Текст книги "Stormy Weather"

Автор книги: Steve Rollins

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STORMY WEATHER

A Storm Donovan Thriller

#1

by

STEVE ROLLINS

 

Acclaim for Steve Rollins:

“An absolute blast! Steve Rollins is my new go-to guy for action and adventure. This is pure genius!”

–K.T. Tomb, bestselling author of The Minoan Mask and The Holy Grail

“Steve Rollins is a lot of writer...and a rising new star. Inventive, fast, witty. Great stuff.”

—J.R. Rain, #1 bestselling author of Moon Dance and Silent Echo

“Suspense and action mingle in one of the finest debut thrillers I've read in a long time. The Rig is a lot of fun.”

–H.T. Night, #1 bestselling author of The Fourth Sunrise and Vampire Nation

“Lightning fast. Sweeping storytelling. This is everything an action adventure should be. Mr. Rollins, I am your new fan.”

—J.T. Cross, author of Lost Valley and Beneath the Deep

 

Books by Steve Rollins:

STANDALONE THRILLERS

The Rig

Kidnapped

The Jade Dagger

American Gigolo

Deal With the Devil

The Peaches of Wang Mu

The Quantico Connection

The Evil That Men Do

Steroid Blues

G-Man

STORM DONOVAN THRILLERS

Stormy Weather

Stormy Nights

Stormy Winter

Stormy Weather

Published by Steve Rollins

Copyright © 2014 by Steve Rollins

All rights reserved.

Ebook Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Stormy Weather

Chapter One

Storm Donovan had just sat and ordered a Jack and Coke when Albert, his good friend and ex-partner, stepped into the restaurant. Albert spotted him and came over.

“You’re late,” Donovan said as Albert sat.

“What else is new? What did you order?”

“Jack and Coke.”

“Not even diet?” Albert waved to the waiter, who came right over. The restaurant, Morton’s, was busy, but the wait staff was always attentive. “Scotch on the rocks.” The waiter nodded and left.

“I don’t need to diet,” said Donovan.

“How old are you?”

“Forty-two.”

“And you think you’re going to stay skinny forever?”

“I’m not skinny,” said Storm. “I’m trim. There’s a difference.”

“Yeah, well, you look skinny.”

Their drinks came. Both men took long pulls and sat back in their chairs. A group of beautiful women in short swing dresses came in. Both men admired them for a heartbeat or two.

“I need your help,” said Storm, as the ladies were shown to their table. Storm was certain one of them had caught his eye; a medium-sized, olive-skinned beauty.

“Figured you did,” said Albert. “It’s not often you say dinner’s on you over the phone.”

“It’s my way of softening you up.”

Their waiter came back to take their orders and Albert ordered the New York strip steak, without even looking. It was the most expensive thing on the menu, Donovan mused, but a promise was a promise.

“Consider me softened,” said Albert. Donovan himself kept looking at the menu quite indecisively. Eventually he ordered the veal with black truffle butter.

Albert was intrigued. “What do you need, Donovan?”

Albert Parker was an agent for the Federal Bureau of Investigation. Donovan had worked for the FBI, too, until he realized he hated taking orders from others. Ten years ago, he had opened his own law practice in New York and he liked being his own boss much better. He had five other attorneys on staff and, between his five juniors and himself, they had every legal niche covered. Donovan, himself, didn’t specialize. He’d become known in DUMBO (Down Under the Manhattan Bridge Overpass) for taking any and every case that came to him. Parker, his ex-partner, was still his close friend, and Donovan used the man’s resources whenever he could.

“I need to know if the FBI has a file on someone,” said Donovan.

“We have files on lots of people. Tell me why I should give away government secrets to a private dick.”

“Because someone wants me dead.”

“I need more than that.”

“Because I’m buying you the best cut of steak on the East Coast.”

“You make a good argument, my friend. Do you see the hot chick looking at us?”

“She’s looking at me,” said Donovan. “So will you help me?”

