Klempner
Turning the handle slowly, I push open the door at arm’s length, to see… Baxter.
But it’s not Baxter as I know him.
Knew him.
His stance is strange: standing against one wall but in a semi-crouch. And his body is twisted, as though he’s supporting himself lopsidedly. His hands are behind his back and his expression is… agonised.
As he sees me, he moves, then screams. Holding his unnatural stance, “Oh, God. It’s you. Larry… Help me.”
What the fuck?
He’s weeping the words. “For God’s sake, help me. Please. I’m sorry.” He keeps repeating himself, his voice racked. “Help me…”
Glock in hand, I keep him covered, glancing right and left for anyone else. There’s a door off to the right, two off to the left. “Help? You?” Still I don’t approach any more closely. “Baxter, what’s going on?”
“My… hands… Larry, please. Behind me…”
He does genuinely seem to be in some kind of pain. Muzzle still aimed, I move a little closer, but no more so than strictly necessary, sheering off to one side to look behind him.
He’s cuffed at both wrists, his hands locked tight, the steel bright under the harsh lighting except where it’s splashed red. The cuffs are shackled to the wall by a short length of chain, and the positioning is chosen with pain in mind. Too high to allow comfortable sitting. Too low to allow the captive to stand upright.
Can’t stand.
Can’t sit.
And he’s taking his weight, if that’s what it can be called, on one leg only. The other curves oddly. Bloodstains are still spreading from the knee of his left leg.
His hands, even from where I’m standing, look… strange… His shirt sleeves too, once business-suit-white, are bloody, dripping at strange angles. Something hard protrudes under the fabric on one arm where there should be smooth muscle and flesh.
Arms smashed? And a knee-cap too…
What was used?
The answer’s clear enough. On a side-table lie a hammer and a crowbar. I don’t touch them, but again, blood smears over the dull metal surface.
Baxter’s quite helpless. Gun still raised, I move closer for a better look at his hands.
They’re a bloody ruin, the fingers smashed, almost jellified. Flesh and blood and bone drip red to the floor. No possible surgery could repair this damage.
This is no warning. This was intended to cripple. And permanently.
Must be fucking agonising.
What a shame.
“It looks a lot as though someone’s done to you much the same as you planned for my daughter. And grand-daughter. Was it Julia? Did your little tryst with Psycho-Girl not work out?”
Baxter gasps, chest jerking. The pulse at his neck pounds. “I thought… she… she and I…”
“Got that one wrong didn’t you. Good of her to leave you oven-ready for me like this.”
He sobs, gulping madly for air.
Backing away, picking the left-hand random, I kick it open. Holding the grip in both hands, I aim inward…
A bathroom. Neatly kept. Clean basin, mirror and bowl. Fresh towels draped over a rail. Soap and toothpaste, barely touched, on the basin. A shower stall in one corner. The scent of disinfectant. Lid closed on the lavatory.
I’m about to back out when something catches my eye. Tugging up my pants at the knees, I hunker down on my thighs to get a better look, from a distance.
Hmmm…
The door to the right reveals a kitchenette-cum-dining room. Basic facilities: hob, grill, sink, table and chairs. A washing machine and a dishwasher under the counter. All neat and clean, scented slightly of detergent, pine and lemon, but also a little ‘closed in’. The window, double-glazed, is locked tight, the key nowhere in sight.
The next reveals a bedroom: double bed, unmade. An empty bottle of wine stands beside an empty glass and another half-filled. Scattered over a side-table: ampoules, one cracked open, plastic packaging and needles.
Baxter voice, broken, drifts from behind me. “She’s gone. There’s no-one else here.”
I return, looking over the once-was-a-man shackled to the wall. “And why’s that? Did she do this to you? Herself? Or did she have someone do it for her?”
He nods, making a sound between a groan and a whimper. “It was her. Did it herself. Drugged me.”
“You got anything you want to tell me, Baxter?
“Christ… Larry… I need a doctor…”
“And you think I’m going to call one? Start talking. You can begin with why she did this.”
He coughs, a racking sound that shakes his body, morphing to a scream as the pressure transmits to his wrists. He jerks, obviously reflexively, and the weight momentarily drops to his damaged leg. The scream twists to a shriek.
“Start talking and I’ll get you a chair. You can take some of the pressure off your wrists and that leg.”
He nods, shuddering and I hook a chair out from under the table, easing it behind him then supporting him at the waist to let him sit. Pulling out another for myself, I straddle to face him.
“Now, talk.”
“I fell for her, Larry. I trusted her…” He shudders. “Don’t you do that. Don’t ever trust anyone.” His face twists into a parody of a smile. “Not that you would, of course. You’re brighter than me. I suppose that why it was always me working for you rather than the other way around.”
I don’t reply to that, but inside me, something ugly writhes, snarling… “What’s her name, Baxter. Her real name? Who is she?”
“Not sure. I know her as Juliana. Juliana Diaz. But she knows you… Both of us. From years ago. You took her, trafficked her.”
Something coils inside me… Karma… Coming to bite back.
“You too? She knew you as well?”
“I sold her on to you. I thought… I thought she’d fallen for me. That she’d forgiven me. But it was just…”
“Set a sprat to catch a mackerel?”
His eyes stream as he nods.
“Why’d she take the girl? Alexanders’ daughter? She’s nothing to do with me.”
