They dragged Harvey Babbs across a cold concrete floor and lashed his feet to an iron hook.
"Going up!" a voice announced. The black bag was pulled off of Babbs' head. A raccoon stood in front of Harvey, only he appeared upside down. However, it was Babbs who was hanging by his ankles. Harvey's training came back to him. There were five in the room, armed with Belgian FN-FALs. They wore Russian gear, probably because it's cheaper and very well assembled. Their tactical vests were cut and re-sewn to carry the broader, shorter twenty-round magazines of the FN-FAL, and their body armor screamed Soviet throw-off. A hand began to spin Babbs around on the hook, faster and faster until the room was an uncomfortable blur.
"Round and round she goes," the raccoon chuckled. He stopped Harvey's rotation.
"What's your name?"
"President Clinton…" The raccoon smirked and motioned to a large tub. The lab who drove the van put his shoulder to a metal vat and gave it a push. With a screeching noise, it slid across the floor, stopping below Harvey. The water was roughly three feet deep, the top about three feet in diameter. There was some motion and a wooden two-by-four was hastily duct-taped to Harvey's back, making it impossible to curl up and raise his head.
"Going down!" the raccoon said. The hook was lowered, submerging Harvey into the ice-cold water.
The five Irishmen watched the lion struggle against his restraints, splashing water onto the floor. They left him in there for just a short time, only forty-five seconds, before lifting him back out. Else let the water drain away from his victim before continuing questioning.
"What's your name?" Else asked. Harvey spat out a little water and turned to his torturer.
"Harvey Jason Babbs."
"See? Was that so hard?" Else asked, flicking his fingers to Moser, who was manning the lift controls. He raised the heavy chain a bit, adding some more space between Babbs and the water.
"Occupation?" Else asked.
"I'm the general manager of ING's Antwerp branch. A bank manager."
"Good. That's what will keep you dry." The hook was raised another foot.
Marvin drummed his fingers against the television remote. His head ached again, but only because he stopped allowing himself to receive pain medication by knotting the IV. He'd need to be alert for whatever his mysterious contact had in mind.
The door opened as a tortoise huffed and puffed, pushing a linen cart into the room. The policeman, now replaced with a rodent-looking fellow, was busy reading a People magazine. The turtle closed the door and turned to Marvin.
"Did you get the note?" he asked in a nasally voice. Marvin nodded, removing the note from under the covers. The turtle tapped the top of the cart. A raccoon wearing a blue shirt, hat and brown backpack rolled out from where there was supposed to be dirty sheets. He silently pressed himself against the wall, letting the turtle leave the room.
"Who are you?" Marvin demanded after the door shut for a second time. The raccoon didn't answer, instead holding a finger up to his lips. He then moved across the room and opened the window. In the distance, the bells of Notre Dame chimed ten o' clock. Four stories down, a white van parked up against the sidewalk and turned off its engine.
"You're not afraid of heights, are you?"
"Wait," Marvin said, sitting up. "You're the guy from the train station!"
"My name is Cooper. I'd like to be called that, if you don't mind," Sly said, reaching into his backpack. Marvin slowly got out of bed, careful to not lose his balance. His head injury left him rather uncoordinated.
"You're that thief, aren't you?"
"Very perceptive, but right now we've got things to do. Quick, push over your bed to here," Cooper ordered, procuring a long length of black rope. Marvin did as he was told, pushing the wheeled bed to the window. Sly got down on one knee and tied one end of the rope to one of the strong bars that ran under the bed. He tossed the rest out the window. It just reached the ground, with six inches to spare.
"You're kidding, right?" Marvin asked, leaning on the bed.
"No," Cooper answered, checking his knot. He found it to be strong, then began talking into his collar.
"Murray, it's Sly. I've got Henry, we're coming down. Be ready." Sly then pulled out a black rappelling sling and began securing it around Marvin's waist. The note was correct. Had Marvin not worn pants, it would be very uncomfortable. Sly attached Marvin to the rope and practically shoved him out the window. Marvin was ex-army, and knew how to handle himself. He moved slowly, slipping every few steps. He made it past the second floor, past a window with an old man looking out, and down to the ground. He staggered backwards, falling onto his rear. A big, pink hand helped him up and into the van. Seconds later, he was joined by the turtle and Cooper. The big guy in the front seat started the engine and drove quickly away from the hospital.
"Sly, don't ever make me do that again!" Bentley shouted, sweat condensing upon his brow.
"Relax, Bentley. You just had to walk in, drop me off, and walk out. You didn't have to climb through a fourth-story window."
"Big party?" Carmelita asked into the computer screen. "Try Mulligan's tavern on 30th. It's connected to a nightclub next door, to which he's a silent partner. His name comes up on both." Fedorov stood, arms crossed, brow furrowed.
"Most impressive, Detective Fox."
"Okay, all we need now is a warrant. Let me call the DA and see what I can do."
The two detectives slowed to a stop in Carmelita's yellow Coupe. The nightclub/tavern had one entrance with two bouncers and a long line.
"Another swank place," Carmelita muttered.
"Swank?" Fedorov asked.
"Never mind, Matt. Let's go." They exited the vehicle and strutted across the street, stalking across the red carpet. A heavily built man with silver knuckles stopped them with a step into their path.