“Why does he want you dead? Maybe it’s a valid reason. Maybe it’s something I can get on board for.”

“Asshole.”

Albert chuckled as their salads came. Both men put orders in for another round of drinks, and Donovan asked the waiter to deliver the attractive girl and her friends a couple of bottles of some good wine. “Good move,” said Albert. “You can kiss that hundred bucks goodbye.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” said Donovan. “Anyway, I helped put his brother in jail for a long time.”

“Who are we talking about here?”

“Twin brothers. Quinn and Denny Lang.”

“Which one’s in jail?”

“Quinn.”

“So Denny wants you dead. And you know this how?”

“Word on the streets,” said Donovan.

“Streets?” Albert snorted. “You live in DUMBO.”

“We have streets here, too.”

“Fine. I’ll see what I can dig up. Hey, looks like you got that girl’s attention.”

Donovan had been watching, too. The waiter had delivered the two bottles of wine and made a great show of opening them for the ladies. He then pointed to Donovan, who promptly nodded and waved. The girl nodded, too, then raised her left hand high. Even from where Donovan sat, he could see the brilliant sparkle on her ring finger.

Albert laughed and slapped the table hard. “Married. You know how to pick them.”

The girl and her friends laughed, too, and when she was done laughing, she blew him a big kiss. “Better than nothing,” said Donovan. “Besides, married just means I can't keep her.”

Albert was taken aback by that. “Jeesh...”

As they waited for their order, Donovan went over the wine menu; he had half a mind to ask the sommelier to come and give his advice on a bottle that would complement his veal order, but he knew Albert would resent such pretensions.

“So, just out of curiosity,” Albert began. “What did this Quinn Lang go into the clink for?”

Donovan looked down for a second. “You'll find out.”

“I'll find out from you, or I won't find out anything.”

Donovan's lips moved as he swore silently. Albert never bluffed. He did not want to tell the man, but he needed the FBI information. “I got him convicted of smuggling.” The answer was reluctant, and he knew instantly that Albert would recognize it as such too.

“But?”

“But what?”

“But there's something you're not telling me.”

Donovan sighed. “They have a sister, Mara.”

Albert nodded. He understood instantly. “You screwed the bitch and when they confronted you, you got one of them locked up?”

“Something like that,” Donovan muttered. He quickly took a sip of his Jack and Coke and looked over at the married woman again. He smiled at her. She was a gorgeous creature and he could see her looking at their table. She smiled and he saw her brush her fingers through her hair. His eyes flickered down and he noticed she was angling her leg at him too. Hook, line and sinker, he thought.

Their orders arrived and Albert tucked into his order with relish. They had always gotten along, but there was a clear difference between the two men. Albert leaned over his plate and scarfed up his steak while Donovan sat up straight and carefully cut up his veal and transferred the food gracefully to his mouth.

Storm Donovan was from an old family that had first come to America to live in the Rensselaerswyck. He could count Abraham Van Salee as one of his ancestors and his whole family tree was essentially a who's who of the elite of North America.

Albert was nothing of the sort. He had come from a farming town in the foothills of the Sierra Nevada. His mother had been a hippie who had tried to bring her commune into the town. When the commune had to face the reality of the U.S. society and broke up, his mother had not lost her liking for free love and found it the perfect way to supplement her income. Albert had never known which of the hundred or so men in the town had been his father. They moved around the country like gypsies and had “settled” in New York State when Albert was 6, 11 and 15.

Albert did not speak until he finished his meal, so Donovan entertained himself by casually flirting with the olive beauty in the swing dress. She really was a rare sight. He smiled as he recalled something from a British comedy about a nudity buffer. How it took time to figure out how a woman looked naked, especially trying to figure out her nipple type. It was something that kept him entertained though. Certainly more entertaining than watching Albert belch over his steak.

