Exit Strategy

Chapter 2

Roderick Malone was on a roll. Though his ego would never allow such an admission, he’d gotten lucky—like win-the-lottery-two days-in-a-row-lucky. The Roman philosopher Seneca once said, “luck is where opportunity meets preparation,” but in Roderick’s world it was, “where greed meets haste—or ignorance—or arrogance—or simply where greed meets more greed.”

Roderick Malonewas on a roll..Roderick didn’t consider himself a con man, though in his early days he’d worked schemes simply to attain the basics: a hot meal, a place to sleep, or a suit of clothes. Those were his dark days, when his schemes were pedestrian, before he’d discovered the true depth of his talent. But even back then, he’d never been caught and along the way, he had refined his skills.

Now he viewed himself as simply an opportunist—a hybrid money manager, property developer, and talent agent rolled into one. Roderick Malone Investments. Those words, bold black in Broadway font, were stenciled onto the amber-colored, pebbled-grain glass on the top half of his office door. What the title failed to convey: the investments were one-hundred percent synthetic.

Roderick Malone Investments. Now he sat on the biggest score of his career, by more than twentyfold. And it had mostly fallen into his lap. Greed had met arrogance and haste, but mostly greed had met more greed. Roderick’s partner would argue that she had set up the marks, but Roderick’s own greed and ego wouldn’t allow him to accept the possibility. Besides, there was no question who had closed the deal. This fact gave him both pleasure and angst. His was the face they would remember. Which was only a problem if he got caught, which was something he didn’t plan to do. It would be several days before anyone might suspect something was askew.

Reclined in the ox-blood leather chair behind an impressive mahogany desk, Roderick wrapped his manicured fingers around his coffee mug. He’d added a generous shot of Jameson Irish Whiskey, the Gold Reserve—nearly eighty dollars for the bottle. After all, now he could afford it. He took a sip and his handsome face relaxed into a smile of contentment.

That lasted until the phone rang.

Not the one on the desk, not the landline with all the buttons, which was merely a prop like everything else in the room. It was his cell phone—his new cell phone—with the new number and a really short list of people who knew said number. Roderick placed his feet back on the floor and carefully set his mug on the desk. His first instinct was to let the call go to voice mail, but two rings later curiosity prevailed. He slid the phone from the breast pocket of his Armani jacket and stared at the screen.

Restricted.

RestrictedAgain, instinct said to let the call go to voice mail—but Roderick was on a roll. He tapped the screen, and lifted the device to his ear.

“Yes,” he said, squeezing maximum sophistication and confidence into one syllable.

A short pause, then, “Roderick Malone.”

More a statement than a question, the voice arrived flat, non-descript, and gender-neutral. Suddenly tentative, Roderick responded, “With whom am I speaking?”

“Look out your window,” the voice instructed.

“What?” Malone countered. “I’ve no patience for your nonsense. Tell me your name or this conversation is concluded.”

Roderick counted in his head. One, two, three…then said, “Hello?”

One, two, three…Silence. The screen on his phone confirmed the call had lasted a mere fourteen seconds. Roderick placed the phone next to the coffee, stared at the device with sudden suspicion and played the conversation back in his head. The voice had been disguised. He was certain—sort of certain. Male or female? Probably female. As each moment passed, he became less certain. Roderick Malone. Look out your window. Only six words, but packed with information.

Male or female?Roderick Malone Look out your window. The caller knew his new number and his name. No chance of a prank call or a proverbial “butt dial.” Secondly, most disturbingly, the caller knew his location. Or did they?

andOr did they?Look out your window. A warning, or a ruse? Roderick’s imagination took off at a full gallop. He stood, and eased over to the fourth-floor windows that overlooked Fourth Street. Somewhere in the back of his mind, vaguely, he considered the possibility of a sniper. But other than in the occasional Tom Clancy novel, snipers didn’t live in Roderick’s world. Even so, he found himself scanning the rooftop of the building across the street and saw nothing but a row of pigeons perched on the pediment wall. Roderick told himself to relax, it was way too soon for the mark to know he’d been taken. He eased further until the far sidewalk came into view, then a little farther again, until he could see the street.

Look out your windowvaguely,Fourth Street was still in sunlight, but the far sidewalk shaded. Traffic was sparse, the work day winding down. Parking spaces had become plentiful. To Roderick, it looked like every other day. Then a large, white SUV rolled into a space directly across from Roderick’s building and he watched two men get out.

That’s when normal ended.

