Pseudonym

  Table of Contents

  PSEUDONYM

  NEAL PENN

  PSEUDONYM

  A RODNEY CRANE THRILLER

  Copyright 2011, Curious Media LLC

  All rights reserved

  This is a work of fiction. Any similarity to actual people and/or events is purely coincidental.

  Chapter One

  The tea was lukewarm, and no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t keep the tiny china cup from clattering on the saucer every time he set it down.

  He’d already forced down two sips. One more to go. It was one of his rules. Client gives you something crappy during a meeting? Simple: all you need is to take three sips, three spoons, three forkfuls, whatever.

  “Rodney Crane.” That was Evelyn, and she looked impossibly fragile as she settled down on the divan across from his seat. She held his card in one hand. “Are you one of the Summerton Cranes?”

  Evelyn was a Winslow, and the Winslows were old money. The money had come right over on the Mayflower or some such thing, and then their father had become one of the Defense Department’s leading contractors. They probably knew twenty different Crane families and not a damned one of them would be from Marbury.

  “No, Ma’am.” Crane leaned forward for another clattering sip. “I grew up here in Marbury. We are distantly related to Stephen Crane, though.”

  Whether she wasn’t a fan of The Red Badge of Courage, or was just disappointed that Crane’s blood wasn’t blue, Evelyn Winslow ignored the comment. “My brother was nineteen years old when he disappeared. Olive and I would like you to find him.” She shot a sidelong glance at Olive, her sister. Whereas Evelyn was thin and frail, Olive had a layer of fat over her body that made her appear more personable, jolly.

  “I understand that, Miss Winslow, but as I said, he was an adult when he left and it’s been, what, forty years?” Winslow nodded, and Crane got an image of his seventh grade English teacher Mrs. Hoagland. Winslow had the same impatient but somehow indulgent look on her face, as if he was some kind of student acting up. “This isn’t going to be an easy thing to do, and we’re talking about five-hundred dollars per day plus expenses.” The teacup made its way back to the saucer with a minimum of noise.

  “Money is not an object, Mr. Crane,” Evelyn said with a haughtiness only the wealthy could manage. “What matters is finding our brother.”

  “Okay, I’ll get started on it.” He stood up. “If you would permit me, I’ll head to my car and pick up a contract. I’ll be right back.” Both nodded, and so he stepped through the small door separating the parlor from the hallway that led to the front of the house.

  Crazy old ladies. He knew where this would end. It would end with him telling the girls their brother was dead. Of course he’s dead. Forty years!

  Well, he hoped it would at least take him a few days to figure it out. God, if people figured out Google does most of my work, I’d be out of business.

  The air was cool outside, and he walked to his car and sat in the driver’s seat. He reached to the passenger side, opened the briefcase, and started rummaging through it to find a fill-in-the-blanks contract.

  “You should spend more time getting Nero’s money and less time having a tea party.”

  It was a woman’s voice. God, how he hated that voice.

  Worse, that damned voice was coming from the back seat.

  “Ray-Ray,” he said. “Listen, I’m getting the money—”

  “Nero is growing impatient, Mr. Crane. He’s losing confidence in you.” Crane felt the hair on his neck stand as her breath drew closer, voice quieter. “Tell me something to restore his confidence.”

  Seven people, he thought. That’s how many people Ray-Ray had killed. There were probably more than that, too.

  Hell, back when he was a lawyer – back when he was Nero’s lawyer – Crane had personally ensured that someone else took the fall for one of them.

  His response was soft, and he delivered it without turning around in his seat. “I’ve just landed a good contract. I’ll be able to make payments very soon.”

  There was a click as he heard her open the door in the backseat. “Please don’t disappoint us again.”

  The door slammed shut and Crane shuddered. He realized that the contract in his hand was now crushed inside a fist. He retrieved another and headed back to the house. Outside, the cool air had become cold.