It took Albert a quarter of an hour to make the steak disappear and by that time, Donovan had drawn out his cigar case and his lighter. He only just finished his own food, but he knew already that he wanted a cigar. “You want one too?” he asked Albert the moment he sat back and rubbed his hands over his belly.

“Nah, I'm laying off them.”

“Why?”

“Wife and me are trying to get pregnant. Seems they are bad for sperm production.”

“Fuck that.” Donovan picked up the cigars and his lighter and got up. “By the way, your wife is trying to get pregnant, or you're trying to get her pregnant. Though looking at that gut of yours, she might have knocked you up already.”

“Fuck you.”

Donovan grinned and walked out onto the small balcony which was the only place they were now allowed to smoke.

The balcony was empty, but at least there were some comfortable seats. He cursed the smoking ban in New York. People had seemed to stop smoking altogether now. Maybe some smoked good cigars at home, but in public there was nothing of the sort any more.

He mused on it as he pulled out one of his Cohibas and smelled it. They were the proper Cohibas, from the plantations and factories founded by Fidel Castro, not the US/Dominican fakes. Not that those were bad cigars, but they simply were not the same thing.

With a sigh, he cut the cigar and flicked open his lighter. The large flame burned bright blue and he put it to the cigar's end. He sucked on it and rolled it around once or twice, making sure it was lit properly and then, clicking his lighter closed again, he sank back into the chair, puffing out a large cloud of smoke.

There was a noise behind him coming from the stairs and he looked up. He half expected to see Albert appear there, having changed his mind about his offer of a cigar, but instead it was the olive-toned woman. She brandished a slim cigarillo and smiled at him. “Got a light for me?”

Donovan frowned. There were not many women in NYC these days who smoked, let alone women who smoked high quality tobacco. “Sure,” he said and flicked open his lighter again. “It's a rare thing.”

The woman lit the cigarillo and puffed out a large cloud of smoke, then sat down on the edge of the seat next to Donovan. She crossed her legs and leaned her elbow on her knee, holding her smoke aloft. Donovan smelled the smoke and thought for a moment. “Sweet Java tobacco?”

The woman nodded, a smile on her face. “Dutch stuff, Mehari Sweet Orient. There are a few stores around here who sell them, but I mainly rely on friends to bring them over from Europe.”

Donovan smiled brightly and leaned forward, taking care not to breathe the smoke straight into the woman's face. That would be rude. But she smelled the smoke and her face lit up even more. “Cohiba?” she placed her hand on his knee and looked seriously at him. “You do know Cuban cigars are illegal, right?”

Donovan nodded, equally serious. “Quite illegal, but I won't tell the cops about your smuggled Dutch cigarillos if you don't tell them about my Cubans.” He broke out in a smile again then. The woman also laughed and she extended her hand to Donovan. “Naomh Walsh,” she introduced herself.

“Storm Donovan.” Donovan took her hand, turned it and placed a gentle kiss on her knuckles, much to Ms. Walsh's delight. “Pleased to meet you.” He wanted to withdraw his hand, but she held on to it and looked into his eyes. Her eyes were twinkling. Her fingers stroked the palm of his hand.

She sucked another cloud of smoke out of the thin cigarillo and then lay it down in the ashtray. She uncrossed her legs, careful not to have a Sharon Stone moment, and stood up. Donovan was momentarily at a loss of what to do or say. His face was inches from her crotch and his hand was still in hers, very close to her hip. He saw her toned legs, the shapely thighs and the calves that were accentuated by her high heels, but he dared not look down or up too obviously. Then she stepped away.

Naomh Walsh walked to the stairs again and then looked back at him, offering him a flirty wink and a wave of her hand. Sure Donovan was looking as she went down the stairs; she gave a tiny wiggle of her pert behind as well.

Donovan was reeling. He was used to his expensive gifts to women being wasted, and he had resigned himself to the fact that this woman was spoken for, but obviously she had decided she was not spoken for after all. He looked at the ashtray and smiled even brighter. She had not stubbed the cigarillo out. Many cigar lovers, including Donovan himself, considered that a grave sin. A sin she had not committed. He also noticed now there was no filter. So she was less concerned about the health effects than about the taste.

