Belpre Hotel – Pittsburgh – 10:15 a.m.
"Carl? Everything in place for our friend's Oscar-winning performance?" Greg asked the policeman.
Horvath leaned over the shoulder of Benton, peering at the camera picture being displayed. "Yeah," Carl verified to the prosecutor over his cell phone. "We're all set. I had our little actor say a few things over the mike and the camera's operating just like we had hoped. We actually tweaked the feed a little to display the video on a continual loop rather than Kingsley use it as a still camera. That way he doesn't have to worry about making sure he takes a photo and we'll have the whole conversation hopefully on audio as well as video. And it will make him less suspicious-looking. Everything's in perfect order equipment wise. It's all up to him now….and to Prescott's brother. Let's hope his brother doesn't have any more common sense than Prescott did."
"Yeah, I hear you. This is not only going to take some good acting on Kingsley's part but a whole hell of a lot of luck, too. Personally, I think it's about time Justin and Brian got some of that, don't you?"
Horvath nodded grimly, even though he knew the other man couldn't see him. "Yeah. And I know my home life would be a whole lot nicer if I could give Debbie some good news when I get home."
Matthews chuckled. "Don't even go there. My wife says I've been at home so little lately that she took one of my photos and placed it on my chair at the dining room table so she can remember what I look like."
"Well, let's hope she'll get to see the real thing soon," Carl replied. Looking at his watch and noticing it was nearing 10:30, he said, "I'd better sign off. We'll meet you back at your office at 2:00 with the results."
"Good luck, Carl," Greg wished him.
"Thanks." Turning to Benton, he advised the man, "Make sure you get that camera in focus as soon as Kingsley enters Prescott's hotel suite. I want to see every wrinkle on that bastard's face."
"You got it, Detective," Benton responded. "The audio's already been adjusted to a good volume. We should be able to hear everything clearly as long as he stays within 10 feet of the guy. That mike's super sensitive."
Carl nodded. "Good." Silently crossing his heart, he fervently hoped Kingsley's act would be the role of his lifetime. In a way, it would HAVE to be. Prescott wasn't playing around. If Prescott's brother learned somehow that Kingsley had turned informant, the policeman was convinced Kingsley's life would definitely be in jeopardy; it didn't matter HOW far he ran. With the right amount of money, of which Prescott had an overabundance of supply, anyone could be found anywhere at any time.
Carl watched the screen intently behind Benton as the image showed Kingsley now walking down a corridor; having exited the elevator car, he was apparently on the fifth floor, where Suite #515 was located. Taking full advantage of his role as Prescott's financial caretaker, his brother had spared no expense while in Pittsburgh and had booked the most expense suite in the swanky downtown hotel, a penthouse located on the top floor. Carl thought to himself, I wonder if Prescott knows how lavishly his brother is living while he is in a 7 x 7 foot prison cell. Although he found it impossible to feel sorry for the man who had previously had the world at his fingertips. Hopefully soon his brother would be joining him, he thought grimly.
Turning his attention back to Kingsley's progress, he noticed the man slowing down as he approached #515. The man seemed to hesitate for a few seconds as if he were trying to calm himself and take a deep breath before Carl heard and saw him knock on the door.
After a brief period, the door was opened by a, stern, bulky-looking black-haired man wearing a dark navy suit. Towering over the wiry, thin man nervously standing on the threshold, he looked the redhead over thoroughly before greeting him with a curt "Yes?"
Kingsley cleared his throat, trying to dislodge the large lump that had suddenly appeared. In a faltering voice, he said, "I'm….David Kingsley. I have an appointment with Mr. Prescott."
A few seconds transpired before the man held the door open wider to allow the smaller detective to enter. Carl was gratified to notice that he could hear each side of the conversation clearly while Benton worked diligently to get the continual camera footage in focus. The image blurred for a few seconds before Benton turned the resolution the other direction and the picture thankfully turned crystal clear. Well, we have the audio and video all set for your acting debut, Kingsley – better make damn sure it's a GOOD one.
Carl abruptly heard a voice slightly off-camera that he would have recognized even without a formal introduction; it sounded almost identical to Lane Prescott's voice - a voice that the detective had unfortunately been forced to listen to far too many times now.
"Ah, if it isn't dear Mr. Kingsley," the man's voice said, becoming louder as Kingsley apparently approached the other man.