"Invites?" the wolf asked. Fox showed her shield as Matkovich flipped open his Russian federal officer's badge.
"Will these do?" Fox asked.
"Yeah, sure. Comon in." The bouncer stepped aside. Behind the doors, there was a barrage of sound, light and smell. The thump of the base could be felt in the floor, which seemed to move with the mass of people enjoying the hard liquor and loud music. To one end of the nightclub, there was an entire wall that had been removed, opening up into Mulligan's bar and tavern. The dance-floor ceiling was a dome of mirrors, rising a full story up
"We have to get up there," Fedorov said immediately.
"What?" Fox shouted over the noise. Fedorov shook his head then pointed towards what appeared to be a quieter corner of the club. Standing behind a pillar in the far edge of the seamlessly connecting tavern, the music was dulled enough to allow for normal conversation.
"Did you see the mirrors?" Matkovich asked, removing his fleece cap.
"Yeah. Two-ways?"
"Da, I noticed that."
"Is that the 'glass room' Willis spoke of?"
"I am sure of it."
"Any idea how to get up there?"
"Da, just follow me." Fedorov moved quickly out of the corner, back into the nightclub. It was only after Matkovich began moving towards the door in the rear did Carmelita notice. That frustrated her. Why hadn't she seen the large door with a bodyguard in front of it? He's one of the few things in the room that weren't moving. Perhaps it was her detective training to look for things within the stillness of a crime scene, as opposed to Matkovich Fedorov's… training? He had never explained where he was from, officially speaking. He introduced himself as a federal agent of Russia, but nothing more. A scary thought jumped through Carmelita's mind. Who was this guy? Fedorov approached the door and the bodyguard.
"I'm sorry, sir, but this is a private area. I can't let you in without an invitation."
"Will this do?" Carmelita asked, showing her badge on her belt.
"I'm sorry, detective, but you'll have to obtain a search warrant," the bodyguard said. He'd been instructed previously as to what to say. It seemed to be rehearsed.
"You mean one of these?" Carmelita asked, flashing a broad slip of blue paper, the words SEARCH WARRANT printed boldly at the top. The bodyguard sighed deeply, puffing out his cheeks.
"Yes, one of those." The bodyguard watched helplessly as the two detectives entered. The door closed behind them. The bodyguard waited a few seconds, then retrieved a cellular phone from his pocket.
"I thought you said the District Attorney couldn't be reached until the morning," Fedorov whispered in the quiet hall.
"She isn't," Fox said, folding up the blank warrant paperwork and tucking them away in her pocket. "Comon, let's go." The two detectives found their way to a flight of stairs and into a large room overlooking the dance floor.
"Glass room," Fedorov observed.
"Roll-top desk," Carmelita said.
"Yes, one would be good. Sure to find information."
"No, really," Fox pointed to a desk in a dimly lit part of the room. "Desk."
"Ah," Fedorov said aloud. Fox ran her hand along the top, finding a handle near the edge of the roll-top. She grabbed onto it pulled up. The desk shifted, the top held down by an unseen latch.
"Hmm, locked." Carmelita mumbled.
"Not for long." Fedorov gently moved Fox to the side with a hand on her shoulder. He drew his pistol, which, to Carmelita's surprise, had a suppressor attached to it. Matkovich held the end of the barrel to the lock, and pulled the trigger. The heavy-grain .54 round tore through the latch, blasting the mechanism apart. Fedorov lifted the top up with ease.
"Effective," Fox mulled. Fedorov rummaged through the desk. Most of it was simple annual tax paperwork, done by an office assistant under Abernathy's supervision. There was, however, a card key. It was white, save the magnetic strip on the back. A simple blue arrow marked the end the card was to be inserted. Fedorov turned it over in his hand.
"Easton Securities," he read aloud.
"They make safes," Carmelita commented. Her time spent on the Cooper case had left her with a vast knowledge of security systems, including their respective companies.
"Ah," Fedorov said.
There was a sound of movement from down the stairs. In a flash, the two detectives were up against the wall, weapons drawn and ready. A shadow crept up the stairs, followed by a man wearing a dark blue suit. He stood in the doorway. The dark room seemed normal. The detectives must be elsewhere, so the bodyguard thought. He went to turn around when he saw the desk open. Mr. Abernathy had always made a point of keeping the desk locked when he wasn't there. The bodyguard entered the room, not seeing the two police officers in the shadow made by the wall. Fedorov stepped to the side and behind the bodyguard. The sudden rustle of fabric and the shifting of shadow alerted the blue-suited man, and, naturally, he turned around. Fedorov hit the man with an open hand in the throat, causing him to choke and stagger backwards. He followed the man across the room and made a karate-chop to his neck. The bodyguard fell to the floor, his strained breathing slowly becoming more regular.
"We go," Fedorov said. Fox was in a state of mild shock. A policeman can't do that! Then again, a policewoman can't use false search warrant documents. In the objective-orientated mind of Carmelita Fox, it seemed a reasonable means to reach the goal. As the bodyguard slumped to the side, Fox was reminded that it was, indeed, time to leave.
(It's the author here, again. Pardon any poor writing skills, as I wrote most of this during a bout of insomnia and haven't had any time to revise. Feel free to critisize.)