An approach that rarely worked out, often serving only to prove the structure was there for a reason.
“Anything?” Reed asked.
“Not really,” Schoen replied. Flicking his gaze toward the clock affixed among the photo collages on the wall beside them, he asked, “But I did have another idea. You think you guys might have time for a little field trip?”
Chapter Forty-Four
There were thirty-seven slats comprising the awning stretched out over the deck affixed to the side of The Promisor’s home. Standard 1x6 planks abutted tight to each another, they ran perpendicular to the house. One end attached to the main roof with wood screws, the other was left to overhang the crossbeam balanced between the two support posts on either end.
A design The Promisor had put together himself and implemented with the assistance of just one other person. A shared project that was the first of many. Upgrades to the house over time that weren’t entirely necessary, but were devised as a means of bonding.
Experiences that allowed them to share time and The Promisor to impart skills and knowledge, just as had been done for him long ago.
Stretched out atop a thin camping mat resting on the hardwood planks of the deck, The Promisor’s fingers were laced behind his head. His eyes open wide, time and again he counted off the slats above, each successive trip through inter-spliced with recollections.
Alternating memories of the construction of the deck and awning along with what had taken place that morning.
Events connected through time and subject matter, regardless of how different they appeared on the surface.
The plan upon his return home was for The Promisor to stretch out and get some rest. After spending the entire night awake and alert, constantly monitoring his surroundings for anybody that might have spotted him and keeping watch on the home of his target across the ravine, he had imagined that he would be exhausted.
Physical and mental depletion that would supersede anything else that needed to be done.
One of the first maxims ever drilled into him, a depleted mind and body always the most likely to make a mistake.
To his surprise though, rest had evaded him. Unable to turn his mind off, slumber seemed to have grown more elusive with each passing moment, every attempt at closing his eyes only bringing forth more of the same mental images. Visuals interspersed with a host of emotions that felt almost foreign compared to those he had spent the last couple of months awash in. A marked departure from the sadness and frustration that had gripped him. The shame and remorse that had kept sleep at bay.
The self-loathing that had led him to destroy all but a single mirror throughout his home, the mere sight of his own face enough to cause his stomach to turn.
In their stead was something approximating hope, the first inkling of such a thing he had felt in months.
Anticipation.
Blessed relief.
Rolling his gaze away from the roof of the awning above, The Promisor looked out on the woods nearby. A thicket of trees that pushed up tight to the home, the forest floor a mix of underbrush and felled leaves.
Well on into the afternoon, stray shafts of light penetrated the canopy above. Glowing fingers that reached clear to the ground, dappling the dark hues with splashes of gold.
Sprawled out on the cool wooden floor beside him were Bia and Kratos. Lying with their torsos pressed flat, they each raised their heads to look at him through piercing pale blue eyes.
A scene that as little as a few months ago, The Promisor would have said was perfect, such a thing now unattainable ever again.
A scene that not long ago was idyllic, now his own personal purgatory, left to endure alone.
Unlike his initial task outside of Gallipolis, The Promisor hadn’t been able to stick around after pulling the trigger this morning. Staying just long enough to ensure contact, he hadn’t waited to see if the increased traffic below was enough to obscure the crack of his gunshot and the flash of light from the tip of his barrel.
Rising from his spot, he’d collected his tarp, taking just an extra moment to ensure that he hadn’t inadvertently left another scrap of clothing behind, before backtracking his way through the thicket of trees to his waiting truck. An egress that saw him take a circuitous route through the outskirts of Newark before stopping by a twenty-four-hour car wash.
A place that the sign out front proudly announced had been in service since the seventies, all appearances being that not a single upgrade outside of the money collection systems had been performed. Somewhere free of any early morning traffic or security cameras, providing The Promisor exactly what he needed. Relative privacy to swap out his attire and rinse away the heavy coating of mud spatter covering most of his truck.
Quick measures that, when paired with another exchange of the license plates, allowed him to emerge nearly invisible just a few minutes later. One of thousands of vehicles roaming the streets of the midsize town, getting a jump on a new day.
Another person with a lengthy list of things to get done, different though they might be from many of the people he was sharing the road with.
Items that he had intended to get to later in the day, after grabbing some replenishment and rest. Food that was a marked step down from the steak he enjoyed previously, having learned his lesson in indulging in such preemptive celebration.
Sleep that was proving elusive, his mind refusing to turn off, urging him to get back at it. Continue what he was now halfway through, the already truncated timetable promising to accelerate even further in the hours ahead.
“What do you guys think?” The Promisor whispered, his faint voice enough to draw over the attention of the twin pit bulls. “Time to get back to work?”
Both staring intently his way, they rose a bit higher, drawing their front legs up under them.