"Hello, Aiden," Kingsley softly greeted the other man in a faltering voice. Have a damn backbone, Kingsley, Carl thought.
As Kingsley walked closer to the other speaker, he finally came into camera range and Carl could not help letting out a gasp. Not only did Prescott's brother sound remarkably like him, he LOOKED identically like the other man, too. If Carl hadn't known for sure that Lane Prescott was in prison at that very moment, he would have sworn the man had somehow escaped, because his brother was the spitting image of him. Twin brothers. Evil incarnate, he thought. Carl was once again glad he had not advised Justin and Brian of what was transpiring at that moment; if Justin, especially, had seen Prescott's brother right now, the blond might have well freaked out. It would be like confronting his tormentor all over again.
The stocky man who was apparently a bodyguard for Prescott followed Kingsley closely into the main living area of the suite. "Just a minute," he instructed Kingsley. "Turn around." Kingsley gulped noticeably as the large man raised his arms out beside him and ran his hands over his entire body, apparently looking for either a gun, a hidden microphone, or both. Kingsley broke out into a light sweat under the intense scrutiny. Please, he pleaded silently. Don't let them find anything. Horvath had assured him that the wire was so tiny and the mike so flat that it would take an absolute strip search to find it. God, please don't make me take this shirt off, Kingsley prayed. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity to Kingsley, the bodyguard nodded to Prescott, who seemed satisfied.
Carl let out a collective sigh and looked over, relieved at Benton as Prescott's brother motioned for the detective to sit down in a large, stuffed chair angled toward him on the couch, asking, "Drink, Kingsley? Coffee?" as if he were an airline steward serving his contingent.
"Uh, no, thanks," Kingsley fumbled. Carl cursed inwardly; the man was acting like he was going to the guillotine and seemed to have absolutely no spine. Maybe in a way he WAS going to the guillotine, came unbidden to the policeman's mind. Let's hope not.
"Brad?" Prescott called to the stocky, dark-haired man who had greeted Kingsley at the door. "A gin and tonic." Nodding in an acknowledgement to his boss, Kingsley watched as the strong, burly man walked toward what appeared to be a bar area to fix a drink for Prescott.
"Nice suite, Prescott," Kingsley commented, evidently attempting to make polite conversation; if the whole situation hadn't been so serious, Carl would have laughed out loud at the man's inane comment.
"Yeah," Prescott agreed amiably enough. "Never been here before. I just told them I wanted the best, though. SOMEONE'S got to live comfortably while big brother is doing his charity work." Prescott laughed , seemingly impressed with what he thought was a clever joke at his brother's expense. "Thanks, Brad," Prescott said, as he took the drink from his bodyguard's outstretched hand. "You can wait in the other room," he instructed him. Nodding curtly, the man turned around and headed back into the other wing of the suite, closing the door behind him.
"Now that any prying eyes are out of the way, perhaps we should get down to business," Prescott began without any further preamble, no longer bothering to continue any more small talk. "My brother told me you would be paying me a visit to conduct some business," he commented vaguely.
Kingsley took a breath to steady himself before speaking again. He knew what was on the line here; his freedom and quite possibly his life. C'mon, Prescott, spell it out……PLEASE.
"That's right," Kingsley confirmed. "He said you could provide me with the proper advance to get our business started."
Prescott nodded. "Yeah. Provided you find me the right partner for the deal. I don't want some guy fresh out of training school."
"Oh, don't be concerned," he tried to reassure the other man. "I have the necessary contacts to find you just the right partner for what your brother needs to be successful." Kingsley began to worry they were going to spend the entire conversation speaking in riddles; if so, this whole endeavor would be useless, both to him AND to the prosecutor's office.
Prescott smiled. "That's good. My brother doesn't like failure. He's a strong believer in doing it right the first time or not doing it at ALL. Of course, when someone fails, he doesn't like it – one bit. He tends to overreact, in fact," the man warned. There was no mistaking the implication in his voice.
Come on, Kingsley! So far we have NOTHING, Carl tried to somehow telegraph to the other man as he seethed inside. The policeman realized they were only going to get one shot at this - it was now or never.
