Devour, p.20
Devour, page 20
Ring.
“Excuse me just a second, Kathryn, I’m sure it’s the studio—something to do with the party,” he said, softly patting her leg.
“Hello? Yes, it’s Jim.” Beat. “Well, hi Marty. Yep, it’s all good.” Beat. “Sure, sure, yeah, she’s right here. Just a second, okay?”
Placing his hand over the phone, he said, “It’s Marty Blumenthal. The Executive Producer? He wants to say hi and welcome you to the film. Is that okay? And look, if you’re too tired, we both understand.”
She had been nodding, anxious to talk. “Yes, yes. Of course!”
“Good,” he said, turning toward the driver. “Mr. Ito, would you kindly close the privacy window? Ms. Rogan has a very important call to take.”
Mr. Ito gave a nod and closed the black window between the two compartments.
“Good. Now, don’t be nervous, he’s a super nice guy, and very important—both to this movie and in Hollywood,” he winked. “But don’t be confused if you can’t hear right away; he’s calling from New York and the connection’s iffy.”
When he handed her the phone and she spoke, the recording on the other end would begin—triggered by her voice. The maneuver was elaborate, but being a fanatic for detail, Dalton was comfortable not leaving anything to chance.
Taking the phone, she said, “Hello, this is Kathryn.” Beat. “Marty? Are you there?”
While Dalton waited for the recording to begin, he reached inside his pocket to remove another instrument. Then, he heard the recording.
“Hello, Kathryn, this is Marty. Welcome to the family. Please forgive me, but I’m going to barrel through the conversation because I’m not sure if or when the connection might—”
As Kathryn listened intently, she did not notice Dalton flip open a cap atop a syringe.
Neither did she see the needle he stuck into her neck.
In seconds, all of her motor controls slowed, causing her to drop the phone before slowly leaning back into her seat. Her eyes remained clear and aware, but she was unable to speak; in fact, she appeared drunk within minutes—on her way to becoming the life of the party.
47
Jet Lag
Dalton made quick work of putting away his instrument of incapacitation, emptied the magnum of champagne into an empty water bottle he kept from his flight, then placed it in his shoulder bag. Next, he unbuttoned the top button of Kathryn’s blouse—exposing ample cleavage.
He had experimented with combining fentanyl with propofol a few prior times. If administered improperly, it could be a deadly combination; however, in several instances with a variety of people the combination had proven effective. On more than one occasion, he had used this combo along with the drug Ketamine and rendered different results.
He could make one victim sluggish and partially responsive, which was the case with Kathryn, so he would have enough time to transfer his victim to what he called “surgery.” He could also completely incapacitate someone—in other words, drop them dead on the spot. This was especially helpful when overtaking someone extremely large as he had done with inmates—some of whom became fodder for various experiments. However, he had developed an aversion to cretins—as he liked calling them—preferring instead to go after the less psychopathic. In the end, his methods were quick, efficient, and rarely traceable.
As the car came to a stop, Mr. Ito exited and approached her side first. As he opened the door, he found Kathryn in a dopey state with exposed skin and tousled hair. Dalton took the empty champagne bottle from her hand and handed it to him.
“Too much champagne,” he shrugged. “And jet lag.”
Mr. Ito bowed, taking the bottle with an understanding smile.
“Can you help me get her to the door and then get our bags?”
“Of course, Sir,” he bowed.
Thankfully, the amount of drugs he had given her provided just enough motor control for her to stand and partially walk, but it made speaking impossible and slowed her eye movement, causing her to blink repeatedly in slow motion.
Handing Mr. Ito the key, Michael navigated handling a compromised Kathryn, while Mr. Ito opened the door, turned on the lights, and helped them make their way inside.
