York City standards. Plus, it was hard to conduct business in the loud atmosphere. But it was a good place to meet for discussions concerning illicit matters. Not that all discussions at O’Hara’s were illicit. But a fair portion did lean that direction. Adam Weber was sitting at the bar nursing a Guinness when Crigler arrived.
Weber was a large man in his late-fifties. His thinning brown hair was kept short, not quite a buzz cut. With a face to match his gravelly voice, Weber was a master at intimidation. His line of work demanded good physical strength and agility, so he worked out regularly. An ex-U.S. Marshal, he now owned a private company specializing in finding and recovering white-collar embezzlers and the funds they had liberated. Crigler had used Weber several times over the years, both for legitimate reasons and for a few illegitimate endeavors. Weber preferred the illegitimate ones; they paid better.
Crigler joined Weber at the bar. “Why do you like this place? It’s loud and crowded.”
Weber raised his beer to his lips and before taking a swig said, “Exactly. No one will hear what you have to say. Let’s go to our table. There’s one in the back reserved for us. We can talk there.”
The waiter was an older man who appeared to have been present when the restaurant opened back in the late forties. But he was efficient, took their order, and kept the crowd away. After the waiter left with their order, Weber said in his gruff voice, “Okay, what’s the job?”
Crigler took a sip of his Guinness and sat back in his chair. “What’s your specialty, Adam? What do you do best?”
Weber frowned. “I’m not here to play games. What’s the job?”
Crigler didn’t deviate from his question. “What you do best is find individuals who have stolen money from a company and return both to the proper authorities. It’s your calling, and you do it better than anyone I have ever seen.”
“Yeah, yeah. What’s the job?”
“It seems my partner Abel Plymel had some funds stolen recently. Funds he may have stolen himself. The FBI is trying to find the man who stole the money. But he has vanished into thin air. I need to know how much was stolen and where it is located.”
“What about the guy who stole it?”
Crigler shrugged. “Don’t care. He’s inconsequential, just find the money. Once you find it, I can take the information to the board and Plymel is history.”
“I need a starting place. Who took the money?”
Crigler handed Weber a security camera photo of the two guards and the suspect as they exited the elevator.
Weber looked at the picture then back at Crigler. “What’s his name?”
Crigler told him and added, “The security guard on his left was killed during his escape, and the other one had his knee shattered. The man disappeared into the crowd and hasn’t been seen since. The FBI has a seasoned agent looking for him—even he can’t find him.”
“Impressive,” Weber said, taking a long pull on the Guinness. “Sounds like the guy had some military training. I’ll start looking there.” He paused and stared at Crigler. “By the way, my fee just went up.”
Smiling, Crigler said, “I’ll give you a hundred to start, plus expenses.”
Weber laughed as he stared at the photo. “Five hundred up front, and another after I find him.”
It was Crigler’s turn to laugh. “Obviously you see the challenge of finding this man, don’t you? All right—I’ll give you five hundred thousand up front. Then you’ll get another five when you bring me a picture of his corpse and the location of the money. ”
Placing the photo in the inside pocket of his sport jacket, Weber raised his Guinness. “Plus expenses.”
Crigler nodded.
***
It was a dingy hole-in-the-wall bar not far from Fort Bragg. Adam Weber was waiting for an old friend who still called the army home. It was five minutes before six in the evening, and his friend was due at the top of the hour. At
Weber was a large man in his late-fifties. His thinning brown hair was kept short, not quite a buzz cut. With a face to match his gravelly voice, Weber was a master at intimidation. His line of work demanded good physical strength and agility, so he worked out regularly. An ex-U.S. Marshal, he now owned a private company specializing in finding and recovering white-collar embezzlers and the funds they had liberated. Crigler had used Weber several times over the years, both for legitimate reasons and for a few illegitimate endeavors. Weber preferred the illegitimate ones; they paid better.
Crigler joined Weber at the bar. “Why do you like this place? It’s loud and crowded.”
Weber raised his beer to his lips and before taking a swig said, “Exactly. No one will hear what you have to say. Let’s go to our table. There’s one in the back reserved for us. We can talk there.”
The waiter was an older man who appeared to have been present when the restaurant opened back in the late forties. But he was efficient, took their order, and kept the crowd away. After the waiter left with their order, Weber said in his gruff voice, “Okay, what’s the job?”
Crigler took a sip of his Guinness and sat back in his chair. “What’s your specialty, Adam? What do you do best?”
Weber frowned. “I’m not here to play games. What’s the job?”
Crigler didn’t deviate from his question. “What you do best is find individuals who have stolen money from a company and return both to the proper authorities. It’s your calling, and you do it better than anyone I have ever seen.”
“Yeah, yeah. What’s the job?”
“It seems my partner Abel Plymel had some funds stolen recently. Funds he may have stolen himself. The FBI is trying to find the man who stole the money. But he has vanished into thin air. I need to know how much was stolen and where it is located.”
“What about the guy who stole it?”
Crigler shrugged. “Don’t care. He’s inconsequential, just find the money. Once you find it, I can take the information to the board and Plymel is history.”
“I need a starting place. Who took the money?”
Crigler handed Weber a security camera photo of the two guards and the suspect as they exited the elevator.
Weber looked at the picture then back at Crigler. “What’s his name?”
Crigler told him and added, “The security guard on his left was killed during his escape, and the other one had his knee shattered. The man disappeared into the crowd and hasn’t been seen since. The FBI has a seasoned agent looking for him—even he can’t find him.”
“Impressive,” Weber said, taking a long pull on the Guinness. “Sounds like the guy had some military training. I’ll start looking there.” He paused and stared at Crigler. “By the way, my fee just went up.”
Smiling, Crigler said, “I’ll give you a hundred to start, plus expenses.”
Weber laughed as he stared at the photo. “Five hundred up front, and another after I find him.”
It was Crigler’s turn to laugh. “Obviously you see the challenge of finding this man, don’t you? All right—I’ll give you five hundred thousand up front. Then you’ll get another five when you bring me a picture of his corpse and the location of the money. ”
Placing the photo in the inside pocket of his sport jacket, Weber raised his Guinness. “Plus expenses.”
Crigler nodded.
***
It was a dingy hole-in-the-wall bar not far from Fort Bragg. Adam Weber was waiting for an old friend who still called the army home. It was five minutes before six in the evening, and his friend was due at the top of the hour. At
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