Cold Snow: A Legal Thriller (10 page)

It was true. As the ferry churned the waters of the Niagara River, all four of them truly wondered where they were going.

CHAPTER 7

Ottawa

The day before Alex and his motley group of allies sailed the Niagara River, Ordoñez was in Ottawa.

It was not his custom to wear anything more than one layer, unless career-related circumstances made it absolutely necessary. As usual, temperature dropped rapidly toward zero in the winter. Water covered the streets, and slush filled the gutters.

Ordoñez considered this to be necessity. Still, his teeth chattered as the cold penetrated his heavy overcoat. He wished his informant had asked to meet indoors, possibly in a warm restaurant…

He shook his head to purge the thought. The man he was waiting for had specified this location, this exact street corner, and he wasn't one to disappoint.
It's an unfair stereotype,
he thought,
that simply because you work on the wrong side of the law, you don't take pride in your job. This is harder than most people think.

Fifteen minutes later, he gave up. He dodged into an alley and took a cell phone from his pocket. Clamped inside the folded phone was a small sheet of paper on which was written:

Harold Quinn

555-7024

Ordoñez moved further into the alley, making sure that nobody on the street would hear his call. Even so, he had to be careful during business calling. He never knew when someone was listening.

Quinn's telephone rang, once, twice, three times. Finally he got an answering machine.

"This is Harold Quinn, at 555-7024. Leave a message at the beep." Ordoñez hung up and dialed again. Quinn was either not at his desk or deliberately ignoring him.

This time, when the answering machine sounded its tone, Ordoñez put the mouthpiece close to his face, and began speaking slowly and clearly.

"Harold Quinn. This call is of dire urgency. Your life is in grave danger. Return this immediately." Moments later, Ordoñez's cell phone rang.
Works every time.

Quinn sounded understandably desperate when he called back. "What? What's going on?"

"Quinn? It's Alberto Ordoñez."

"Ordoñez? What the hell is going on? What's all this about my life being in danger?"

"There is no danger, it was the only way I could get you to pick up the goddamn phone. Where are you?"

"In my office."

"You're supposed to be out here! Is there a reason you're hiding from me?"

"I'm having second thoughts about this."

Ordoñez cursed. "Why? Am I not paying you enough?"

"I'm a businessman, Ordoñez. You're a murderer."

"I am not a murderer! I am a freelance population control agent! There's a difference!"

"Call it whatever you want. It's illegal and I want nothing more to do with it."

"Alright," Ordoñez said, utilizing an old trick. "I'll let you duck out if you really want to."

"You will?"

"Give me one last meeting. Let me come to my office and make sure you have nothing incriminating."

"I'm not sure…"

"Come on, Quinn! The check is already in the mail! It's the least you can do."

"I'll give the money back."

"Are you sure? Something…unexpected could turn up in your files. That wouldn't be a desirable situation. You'd be ruined."

"Are you threatening me, Ordoñez?"

"Not at all! I'm trying to help you."

"I'll take your word for it."

"See you then." He hung up the phone and stepped onto the street. "Sir!" He stopped a man with a briefcase, who was obviously going somewhere important and looked very exasperated at being waylaid. "Where's Harold Quinn's office?"

"Next block," the man said curtly, and walked away.

The lobby in the headquarters of Quinn & Associates, Incorporated, was not particularly interesting or architecturally daring. The floor was a dull grey ringed by green, and the walls were white. The entire area was one of those places that radiated boredom and was encompassed by a dullness that hung so heavy in the air it seemed to have a smell. The secretary's desk was empty, and Ordoñez saw a game of solitaire on the screen, as if the receptionist was broadcasting to everybody that she hated her job. Ordoñez stepped past and into the elevator. The fewer people he met in this building, the better.

Harold Quinn's office was at the end of the hall, befitting somebody who had a high position in a worthless company and was trying to seem important. A nameplate was bolted to the door, identifying Quinn as a certified public accountant. Ordoñez raised his fist and rapped three times on the door.

"It's open!" called a voice from inside.

"Quinn! It's very nice to see you."

"Ordoñez. Take a seat." Quinn opened a drawer and took out a bottle. "Whiskey?"

"I don't drink."

"Suit yourself," Quinn said, pouring himself a glass and taking a long sip. "So, you're here to eradicate everything that would hold up in court. Where do we start?"

"Xenontech. Whatever you know about Orson came from them. You used to do their books, correct?"

"Correct. Xenontech's not very old, so they're not exactly versed in the etiquette of white-collar crime. Throw some cash their way, and they'll tell you anything."

"And that's how you learned about Orson?"

"That's how you did it, isn't it? As I said, they're new, and thus fairly neurotic. They keep extensive data on anybody they have ties with, and for a kickback they were more than happy to tap into that information."

"What did you learn?"

"I'm not supposed to tell you! You told me you were coming here to protect me from indictment."

"All right. Where do you keep your Xenontech paperwork? In hard copy?"

"I'm not that stupid, Ordoñez. It's in a protected sector of my computer. You need three passwords and special access privileges to get in." He refilled his whiskey glass and typed in the first password. "I guess that's why god invented the recycle bin."

Ordoñez shook his head. "Not secure enough. People have ways of retrieving this stuff. What you'll need to do is entirely delete that section of your computer."

Quinn clicked something and the password screen disappeared. "If I must."

"Also, there is something else."

"What?"

"My employers. You could go to jail if the courts found out you had worked with them."

"Your employers?"

"The Moose Killers."

