Dead and Paid For

By Marc Olden

To protect the families of missing veterans, Harker could go missing himself

The US Army is out of Vietnam, but not all of its boys made it home. Thousands remain unaccounted for, and as the years go on, their families hold out hope that somewhere in the jungle, their boys survive. Harker, an investigative reporter, has uncovered a sickening scheme designed to prey on that misguided hope. A group of con men is going to the homes of missing soldiers, telling families that their GI is trapped in a secret Vietnamese prison, and can return home for a small ransom. When the family forks over the money, they disappear. Harker has exposed the con, and now he wants to punish those responsible. 

The mastermind is an unscrupulous security contractor named D. Z. Vale, who backs up his despicable scheme with a private army and an unlimited cache of ammunition. Harker has his typewriter, and it’s the only weapon he’ll need.

• Language: English
• Publisher: MysteriousPress.com Open Road
• Release date: Jun 26, 2012
• ISBN: 9781453260692

Marc Olden

Marc Olden (1933–2003) was the author of forty mystery and suspense novels. Born in Baltimore, he began writing while working in New York as a Broadway publicist. His first book, Angela Davis (1973), was a nonfiction study of the controversial Black Panther. In 1973 he also published Narc, under the name Robert Hawke, beginning a hard-boiled nine-book series about a federal narcotics agent. A year later, Black Samurai introduced Robert Sand, a martial arts expert who becomes the first non-Japanese student of a samurai master. Based on Olden’s own interest in martial arts, which led him to the advanced ranks of karate and aikido, the novel spawned a successful eight-book series. Olden continued writing for the next three decades, often drawing on his fascination with Japanese culture and history. 

Book preview

EARLY BIRD BOOKS

FRESH EBOOK DEALS, DELIVERED DAILY

LOVE TO READ?

LOVE GREAT SALES?

GET FANTASTIC DEALS ON BESTSELLING EBOOKS

DELIVERED TO YOUR INBOX EVERY DAY!

The Web’s Creepiest Newsletter

Delivered to Your Inbox

Get chilling stories of

true crime, mystery, horror,

and the paranormal,

twice a week.

Dead and Paid For

The Harker File #2

Marc Olden

A MysteriousPress.com

Open Road Integrated Media

Ebook

For Phil Tibber, who’s as good a friend as I’ve ever had in my life

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 1

QUO VADIS, COCKSUCKER.

You talking to me?

Somethin’ like that, yeah.

The man speaking to me had a drawl. His round face was a healthy pink, with a blond Fu Manchu moustache drooping on either side of a wide mouth. His jaw was as thick as Mussolini’s. A body bulging with muscles owed a lot to weight lifting or squeezing Volkswagens down to the size of quarters with his bare hands. Despite the country-boy grin, he came on dumb and mean.

His shiny brown cowboy boots trimmed in yellow didn’t go with his dark-blue business suit, white shirt, and green tie. The long blond hair hanging down to his shoulders didn’t go with anything. He couldn’t have been over twenty-five. His smile oozed the arrogance of youth and strength.

He had a friend. Friend, also under thirty, didn’t look comfortable in his suit either. Friend was slim, with brown frizzy hair and a long horsey face with bulging eyes. His mouth was open. It looked as though it stayed open a lot. Something said that Friend would be happy just sitting and staring at light bulbs. People like that aren’t smart.

The three of us were among a dozen or so standing outside on a small platform at the train station in Rawlinson, Connecticut. It was noon on a sunny October day.

Do I know you? I asked.

"Know you, dude," said Thick Jaw. His grin widened. I’d never seen either man before in my life. Behind me, the screech and hiss of a train crawling into the station grew louder.

So you know me, so what? A hard-on who can read, I thought. He read something I’ve written and didn’t like it. Who cares? Except that this guy looked big and nasty enough to draw blood with a whisper. I’d just gotten off another train and was heading to a waiting limousine. The limousine was to take me to see some people regarding a story I was working on.

Just sayin’ hello, ’s all. Big Jaw jammed melon-sized fists into his suit pockets. He’d never make it as a pickpocket.

You said it. Now what?

