Blood Money (chapters twenty one and twenty two.) (standard:Suspense, 3440 words) [11/18] show all parts
Author: Hulsey	Added: Sep 26 2011	Views/Reads: 2312/1676	Part vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
Continued.

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“I don't know where Rasheed is, as I've already told you. Now please,
will you leave, as I'm expecting guests?” 

The big man rose from the couch and with his spade-like hands, he picked
up a framed photograph from the modest cabinet. “This is your husband?” 


Fatma snatched the treasured photograph from his grasp. “It was. My
husband is dead.” 

“I'm sorry.” 

“I doubt it,” responded the spiteful woman... “Please, leave my home.” 

Malik again bit into the onion, an action that repulsed the hostess. His
black eyes settled on a postcard, and without asking permission, he 
removed it from the letter rack. He smiled satisfactorily, warding off 
Fatma's feeble attempt to retrieve the postcard. 

“Rasheed is in Florida? I have a confession to make. I do not owe your
son money; on the contrary. Rasheed has been a very foolish boy and it 
is imperative that I reach him before my friends do... Did he mention 
to you where he was staying?” 

“No. This is the only communication I have had from Rasheed... Please do
not harm him. His friend influences him greatly.” 

Malik again bit into his onion. “His friend is Mukhtar?” 

The woman nodded. 

“Does your son own a cell phone?” asked Malik. 

“Yes, but I do not know the number.” 

The intruder pointed a menacing finger at Fatma. “I don't believe you...
You leave me no choice but to give you an ultimatum... If I leave here 
without a contact number, you will never set eyes on your son again. I 
will cut your throat and then your son's... If on the other hand you do 
cooperate with me, then I will spare both your lives... Listen, it's 
Mukhtar we want... You were correct, Mukhtar is a bad influence on your 
son, and once I locate him, I'll release your son.” 

Malik handed the woman a piece of paper and a pen. With shaking hands,
she reluctantly began to write. “How do I know you'll keep your word?” 

“You don't, but at least this way you'll know he has a chance... My
quarrel is not with Rasheed... Now write down the number.” 

Fatma scribbled away before folding the paper in two. She handed it over
to Malik. He unfolded the note and his eyes bulged wildly. 

“Fucking whore,” he screamed, and advanced on the defiant woman, a
dagger clenched in his hand. He pulled her forward by her hair and 
brought the jagged blade swiftly across her throat. Her eyes displayed 
no terror, something that unsettled the killer. She gurgled and Malik 
pushed the body to the ground. 

Before Malik left, he searched the house, but was unsuccessful in his
quest for the telephone number. He screwed up the piece of paper and 
tossed it towards the body of Fatma, watching as the note was stained 
red. 

The note had read, Go to hell SSP scum! 

FLORIDA 

Concealed in the shrubbery, Schofield watched the villa attentively. The
first evening of April was humid and sticky; the temperature unusually 
higher than expected. The Londoner realised the significance of the 
date, but this fool, even though he initially had no intention of 
returning to the abode of Peebles, had little choice, owing to 
unforeseen circumstances. 

There was no way that he was going to report his missing wallet, and his
need for finances was great. The loss of his credit card and cash he 
could accept, but his missing passport was his initial worry. He rued 
bringing his credit card, for he had no intention of using it in the 
States. To do so would reveal his location to his growing list of 
adversaries. His chief concern was that he may have been robbed, and if 
that is the case, then he prayed that the thief disposed of his credit 
card and passport, satisfied with the huge influx of cash he had come 
across. 

Schofield gazed up at the full moon, acknowledging that he would be
perceptible to Mukhtar and Rasheed, if indeed they had set an ambush. 
He suspected that Mukhtar's offer was tinged with deception, but his 
needs were great. Schofield, at this moment in time could not pay his 
hotel bill, never mind the extortionate sum he would need to acquire a 
bogus passport. 

