“Jesus, Vin.” Leonard took a long swallow of his beer.
The guy worked for a multi-billion-dollar organization with essentially no one keeping watch over their spending, and he decides to buy a cheap tracking device.
“I’m meeting my guys at a place by the highway. We’ll load into the van I purchased for HRA, then we’ll head that way.” The click of a lighter was followed by the crackle and sizzle of a cigarette being lit. “She’ll be dead by the end of the day.” A long breath blew out. “The boyfriend, too.”
“Just … be careful and don’t do anything stupid, will ya?” Leonard finished off the last of his beer.
“Don’t worry. It’ll be easy pickin’s.” Vinny ended the call.
Leonard did not share his friend’s confidence.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
ColepulledhisRangeRover into a spot directly in front of the electronics store. There was a glass door that provided a partial view into the shop. The rest of the storefront was made up of large panes of glass, all painted completely black, except for the bold, white letters that spelled ELECTRONICS AND VACUUM REPAIR. Random scratches in the window paint allowed streams of light to shine out onto the walkway and parking lot.
Eddie shifted in the passenger seat, and they surveyed the surrounding area, taking in the building and the parking lot in front of the small strip of shops. All of the other businesses appeared to be unoccupied or closed for the day, and the only vehicle in the lot was an old army jeep in the midst of restoration.
“Luna traced that old jeep to the owner of the store.” Cole pressed a button to cut the engine and tipped his chin up to an area above the front door. “Camera.”
“Blacked-out windows are a nice touch.” Eddie’s gaze traveled over the storefront.
Cole slid the photo of Vincent Kimball off the dash. “Let’s go.”
Both car doors swung open simultaneously. They climbed out of the SUV and,thump thump,shut the doors.
They pushed open the shop door, and an electronic tone sounded, announcing their arrival.
The place was lit by several fluorescent light fixtures dangling from chains overhead. Cameras were mounted near the ceiling in all four corners of the shop. One wall to the right was lined with metal racks laden with all types of electronics, including small household appliances, computer towers, old monitors. A variety of used vacuum cleaners were lined up against the opposite wall.
The place reeked of stale cigarettes, burnt coffee, and lubricating oil, and everything was coated with a layer of dust, indicating a lack of concern for impressing legitimate customers.
Behind the counter, a heavy-set, older man with a shaved head covered with tattoos sat on a stool, hunched over a workbench. A narrow stream of smoke rose from some sort of electronic circuit board he was fiddling with. A large piece of pegboard mounted on the wall behind the workbench was covered with tools of varying shapes, sizes, and uses, along with jars of screws, nuts, bolts, and spools of wire in many different colors, hung on hooks.
The man straightened and, with a loudcreak, rotated the stool to face them. In one hand, he held a soldering iron, in the other, a long, thin piece of soldering metal. Thick glasses teetered on the end of his greasy nose. A long, scraggly, gray beard hung to the center of his chest, and his thick mustache grew over his lips.
Cole recognized him from his driver’s license photo as Waylon Griffin, the owner of the shop. He’d been dishonorably discharged from the Army at the age of twenty-seven. Apparently, he had anger management issues and a problem with authority. Well, one night, after a few too many drinks at the enlisted club on base, he got into a scuffle with a couple of guys. The military police showed up, and Griffin made the career-ending mistake of punching one of the responding officers when he was trying to cuff him.
After he spent six months locked up in the brig, the army cut him loose.
His temper got the best of him again, and he beat a guy nearly to death in a bar fight. He was sentenced to fifteen years and was released on parole after only serving twelve.
After that, Griffon went to tech school, learned a trade, and instead of making an honest living, he opened up this fine establishment and used it as a cover for his illegal ventures.
“Can I help you?” He unplugged the soldering tool, set it on the workbench, and strolled up to the counter.
“This man came in here and purchased an HJ-697 listening device and one other item.” Cole held up Kimball’s photo. “Do you remember him?”
“Nope.” He didn’t even look at the photo. But hediduse his middle finger to push his glasses up his nose before crossing his arms atop his barrel gut.
“How ’bout you take another look.” Cole set the photo on the counter and slid it toward him.
“Ain’t never seen him.” Griffon did a double-take when he realized Eddie was now behind the counter and moving closer. “Um, you … you ain’t allowed back here.”
“We’ll see.” He winked and gave him one of his charming smiles as he continued to inch forward.
“Let’s try this again, shall we?” Cole tapped the photo. “What else did you sell him?”
“I ain’t tellin’ yo—”