Big-time reporter from Newwwwww York, now ain’t that riiiiight? Big Jaw turned his blond head to the right, the better to see his frizzy-haired, openmouthed friend. Friend grunted, smiled, kept his mouth open. Friend gripped an attaché case with two hands. Gripped wasn’t the word. He had a white-knuckle stranglehold on the handle. Could be nerves, I thought. Could be he’s never held an attaché case before. Neither one of them looked intelligent enough to bounce a ball on the sidewalk.

What the hell did looks mean? I was a reporter, and people have said I look like a child molester.

You got something to say to me, or are you both just going to stand there? They were in my way, which annoyed me. But not enough to start a fight over it. I was thirty-three, six feet even, and a master of caution.

Ain’t got nothin’ to say to you, man. Not now, anyways. Me and my buddy here, we jes’ sayin’ hi and shit like that, understand? He grinned with his lips. His eyes couldn’t be bothered. I fought a growing nervous feeling and took a deep breath.

In that case, why don’t you and your buddy here get the fuck out of my way? I sounded tougher than I felt. Getting harassed every now and then is a part of my job. But this was more than just a casual busting of my chops. I felt it. It bothered me.

Get the fuck outta his way, the man says. Why, sure.

They did, stepping aside, with grinning Big Jaw bowing from the waist like a headwaiter. He held a hand over his heart.

See y’all later, reporter, hear?

Can’t wait.

I had my back to him when I answered. The train pulled in. Its steam was a soft white cloud at ground level. Autumn was pretty up here, with leaves of red, gold, brown, and dark green. The air was chilly—nippy, as the old folks say. I found the limousine, let a surly-looking black man in a chauffeur’s uniform hold the door for me, and climbed in the back. I was on my way to see Raymond Vance and his daughter-in-law Amanda Vance.

On the drive there, I thought about that little scene back at the train station and worried. The chauffeur and I didn’t have a thing to say to each other. I let him stew in silence over racial inequities, and he let me worry about a muscle man and his cretinous-looking friend.

Chapter 2

YES, THOSE TWO MEN you described were here just before you arrived, Mr. Harker. But I’m afraid I cannot discuss the purpose of their visit.

I know the purpose of their visit, Mrs. Vance.

And that is?

Amanda Vance lifted one plucked eyebrow in polite indifference, blew smoke at me from fifteen feet away, then turned down both corners of her tiny mouth. Disdain. Amanda Vance didn’t want to talk to me or any other reporter.

Money, I said. A lot of money.

Oh?

She said the word as only the rich can. With assured arrogance. At thirty, she was fashionably thin, in the style of women with money and nothing to do. She wore tennis whites, exposing tanned skinny legs and arms that did nothing for me. Someone should have told her that too much sun is hell on a woman’s face.

Hers, which wasn’t pretty, had a high forehead, small chin and mouth, and brown eyes that were too close together to be benevolent. She was used to talking down to people. This afternoon was no exception.

The sun had put tiny squint lines at the corners of her eyes and across her forehead. No deep lines. But enough to be a problem real soon. She didn’t like me.

The money would be ransom for your husband, I said. The two men from the train station, the men you said were here, are about the right age. They could be Viet vets.

Blinking her eyes twice, she glared at me as though I’d just pissed on the rug. Then she blew some more smoke, this time straight up at the ceiling. The smoke would never get to the top of the room. You needed a helicopter for that. The ceilings were thirty feet away.

The two of us were alone, sitting in one of three living rooms on the main floor. The antiques around us looked real enough to steal. As for the size of the room, it contained two pianos, one harpsichord, two harps, several large expensive-looking rugs and tapestries, and enough suits of armor to outfit a crusade. There was space left over for a moving van or two.

Research on Raymond Vance had told me that the house had fifty rooms, stood on ten acres of valuable real estate, and carried a staff of twenty. Two people lived there. Raymond Vance, Sr., age sixty-five, and Amanda Vance, his daughter-in-law.

I don’t know what you’re talking about, Mr. Harker. This … this ransom. These men …

Amanda Vance crossed her legs tightly, like a bank door slamming shut in a customer’s face at 2:59 precisely. Her sneakered right foot made small, quick circles in the air. Irritation.