Stances hinting they were prepared to move at the first sign of him doing the same. Coiled springs that seemed to sense the immediacy of a mission so long in coming, its ending now well within reach.
“Yeah,” The Promisor muttered, pushing himself up to a seated position. “Me too.”
Chapter Forty-Five
To view the place from the outside, it looked like a common warehouse. A standard affair with rolltop doors lining one side, the remainder constructed of concrete block and steel painted in muted tones, the colors of choice in this particular instance being a combination of white and light gray. A mix most likely picked to match the scads of structures just like it throughout the area.
An industrial district on the south end of the city, the mailing address just inside the zip code for Reynoldsburg. A part of town Reed wasn’t terribly familiar with, though he did have to confess it looked much closer to The Bottoms he was used to working out of than anything he found down in Gallipolis.
“Stupid as a fox?” Reed asked as he, Billie, and Schoen approached a plain metal door tucked into the front corner of the warehouse.
One side of his mouth curling back into a smile, Schoen flicked a glance at the series of oversized doors stretched out beside them. Openings that got a great deal of work, as evidenced by the series of black skid marks streaking the pale concrete, but for the moment sat closed.
Nothing but a barren façade, void of movement.
No reason for anybody to so much as glance over, a state Reed imagined it remained in throughout daylight hours.
“The guy that runs this place is an informant of ours,” Schoen replied. “Most of his business is in electronics and other low-end goods like that, so we agree to look the other way in exchange for the occasional bit of advice on the slightly scarier items.”
Grasping the unstated as much as the stated, Reed nodded. “Trust me, I don’t give a damn how many Blu-Ray players this guy is trying to move.”
“Exactly,” Schoen muttered. “The politicians and newspapers might not like it, but it’s kind of hard to get too worked up about iPhones when there are people hauling AKs or heroin or even children all over
the state.”
Having dealt with the latter the previous winter, Reed was in total agreement. A sentiment he kept silent as Schoen increased his pace slightly, making sure to reach the door first. Rapping three times on the metal, a hollow sound echoed out before he stepped back and lifted his gaze toward the orb of smoky glass extended from the wall above it.
A surveillance camera peering down, Schoen allowing his face to be fully seen by whoever was monitoring it on the other side. A process that took the better part of a minute before an audible click could be heard, Schoen grasping the handle of the door and pulling it open.
Stepping inside the cavernous warehouse, it took a moment for Reed’s pupils to dilate, allowing him to adjust to the sudden drop in light. Once he was able to see the full breadth of the space before him, he found it to appear even larger than it had from the outside.
Nothing short of palatial, the interior looked to be the size of two football fields placed side by side. Room enough for the pair of semi trucks parked behind the two furthest doors, with plenty of space left over for a trio more.
To say nothing of the numerous rows of goods comprising the entire back end of the place. Enough product to make the average neighborhood Walmart or Costco envious, requiring a small fleet of forklifts to move it all about.
Vehicles that were lined up in a neat row along the wall, the place virtually at a standstill for the moment. A state Reed suspected was either due to a lunch break or - more likely – a set of unique business hours.
The only break from the open design of the floor plan before them was a row of offices extended out from the southern wall. A low-slung rectangle formed from block rising less than halfway up the exterior wall. One long piece carved into thirds, each with a door set in the middle and windows stretched to either side.
Three matching units in order, all with doors open and lights on, misshapen trapezoids of pale glow spilling out across the polished concrete floor.
“I don’t see anybody,” Reed whispered.
By his side, Billie pressed tight to him, her body firm against his knee.
“Just wait,” Schoen replied. “They damn sure see us.”
Remaining fixed in place just inside the door, it took nearly another full minute before the first sign of life made itself known. A deep and resonant voice that said simply, “Lieutenant.”
Pulling their attention toward the first in the row of offices, the source of the voice emerged a moment later. A large man with skin to match Schoen’s and braids hanging down on either side of a pair of mirrored sunglasses.
Striding directly toward them, he extended a fist before him.
“Hey, Rickey,” Schoen replied, matching the gesture. “Good to see you.”
“You too,” the man known as Rickey replied before moving his gaze to Reed. “Who’s the new guy?” Even behind the glasses and hair, Reed could see as his features scrunched slightly, “And his dog?”
“K-9 team,” Schoen replied. “Investigating a murder, hoping DMick might be able to help. He in?”
Despite the man’s easygoing manner and benign nature of interaction, Reed had no misassumptions about his role. Acting as security for the place, it was clear that he was the gatekeeper for the facility. An initial screener monitoring who got through the door, and then deciding if they made it a step further.
A task that likely wasn’t normally as congenial, the extended gap in time before his emergence probably spent stripping away whatever equipment he usually carried for the role.