They were like a pair of angry rhinos at a children’s petting zoo—big, scary and way-the-hell out of place. The white guy had a shaved head that glistened in the sunlight and swiveled on a short, thick neck. He wore a black leather jacket with the collar turned up. Dark, wrap-around shades covered his eyes. The black guy, who stepped out of the passenger side, appeared even bigger. He wore shoulder-length dreads, a black trench coat, and when he started across the street towards Roderick’s building, displayed copious swagger. The white guy closed the driver’s side door and fell in behind the black guy. Halfway across the street, the white guy shifted his gaze skyward. Reflexively, Roderick stepped back from the window. By the time he worked up the nerve to ease forward again, the pair had disappeared from his line of sight. Look out your window.

Look out your window.“f**k,” Roderick said.

He’d understood the consequences from the beginning—but strictly on an intellectual, hypothetical level. He understood it like the guy understands a shotgun blast to the abdomen would be extremely painful—but didn’t understand it like the guy who’d actually been shot. The men Roderick had swindled didn"t use lawyers, subpoenas, or writs of habeas corpus to settle disagreements. Arbitration? That was simply how long you begged for your life. The image stuck in his head as panic squeezed him. Roderick couldn’t move, as if his legs had lost function as his mind slipped out of gear. He’d read it once on a bumper sticker: Confidence: That feeling you have just before you understand the reality of the situation.

Arbitration?Confidence: That feeling you have just before you understand the reality of the situation.Roderick stood next to the window for a long moment, then suddenly, everything rebooted. It was not the timeline he’d planned, but Roderick Malone had chosen a profession where events sometimes didn’t follow the script. He plucked the cell phone from the desk. In his closet were two matching suitcases, rip-stop nylon with aluminum frames and sturdy, plastic wheels. Each case was filled with tightly-bundled cash totaling two and a half million. Roderick had done the math, then double-checked his work. A week ago, he’d purchased a day pass at the local Gold’s gym, and had walked around for a few minutes to appreciate the array of sculpted women in yoga pants and sports bras. Then he’d headed over to the free-weight section. After a brief struggle, he dislodged two sixty-pound dumbbells from the rack, which was close to what each case weighed. He took a few steps, then quickly decided—the cases were going to need some wheels.

the cases were going to need some wheels.Roderick extended the handles and took one last look around the office. Nothing would point anyone in his direction, except for fingerprints and some DNA. Not much he could do about that now. Six seconds later and he was out the door—the cup of coffee still steaming on the desk.

In the hallway, Roderick paused. He felt the knot in his stomach continue to tighten. He needed to make a decision—a big one. Most of the offices on the fourth floor were rented to young up-and-comers. They worked hard, but allowed themselves plenty of time to recover. It was a quarter to five and the floor was empty. No witnesses to point the goons in his direction.

At each end of the hallway, a staircase descended to the lobby, and there was an elevator that bisected the structure. Definitely not the elevator. If the door opened, and one of the goons was inside, there would be nowhere to run. Roderick stood in the hallway and clicked through the possibilities as the clock in his head prodded his fear.

not These guys were big—maybe lazy—but most importantly, they wouldn’t figure on being spotted before getting inside the building. They were elevator guys, Roderick decided. He walked quickly down the hallway to the staircase on the east side of the building and passed under the red and white exit sign, the suitcases trailing behind him.

They were elevator guys, .Roderick considered the security guard in the lobby. It was his job to clear any visitors before letting them upstairs. But the guard was old, periodically apathetic, and partially crippled from a car accident a decade earlier. Roderick couldn"t count on him to slow the rhinos, much less stop them.

The stairs were a challenge. Roderick collapsed the handles for better control and began to roll them over the concrete steps. Thump, thump, thump. It was a loud and cumbersome process. Before he reached the third-floor landing he realized he’d guessed wrong; heavy footsteps trudged steadily from below. The sound reverberated off the stark concrete walls, mixed with the softly-whistled tune—Sweet Georgia Brown. Not elevator guys after all.

ThumpthumpthumpSweet Georgia BrownRoderick hoisted the cases and struggled down to the landing, then eased open the heavy metal door to the third-floor hallway. The door made a soft swooshing sound. Roderick slipped into the hallway and was relieved to see it was empty. Centered in the top third of the door was a small pane of glass reinforced with thin, diagonal wire. Roderick placed the suitcases on the tile floor and pressed his back against the wall so he could see a sliver of the staircase. Though the hallway was cool, a thin sheen of sweat coated his forehead. A few seconds later a hulking shoulder and several strands of dreadlock crossed his field of vision. Roderick waited for the second guy, but he didn’t appear.

Neither lazy, nor simple. The rhinos had split up. The bald-headed one could be stepping off the elevator about now. Or maybe he held back—waiting downstairs in the lobby. That would be a problem. No, Malone told himself. That would be too conspicuous; the guard was there.