Five hundred thousand dollars, I said. Somebody’s contacted you and said that’s the price for getting your husband back alive. Raymond Leigh Vance, Jr., captain. United States Army infantry. Missing in action in Vietnam since 1972. That somebody’s been getting expenses from your father-in-law for a so-called search. That somebody wants five hundred thousand to ransom your husband from a so-called hidden Viet Cong prison camp. Am I getting through to you at all? Snotty bitch.

She lit another cigarette with a thin gold lighter, filling her lungs with a lot of smoke. Her voice was as cold as the ocean floor.

You’ve been talking with the family politician, I see.

I grinned. That was to give me time to think of an answer. The family politician was Roger Vance, thirty-five, Raymond Vance senior’s other son. Roger was ambitious, a congressman in the U.S. House of Representatives and what the backroom boys call a hot piece of political merchandise. That meant he could be senator one day, if he made the right deals and came up with enough money for a campaign.

Roger had tipped me on this story for his own selfish reasons. He didn’t want his future campaign funds being given to ripoff artists. However, the last thing I wanted was to bandy Roger’s name about. Reporters should protect their sources. Otherwise, sources tend to stop trusting them and start punching them out.

I’ve talked with a lot of people, Mrs. Vance. People like Mrs. Rodríguez. Two months ago some men claiming contacts in Southeast Asia paid her a visit in Spanish Harlem. They said her son was still alive in Vietnam, not missing in action, as the Pentagon claimed. Mrs. Rodríguez is forty. Looks almost sixty. She scrubs floors and cleans toilets to feed herself and five kids. No servants around the house, like here. She believed those people about her son. They lied to her, Mrs. Vance. She gave them two hundred dollars. You know how long Mrs. Rodríguez has to scrub toilets to save two hundred dollars? She never saw those guys again. She’s not the only one ripped off by this hustle.

The cigarette lighter had been opened and flaming during my little speech. A frowning Amanda Vance snapped the lighter shut. The gesture took the place of crushing my skull.

Her frown stayed in place as she said, I read, your story in … in the …

"New York World-Examiner." I leaned forward on the couch. It was made of expensive-looking dark-brown leather that probably cost more than a Rolls-Royce. I sat on it alone. Amanda Vance was across from me, her skinny ass on another expensive dark-brown-leather couch. The distance between us was functional, a reminder of the gulf between our stations in life. She had money and some social standing. I had bad breath and overdue bills.

You say you’ve read my story. Then you know what the racket’s about. A bunch of ghouls out for blood money. They claim to have information about secret Viet Cong prison camps somewhere in Southeast Asia. According to these clowns, GI’s listed as missing by the Pentagon aren’t dead or missing at all. They’re in these so-called secret camps. And for a price, these bloodsuckers say they’ll find out about a missing GI for you. For a bigger price, they claim they’ll ransom the missing man. Almost two thousand GI’s are missing in action in Vietnam. Unaccounted for. The Pentagon isn’t doing a damn thing about it. They’re not even admitting there’s a problem. As far as they’re concerned, the missing men don’t exist anymore. But for people like Graciela Rodríguez and others clutching at straws, any hope is better than no hope at all.

Amanda Vance stared down at one of the expensive rugs. She chewed her tiny lip with tiny white teeth. Then she looked up at me.

Please stop contacting our family friends about my husband. Her flat voice wasn’t so arrogant now. This is a family matter, a private matter.

What is?

She took a deep breath before answering. She had to pick her words carefully now. I wasn’t supposed to know that she and her father-in-law were paying a lot of money to some men who claimed to have information on her missing husband. Captain Raymond Vance, Jr., had been missing in action for almost four years. His body had never been found. So-called investigators were getting expense money to locate Captain Vance and deal with his captors. The half-million in ransom was due to be paid soon, according to Roger.

Mr. Harker, I thought a personal plea from me might make you back off.

I doubt it. But you can try. Anyway, didn’t you just say you didn’t know what I was talking about? Didn’t—?

Please, let’s stop playing games. My father-in-law is old, sick. Raymond was his … his favorite. He never gave up hope when my husband was reported missing. He always thought Ray was alive. But if you publicize anything, it might jeopardize negotiations.

I took a deep breath. "You’re saying you have been contacted by people who—?"

"I’m saying don’t kill my father-in-law. The hope that Ray is alive is all that’s keeping him alive. He’s quite ill."

Is that why he’s not here to see me?

"He’s what you call set in his ways. He