Dalton had secured the small warehouse, which was a live-work building, that operated much like a condo association, but with light industrial applications. The concrete floor and brick walls, along with high ceilings, looked like any other loft in New York’s SoHo neighborhoods. Having worked in import for the past couple of years in both China and Japan—specifically with sushi and exotic foods—Dalton was familiar with their real estate and was able to orchestrate a remote deal using a combination of genuine and false information enhanced by multiple identifications.
As Mr. Ito returned to the car to retrieve their luggage, Dalton sat Kathryn at a table in the kitchenette and positioned her forehead atop her crossed arms. Mr. Ito returned with baggage, then handed Dalton his card.
Dalton gave him a $100 dollar bill, explaining that he would call Mr. Ito later for a return trip to the airport for his flight home. For now, Dalton had to work swiftly and skillfully in order to manage his surgery and maintain his schedule.
48
Vital Organs
Working in an industrial warehouse made having a wide assortment of heavy-duty tools common. Band saws, hydraulic drill presses, concrete mixers, and 55 gallon drums were all tools of the trade. Having access to strong chemicals like acid was not unusual because there was a tannery nearby. And with a scrap metal and car parts salvage shop directly across the street, most of the items could be picked up and transferred less than 150 feet from where Dalton stood.
After a second injection containing Carfentanil, an analog of the synthetic opioid Fentanyl and ten thousand times stronger than heroin, Kathryn fell painlessly asleep—Forever.
It took less than ten minutes to prepare the area and another 80 minutes to complete the task, clean up, have the car service back to his front door, and get back across the bay in time to catch the red-eye back to San Francisco.
The plan was for a cleaning crew to arrive and retrieve a container, then dispose of all materials into a Waste Management bin across the street and adjacent to the scrapyard where all materials would be incinerated before they hit their lunch break. His contacts had been paid handsomely with the balance to be paid after a call from a burner phone. Dalton could not help but grin at the fact that the names, addresses, and phone numbers he used for all services in the US and abroad were linked to inmates at prisons where he had worked in the past.
He prepared several prizes that would travel alongside him in his Vital Organs cooler. Packing additional items with dry ice in another container, Dalton labeled it: Exotic Sushi. It had a return address of Tsukiji Fish Market, Tokyo, the world famous market. That package would ship overnight via FedEx directly to Dalton’s office at the prison, thanks to Mr. Ito. Since Dalton received many packages from around the world, it would attract no attention.
Given he held a legitimate medical ID, Kathryn’s passport, and a car accident report declaring her death two days ago, Dalton was confident he would have no problems carrying the vital items under lock and key—never to leave his side.
Congested security lines should help, but if there were challenges, his pièce de résistance was an organ order from Dr. Rupert Mangrove—the organs’ recipient—from Oakland Medical & Critical Care Center. Their private collaboration had proven to be a lucrative side business. Over a year ago, Dalton had devised a system where organs would be donated from inmates who died of age, murder, or execution within the system. The bonus was when the donors listed no next of kin, thus making potential connection negligible.
Checking his watch for the last time, he moved swiftly to disassemble the room and double check the security of valves and switches. All systems were a go. The last detail—one that had tripped criminals in the past—involved “man-made elements” like breast and teeth implants that would be disposed of specifically.
Just as he finished, the burner phone chirped a text telling him Mr. Ito was less than five minutes away. Gathering his carry-on, the duffle bag, Kathryn’s suitcase, a box of fish, and one remnant bag, Dalton stood at the window and waited.
Two minutes later Mr. Ito arrived, and they moved swiftly to the airport where Mr. Ito was instructed to drop the box of fish at the FedEx counter located just next door to Baggage Claim. Handing him another $100 dollar bill for his troubles, Dalton bowed and they parted ways. Dalton had just enough time to get to a restroom and return to his Dr. Nash wardrobe.
Next, he approached the Lufthansa counter under the alias of John Corn, an Attorney from San Diego, and checked Kathryn’s bag to Sydney, Australia. It was an added expense, but it would cover his tracks when the time came to explain her itinerary deviation.