He sank back in the chair, cigar in hand, as he thought about that. He could completely fall for a woman like that, he mused. Then he saw a bit of white poking from beneath the ashtray and he sat up again to grab it. It was a business card. “Naomh Walsh, O'Hourihane & Walsh PR” it said on the front, together with a logo. On the back there were two phone numbers and an address. “Call me,” she had written next to one of the numbers in a loopy handwriting, using a thin pencil.

Half an hour later, there was only a few fingers of his cigar left and the smoke that he drew into his mouth was becoming hot. He laid down the cigar and walked back down to the table where he had left Albert. As he sat down he looked over at the table where Naomh Walsh and her friends were seated. The bottles of wine were empty and as he watched them the waiter brought another bottle.

“They're well-oiled by now,” Albert said.

“Eh?”

“Getting quite drunk; probably the right time for some bastard to put on a move.”

“Probably.”

“So?” Albert frowned at him. “Either entertain me by making a move on one of them or pay the bill and let me get home.”

“But you'll have a look for those files for me right?”

“Yeah, yeah. Wouldn't want the elite streets of DUMBO to be running with your blue blood, now would I?”

Chapter Two

The taxi dropped Donovan at the gate of his loft apartment in the DUMBO. He paid the driver using his Smartphone and suddenly wondered if he should start paying people in cash again. Who knows who could access his phone? If someone was out to get him, they could be trying to get onto his phone. He shook his head and decided he was just being paranoid.

He unlocked the gate with his phone as well. He pulled up the key program that would generate a random QR code that could be read by the scanner at his gate. An old college friend had developed the system, and Donovan was glad for it. The same program was used for the apartment itself, but it meant that nobody could ever open the gate or his doors unless he had sent them the app to open them.

And a secure system was needed as well. Not only was his trim physique the envy of guys like Albert, but this loft apartment was the envy of most, from the Upper East Side to Williamsburg. It had once belonged to the greatest gangster of the early 20th century. It had been owned by him at that time when no policemen dared to patrol that beat alone and to live in the apartment that housed one of the most talked-about gangsters of all time was something he could never tire of. William “Wild Bill” Lovett, in Donovan's opinion, was the greatest gangster of New York City. It was one reason he had bought this apartment.

The other reason for buying the loft was the eccentricities it was built with. He loved weird houses. Houses that were a bit odd. When he worked for the FBI, he had lived in a penthouse. It was one of the biggest, most expensive, most luxurious penthouses and the location was what any socialite dreamed of Upper East Manhattan, but it had not suited him. The layout was too standard, there were no surprises, and there was nowhere to hide.

That was the one thing he loved about this loft. There were places to hide. It reminded him of the great family home in Manhattan. It was one of those very old houses you can only find in certain areas of the city. It was large and full of nooks and secret places. The loft, owing to the Irishman it had been a home to, was just as intriguing.

Donovan entered the 19th century-styled elevator and went up to the loft. The door swung open with another generated QR code and he went into the large hallway. Immediately, he took a left, which took him into his library. The room was massive. The room was in fact two levels, with a mezzanine that allowed access to the top shelves. There was a massive fireplace, a large table and a writing desk. He walked straight through it and into the next room. This was his smoking room. A large humidor took up one wall of it, but there was also a piano and some other instruments.

He had learned to play violin and piano when he was young, and he was still fond of playing, but right now he had another fancy. And he made enough money with his firm to indulge his fancies. There were a few amplifiers which he switched on and then he grabbed the electric guitar from its stand. He had had it specially built by a guild craftsman in the UK and it was more expensive than the piano, but it sounded better than any instrument he had ever heard. He took up a pick and strummed a chord. He grinned, thinking of the rock star dream he had when he was a boy and then began picking the strings.