  Chapter Two

  Evelyn didn’t look at the contract; she just turned to the second page and signed on the line. Rodney thanked her, folded it, and put it in the breast pocket of his coat. He was about to ask for a check when Olive pushed a rather fat envelope across the table.

  “That should be enough to get you started, Mr. Crane. Call when you need more.” The envelope joined the contract in his pocket, Crane praying inwardly that the bills were hundreds.

  “I need to talk to you about something important,” he began, “and it’s not the kind of thing I like to talk about, but…” He sighed. “There’s something you should know about cases of this sort.”

  “You want to prepare us for his death, Mr. Crane.” Evelyn again. Everything she said, every goddamn sentence, came across like some kind of exasperated, condescending lecture. “You’ll be happy to know we’ve been at peace with the fact of his death for years.”

  “Oh, yes,” Olive chimed in, “we knew he was dead right away.”

  “Okay. Um, okay, then why exactly are you hiring –”

  Olive fixed Crane with a smile. “There is no way he would have run off like that. Dennis wouldn’t have left without saying a word. He adored us, had breakfast with us every morning, took us riding, took us…well, he loved us. We were very close. He wouldn’t disappear of his own free will, no matter what the police said about—”

  “The police!” Evelyn spat. “The police were inept and useless. After all Daddy did to get the chief elected and the commissioner appointed. They were worthless and refused altogether to consider foul play.”

  “What was their explanation?” Crane really wanted to leave. He could feel the envelope in his pocket, the weight of it. He wanted desperately to count it.

  “They said he ran off. They said that young men do that, especially young men of privilege.” Olive nodded as Evelyn spoke. “But Dennis disappeared before his trust account matured, so he couldn’t access any of the money. When no ransom demand came, the only explanation was that he had been killed.”

  “Evvie and I had a funeral for him,” Olive said. “That was almost thirty-two years ago. We knew he was dead and we needed to put it to rest.”

  Crane nodded. “Okay, I get it. Now you want me to find out who killed him.” This case just passed the thousands and entered into the tens of thousands. “Get some justice that’s long overdue.”

  “Oh no, he’s not dead,” said Olive. “He’s still alive.”

  Crane steeled himself, stopped himself from swearing aloud – just. “So you do want me to find him?” He was becoming pretty sure now that the women were, in fact, literally crazy. He wondered briefly about the ethics of taking money from them, but dismissed the thought. Ethics were never your strong point, Roddie. Don't start now.

  Evelyn nodded slightly to Olive and turned to Crane. She reminded him of something, someone, but he couldn’t think of who it was. “We don’t need you to find him, Mr. Crane. We know where he is.”

  What the hell is this, Twenty Questions? “This is getting us nowhere. Can you please start from the beginning and tell me what the hell is going on?”

  Olive gasped, and Evelyn leveled a withering stare at Crane. “I will thank you, young man, to refrain from profanity while in my presence.”

  Jesus Christ, I’m forty-two. And then it hit him: Angela Lansbury in the The Manchurian Candidate. That’s
who she brought to mind.

  “I apologize.” He did his best to look abashed. “I’m just confused.”

  “I accept your apology, Mr. Crane.” Evelyn looked up as Olive returned with a laptop computer. She took it, opened it and asked, “Have you heard of Strike Fortley?”

  Fortley. Wait, that’s familiar. “Yeah, he’s the character in those action books; the ones that are selling all over the internet. Who is that guy, uh…Leonard Thrill, something like that. I saw something about it on TV a few weeks ago. The guy was nobody a couple months ago, but now he’s really popular. Some kind of recluse, doesn’t do interviews.”

  After he saw the news piece, Crane downloaded one of his books, though he’d never made it through it. It reminded him of the old Nick Carter or The Executioner series. Not bad, but Crane wasn’t much of a reader anymore.

  “The name is Lester Twill, Mr. Crane.” She turned the laptop in his direction. One of the books was on the screen, and a picture of Lester Twill stared out at him from beneath the words ABOUT THE AUTHOR. The guy was young, twenty-one or twenty-two. He looked like the character contained in the book – square jawed, steel-blue eyes, ready to kill at the least provocation, permanent five o’clock shadow.

