millionaire real estate mogul who split his time between New York and Los Angeles required a little extra attention to detail. He glanced at Alex, who wore a stunning red dress with a fur coat, accented with a diamond necklace and dangling earrings.

  He gave the driver directions and leaned back.

  “You look great,” Alex said as she patted him on the knee.

  Hawk sighed. “If truth be told, I’d rather be racing around the desert, shooting terrorists. This isn’t the life for me.”

  She smiled. “Why am I not surprised?”

  “Are you seriously into this?”

  “I’d probably get tired of this after a while, but I don’t mind living a posh lifestyle, even if it’s only for a few hours.”

  Hawk leaned forward. “You know what I wouldn’t mind doing? Burning this suit after this is all over with.”

  “It’s not a straightjacket,” she said. “Besides, I think you look rather dapper.”

  “I look more dapper when I’m holding my gun.”

  Alex shrugged. “If you say so. I just don’t want to hear any more bellyaching about what you have to wear or that you have to ride in a limo.”

  Hawk grunted. “I’d rather be driving.”

  “It’s New York City, hun. I think we’d both rather not be here at all.”

  He flashed a smile and held Alex’s hand. She understood him like nobody else and was on the same page as him, even if she did enjoy dressing up and pretending to be filthy rich.

  A half hour later, they arrived at the offices for A Hand Up. They were located in a towering office building in Manhattan. Hawk and Alex took the elevator up to the fortieth floor and entered the lobby. A woman with dark hair tightly cropped against the side of her face and wearing a headset greeted them.

  “May I help you?” she asked.

  “Yes,” Alex said. “We’re here to meet Mr. Reese.”

  “Do you have an appointment?”

  “I called yesterday about making a sizable contribution to your organization. We’re the Davenports.”

  “Ah, yes, Alistair and Claudia,” the receptionist said. “Just one moment. Let me get Mr. Reese.”

  Hawk and Alex sat on the couch and waited for a moment until the head of the New York office emerged with a smile on his face. He strode over to them and shook their hands.

  “Milton Reese,” he said. “It’s so nice to meet both of you.”

  Hawk nodded. “Likewise, Mr. Reese.”

  “Please, just call me Milton. Now back this way.”

  He led them to his office, which was situated in the corner and overlooked a portion of New York’s sprawling concrete jungle.

  “Beautiful view, isn’t it?” Reese asked.

  Hawk nodded. “It’s majestic. How on Earth do you ever get anything done?”

  Reese shrugged. “That’s the million-dollar question. But the truth is I have Becca, who welcomed you up front. If it wasn’t for her, I don’t know
what I’d do.”

  “I’m sure you’d figure out a way to manage,” Alex said.

  Reese smiled and gestured toward the small couch positioned across the room next to a pair of chairs. “Do you mind if we sit over her and talk? I prefer to discuss these matters as if we were in my own home. But my home doesn’t have a view even close to being this spectacular.”

  Hawk and Alex complied as they sat cozily on the small sofa with Reese taking a chair across from them.

  “Now I must confess that until you called yesterday, I’d never heard of either of you,” Reese began. “But I am impressed with what I learned about you since then.”

  “We do like to keep a low profile,” Hawk said. “I’m sure you understand.”

  “Of course,” Reese said. “The moment anyone learns that you have money, you’re being hounded by everyone for your last nickel. I’m sure that’s tiresome.”

  “More than you know,” Alex said as she turned up her nose and rolled her eyes. “I’d rather just write them a check for a hundred thousand if they promise never to return.”

  Reese’s eyes widened. “Well, I certainly wouldn’t want to come across like that. However, I am curious about why you’re so interested in donating to our organization.”

  Alex nodded and leaned forward in her seat. “Alistair and I have been disturbed by the growing lack of income equality in our country. And while some may find it ironic since we’re supposedly part of the problem, we’d actually like to be part of the solution.”

  “That’s very noble of you, Mrs. Davenport,” Reese said.

  “Please, call me Claudia. I’m not an old spinster just yet.”

  “Okay then, Claudia. I’m honored that you would consider A Hand Up for a charitable contribution. Is there anything else that you might want to know about our organization first?”

  Hawk nodded. “As a matter of fact, there is. We happened to stumble across A Hand Up while searching for non-profits that work to eliminate income inequality by breaking cycles of poverty. And while you tout your successful work on your website, we had a difficult time finding much about what you do in the general media. If you’re having so much success, why aren’t there more stories out there about what you’re doing? I mean, I work in real estate, and aside from the mantra of location, location, location, every good realtor knows he’s only as good as his marketing, both of his skills and his offerings.”

  Reese drew a deep breath before answering. “The truth is we don’t want to manage hundreds of small donations because everyone in the non-profit world knows that chasing down twenties and fifties isn’t going to help you ultimately accomplish your goals. And that’s what you get when you spend money to tell everyone how great you are. We generally seek out donations privately from foundations and philanthropic-minded individuals like you.”

  “That’s understandable,” Alex said. “If you’re going to be successful, you have to understand your revenue stream and how to make that best work for you.”

  “Exactly,” Reese said. “And the fact that you understand that makes me all the more excited to accept your gift, that is if you are still serious about considering A Hand Up.”

  “Of course we are,” Hawk said.

  “Well, in that case, I don’t want to pressure you or anything of that nature, but we do have an amazing opportunity if you are considering making your donation within the next week,” Reese said.

  “What kind of opportunity?” Alex asked.

  “We have a very generous donor who’s agreed to not only match any gift within the next week but triple it with a corresponding donation. In other words, your one hundred thousand dollar gift could become a four hundred thousand dollar gift. And that money would go to aiding hundreds of people who sstruggle to escape poverty’s grip on their lives.”