“She wants to separate you from anyone who means anything to you. Said that you took it all from her. Why should you have family and friends?”
“Alright, so where’s the money?”
His face creases. “Money? What money?”
“The ransom money for my daughter. It’s Haswell’s. I got Finchby’s half back. Where’s the rest?”
“Juliana has it.”
“And where’s she staying? Not here, with that collection of ghosts and ghouls on the ground floor.”
“We’ve been moving from hotel to hotel. Never stayed in one place long. But it doesn’t matter. She’s leaving. We were leaving… I thought…”
“Where’s she going?”
“São Paulo, she said.”
“And you’re sure that’s what she’s really doing? Evidence suggests her record of telling you the truth isn’t very good.”
“I’m pretty sure, yes. She was making arrangements, talking to people over there. Saying she’d meet up with them next week.”
“Who are these people?”
His voice drops to a croak and he mumbles something.
“Baxter, I want to know. Names, places… What’s in São Paulo that’s so interesting?”
His voice is an indistinct gurgle, not real words.
“You want me to kick that chair out from under you?”
He shudders and a gelatinous thread of saliva drools from his lips. “She has her operation there. Some of it anyway.”
“How did you meet her?”
“She was supplying. Said she could get whatever I wanted if I would handle the international end. But I’d no money.”
“That wasn’t my fault. I’d paid you what I owed you.”
“Yes, but it didn’t seem so much then. I’d… I’d spent it all.”
“What, all of it? For a few weeks of living at Brazilian prices?”
“I spent it on her. Juliana… I’d fallen for her, Larry. She was everything to me… I bought her clothes, jewellery, a car…”
“So, you blew the lot on a woman and then, when you had no money left, somehow, it was my fault?”
“She said… I told her about what had happened, with Summerford and his brother. That you’d left…”
“I did not abandon you, Baxter. I didn’t know you were there. You were the one who fell down on the job, letting that moron Ben knock you unconscious. I found myself facing your gun because of that. So, what happened?”
“When I woke up…” Abruptly, he twists and writhes, whimpering. “Christ, Larry… I can’t stand it. Can I have a drink? There’s some whiskey in the kitchen.”
He does genuinely look as though he might pass out from the pain. He’s no good to me unconscious.
The kitchen yields half a bottle of cheap bourbon. I’m not quite willing to try it myself, but I splash an inch into a plastic cup, then offer it to Baxter’s lips. “You sure you want to drink this?”
“I’m sure…” He raises bloodshot eyes to mine. “Why do you ask?”
“Because I took a look at what she’s done in the bathroom. Your lady friend doesn’t worry much about collateral damage.”
“Oh, I see…. I wondered what she was doing in there….” But he gulps down the whiskey.
I give it a minute to settle into his stomach, then, “What were her plans for James’ daughter?”
“Have her ganged. Take photos. Movies. Send them to him. Then ship her out to the Far East.”
“Nice plans, as revenge goes on a man who’d never done her any harm at all. Or you.”
Baxter’s breathing is heavy. He gulps and swallows. “Larry, she gets off on it. It makes her high. When it started, it was just supposed to be you. But she was watching you. Or if she couldn’t find you, the things that were anything to do with you. People. Connections. It became you and your daughter. Then that woman you’re with. Then, when she saw you spending time with him, Alexanders…”
“As addictions go, that’s a high-risk option. But she got off on it and you… got the benefit? At bedtime? Is that it?”
Tears trickle down his cheeks as he nods.
What to do?
Finish him off?
I hover, decide, then tap into my mobile. “Stanton?”
“Yes? Klempner? Where are you? You okay?”
“I’m fine. I’m with Baxter right now…”
“What…?”
I cut him short. “Are you with James and the rest? Could you put this on loudspeaker, please.”
There is a short silence, then the crackle and hiss of white noise.
Stanton’s voice again: “Klempner? What’s happened? You have Baxter?”
“I do, yes. He’s not in any condition to speak with you right now, but…”
His voice rises an octave. “What have you done, Klempner? I warned you that…”
“I haven’t done anything, commissioner. He’s still in very much the condition I found him, apart from me giving him something to sit on. I’ll admit, I had a variety of imaginative ideas on what I would do with Baxter when I caught up with him. But in fact, I’ve been beaten to it. And by a real artist. I’m heading out to pay her a call next…”
In the background, I hear her, Mitch, her voice high with panic. “Larry! Where are you going? Are you coming back?”
Then James: “Klempner, don’t leave. Not like this. And for pity’s sake, not because I shot my mouth off in a bad moment. If it means anything to you, I apologise.”
But I don’t interrupt what I’m saying… “… I’m sure Baxter will fill in the blanks for you, commissioner. Meanwhile, if you want to be able to interview him, you’ll need a medical team. I’m sure if you ask James nicely, he’ll tell you my current location.”
There’s a short, pregnant silence then, “Baxter is injured? How? Are his injuries life-threatening?”
I let my gaze travel the shackled wreck on the chair. “No, I wouldn’t say life-threatening, not unless shock kills him. We’ve already had a little chat and he’s told me what I want to know. If you’d like his co-operation yourself, I imagine the offer of some powerful opioid would get his attention.”
“How bad is he, Klempner?”
“Arms smashed, hands pulverised. One kneecap too. There’s not much left of the man I knew.” Beside me, Baxter whimpers…
“Only one kneecap?”