myself. My name is Dr. William Reingold, executor to the estate of Phillip Percy Jefferson III, former CEO of…
According to the email, Dr. Reingold had 17 million dollars that he was required to distribute to Jefferson’s heirs, and a detailed genealogy search had turned up Conroy.
Conroy considered his luck. Just last week, a diplomat from Nigeria had emailed him requesting assistance to help distribute 42 million dollars in charity funds, and a month prior he was contacted by an auditor general from Venezuela with 24 million in a secret arms account and a lawyer from India trying to locate the relatives of a billionaire who died in a tragic plane crash. He’d also recently become a finalist in the Acculotto International lottery in Madrid, which wanted to give him a share of a 30 million euro prize.
Conroy hadn’t even bought a lottery ticket.
“Wonderful thing, the Internet,” he mused.
“Playing computer solitaire again?” Ryan, from the cubicle to his right, spoke over the flimsy partition.
“Email. If I just give this fellow my bank account number, he’ll wire 9 million dollars into my account.”
Ryan laughed. “Spam. I got that one too.”
Conroy darkened. “Did you reply?”
“Of course not. Who would reply to those things?”
“Who indeed?” Conroy thought. Then he hunched over his keyboard.
Dear Dr. Reingold, I’m very interested in discussing this with you further…
The warehouse where Dr. Reingold had scheduled their meeting was located in Elk Grove Village, a forty minute drive from Conroy’s home in Elgin. The late hour troubled Conroy. Midnight. If Conroy hadn’t needed the money so badly, he never would have agreed to it. Insurance barely covered half of his mother’s nursing home costs, and since his layoff he’d only been able to find temp data entry work at nine dollars an hour—not even enough for one person to live on.
Conroy pulled his BMW into the warehouse driveway, his stomach fluttering. This was an industrial section of town, the area deserted after hours. Conroy wondered how often the police patrolled the area.
He switched on his interior light and reread the email he’d printed out.
Park in front and enter the red door on the side of the building.
Conroy stuffed the note into his jacket and peered at the warehouse. His headlights illuminated a sidewalk, which led to the building’s west side. A few seconds of fumbling through his jacket pocket produced a roll of antacids. He chewed four, the chalky taste clinging to the inside of his dry throat.
“I don’t like this at all,” he whispered to himself.
Then he killed the engine and got out of the car.
The sidewalk was invisible in the dark, but Conroy moved slowly toward the warehouse until he felt it underfoot. He followed the perimeter of the building around the side, and saw a dim light above a red doorway, a hundred feet ahead.
The walk seemed to take an eternity. When he finally put his hand on the cold knob, his knees were shaking.
The door opened with a creak.
“Hello?”
Conroy peeked his head inside, almost crying out when he felt the steel barrel touch his temple.
“Hello, Mr. Conroy.”
He dared not turn his head, instead peering sideways to see the thin, rat-faced man with the .38. His light complexion was pocked with acne scars, and he wore too much aftershave. Standing behind him was another, larger man, holding a baseball bat.
Conroy couldn’t keep the tremor out of his voice when he said, “Where’s Dr. Reingold?”
The man snickered, his laugh high-pitched and effeminate.
“Idiot. I’m Dr. Reingold.”
He didn’t look very much like a doctor at all.
“You bring your bank account number?”
“No, I—”
Dr. Reingold grabbed Conroy by the ear and tugged him into the room, a small office lit with a single bare bulb hanging from the ceiling.
“I told you to bring that number! Can’t you follow instructions?”
Conroy didn’t see the blow coming. One moment he was
According to the email, Dr. Reingold had 17 million dollars that he was required to distribute to Jefferson’s heirs, and a detailed genealogy search had turned up Conroy.
Conroy considered his luck. Just last week, a diplomat from Nigeria had emailed him requesting assistance to help distribute 42 million dollars in charity funds, and a month prior he was contacted by an auditor general from Venezuela with 24 million in a secret arms account and a lawyer from India trying to locate the relatives of a billionaire who died in a tragic plane crash. He’d also recently become a finalist in the Acculotto International lottery in Madrid, which wanted to give him a share of a 30 million euro prize.
Conroy hadn’t even bought a lottery ticket.
“Wonderful thing, the Internet,” he mused.
“Playing computer solitaire again?” Ryan, from the cubicle to his right, spoke over the flimsy partition.
“Email. If I just give this fellow my bank account number, he’ll wire 9 million dollars into my account.”
Ryan laughed. “Spam. I got that one too.”
Conroy darkened. “Did you reply?”
“Of course not. Who would reply to those things?”
“Who indeed?” Conroy thought. Then he hunched over his keyboard.
Dear Dr. Reingold, I’m very interested in discussing this with you further…
The warehouse where Dr. Reingold had scheduled their meeting was located in Elk Grove Village, a forty minute drive from Conroy’s home in Elgin. The late hour troubled Conroy. Midnight. If Conroy hadn’t needed the money so badly, he never would have agreed to it. Insurance barely covered half of his mother’s nursing home costs, and since his layoff he’d only been able to find temp data entry work at nine dollars an hour—not even enough for one person to live on.
Conroy pulled his BMW into the warehouse driveway, his stomach fluttering. This was an industrial section of town, the area deserted after hours. Conroy wondered how often the police patrolled the area.
He switched on his interior light and reread the email he’d printed out.
Park in front and enter the red door on the side of the building.
Conroy stuffed the note into his jacket and peered at the warehouse. His headlights illuminated a sidewalk, which led to the building’s west side. A few seconds of fumbling through his jacket pocket produced a roll of antacids. He chewed four, the chalky taste clinging to the inside of his dry throat.
“I don’t like this at all,” he whispered to himself.
Then he killed the engine and got out of the car.
The sidewalk was invisible in the dark, but Conroy moved slowly toward the warehouse until he felt it underfoot. He followed the perimeter of the building around the side, and saw a dim light above a red doorway, a hundred feet ahead.
The walk seemed to take an eternity. When he finally put his hand on the cold knob, his knees were shaking.
The door opened with a creak.
“Hello?”
Conroy peeked his head inside, almost crying out when he felt the steel barrel touch his temple.
“Hello, Mr. Conroy.”
He dared not turn his head, instead peering sideways to see the thin, rat-faced man with the .38. His light complexion was pocked with acne scars, and he wore too much aftershave. Standing behind him was another, larger man, holding a baseball bat.
Conroy couldn’t keep the tremor out of his voice when he said, “Where’s Dr. Reingold?”
The man snickered, his laugh high-pitched and effeminate.
“Idiot. I’m Dr. Reingold.”
He didn’t look very much like a doctor at all.
“You bring your bank account number?”
“No, I—”
Dr. Reingold grabbed Conroy by the ear and tugged him into the room, a small office lit with a single bare bulb hanging from the ceiling.
“I told you to bring that number! Can’t you follow instructions?”
Conroy didn’t see the blow coming. One moment he was
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