Suddenly Kingsley must have decided he was tired of playing Prescott's game and gambled for all the goods. Taking on a voice that was a lot stronger than the man actually felt inside, he gruffly retorted, "Why don't we just cut through all this bullshit and call a spade a spade? My fucking life's on the line here, too, you know. I don't want any question as to what exactly we're talking about here, okay? Or do you not have the balls that your BROTHER has? HE didn't have any problem spelling out for me exactly what he wanted. Do you? I want NO question as to what is about to happen here, okay?" he repeated, internally holding his breath that maybe he hadn't just made the biggest fucking mistake of his life, and maybe the LAST mistake of his life. His heart pounded rapidly in his chest as he tried furiously to maintain a smug, confident look on his face. He tried to remember that he had the upper hand; Prescott and his brother were depending upon him to find the right hit man for the job. They weren't exactly well-acquainted with killers; no doubt that would just mess up their genteel sensibilities.
After holding his breath for a few seconds, trying to gauge what the other man's reaction would be – outrage, amusement, scorn? – Prescott's brother inexplicably did something then that Kingsley would never have expected; he laughed.
"Well done, Kingsley," he chuckled. "I like a man with guts. And to answer your question, YES, I have even greater balls than Lane. But unless you swing that way, I'm afraid I would just be wasting my time by proving it to you," the man confided to him, winking at him now as if they were long-last pals. "I LIKE you, Kingsley. I like men that don't mince words. I never was a big fan of James Bond and his subterfuge, anyway. No offense," he told the other man jokingly. "You got guts," he declared, smiling now.
Kingsley closed his eyes briefly in relief. As he opened them, he noticed Prescott had moved from the couch to stand by the wall-to-ceiling windows overlooking the downtown Pittsburgh skyline, his back to the detective. "You know," he commented, his voice a little muffled by his stance. "I never thought that one day I'd be running Lane's company for him, that I would have control over all his money. That my brother would be in a fucking prison, maybe for the rest of his life. Oh, don't get me wrong, we've had our share of differences, especially over how my father's company should be run. But I was normally okay with being a silent partner in the business, especially once I saw how profitable Lane was making the company." He snorted as he revealed, "He only got to run the business because he was born a few fucking minutes before I was."
Aiden finally turned around, thankfully, to face Kingsley so Carl could see him clearly and hear him perfectly as the spitting image of Lane Prescott continued his contemplative soliloquy. "But once Lane fell hard for that damn blond, Justin Taylor, he changed into a totally different man. He was fucking obsessed with the guy, to the point where he about ran our father's business into the damn ground because of his neglect."
"So it's kind of poetic justice in a way that Lane got sent to prison and now I get to run my father's business the way I know he would have WANTED it run. I'm going to prove to my older brother that I can do a fucking better job of turning a profit than he ever could," he vowed, the conceit and arrogance oddly reminiscent of his twin brother. In fact, for a few seconds, Kingsley would have sworn he was talking to Lane instead of Aiden.
"But that's a subject for another day," Prescott decided, returning to the couch again to sit closer to the other man. "We have to get rid of his predicament first, don't we? Big brother isn't happy in his new digs. And he's not happy with who he thinks put him there. Well, I can afford to be magnanimous with a little bit of his money, I guess, if it will make him happy. After all, he's not going anywhere soon, is he?" the man laughed, apparently pleased with himself.
Kingsley licked his lips nervously. "No, I guess not," he responded. "But I DID promise him I would find the right man to take care of Kinney and Sinclair for him." Come on, you fucker, damn it! Spell it out.
"Ah, yes. The final laugh for my dear brother. The ONLY satisfaction he can get from his prison cell. Seeing the men dead who he feels is responsible for his new, designer home away from home." Peering intently at the detective, he asked, "So tell me, Kingsley. Just what is the going rate now for a premium hit man? My brother doesn't want a half-ass job – it's got to be done right the FIRST time."
Smiling triumphantly, Carl and Benton looked at each other simultaneously, both thinking the same thing: they had just hit a home run.
Kingsley fought desperately to stay calm. This was it – it was now or never to make this stick. Taking a breath first, he said, "That depends. I can give you the going rate, but your brother told me he would pay double for Kinney."
Prescott nodded, smirking. "Yeah, he really hates that son of a bitch. Thinks that's the main reason why he didn't wind up with his Angel, as he puts it. If I heard my brother say that word one more time, I would have taken the fucker out myself," he joked. "And there is no love lost between Lane and Sinclair, either," he added. "He wants them BOTH out the picture – for good. What will it take?" he asked pointedly.