Not too long after he had begun playing, Donovan realized the tune he was playing was quite melancholy. He stopped picking the strings and put the guitar down. He looked at the grandfather clock and decided it was late enough. He turned the amplifiers off and walked back through the library. In the hallway, he made for the grand oaken staircase. It was the sort of thing you could see a woman in a ball gown walking down without too much imagining. At the top of the stairs were a number of rooms, including another sitting room and his breakfast room. There were several suites, all in the same classic style, including his own bedroom. But he ignored that bedroom and took another flight of stairs to the third floor, and there, below the ceiling, was the room he would use tonight.

This was his second master suite. Unlike the classical rooms on the floor below, this suite and the others on this floor were very modern. There was a flat screen on one of the dressers; the bed was large and luxurious, covered in black satin sheets. A door, in the wall behind the bed, led to a large en suite. Donovan stripped off his shirt and dropped his trousers as he walked through the room to his personal bathroom. He turned the shower on, waited a moment for the water to warm and got under it. He just washed with water, knowing the overuse of soap would dry out his skin. He was a vain man, something he was keenly aware of, but he had his limits. Smearing his skin with products to counter the effects of other products just seemed stupid to him.

He took a few minutes to wash, then stepped out and dried himself. Naked, he got between the satin sheets of the large bed. And even though he had plenty to ponder, he drifted into sleep very quickly.

In the morning he woke from the sound of his butler knocking on the door. “Sir, it is time to get up,” the butler's Oxford accented voice said. “Your breakfast will be ready in half an hour.”

Donovan rubbed his eyes and rose in the bed. He slowly swung his legs out of the bed and got to his feet. Bleary-eyed, he stumbled into his en suite and turned the faucet on. He placed his head under the cold water and suddenly felt himself wake up. He dried his short brown hair and wrapped the towel around his waist. He headed downstairs to his other suite, next to which was his private dressing room. He picked out a pinstripe shirt with a classic white collar, a pair of suit pants and suede loafers; he got dressed. To finish his look, he added a tie. Looking through his tie rack, he picked a simple one which complemented the colors in his shirt; he expertly tied a perfect Windsor knot.

His breakfast was already waiting for him in the breakfast room. His butler stood by the door with that day's copy of the New York Times in hand.

“Thank you, Johnson,” he said as he took the paper and sat down. His breakfast today was a selection of fresh fruit, muesli and Greek yogurt. It was the breakfast he ate most often. He liked fresh fruit from warm climates, even in the stubborn winters of New York, where snowstorms would prevent deliveries from getting to the city. He liked pancakes and a full English platter too, but on most days it was just too heavy for the strains and stresses he was expected to deal with throughout the day.

There was nothing interesting in the paper, he decided fairly quickly, and he handed the paper back to Johnson. He was mighty pleased with his decision to hire the butler. It suited him and his lifestyle to have a butler in the first place, but he had always been hesitant to hire too many servants. He liked the good life and could afford it, but he did not want to appear like the rest of the elite that chose to live in the thick of it in Manhattan’s Upper East Side: pretentious. Of all the people in the part of town he lived in, he was one of the very few who actually had the breeding as well as the riches. As a result, he remembered that he could not, nor wanted to, display his wealth too much. He just showed it enough to make everyone aware of it. That was the reason he only had four people working for him in the loft. There was his butler, Johnson; Miss Graeme, the housekeeper; Juan, the janitor; and his cook, Emily Harkness. In his eyes, the latter was the most indispensable.

After his breakfast, he went to brush his teeth and then he gathered his briefcase and went out. He walked to the eastern wing of his 3,800 square foot home and went down a flight of stairs. At the bottom of those stairs was his underground garage. He jumped into his favorite car, a British racing green Jaguar E-type. He turned the key and the engine coughed. He turned it again and this time the engine roared into life. He pulled up the key app again and opened the garage door. Moments later, he blasted out into the street. He laughed. There was nothing like the joy of driving a car like this.