  “Only a hundred thousand?” Hawk asked. “Is that all you were expecting out of us?”

  “Well, I’ve learned not to make any assumptions,” Reese said.

  “Oh, stop it,” Alex said, playfully hitting Hawk. “You’re just itching to tell him how much we’ve considered giving this great organization, aren’t you?”

  Hawk shrugged and smiled. “You know me so well, dear. But you know we’re not quite ready to make this donation today. However, I would like to hear the terms of that triple gift match once more. How long do we have?”

  “One week from today,” Reese said. “Again, I don’t want to pressure you, but it would be an incredible opportunity for us to expand so many of the programs we have here in the city.”

  Hawk stood and offered his hand to Alex, who joined him. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Reese. I appreciate you answering my questions. You have a lovely charity here, and we’re excited about making a contribution that will help further your efforts. I’ll be in touch—and it will be within a week, that much I can promise you.”

  Reese ushered his two potential donors to the door and thanked them profusely. Hawk and Alex hustled down the steps to the limo that was waiting for them just outside and didn’t say a word until they got inside.

  “We need to call Blunt,” Hawk said.

  Alex nodded in agreement. “Something big is going down next week.”

  “And we need to be ready to stop it,” Hawk said.

  CHAPTER 6

  New Orleans, LA

  BLACK AWOKE EARLY and hustled out of his hotel toward Café Du Monde in the French Market. The streets were relatively empty at seven o’clock in the morning as most tourists were still recovering from a night of revelry. Outside the bars, workers swept the sidewalks as they cleaned in preparation for another wave of customers eager to drink the day away. Dodging piles of trash bags and ambitious joggers out for a run, Black rounded the corner and was blasted by the wafting smell of his favorite beignets. He didn’t come to New Orleans for the food, but it was a savory perk.

  Black placed his order and waited patiently at one of the tables in the open-air section of the restaurant. Pigeons strutted around in search of stray crumbs or half-eaten pastries that had tumbled to the ground. While most people stared at their phones while eating, Black took the time to survey the clientele. It wasn’t necessary, but it helped him keep his mind sharp. He saw a pair of undercover detectives as well as one pimp and two drug dealers mixed in with a sea of business professionals, both young and old. Everyone of them piqued Black’s interest to some degree as he wondered about their stories. Why was the elderly gentleman in a three-piece suit eating with a sharply dressed woman who was at least forty years his junior? Or what was the story of the anorexic-looking girl with tattoos covering her arms and legs, eating alone and reading a Tolstoy novel? He enjoyed visiting Du Monde as much for the vast array of customers as he did for the food. But he wasn’t in New Orleans for either. He was here to capture Fortner.

  Black finished his food and headed toward Bourbon Street and all the potential recent sales of homes that fit the timeframe for when Fortner appeared to start preparing an exit strategy. In the past eighteen months, there were a dozen homes sold along Bourbon Street, most of them condo-style residences located above various establishments. Black considered asking around, but he figured Fortner would never be careless and get chummy with his neighbors. If anything, he would keep a low profile—or maybe even a non-existent one. His approach would be a smart one: The fewer people who knew about him, the better. Questioning others living in the area would likely be a waste of time.

  Where are you, General?

  Black meandered up and down Bourbon Street for the better part of an hour before he sat down on a bench and tried to consider all the possibilities. Fortner wouldn’t want to live above a bar, at least he wouldn’t given the reason for purchasing his home in such a location. He’d want to be near a watering hole, but he wouldn’t frequent an establishment so often that everyone knew his name and his story.

  Black wracked his brain, trying to think about which place made the most sense. Then he remembered something he’d seen at Fortner
’s farm in Chile: a sign for barbecue. “Maurice’s Fine BBQ” was plastered across the front of a tin that was tacked to the outside of Fortner’s barn. And while there wasn’t a Maurice’s BBQ in New Orleans, there were well-known barbecue joints located along the famed street. But Black hadn’t noticed any of the addresses on his list located near such an eatery. He needed to double check.

  He trekked up and down Bourbon again, striking off each address that didn’t fit the criteria. When he was finished, Black was left with nothing. Frustrated by the lack of any apparent match, he followed the smell emanating from a billowing hickory wood fire a couple of blocks away. Mickey Ray’s BBQ was the source.

  Black surveyed the outside of the building, which had two stories located above with a decorative wrought-iron fence demarcating the edge of the balcony. He admired the exquisite handiwork, a signature of the French Quarter architecture.

  “She’s a beauty, ain’t she?” asked a man, nudging Black with an elbow.

  Black turned to look at the stranger, who had his attention turned toward the upper floors of the restaurant.

  “If I lived there, I swear I’d be a hundred pounds overweight within a year,” Black said.

  The man rubbed his rotund belly and shook his head. “Or you could live across the street from this place like me and add twenty pounds a year for a decade.”

  Black stopped gawking at the structure and turned his gaze toward the man. “You’ve lived on Bourbon Street for a decade?”

  “It’s quite a feat,” he said. “If you don’t overdose or get shot, you’ve got to be doing something right. That’s why I figure overeatin’ is the least of my worries.”

  Black chuckled. “I hope they don’t let you write the marketing material for the French Quarter tourism department.”

  “This place would probably be a ghost town if visitors knew only half of what actually goes on here.”

  “Yet here you are.”

  The man nodded. “And here’s where I’ll die, maybe even tonight. You just never know.”

  “Mitch Harrison,” Black said as he offered his hand. “One of those tourists who doesn’t want to know just everything yet.”