All In A Day's Work Read online

  All in a Day’s work

  By Gary Resnikoff

  Smashwords Edition

  Copyright 2018 Gary Resnikoff

  Smashwords Edition, License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com or your favorite retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Dedication

  I dedicate this book, my first, to my wife and best friend. Her confidence and patience with me all these years has made me a better person and somehow convinced me that I have abilities I didn’t know I had.

  Disclaimer

  If you didn’t realize this before, this is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses and incidents described herein are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to any person, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Prologue

  Two large, black duffle bags sat in front of him, filled with the tools and clothing he would need in the coming days. His life was about to take a temporary diversion, one that had been in the making for a few months, the catalyst having happened years ago.

  Ever since he was a kid, he was adept at planning and organizing things. He believed in creating a plan, analyzing it, reconsidering it, and then, once he was confident it was foolproof, implementing it. As a child, he was the one who got things done. Always a hard worker, some might have even called him driven. His loyalty to his family and friends was never in question. But along with being a doer, he was a thinker. And with that thoughtfulness came thoroughness. His ideas and plans were always well thought-out. Every detail had reason and purpose, and he always made sure he had every tool necessary to achieve his goal or succeed in his plan. He understood and appreciated his unique skills, and they brought him pleasure and confidence.

  Now, the brilliant plan was finally complete and ready to go. It was right. It was justified. It couldn’t fail.

  Lives would be sacrificed to accomplish his goal. At one time in his life, that would have been unacceptable, but no longer. Like pawns in a chess game, they had already been identified as expendable. He was satisfied with his choices. The victims he’d chosen were worthless dregs of society and would not be missed. In fact, their sacrifices would serve a greater purpose and give meaning to their pitiful lives. According to his plan—and it was a grand plan—their deaths, and the method by which they would die, were required to achieve his goal. They were not random, and would not be perceived as such. This was important. The meaning of their deaths had to be apparent.

  Now, he was ready to put his grand plan in motion. Further planning wouldn’t change anything, but he worried he might lose his nerve. The plan required resolve. Hesitation could prove disastrous, and that was unacceptable. No, too much planning had gone into this, and the preparation was flawless. No time to stop now.

  From its inception, it had always been his plan. His grand idea. But he needed a partner. And the girl fit in perfectly. In many ways, she was of a like mind, and from day one, she agreed to take orders from him. She would defer to him and wouldn’t argue with the details of the plan. She deferred when he said it wasn’t time yet, and she agreed when he said the time was right. He had convinced her that any deviation from the plan would end in disaster. Her lack of concentration during the planning sessions annoyed and concerned him, and he often wondered about the wisdom of picking her as a partner. When he’d told the girl the long planning sessions were complete and the time to begin had arrived, she’d flushed with excitement. The planning sessions had been tedious and repetitious, and although he’d acted like he wanted her input, he’d reacted poorly when she offered suggestions or concerns. She quickly learned to keep her mouth shut. He clearly thought she was stupid; he always had; she knew it, and she resented him for it. Admittedly, she wasn’t up to his IQ level and wasn’t nearly as imaginative or creative as he was, but she wasn’t an idiot. It angered her when he treated her like a subordinate, but she accepted his dominance as the price to pay to participate in the plan, and now that it was time to launch the mission, all his concerns about her had faded away.

  And, truth be known, it was quite a plan. He seemed to have covered every detail. He even decided they should have a name, and he came up with the The Revengers. The girl would have preferred something a little more sexy but as usual, she deferred to him. Given the nature of their plan the name fit. They were punishing criminals and avenging terrible wrongs. Never mind that in doing so, they became criminals, too.

  Choosing their victims turned out to be another matter altogether. There were so many potentially deserving victims, he wondered whether they should employ a lottery system and allow fate to choose. But fate might be too random, and some who might be more deserving of punishment might not be selected. So, in the end, he decided to trust his own judgement. He would be the final judge, jury, and executioner. The plan only required four or five victims to accomplish his goal. At least, that’s what he thought. When the time came, he could always select others, or he could initiate Plan B. For the unfortunate few who got chosen—well, it was just too bad. They had chosen their course in life, and now, they would pay the ultimate price for their crimes. After all, it was all for the greater good.

  She watched as he inventoried and packed the duffle bags with the supplies he had collected over the last few months from different stores up and down the front range to avoid connecting any of the purchases to them. He had rolls of silver duct tape, nylon rope, hammers, a two-way radio, throwaway phones, an old baseball bat, a lock release gun, basic tools, and more. He had only selected brands that were mass-produced and sold in dozens of stores. None of these items would elicit attention when the police tried to track down their origins. When asked who bought them, a vendor would answer, “Everybody buys that brand.” He had even purchased mass-market, throwaway paper shoe covers, vinyl gloves, and hair nets. A bottle of hand sanitizer went in next, followed by the last critical item—a pair of two-way communication devices with earbuds that would provide them hands-free communication at all times, in case they were separated for any reason. He reminded her that they should wear the rubber gloves anytime they were on a mission. If they followed his instructions to the letter, then there was no chance of leaving any DNA or random clothing fibers that might implicate them. She had to give him credit because it appeared that he had thought of everything.