Gripping the pistol of Peebles, he decided to make his move, advancing
slowly across the expanse of lawn. The insect repellent had served its 
purpose, but the scent of the exotic plants irritated him. The night 
was silent, except for the incessant chirping of the crickets. The 
private investigator skirted the swimming pool and increased his 
stride. 

Reaching the villa, he melted against the red brick wall and breathed
uneasily. He stepped back and looked up, searching for the alarm 
system. Entry into the villa would not prove difficult, but had Mukhtar 
kept his word and disabled the alarm? 

Schofield reached a side door and rummaged through the bunch of keys
that he had taken from the corpse of Peebles. Inserting each one into 
the keyhole, he eventually found one that fitted. He turned the key and 
heard the gratifying click. Pushing open the door, he felt relief that 
the alarm was not armed. 

Before his search for the safe began, he put on his gloves and carefully
examined each room, his pistol at the ready. Satisfied that no trap was 
imminent, he concentrated his efforts on locating the safe. His lack of 
money ordained that he could not even afford a torch, and so his search 
was made in semi darkness. 

Reaching the main bedroom, he chanced switching on the bedside lamp.
Lying on the bed were an assortment of sex toys and a pair of 
handcuffs. Schofield smiled, realising that the relief worker was not 
such a choirboy as once thought. 

His eyes settled on a landscape painting and he advanced towards it.
After carefully removing it from the wall, he stared at the safe, not a 
complicated contraption, but a modest cabinet complete with a keyhole. 
Schofield again searched through the keys, until he found what he was 
looking for. Cautiously, he opened the safe and stared satisfactorily 
at several stacks of dollar banknotes. 

Slumping on the bed, he counted out the treasure and calculated that
there was two hundred and thirty thousand dollars. To give up such a 
sum, Mukhtar and Rasheed must have desperately wanted Schofield out of 
their lives. They probably had far greater worries, notably the SSP, 
who they had so foolishly betrayed. 

His eyes were drawn to a brochure on the dressing table. On closer
inspection, he found it to be a Greyhound bus timetable. Underlined in 
red was the destination Brooklyn, New York. He tossed the brochure to 
one side, rummaged through a bedside cupboard and came across a holdall 
that suited his purpose. He left the villa a content man; not fully 
satisfied, but content. The money would help fund his ambition, to 
relieve the Asian pair of their ill-gotten gains. 

22 

FLORIDA De Vries was met at Miami Airport by two fellow Interpol
officers and was now being driven towards Fort Lauderdale. The two 
Americans said very little and De Vries settled back and enjoyed the 
cool surroundings, courtesy of the air condition unit. 

Arriving at Interpol headquarters, he was met by an obese man, wearing
an ill-fitting suit that was at least one size too small. They 
exchanged handshakes and the American introduced himself as Captain 
Roley Griffiths. They made their way to an office, where an attractive, 
dark woman, attired in a smart white trouser suit awaited them. 

“Inspector De Vries,” began Griffiths. “This vision is, Sergeant Holly
Mendez.” 

The two shook hands and De Vries was invited to sit. The Captain opened
a window and loosened his tie, his face reddened and perspiring. He 
settled down opposite his two colleagues and opened up. 

“I trust your journey was satisfactory?” 

“As a matter of fact, it was not,” countered the Dutchman, trying to not
make his attraction to Holly Mendez not too obvious. “I hate flying.” 

“Would you like a drink?” Captain Griffiths continued. “Coffee, tea,
soda?” 

“I'm fine... I understand that someone was picked up with Schofield's
credit card?” 

“That's correct... We're also now in possession of his bogus passport.
The thief carelessly dumped it in his trash...There have been other 
developments in the last forty-eight hours that will interest you.” 

Again, De Vries's eyes were attracted to the pretty detective. With her
finely chiselled cheekbones, deep blue eyes and bronzed features, this 
woman would not look out of place on the catwalks of Rome. Her 
lingering perfume camouflaged the body odour of Captain Griffiths. 

“Developments?” quizzed De Vries, focusing on the senior officer. The
captain produced a series of photographs and handed them over to the 
European. “The human colander was Lance Peebles. His body was found 
aboard a rented boat that ran aground on the beach at Fort Lauderdale, 
two days ago. My superiors informed me that Peebles would interest 
you.” 