On the way to the United counter, he stopped in the men’s room to remove his blonde mustache and dark brown contact lenses before removing the fake tan.
Passing through security, he received a stare from the first TSA officer, a tall man with a severe expression of boredom. He picked Dalton from the crowd and waved him forward.
“Sir, may I see your ticket, please?”
“Of course.”
The man looked from the ticket to Dalton’s ID then back to his ticket. He continued to glance at the small cooler, and after a moment asked, “What’s in there?”
Dalton said matter of factly, “A woman’s heart. En route to a dying recipient in San Francisco.”
The officer frowned, pulling the ticket closer to his face. “Why such a fast turn around on your flight?”
Dalton stared at him, raised his eyebrows, and nodded toward the cooler.
“Oh. Right.”
Glancing at his watch, Dalton knew his plane would board soon, and if he did not hustle, he would risk missing it—something that might attract attention and throw off his gig. He could feel perspiration form on his upper lip and forehead.
Wiping his brow with a handkerchief, he smiled. “Time is of the essence.”
The officer appeared ready to reach for the cooler when another officer approached. The second man nodded to Dalton with a half-smile, holding out a hand to his co-worker.
Dalton’s stomach dropped.
Handing back the ticket, he said, “Move it will ya, Robert? Shift change in five. Either open it up or let the man go, but his plane boards like right now.”
The officer hesitated, then mumbled, “Have a nice flight. And good luck,” before waving the next person forward.
Dalton made it to the gate just as they were announcing their last call. An underweight and overzealous attendant, eyeballing the cooler, greeted him and took his ticket.
“Welcome aboard, Doctor Nash.” Reaching for the cooler, she said, “May I help you with that?”
He whipped it aside and snapped, “NO, but thank you.” Slowing down, he said, “Sorry, but it’s very fragile. And a great deal is riding on its safety.”
With a plastic smile, she waved him on. “Enjoy your flight.”
Once in his seat with the container in sight, Dalton buckled up, sat back, and let out a long breath.
49
Brotherly Shove
Michael needed to get to the restaurant but only so that he and Jasmine could oversee their former Head of Security transition into their new Assistant Manager. Hector had worked alongside Michael and Kiko long enough so that when the time came, he could give Michael and or Jasmine an occasional evening off. Given Kiko had been by Michael’s side since he had arrived in San Francisco, there was no doubt Kiko and Hector would make a strong B-Team.
Most restaurateurs knew when considering hiring ex-cons—especially those who also had a history of drug abuse—they could be unreliable in many ways, from arriving late, holding conflicting jobs on the side, and/or having substance abuse problems.
They would soon learn Scott was guilty of all three.
Since childhood, Scott had always been tardy. That was until he went to prison and things changed quickly as officers beat him if he was not touching the bars and ready to roll out when the bell sounded. And when he was not in prison, he was notorious for trying to hustle extra gigs on the side. Whether it was construction, garage work, or an indoor job like Home Depot, he was always hustling something.
Finally, his substance abuse problems ran the gamut. He was a drinker since high school, a pot smoker from the time he entered college for a brief stint, and in later years, he got involved with other ex-cons and junkies when he dipped his toe in the crack, meth, and heroin pools. However, he told his parole officer and all subsequent employers he had been clean for a long time and somehow backed up the statement with a certified, yet false, urine test.
Scott had never been good at telling the truth.
So on the one night Michael really needed help—having said goodbye to his girls that weekend and now traveling with Jasmine to Los Angeles the next day—he would find the opposite.
Unbeknownst to Michael, Scott had been sent a gift with a note attached: If you’d like to stay out of trouble, I suggest you spend your free time enjoying this instead of your other more dangerous bad habits. Thank you for your service. Scott received the package after being reconnected with Sebastian, thus helping Dalton make a connection with Sebastian’s other son Michael.