  Satisfied, he zipped up the bags.

  Nothing could go wrong now.

  Chapter One

  “All, all is theft, all is unceasing and rigorous competition in nature; the desire to make off with the substance of others is the foremost—the most legitimate—passion nature has bred into us and, without doubt, the most agreeable one.”

  —Marquis De Sade

  Lane Stevens, clad in his Gucci shoes and Jack Vincent suit, sat at his oak desk on the 13th floor of his downtown Denver office, admiring the view of the Rocky Mountains to the west. He glanced at the phone, trying to will it to ring, anxious that his expected caller might be backing out of the deal. He could do little else but watch and hope. The call was already thirty minutes late. He twirled a pen, hoping to take his mind off the twitch in his leg. If the call didn’t come through and the subsequent deal didn’t happen, all was not lost. He could and would still go through with his plan. But it would put a damper on things. Namely, his future lifestyle.

  The phone on his desk buzzed, jolting him out of his daydream about girls and Mai Tais.
His heartrate, already elevated, rose by another twenty beats. Struggling to steady his heartrate, he picked up the phone and pasted a smile on his face. He had read a study once that said humans can discern the difference between a smile and a frown over the phone. And Lane had learned through experience that people trust happy, successful people. In his line of work, image was everything. Confidence was contagious, and perceived confidence could be the difference between making or breaking a deal. He even kept a mirror on his desk with the word “smile” pasted to it as a reminder.

  “Mr. Markel, good to hear from you,” he said as he exhaled slowly, trying to control his breathing. As he listened to what the caller had to say, his smile grew, no longer artificial. He struggled to control his voice when he responded.

  “Thank you, Dr. Markel.” He beamed. “I’ll look for the wire. Your trust in me will be well-rewarded. Yes, I’ll let the mayor know we spoke. Thanks again and have a great weekend.” He put down the phone, did a fist-pump, and exclaimed, “Yes, I did it!”

  Lane had languished for years as a moderately successful investment advisor. He never seemed to land the big fish as clients and although he was making a decent living, he wasn’t satisfied. After reading about players like Bernie Madoff, Lane concocted his own version of the Ponzi scheme. It wasn’t all that original or creative, and he had no doubt it would be discovered at some point, but he was convinced it would work. To kick it off, he realized he needed to enlist supporters who, through their own greed, would feed him clients. One thing led to another, and he was able to recruit the mayor, the police chief, and the owner of one of the more successful newspapers in the Rocky Mountain region. They would get kickbacks from Lane based on the investment level of the clients they helped Lane recruit. They were so enamored with the money they were making, they even invested their own money with Lane.

  Lane created a shell company that generated bogus monthly statements showing unusually high yields. Everyone was pleased with the gains and recommended Lane to their friends. Lane was careful in the beginning, living a modest lifestyle so as not to create any undue suspicion. The key to success was to keep investors in and add new ones until the fund reached a sufficient level. When that happened, he would cash out and leave the country. But it was a daily balancing act to keep clients happy and keep them from withdrawing funds. He could allow small distributions to keep up the appearance of legitimacy but he couldn’t let investors pull out. The trick, he told himself, was not to get too greedy and not to stay too long. Schemes like this failed in the past because the operators were stupid and greedy. Their inability to recognize when things were about to go south was always their undoing and always followed with a jail sentence. They lacked intuition and confidence, but Lane was overflowing with it.

  And now, it was time to pull out. He’d felt it coming for a few weeks. Nagging clients were getting suspicious and asking questions. He’d even had a call from the local radio host do-gooder, asking about his business. Markel would be his final score and when the money was deposited, he would say adios amigos and muchas gracias.

  Dr. Markel was an arrogant and extremely rich plastic surgeon whom Lane had been targeting for months. Ripping him off had become an obsession. The mayor had introduced them at a fundraising event and had praised Lane as a miracle-worker. Lane hated Markel the minute he met him. Arrogant and self-absorbed, Markel flaunted his status and success. As far as Lane was concerned, Markel was no better than the other rubes he was scamming, but taking Markel down a notch would feel even better. He would relieve Markel of five million dollars, and his only regret was that he wouldn’t see Markel’s face when he realized he had been swindled.

  Landing Markel had taken longer than Lane had anticipated or was comfortable with. The investment fund was already big enough to support Lane for the rest of his life but taking Markel down had become an obsession he couldn’t shake off. To get Markel to part with the five million, he first had to show him success. He did that by convincing Markel to start small and watch the performance. Lane reeled him in by creating bogus statements showing substantial gains and sending Markel regular dividend checks.

  Markel may have thought he was a savvy and shrewd investor, but as Lane knew, he was greedy. Double-digit returns bring out the greed in most people and it didn’t hurt that the mayor and police chief were constantly bragging to Markel about the returns they were getting.