De Vries studied the photographs. “Any clues as to who done this?” 

“We thought you might be able to tell us, Inspector... What we know is
that you're here to trace Dean Schofield. What we haven't been told is 
why this Lance Peebles interests you.” 

“Have you found out where Peebles was staying?” 

The captain dabbed his perspiring brow. “He rented a villa in Tuscany,
an upmarket area of Fort Lauderdale. He was using the name, David 
Jennings, but the local cops did a check on him and matched his profile 
with that of Peebles, who was on our VIP list... Incidentally, the 
villa was unlocked when we arrived there. Seem strange to you?” 

“I gather you checked for prints.” 

“Of course we did, Inspector... There was a safe, but it was empty;
nevertheless, who leaves a luxury villa unlocked?” 

“I gather you know why I'm after Schofield?” 

The captain shook his head. “We were told to cooperate with you, and
what is disclosed to us is entirely up to you... Listen, De Vries; 
we're on the same payroll, so why don't you just fill us in and save us 
time?” 

“Okay. I assume you've heard about the Morris O'Hara robbery in London?”


Griffiths nodded his head. 

“Peebles planned it, and Mukhtar Ahmed, Rasheed Ali, and according to
our intelligence, a man called Tariq carried out the robbery. Tariq, we 
believe was shot dead by O'Hara.... Mukhtar and Rasheed, we know were 
involved with the terrorist group SSP, and that is why we're showing a 
growing interest in developments... They agreed to pay an undisclosed 
fee to SSP, but they got greedy and decided to keep it for themselves. 
Big mistake.” 

“How much did they make from the robbery?” asked Holly. 

“Three million pounds... You can understand why we don't want the money
to fall into the hands of the SSP.” 

“And this Schofield?” 

De Vries turned to the captain. “He was the brother in law of Sam
Chaplin, who we believe was murdered by one of O'Hara's henchmen.” 

“And so why is Schofield in Fort Lauderdale?” asked Holly. 

De Vries arched his eyebrow and smiled. “Either, he's out to avenge the
death of his brother in law, and he's traced Peebles and his motley 
crew here, or more likely, he was in on the robbery.” 

“Schofield murdered Peebles,” added Captain Griffiths. It was more a
statement than a question. 

De Vries waved a finger. ”I don't think so... O‘Hara had Chaplin
killed... Schofield's either joined up with his buddies, or he wants 
the money for himself.” 

“And so who topped Peebles?” asked Holly. 

The Dutchman shrugged his shoulders. “It's complicated... Not only are
the SSP after them, but also O'Hara... I know for a fact that an ex IRA 
gunman has been employed by O'Hara to find Peebles and co, but I doubt 
they would have traced him here so quickly. The same applies to the 
SSP, although they have vast resources at their disposal... We were 
lucky, given that Schofield had his pocket picked.” 

“We're gonna need reinforcements,” sighed the captain. 

De Vries walked to the window and looked out. “I smell a double cross.
What if Mukhtar and Rasheed murdered Peebles to protect their 
identity?” 

“That's what you reckon?” chipped in Holly. 

De Vries turned to her. “No, that's what I'm hoping... If O'Hara and the
SSP are here in Florida, then your streets will be awash with blood.” 

Captain Griffiths again slumped in his seat. “What exactly is your
objective, Inspector? I mean, what would be the perfect scenario for 
you?” 

“I hate to say it, but I would sleep a lot easier if O'Hara got his
money back.” 

Holly joined in. “I don't like what I think I'm hearing... Let me get
this right. I think you're here to ensure that the money is returned to 
O'Hara, who is suspected of being an IRA financier?” 

“You've done your homework.” 

“I've worked on cases involving well established citizens of New York
who have secretly been funding the IRA, and O'Hara's name had cropped 
up more than a few times.” 