NoRoderick eased the door open an inch, heard the footsteps continuing to climb, the sound of the whistling fading. Another whoosh followed by the metallic clank of the closing door. Dreadlocks had reached the fourth floor. It wouldn’t take them long to figure out Roderick wasn’t there. Stepping back into the stairwell, he held each suitcase barely high enough to clear the stair treads and moved down the steps as quickly as his aging knees allowed.

whooshShoulder muscles bunched and starting to burn, Roderick continued his descent. His breathing became labored, his cadence became jerky and less certain. Halfway down the last flight of steps, Roderick’s left heel slipped over the edge of the tread. His left ankle contorted to an angle for which it had never been designed. He pitched forward, twisted in the air. The thought of grabbing the handrail was overridden by his desire to hold on to the cash-filled case. At the last instant, Roderick released the case in his right hand and tried to brace himself. It was too late; he did a hard face plant on the concrete landing. On impact, Roderick saw flashes of white light—then nothing at all.

Roderick, face down on the floor, stared into the blurry gray concrete. His pain, followed by a wave of panic, hastened him back to reality. How long had he been out? His right arm pinned under his body, he struggled to free it, then turned his attention to his Rolex watch. Best guess: he’d been lying at the bottom of the staircase for no more than a minute or two. Given the situation, that was a very long time.

Roderick, face down on How long had he been out?The tears escaping Roderick’s taut face were beyond his control. It took every fiber of resolve not to scream in pain. He was certain his wail would travel to every crevice of the building and serve like a homing beacon to the pair who were upstairs. Roderick reluctantly released the suitcases and used the railing to pull himself from the floor. He stood on one foot, then tried it with two. Searing pain—excruciating. For a fleeting instant, he considered leaving one of the suitcases at the bottom of the stairs. One in the hand, two in the bush… he told himself. Greed dismissed the idea.

One in the hand, two in the bush…The take had started out at nearly eight million dollars, but that was before expenses. And expenses had been a b***h. Nearly three million to fence the three small pieces of art, to convert the money to US dollars, to pay off a couple of shadowy middle men, and to create an avenue of escape. The costs had been high, but Roderick had priced the overhead in from the beginning. But now, to leave two and a half million in a stairwell… That was karma spitting in his face. Unacceptable. It didn’t matter how much it hurt; Roderick Malone wasn’t taking a fifty percent loss.

He cautiously cracked the door at the bottom of the stairs and placed one eye in the opening. Watched. Listened. Nothing. The lobby was empty—no rhinos and no security guard. The old man’s chair was abandoned, the small bank of black and white screens mounted around the desk unmonitored.

Roderick extended the handles and pushed his way past the heavy metal door. He tried to use the handle in his left hand for support, but it offered no relief and slowed him even more. The clock in his head ticked frantically. The two rhinos would be coming downstairs soon; Roderick was half surprised they weren’t in the lobby already. Outrunning them seemed absurd. Halfway across the lobby, Roderick’s fortune changed—ever so slightly.

The security guard was splayed on the floor, semi-conscious, groans emanating from his prone body. But it wasn’t the old man’s plight that captured Roderick’s attention. He hobbled over to the semi-circular desk. Careful not to step in the small puddle of blood next to the man"s head, Roderick Malone reached across him, took the old man’s crutch leaning against the wall, and positioned it under his left armpit. With the weight off of his damaged ankle, the pain immediately dialed down. Then he balanced himself, reached over again and slid the .38 special Smith and Wesson from the guard’s weathered holster. He stuck it inside his own belt as the old black man managed to open one eye—twitching, squinting, attempting to focus. The man’s lips moved under his closely-cropped gray mustache. No words formed.

Roderick looked down at him and without a trace of empathy said, "Bad day for both of us, huh?"

Moving awkwardly through the double glass doors, Roderick hobbled on one crutch, dragging suitcases like a well-dressed Quasimodo. The clock in his head continued to tick. It seemed like eternity since he’d seen Dreadlocks in the staircase. He leaned heavily on the stolen crutch, repositioned the suitcases, and struggled up the sunny side of 4th Street toward the parking garage a half a block away. The plastic wheels were loud on the concrete sidewalk. Inside the parking garage elevator, he pushed the button for the third floor and took in air with deep, ragged breaths. By the time he reached his car, sweat had seeped through his shirt and jacket. Pain, fear, and fatigue reduced him to a sobbing heap and he felt like he was about to vomit.

Roderick fought the suitcases into the back seat along with the crutch. Once behind the wheel, he turned the key and switched the AC on high. He rolled the Mercedes down the ramp towards the exit expecting to see the rhinos leap out from behind every car he passed—but they never appeared. On the street, he could see the white SUV still parked in front of his building. Roderick steered the car in the opposite direction and drove away—slow and steady—feeling like he’d just b***h-slapped Death.