  “I still don’t understand.”

  Looking kindly upon him, Olive said sweetly, “Why, Mr. Crane, Dennis is Lester Twill.”

  Chapter Three

  He counted slowly as he pulled from the estate. He’d give it sixty seconds – sixty slow seconds – before he checked the envelope. It was in the briefcase now, along with the contract and a few pictures of Dennis Winslow. There was no question: the pictures showed the same person.

  Four blocks from the house he’d reached forty-three – and he couldn’t take it any longer. He flipped the catches on the briefcase as he slowed for a red light.

  He pushed open the top of the case and reached for the envelope but noticed the light on his cell phone was blinking. He picked it up and flipped it open. The missed call was from Sammi, his ex-wife.

  He sighed and pressed the button for voicemail.

  “Roddie, I’m out of town. Can you stop by my place and walk the dog?”

  That was it. Six years of marriage and one year of divorce and Rodney Crane was to Samantha Stroughthe Crane nothing more than a dog walker. No surprise, really. They’d stopped being much more than friends a few years into the marriage.

  He put the phone back in the briefcase. Of course, they were little more than just friends even in the beginning. He remembered the first date, when she’d pulled him into her apartment and into her bed and they’d made love—no, that wasn’t right. Hell, they never made love. Fucked. Every time. She approached it with a frenetic determination that characterized her every action: her law career, her art studio, everything.

  He realized about six months in that sex with him was another task, an entry on her to-do list somewhere ahead of file the Stanberry motion and below pay the electric bill. You’re my husband, Roddie, so you get to fuck me. Let’s get this over with; I have a four o’clock deposition.

  That was their marriage. She gave everything she was supposed to, but she did it like he was a client. And at first, it was incredible. Who doesn’t want a wife who screws like a porn star? But it didn’t take long for the allure to disappear. There were times when he wondered if tenderness had to be scheduled as well.

  She got a little more affectionate while she was pregnant with Sienna, but even then …

  He felt the burst of sorrow wash over him whenever he thought of Sienna. They’d only lasted six years because Sienna came along, and if Sienna hadn’t—Jesus.

  The light had changed, and the honk of a horn from behind mercifully brought him to the present. He accelerated, feeling the slight flush of embarrassment wash over him. There was a bottle of MacAllans 30 year single malt at home. He’d bought it in 2006. For almost a year he’d drunk cheap vodka by the gallon, holding on to that scotch like drinking it would be giving in.

  Fuck it. Tonight he would drink it. Hell, things were looking up. This job would get him a nice chunk of change. He could get Nero off his back. Hell, there might be enough in the envelope to make a payment today. The envelope, fuck!

  At the next light, he reached into the briefcase, pushed a picture of Dennis Winslow out of the way and took out the envelope. He pulled the flap off and stared at the stack.

  They were hundreds. He reached in and started counting. He got to sixty bills before a honk interrupted him. He put his foot on the accelerator but quickly stopped. The light was still red.

  Another honk came, and he looked to the left.

  It was a black SUV, one of the kind commercials always showed driving on mountains or deserts but always seemed to contain soccer moms on the street. It made his Mini Cooper look like a Hot Wheels toy.

  The behemoth’s passenger window started to descend, and Crane reached for his window as well.

  He heard the shot before he felt the shattered glass spray over his face.

  Chapter Four

  It was silent.

  No, not silent. It was muffled.

  He opened his eyes and saw the floor of the passenger seat. Hundred dollar bills were scattered everywhere, along with the contents of his briefcase, which lay haphazardly, open.

  For a moment, he thought he was dead, and he wondered why, when his life should have flashed before his eyes, he instead saw Noelle’s face. Noelle, the one who got away. The one who was every bit as good in the sack as Sammi, but the one he’d never—

  Finally, sound got through. It was the screech of tires, and it brought with it the smell of burning rubber. Crane poked his head above the dashboard and saw the SUV turn left at a corner up ahead.