Forty minutes later, he pulled up in the garage of his office building in Midtown East Manhattan. He took the stairs up to his office at the top of the building. Most people would take the elevator, but he liked walking the stairs. He had long decided he felt better starting his day in the office by walking all those floors up than by taking the lift. Only when he was running late did he use the elevator now. It took him ten more minutes to reach his office.

On the floor his law firm occupied, his office was at the end of the building. From the stair and lift lobby, there was the kitchen on the left and the rest of the office on the right. His partners all had their offices along the main passageway, as did their assistants and their support staff. Then there was a library, completely dedicated to the law. It contained row upon row of almanacs and law books. Most of the changes in the law and the consequences of the decisions of judges were now conveyed digitally, but Donovan liked having the books as well. He figured nobody could mess with them once they were printed. Besides, they looked good. Then, next to the library was his office. It was neighbored by his secretary, his assistant and by his private gym, complete bathroom suite and small walk-in closet.

Donovan swung into his secretary's office and bid her good morning before cheerfully taking himself to his own office. He opened his laptop and began looking through his emails. It was a chore he hated to do, but a necessary one. The first thing he looked through was the updates from the courts, the updates from the New York Assembly, Senate and Governor, and finally the Congress and White House updates. The next thing was the emails from his clients and business partners. One of them took his particular attention. It was from the Greek shipping magnate who had recently taken a controlling stake in American Stevedoring Inc.

Donovan had never specialized in any particular field, but of course he employed specialists in his firm. He liked being a jack-of-all-trades attorney. It meant he could take cases and clients of all sorts and deal with quandaries like the one Gregoris Sedakis posed him now. He pondered it for a moment. His firm had represented Sedakis in New York since his company’s takeover; it was a prestigious contract. But the question was a strange one. He was not sure he wanted to be associated with it.

Another email was from the agent of a young Canadian singer who had just been arrested for drinking under the influence. The girl had been arrested for it before and this time, she had been charged with disturbance of the peace as well. Her neighbors in the prestigious Williamsburg area had finally had enough of her spoiled and extravagant behavior.

He pressed the button of the intercom and let it go immediately. It would be sign enough for his secretary to know she was needed.

It took a while for his secretary to show up, but eventually he saw her appear from the other side of the office, walk to her desk, notice the blinking light and come over to his office. She was holding an envelope. “Yes, Mister Donovan?”

“Can you set up meetings with Sedakis and the agent of Justine Lavoie? Seems she's in trouble again.”

“Yes, I heard about it this morning on the radio.”

Donovan nodded. He did not really listen to the gossipy news on the radio or television and was frankly not interested in it either. He knew a lot of the people that were commonly discussed personally. He preferred to get the stories from the source.

“Will that be all?”

“For now, yeah. Thank you, Rachel.”

The secretary walked up to his desk and handed him the envelope. “This just arrived for you. And your friend Albert called.”

“Ah, thank you, Rachel.” He grabbed the envelope and reached for his phone. He put a Bluetooth headset on and selected Albert's number on his screen.

“Agent Wylders.” Albert's voice boomed in his ear.

“Fuck, why are you shouting?”

“Sorry, hold on.” The line went silent for a moment, then Albert was back, speaking normally. “Fucking dead guy in the harbor. Engines and shit.”

“Right. You called earlier?”

“Yeah, I found the file on your brothers.”

“Yeah?” Donovan asked, picking up a letter opener and ripping through the sealed edge of the envelope. “Anything interesting?”

“Bad news. Denny Lang is AWOL.”

Donovan pulled the letter from the envelope and folded it open. “And Quinn?”

“Released on parole earlier this week. Just a minute...” Donovan heard Albert speaking to someone in the background. “Donovan...” Albert came back. Donovan did not answer. The letter was written in what was obviously blood. It had run slightly from the letters.

“Donovan. The dead guy in the harbor. It's Denny Lang.”

“You took years off my life. I will take the rest of your life. Lang,” the letter read.