De Vries was impressed. “I'm to play it by ear, but under no
circumstances must this money reach SSP. If I can arrest Mukhtar, 
Rasheed and Schofield, then so be it, but I wouldn't shed a tear if 
Keenan caught up with them first... Stringent security must be 
administered at the airports. Anyone with an Irish or a Pakistani 
passport must be vetted.” 

“Strict security checks are already in place, due to the recent
terrorist threats,” stressed Captain Griffiths. 

De Vries gritted his teeth. “Then how come Schofield, Peebles, Mukhtar
and Rasheed passed undetected through your airports, Captain?” 

“Obviously they had false passports... Listen, Inspector; we're in this
together, so a little respect wouldn't go amiss... Truce?” 

The Captain held out his hand and Schofield lightened up. The two men
shook hands. 

“Holly here will assist you in your enquiries here in Florida, and if
you need anything just...” 

“I prefer to work alone,” insisted De Vries. 

Holly intervened. “I won't distract you, Inspector. I'm being assigned
to you merely as a guide if you like... I'm more experienced than you 
think.” 

De Vries conceded. “You're more a distraction than you can imagine,
Sergeant... I need a shower and a couple of hours sleep. Drive me to my 
hotel and I'll consider your position, Sergeant.” 

The pretty detective pouted. “Welcome to the team, Inspector.” 

Her hand was warm and soft. De Vries new alliance with Holly would be
accepted . 

Schofield felt so helpless. To find the two Asian men in the vast
holiday playground of Fort Lauderdale was like looking for a needle in 
a haystack. He had absolutely nothing to help his search except the 
sighting of the red MG sports car, and that formed the basis of his 
enquiries. 

He trawled umpteen car rental firms with no success, before coming
across a possible lead. The tall, gangly salesman marched swiftly 
across the forecourt, interested in the potential punter, who was 
walking amongst his fleet of hire cars. 

“A good day to you, Sir. Do you see anything that interests you?” 

Schofield was impatient and got straight to the point. “The red MG. Have
you hired it out recently?” 

“Ah yes, the MG. A splendid choice if I...” 

“Listen,” interrupted Schofield, displaying a huge wad of banknotes.
“I'll pay you two hundred dollars for information.” 

The salesman's eyes lit up. “Information?” 

“Can you tell me who hired this car on Wednesday?” Schofield knew that
there was every possibility that this was not the car that he saw 
Mukhtar and Rasheed drive away in, and he had paid out several hundred 
dollars to loosen tongues already, but he was desperate. 

“Wednesday,” mouthed the salesman, rubbing his chin, his eyes displaying
his greed. 

“Three hundred dollars and that's my final offer,” insisted Schofield,
counting out the money. 

The salesman looked around, before tucking the money in his inside
pocket. “I can tell you who rented the car without looking in my 
ledger.” 

“Go on.” 

“A couple of Asian guys rented it on Monday. They brought it back only
yesterday.” 

Schofield felt an adrenalin rush. “You have their details?” 

The greedy salesman looked to the sky and whistled. 

“Listen, you prick,” threatened Schofield. “We have a deal and you've
been paid well. Now either you give me the details or I'll break both 
your legs.” 

“Temper, temper... There is such a thing as client confidentiality you
know.” The salesman put up his hands. “Okay, relax. The ledger's in my 
office.” 

Schofield followed the salesman, excited, and yet angry at this weasel,
who was trying to fleece him. Once in the office, the details were 
pointed out. 

“A Mr Singh hired the car.” 

“How did he pay?” asked Schofield. 

“Cash... Actually, it was his friend who paid me.” 

“Of course you checked their passport?” 

The salesman reddened. “My business is very competitive and sometimes,
well, you know. Sometimes we overlook such formalities.” 

“They left a deposit?” 

“Of course. And I took down where they were staying.” 

“Go on.” 

“The Yankee Sheraton Trader.” 

“You have the address?” asked Schofield impatiently. 

The salesman wrote down the details. 

Schofield bounded across the car park towards his rented Chevrolet,
leaving the content salesman alone to count out his windfall. 


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