  Lane kneeled in front of a safe in the corner of his office and removed a passport and drivers’ license in the name of Henry J. Smythe, with a New York address. Each had Lane’s picture on them. Using the fake ID, Lane had purchased property in the Cayman Islands a few months earlier, using funds from the investment scheme that he had deposited in one of the island’s banks. Once he deposited Markel’s money, the account balance would swell to over fifteen million dollars. Quite a tidy sum to retire on, he surmised.

  For weeks, he worried he had overplayed his hand and overstayed. Trouble was brewing, and he could feel an investigation into his business was coming. If he hadn’t been so sure that Markel was about to fall, he would have left weeks ago. But, he had been able to stay calm and stall the increasing number of clients concerned about their money, allowing him time to swindle Markel.

  He let out a huge sigh of relief. He had won. He would be gone tomorrow.

  Lane buzzed his secretary. “Diane, I think we are going to close early today. Take the rest of the day off and do something fun.” This was out of character for Lane, but she wasn’t going to argue. She was out the door ten minutes later.

  As soon as she was gone, he spent the next few hours cleaning his office and making sure there was nothing that could connect him to his new island home. He had kept two sets of records—one that his secretary Diane had access to, and his own. The numbers and the names on the two lists weren’t the same. Her list left out some key names, and the dollar amounts were considerably lower. His list was going into the shredder. Anything on his hard drive was wiped clean using the latest technology. Anyone trying to piece things together after he was gone would be frustrated, and no one would ever figure out the depth of his crime.

  At two-thirty, he called his bank to confirm receipt of the wire transfer and then initiated one of his own to his island account. Next, he called a travel agent and booked a Saturday morning flight, first class, using his new identity. He could almost taste the rum. He looked in his Rolodex, called the local cab company, and arranged to have a cab pick him up in the morning at his Cherry Creek home.

  Once he was satisfied his office was clean and held no clues as to his new destination, he locked the door and headed to his favorite pub. Earlier in the week, he had agreed to meet his brother, Brian, for a drink after work, but now, he regretted that decision. Had he known today would be his last day in Denver, he would have declined. Oh well, he could handle one last meeting with his little brother, knowing where he would be the following day.

  Lane was very fond of the Empty Glass Tavern. In fact, he was a regular there and well-known, although most patrons and staff considered him an egotistical ass and would prefer he went elsewhere. But, unaware of his reputation, he loved the place, and most nights, he would find a lady who didn’t know him and would agree to go home with him, always to the amazement of the staff and the other patrons who knew him.

  When Brian called to arrange the meeting, Lane was sure he knew the reason. Why else? Money. Every few months, Brian would call and arrange a meeting and then ask for money to help with their mother. Her health was deteriorating, and her health insurance didn’t cover all the costs. He didn’t really care. He wasn’t that close to either of them but usually coughed up a few bucks to help. This time, however, he would promise to put a check in the mail in the morning, even though he had no intention of doing so.

  Why didn’t he just cancel? He could easily just fake a problem and reschedule for sometime in the future. But he was in such a good mood, he didn’t want to spoil it. And besides, how bad could it be?
What could possibly go wrong?

  He entered the bar, beaming. And why wouldn’t he be? He had just scored five million dollars. It was his single biggest score. He was on top of the world. He spotted his brother across the room and sensed some agitation in his body language. Before he could change his mind and slip out, Brian spotted him and waved. Were it not for his good mood and uncharacteristic charitable feeling, he would have turned and left. Life is good today, he thought. And while he was feeling so good, maybe he would top off the evening with a blonde or a brunette. As long as she was wearing a short skirt and feeling frisky, he really wasn’t too picky. Not a bad way to spend his last night in Denver.

  He greeted Brian coolly as he sat down, his eyes scanning the bar for a suitable companion for the night. A blonde entered the establishment and looked around as if she was trying to find someone. Lane focused on her and cursed his bad luck; had he lingered just moments longer at the door, she would have run into him. She was clearly in a class all her own, putting all the other women in the bar to shame. In fact, she might have been the hottest girl he had ever seen. She was young, but Lane considered anyone over 21 fair game. Or, as he put it, “legal tender”. He marveled at her body; even from across the room, it was flawless. She wore a skirt so tight, nothing was hidden from his view, let alone his imagination. He didn’t even consider whether she had half a brain; he wasn’t looking for meaningful conversation tonight—or any other night, for that matter.

  He watched, mesmerized, as she stood, scanning the room. Lane himself typically scanned the pub the same way when he was looking for someone in particular. His heart skipped a beat when she smiled and winked as they made eye contact. Although Lane considered himself good-looking and a “ladies’ man”, he turned his head to make sure the wink wasn’t meant for someone else. He looked back at her with his practiced smile, and she laughed. As she headed for the bar and scooted onto a barstool, he couldn’t take his eyes off her.