Michael Koryta - Tonight I Said Goodbye

“All right.”

“Lincoln, good to see you, man,” Kinkaid said when we walked into the cottage. He gave me a hearty handshake, but his eyes were locked on Julie. “I was pissed with you and Pritchard at first, because you guys were cutting me out of the loop, but now that I understand what’s been going on, I don’t give a damn about any of that.”

“Hello, Aaron,” Julie said. Betsy jumped off the couch and ran to give her mother a hug. She made a wide circle around Kinkaid.

“Hi, Julie. I’m sure glad to see you,” Kinkaid said, sounding like an awkward teenager on a first date. His freckled face was flushed.

I cleared my throat and looked at John Weston, who was sitting on the couch. “John, can I see you outside for a minute?”

He followed me out. I didn’t want to leave Julie alone with Kinkaid, but I was even less interested in hanging around to listen to him gush about his feelings for her, which would surely begin soon enough. I told John about our interview with Winters and her request that Julie and Betsy stay at a hotel under police watch.

“That’s probably a good choice,” he said, averting his eyes. He didn’t say anything about Julie’s planned departure, and I didn’t, either.

“Well, son, I’m old and I’m tired,” he said. “If you’re going to take them back into the city, I’m going to go home. Have Julie call me from the hotel, would you? I’ll see them again tomorrow.”

I told him I would, and he shook my hand and limped off to his Buick. I didn’t want to go back in the house and deal with Kinkaid and Julie yet, so I climbed in my truck and began sorting aimlessly through the things I’d taken from the Contour and dumped into the back of the cab.

A manila folder was lying on the floor where I’d tossed it. Hartwick’s personnel file. I still hadn’t looked at it. I picked it up and flipped through the pages. There was no real need to research his background now, but I had it, and I was trying to kill time. I got to the page of references from his employee application and stopped, my eyes locked on the third name.

“I knew there was a reason not to trust you, asshole,” I said aloud. The third name on Randy Hartwick’s list of references was Aaron Kinkaid. Even more interesting was Kinkaid’s job title at the time of the nearly decade-old application: chief of security, Richard Douglass and Associates. Kinkaid had worked for Jeremiah Hubbard’s attorney.

I walked up on the deck and looked inside. Kinkaid was standing in the kitchen, talking to Julie, while Betsy sat at the table. I stood there for a while, watching them, wondering about what he knew and how long he’d known it. It was time for-as Randy Hartwick had suggested with his last breath-a little answer-sharing. I didn’t realize until I reached for the door that my hands were clenched into fists.

“Hey, Aaron,” I said as I stepped inside, “I hate to interrupt, but I’ve got a few things I need to explain to you. You mind?”

“Hell, no, man. You’re the boss.” He followed me into one of the little bedrooms. When we were alone, his face opened in a wide smile and he slapped me on the shoulder.

“Good to see you again, Perry. Pritchard and I were a little concerned about you while you were down south.”

I smiled back at him and hit him once in the jaw with a stiff left jab. It backed him up and jarred him, but he got his hands up to protect his face. I kicked him in the groin, then caught him behind the ear with a hard right as he dropped. He landed on all fours, then went down on the floor and curled up, gasping for breath. I pulled Hartwick’s personnel file from my jacket and threw it on the floor beside his face.

“Chief of security for Richard Douglass and Associates, eh? That’s real nice, Kinkaid. You told us you never met Jeremiah Hubbard. I find that a little harder to believe now.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he wheezed. He was sliding his left hand under his shirt. I kicked him in the stomach, then reached inside his shirt and removed the snubnose.32 he had in a shoulder holster. Apparently he’d left the Colt Python home for something a little more discreet today. I threw the gun across the room, pulled him into a sitting position, and slapped him hard in the face. I didn’t want to make enough noise to alarm Julie and Betsy, but I was going to get some answers from Kinkaid.

“Tell me the truth, you son of a bitch,” I said, jamming my thumb into a pressure point near his collarbone and making him writhe in pain. “You told the Russians I was in South Carolina, didn’t you?”

“No,” he said, trying to shake his head while twisting out of my grasp.

“Aaron,” I said, “the game is over. Tell me the truth.”

“All right,” he said, sagging back against the wall. “All right.”

WHEN WAYNE Weston and Aaron Kinkaid went into business together, Hubbard came to them through a referral from Richard Douglass. The job description was simple and open-ended-perform the most thorough background investigations possible, whenever and on whomever Hubbard requested. He offered big money, and they took it. There was never a case for the rich man’s wife, Kinkaid explained; that was just bullshit offered to Joe to establish an initial connection between Weston and Hubbard.

There had also never been a legitimate problem between the two partners over Julie Weston. “There was nothing between Julie and me,” Kinkaid said. “I got drunk and hit on her once, but we both laughed that off.”

So the pair had worked for Hubbard for a while, but it quickly became evident that Weston was better at the type of assignments Hubbard had to offer, and soon he was working almost exclusively for the multimillionaire. Kinkaid and Weston talked things over and decided a separation was the logical solution. Hubbard agreed to fund Kinkaid’s security company in Sandusky as a silent partner. He left the city, and Wayne Weston stuck around, doing some legitimate cases but basically working as a professional blackmailer. He was good at it, and Hubbard was making him rich.

Then came the past winter and Hubbard’s vision of a building project in the Flats. Weston went to work collecting background information on Beckley and the owner of The River Wild. It was then that he ran into the Russians.

“Wayne found out the owner was in bed with the mob, and he wanted to back off,” Kinkaid said. “But Hubbard thought it was a great opportunity, you know? He wanted to be able to threaten this guy with criminal charges if they could get any sort of real evidence. So Wayne broke into the bar and set up a wireless camera to get an idea of what was going on in the place.”

Most people wouldn’t be foolish enough to try to threaten men connected to Belov, but Hubbard had been so big for so long that he could no longer even comprehend the idea of being afraid of someone, even someone like Belov. So when Weston got the tape, his rich, arrogant boss decided to use it, Kinkaid said. He sent the tape to the strip club owner, but he didn’t tell Wayne Weston. The next day, Krashakov came looking for Hubbard. Apparently, he had intercepted the tape before Dainius Belov received it.

“He made them a deal-he’d keep his mouth shut if the Russians would sell the property to him,” Kinkaid said.

“And they took that?” When he nodded I was stunned. “The Russians made a deal with him? Why the hell didn’t they kill him?”

He shrugged. “I guess because they wanted to use him. They saw the potential there; I mean, Hubbard’s about the richest guy in town. Why would they want to kill him when they could use him in the future?”

Good point. “So where did you come in?”