Quinn took another long drink. "I never should have gotten mixed up in this. The things people do for cash…"

"I need you to tell me everything you know about them. Spare no detail. If I know everything about your connections—I can kill them. Nobody would ever know they were there."

"I can't tell you. I don't know who you are. I don't know who you work for."

Ordoñez reached slowly into his pocket.

"I work for the Moose Killers, unless another job happens to come my way. These are people who are not likely to turn themselves in, and they are not going to be swayed by an accountant relaying information that they already know to one of their members."

The cold steel of his firearm comforted him as he cocked the trigger as silently as possible.

"I don't trust you, Ordoñez. I never have, and I never will. You are a killer."

Sensing that this was the appropriate time, Ordoñez raised the weapon. "As much as I hate to live down to your expectations, Mr. Quinn, I'm afraid that if you don't tell me what you know, I'm going to have to prove you right."

Quinn spat into his half-empty glass. "I knew it. You're scum. Lowdown scum I never even should have met. Kill me if you want. They'll be after you. I'm more influential than you think. I know people from here to Whitehorse. Anyone could bust you. So try it. Pull the trigger. See what it does."

Ordoñez laughed. "You're brave, Quinn, but so, so stupid. I am the man who is on your side in your hopes, and against you in your nightmares. I can escape any manhunt and elude any police force. I can shoot a man and remain at the scene for hours without anybody knowing what I did."

"You're crazy," Quinn said shakily, motioning to rise. Ordoñez raised the gun along with him.

"You're trying to run, aren't you?" Ordoñez said. Quinn said nothing. Ordoñez continued, "Go ahead. I'll give you a head start."

It was all the persuasion Quinn needed. Knocking over his chair and throwing the whiskey bottle to the floor, he tore into the hallway. Ordoñez waited for a moment before coolly striding after him. From what he had seen of Quinn, Ordoñez guessed he would be in the stairwell. He pushed the door open.

"You can't hide, Quinn!" Ordoñez shouted. "I've dealt with people like you. Your minds are weak." He hesitated for only a brief moment before turning left and walking up the stairs. "In a situation of danger, your thoughts are only on escape. You wouldn't stop to think where you're escaping to." He paused to listen for footsteps and heard them resonating above him. "In a mind like that," he continued, moving faster now, "up equals good, even if it is a dead end!"

Quinn was backed against a wall at the top of the stairwell. Ordoñez casually flipped his gun around his finger. "You have one more chance. Tell me what you know about the Moose Killers and I will not pull this trigger."

"It wouldn't matter if I told you! I know too much! You just want to hear it so you pretend to gauge its importance, and then shoot me anyway! I can see through you."

"You've figured me out. But, as long as I'm going to kill you, we might as well do it right. Let's have some groveling."

"Don't you have any emotion? Pity? Remorse?"

Ordoñez glared. "You don't get it at all," he snarled, scowling. "Twenty years ago, in Mexico, my soul was shot. It's dead, and I find it's much easier to get along without it. I was young, idealistic Alberto then. Now I am Ordoñez. I feel nothing."

Three silenced shots blazed from his .45. One struck Harold Quinn in the leg, two in the chest. He dropped instantly to the ground. "You'll…lose…this one…Ordoñez…" he uttered.

"What do you mean?"

"You… can't handle…this kid. This…is…your…" Quinn couldn't finish the sentence. He trailed off and died.

"There's been another one."

"What?"

"Another murder."

"This makes how many? Three?"

Henry Machry was sitting with his head on his desk. A mug of coffee, stone cold, sat beside him. His colleague stood next to him. "Three," Machry said. "That lady in Montreal, and that guy at the gas station on the Quebec Transit. Now some accountant in Ottawa, and the police are saying they were all in cold blood. I'm not sure about this, Dave. Alex is eleven years old. He probably

can't even use a gun. And yet, we have random murders all over Canada, police in three cities are blaming the renegade kid and, most likely, Alex is doomed."

Dave took a sip of his coffee. "Look, Henry. Think of it this way. There are things we could do to save Alex. The death penalty has been abolished in Canada. Also, he's technically immigrated, so we could make this international—hell, we could make it a battle! No telling how big this could be!"

Machry sighed. "I'm in way over my head, Dave. We all are. The most we can do now is stall for time and see what logical things we can do about this."

"I just told you!"

"Dave, we are a relatively tiny organization. Our biggest funds come from the annual March of Dimes. Do you think it would really be logical for us to start an international court battle?"

"The question remains, though: why are we obsessing over this? It's no longer our job. The moment that first trigger was pulled, the whole case fell out of our hands and into the police's."

"We started this. When we accepted that first call, we set ourselves to this. It's our case, no matter what happens."

"You're crazy, Henry," Dave said, shaking his head. "Your degree is in child psychology. Your training is to be a social worker. If you want to tackle a murder mystery, be my guest, but give me no part in it."

"Alex is a human. He's not a case, and he's definitely not a murderer! I know there's another player in this game."

"What about Ordoñez?"

"Ordoñez died in a car accident last week in Philadelphia."

CHAPTER 8

The Quebec Transit

"Hey, Alex."

Alex, sitting with his back against a tree, facing away from the shaken crowd, was startled out of his thought by a voice behind him. He turned around, and saw Sarah, wearing an expression that, while not angry, did seem to express a feeling of general distaste.

"How's Anthony?" Alex asked, not particularly caring. He had, after all, known the delinquent for a half-hour at most. The only purpose of the question was to, if possible, divert attention away from whatever Sarah was planning to say.