Sunday nights were always busy, and with a new team member on board, it was important for all stations to operate at peak efficiency. It was just before the peak of the rush when Scott returned from his dinner break. At first, Michael assumed he was tired, but upon further investigation he noticed Scott was moving slower than usual. He was going to let it go as long as he was doing his job—that was until Scott dropped two plates.
As Michael passed through the kitchen just as the second plate crashed to the floor, he found Scott awkwardly picking up broken pieces and yelled, “What the fuck, Bro?”
“Huh?” Scott said, looking up with bloodshot and glassy eyes. “Just slipped, I guess.”
“Wait.” Michael got closer. “Are you high?”
Scott stood, wavering. “Huh? No, Bro.”
“Brother, this is entirely not cool. I mean, one of the stipulations I put on you for this gig was no drugs. And here you are, stoned. And who knows, maybe drunk,” he checked his watch. “And we’re only halfway through the dinner rush.”
Shaking his head, Scott walked away. “Take a chill. I’m busting my hump for you—even working overtime—so what if I get just a little tweaked as long as I’m getting my work done?”
Inches from exiting the kitchen, Michael stopped and turned.
“What did you say, chill? You chill. Actually, no, don’t chill. Why? Because I need you on board 105%. And getting tweaked? Not acceptable.”
Scott tossed broken pieces in the trash, threw his hands in the air, and spat, “Whatever.”
“That’s your comeback?” Michael got in his face. “After all I’ve done for you—you get high on my watch. For fuck sake, Scott, do that shit on your own time or find another gig.”
Fuming, he returned to the overhead screen for incoming orders.
“For fuck sake,” Scott whined like a little girl. “I will do it on my own time. And if I have to turn it up a little during work—as long as I’m getting everything done—I will.”
Turning to stare a hole through his brother, Michael snapped,“NO, you won’t.” Getting back to work, he mumbled, “Shoulda listened to my gut.”
“What’s that? You got something to say, let it roll, Bro,” he said, charging toward Michael. “I’ve been in deeper shit than this before and made it through fine. You know as well as I do that you need me. So, pull up your big boy pants and shut the fuck up!”
Scott got up in Michael’s face, then pushed him.
“Whoa, asshole,” Michael yelled, pushing back. But when he did, he lost his balance, and his arm landed on a stove grate that had recently been turned off. With a sizzle, he yelled, “Mother Fucker!”
Instantly grabbing a towel, Michael soaked it in cold water, wrapped it around his hand, then turned and punched Scott in the jaw with his good hand. Within seconds, they were pushing and punching.
Suddenly, Scott had Michael pinned against the counter on his back, and suffering wicked claustrophobia, Michael pushed back. “Get the fuck off of me, or—”
“Or what, pussy? Fire me?” Scott spat. “Keep up the bullshit and I’ll put you in jail—just like I did Dad.”
Now, Michael was frantic as he yelled, “Sounds like just the plan!” From the corner of his eye, he saw his chef’s knife, and jerking his arm free, he grabbed it and raised it in the air—just as Jasmine entered the room.
“What the hell is going on here? I heard the noise from the dining room!”
The position in which the two were frozen was ridiculous and dangerous.
“Get off of me,” Michael growled through clenched teeth.
Stepping back, Scott said to Jasmine, “Your boyfriend here’s a closet psychopath.” He turned to Michael, “And yes, that double entendre was intentional.”
As Michael got off the counter, he hung the knife on the wall and went for ice.
Jasmine helped wrap his hand, whispering, “What the fuck, Michael?”
“Things got out of hand.”
“With a knife aimed at your brother? I’d say so.”
He watched Scott grab his smokes and head outside, then looked at her but said nothing.
Later that evening at Jasmine’s Pacific Heights condo, she and Michael sat on the rooftop in front of a small fire pit enjoying the view. A glass of scotch in one hand and an icepack on the other, Michael stared at the Golden Gate, lost in thought. Exhausted, he just wanted to quiet his spinning mind and have a clear head for their time in LA since so much was riding on it.