  He sat upright. Along the back of the vehicle ran a long, white scratch. His own car had drifted to the middle of the intersection when his foot lost contact with the brake, and he fumbled for the accelerator before finally engaging it and lurching forward.

  His hands were shaking so badly that the car swung back and forth like some kid in Driver’s Ed was behind the wheel. He inhaled sharply, exhaled slowly and then pulled over.

  Why the hell would Nero send Ray-Ray to warn him and then go after him anyway? As far as he knew, he was the first person she’d ever tried to kill that didn’t die.

  In fact, she never missed. Never. If she had a contract with your name on it, you died. Once Nero (the old Nero, not Junior) put a hit on a guy turning states evidence. The feds had him in some safe house lockdown. She’d killed two agents and the songbird on her way to dinner.

  Nero gave her the impossible jobs. She didn’t miss. And that meant she wasn’t trying to kill him. She was warning him, punctuating the last meeting. Hell of an exclamation mark.

  He looked in the mirror. His forehead looked like hamburger, blood streaming from what felt like thousands of pieces of glass embedded in his skin. “Shit, ow!”

  It was funny, really, the way you don’t feel something like that, and then you see it and – Fuck!

  Quickly, he calculated. Sammi’s house was closer, so he started up the car and headed that direction.

  He glanced at the hundreds and wondered if he should have cleaned them up, especially with the window blasted so that the wind was blowing through the car. But the money stayed put, so he didn’t stop, although he did slow down.

  Crane saw his phone on the floor next to the briefcase and he leaned over and grabbed it, eliciting an angry honk from a driver in an old Buick. He ignored him and dialed a number he had oftentimes wished he’d never committed to memory.

  “You got my money, Crane?”

  No hello; not from Nero. He was too busy trying to be tough, trying to show everyone he had balls like his old man.

  “Look, Nero, I told Ray-Ray I had a few new jobs and I would start paying you back.” He was about a block from Sammi’s house now. And now he was closing in, he regretted on deciding for hers. The vodka—hell, the scotch—was all at his place. “You do
n’t need to do anything.”

  “The only reason you’re not dead right now is because I’m grateful for all the times you kept my dad out of jail.”

  “I know, Nero. I know.”

  “Gratitude only goes so far, though. This is business, Crane. You owe me a hundred thousand. When I gave you that money, you were a lawyer making cash by the truckload. Now you’re chasing pussy-whipped men getting their dicks wet at the Motel 6. It doesn’t give me a good feeling that I’m ever gonna see my money back.”

  Crane was there, now, and he pulled into Sammi’s driveway.

  “Look, Nero. I’ll get the money to you. I got a good job today. It could be worth a whole lot, but I can’t do a damn thing if I have to worry about getting shot at.”

  “Who said anything about getting shot at?”

  Crane pressed the window button to roll it up out of habit before he remembered the window was all over the floor and the seats, and his forehead. “Call Ray-Ray off. She blew out my window at a red light, Nero. I’m gonna have to pull about a million pieces of glass out of my head with tweezers.”

  “Ray-Ray don’t miss, Crane.”

  Crane sighed. “I know. That’s what I’m saying. I get it; I don’t need any more warnings. Just tell her to back off and let me get some money for you.”

  “You don’t get it. Ray-Ray didn’t shoot at you. After she talked to you I sent her on a job in Baltimore.”

  Chapter Five

  “How could you—hey, hand me my fries—could you miss when we were that close?” The man behind the wheel merged the SUV onto the 50 and shook his head. “The boss is gonna be pissed off at you.”

  “What do mean pissed off at me? You were there. Why didn’t you do something?” The second man was dressed in black jeans, black shoes, a black turtleneck, and wore a black watch cap. He reached into the paper Hardees bag, retrieved the fries, then passed them to the driver after stealing a few for himself.