Page 9 of Chase
“Perhaps,” Harrison says, “But we won’t know until we find out who’s removing them, and who’s receiving them.”
Hunter claps his hands and rubs them together. His eyes are wild. Anything related to blood and gore is his thing. The small knife he used to skewer the apple now balances on the tip of his finger. He throws it high in the air. It circles, then drops back down, and he catches it nimbly between his fingers and grins.
“Well, when we find the bastards stealing poor grannies' organs, I’ll be happy to cut out theirs and give them to more needy individuals.”
Chapter five
Chase, Chase and Waite Law Firm, Canary Wharf
Connor
Russell storms around the main office. He strides between the desks of our team members snarling at people as he passes. He’s always been an asshole, but today is one of his worst days ever. I know my brother, and he acts like a jerk when he hurts. What’s hurting him, however, is the real question.
Unable to watch any more carnage, I rise and go to open my office door. Harrison isn’t here; he’s in court all day. His calming influence is missed. The three of us run the law firm together, but he’s the best manager. I keep to myself, preferring to pore over files rather than discuss issues between staff members. Russell is the loose cannon and has caused more than one employment tribunal against the firm.
“Russ, can I have a word?” I call.
“No, I’m busy.” Intense eyes barely glance in my direction before returning to focus on our poor accounts clerk, who’s on the receiving end of his wrath.
“Russ, now.” My voice is raised higher than before, the tone sharp. He pauses mid-scream then turns to face me, his face contorting in irritation. “Now,” I repeat.
Before my eyes, he transforms further into a sulky teenager, slamming his hand down on the clerk's desk then storming across the office floor. He goes to push past me, one suited shoulder colliding with the other. I step back to allow him entry, and he grunts what could be a “thank you.” After he starts pacing around my office, I close the door and return to sit at my desk.
I watch my brother stalk in circles, every so often stopping to look at one of the pieces of artwork on the walls. He spends a few minutes studying a contemporary abstract that hangs center stage on the longest wall.
What interested me about the painting was the bizarre mix of colors and outlines, which allowed different viewers to see a variety of subjects. To some it’s merely shapes and tone, for others, there’s a battle scene with horses and knights. For me it’s also an investment and, hopefully, profit. Artwork has held value for centuries, and that won’t change now. It’s somewhere I feel safe lodging my money.
“I never know what you see in this shit,” Russell says, his eyes still fixed on the painting. “A toddler could draw better.”
“I see dollar bills, brother. Long-term security. My man tells me this artist is one to watch. It made sense to buy now rather than in a year when his notoriety grows more.”
“Is your art expert a magician as well? It would take a miracle to make this crap worth anything. What did you pay for it?” he asks, finally breaking his stare and turning to face me.
“You don’t want to know.”
“Tell me. Make my day better.”
I shrug and lean back on my chair. Russell is tense—that much is obvious—but then again, he always is. My brother is always one sentence away from detonation, no matter how well his day is going.
“Five hundred.”
“Well,” he says, “for five hundred pounds it's worth the risk, I suppose.”
“No, brother. Five hundred thousand.” The familiar flare of shock washes over his face, his eyeballs bulging from their sockets as his hands ball into fists.
“You spent five hundred thousand pounds on that.” He gestures over his shoulder with his chin. “Have you undergone a lobotomy I wasn’t aware of?”
One syllable at a time, I tell him, “It is an investment.”
“You would be better throwing cash on a roulette wheel.”
“Maybe, but then again, I could be sitting on the next Picasso.” He grunts non-committally, then returns to staring at the blocks of color. “Are you going to tell me what’s bothering you, or do I have to guess?”
“I’m fine,” he says, “just fed up being surrounded by fuckwits and love-drunk idiots.” I snigger, and he spins to face me once more. His eyes narrow. “You being one of them.”
“Am I a fuckwit or a love-drunk idiot? Please tell.”
“Both. What did you want, or did you call me here for your entertainment?” He moves to sit on the opposite chair, then leans back to mirror my pose. It doesn’t escape me how alike we are, though I am not sure Russ sees it. Our mannerisms often mimic one another, something I notice again as I maintain my calm state. Meanwhile, my brother misses small things daily in his constant state of fury.