Kingsley took a breath before divulging, "$50,000 for Sinclair to make sure I get the right man for the job. That will pay for the guy to get lost afterward and to make it look like an accident. $100,000 for Kinney. And your brother told me you would pay half up front, then the other half once it's done," he advised Prescott.
"Yeah, yeah, he told me," Aiden confirmed. "He's pretty bossy for someone who's cooped up in a jail cell," he remarked sarcastically. He was silent for a few seconds, contemplating the information before finally deciding, "Okay. I'll give you the $75,000 today - $25 for Sinclair and $50 for Kinney. But you tell the lucky winning bidder that the extra amount for Kinney is to really make him squirm before he finishes him off. Lane wants that man to SUFFER, understood?"
Kingsley's ragged breathing almost betrayed his extreme nervousness; he willed his heartbeat to slow down before he confirmed, "Yeah, I understand. I'd like to see that arrogant SOB suffer, too," he confided in his companion. "Don't forget – he was responsible for me having to pay that ungodly fine for taking the fall for your brother's wiretapping."
"That's right, I had almost forgotten. Then you'll have a proper incentive for finding just the right man for the job. Or woman," he chuckled. "I'm not choosy, as long as whoever it is does it right and does NOT leave any clues who wanted it carried out. Although Kinney would most likely respond to a man, knowing his fucking sex drive," he added conspiratorily.
"I understand," Kingsley verified, perfecting a fake smile as if in agreement while at the same time fervently hoping his little acting performance was soon going to come to an end.
"Good. Than once this nasty business is finished, I can wipe my hands clean entirely of my dear, departed brother, and never again have to worry about his meddling. After this is over, he can ROT in that fucking prison for all I care. It will be a small price to pay from his millions to get him out of my hair, and out of our father's business." Kingsley watched as Prescott leaned over and pulled out a small drawer in the adjacent side table; reaching inside to retrieve a large brown envelope, he opened it up and counted out several, rubber-banded packs of currency and handed them to the wiry man. To Kingsley's immense relief, Prescott then finally stood up, his now empty glass in his hand. "And now if you'll excuse me, Mr. Kingsley, I'm going to refill my drink. I think our business is at an end for the day, don't you? Besides, you have some recruiting to do. I'll expect a call with all the details as soon as you find the right candidate," he advised, reaching out to shake the detective's clammy hand. "Just don't fuck it up, understand?"
"I'll be in touch," Kingsley managed to sputter, before he controlled his nerves long enough to open the door and walk out. Once he closed the door behind him, the silence of the hallway greeted him. Only the sound of his rapidly-beating heart and his loud sigh of relief could be heard over the hidden wire as he slowly but purposefully strode toward the elevators and away from the tense melodrama that had just played out.
Not being able to control his jubilation, Horvath clapped Benton on the back before getting back to business. "How long before you have the video and audio on a DVD?" he asked the tech expert.
"Give me about an hour – I'll make a copy for you and for the prosecutor's office," he advised the policeman. "It'll be done in plenty of time for your appointment this afternoon," he assured Carl.
Nodding in satisfaction, Carl flipped open his phone to call an anxiously-waiting Matthews. "Kingsley just left the hotel." He reported. "We got him," was all Carl had to say before Matthews let out a whoop. "I'll see you at 2:00."
"Carl – I can't wait to see it. This will be the most satisfying movie I've ever watched," Matthews answered.
"Trust me – after you see it, you'll want to give Kingsley an Oscar yourself. I didn't really think Barney Fife had it in him," he laughed, now relieved it was over and they had been successful. "But they say it's the quiet ones you have to watch."
"Well, give the little man a cigar. I wasn't sure he had it in him, either," Matthews admitted. "But I'm sure as hell glad he did." Glancing at the clock, Matthews noted it was almost 12:30. "I'm going to run out and get some lunch before we meet. But do me a favor," he asked. "Guard that footage with your life in the meantime, okay?"
"Don't worry, I'm not going anywhere until this footage is safely on a DVD," he vowed. "I've got a girlfriend who's going to enjoy this movie immensely, too."
"We all will, Carl," Matthew replied before hanging up. "We all will."