His eyes hidden behind the glasses, the man fixed his gaze on Reed and Billie, appraising them both once more before tipping his head in the opposite direction. “Yeah, he’s down in his office. Come with me.”
Saying no more, Rickey turned and led them past the first office, a quick glance in revealing it to serve as a guard station. A small room with the back wall lined in television monitors, video feeds from around the facility visible on the screens.
The second space in order was a break room of sorts. The kind of place that would normally house vending machines and cafeteria-style seating, this one instead utilizing a refrigerator and a pair of sofas bracketing a big screen television.
An area for employees or visitors to spend time that was currently empty, the midday hour reducing the grounds to a skeleton crew. Thus far, Rickey was the only person Reed had even seen, despite the warehouse being large enough and housing enough equipment to keep a dozen or more people busy.
Walking in pairs, Schoen stayed up front beside their escort, Reed and Billie falling in behind. Two equal groups moving in a slow procession along the outer edge of the warehouse, eventually coming to a stop outside the third door.
The only one to have been pulled shut, Rickey flicked a knuckle against it, waiting for a verbal signal from within before cracking it open and sticking his head and lead shoulder inside.
“Hey, boss, got some guys here to see you.”
Again, there was an audible response, the door standing mostly closed keeping Reed from deciphering what was said. Words that he guessed were a demand to know who had shown up uninvited, confirmed a moment later as Rickey said, “It’s the lieutenant. And he’s got friends.”
One final time a voice responded, this time prompting Rickey to shove the door open. Stepping to the side, he motioned them through before acting like Dorothy outside of the chief’s office earlier and pulling it closed in their wake.
No attempt at entry, Reed assuming he was on his way back to his seat in the security office two doors down.
Not that he was needed, the role of security taken over by a pair of behemoths sitting shoulder to shoulder against the far wall. Men that together weighed well over six hundred pounds, most of it infused with vast amounts of protein and creatine, if not a few other less natural substances.
Both wearing tactical pants and boots, they donned tank tops in various shades of gray, putting their full musculature on display.
Attire that normally Reed would roll his eyes at, but in this particular instance understood completely, all of it part of a crafted look. Support for the man seated behind the desk at the head of the room, the person Reed presumed they were there to see.
Positioned in an enormous leather swayback chair, the man’s elbows rested on either arm of it, his fingertips steepled before him. Visible only from the waist up, Reed guessed him to be somewhere in his mid-fifties. A deduction made by the gray hairs threaded along his temples and into the thin goatee encasing his mouth.
Dressed in a black t-shirt and matching sports coat, light flashed from the oversized watch on his left wrist and the matching ring on his pinkie.
A presentation that could vacillate between businessman and the occasional dealing outside the lines.
“Lieutenant,” the man said. “Been a while.” Parting his hands, he motioned to a pair of chairs on the far side of his desk. “Please, sit.”
“It has,” Schoen replied, circling around the closest chair.
Doing the same beside him, Reed stopped in front of the second chair, placing him directly in front of the guards. A perpendicular arrangement that put one of them in his peripheral vision, the other completely out of sight.
A seating chart that he was less than enthused about, his pulse picking up slightly as he lowered himself to match Schoen beside him.
An uptick in his heart rate Billie picked up on instantly, pressing her front shoulder flush against the side of his calf.
“DMick, these are Detectives Mattox and Billie,” Schoen said. “Reed, this is Darren Mixon, more universally known as DMick.”
Meeting the man’s gaze, Reed nodded. “Good to meet you.”
“I gotta say, this is a first,” DMick replied, a faint smile crossing his lips as he glanced down to Billie. “Been telling these guys for a while we need to consider getting some dogs around here.”
Raising his focus back to Reed, he asked, “German?”
“Belgian.”
“She a
ny good in a scrap?”
One of the first days Reed ever spent with Billie was in a training suit. Full-body padding to get used to how to speak to her and acclimate him to the various things she could do.
Hours spent using the bulky padding as a target, letting him bear the full brunt of her power. Exercises to display what she was capable of so he knew how to best utilize her moving forward.
A day that he was not keen to repeat, every joint in his body aching for a week from the impact of her slamming into him time after time.
“The nickname for her breed is maligators, because their bite is so strong,” Reed replied.
Pausing a moment, as if waiting to see if he was being led on, DMick let out a burst of laughter. A loud crack that brought the smile to full wattage across his features as he looked over to his cohorts seated nearby.
“You hear that shit? A maligator,” he said, his body rocking to the side a few inches. “Now I know we got to get one of those.”
Drawing a couple of chuckles from the men on the couch, DMick allowed the mirth to linger. His gaze went back to Billie, studying the dog resembling a solid black wolf another moment, before eventually saying, “Okay, detectives, you have my attention. What can I do for you?”
Cutting his gaze over to Schoen, Reed waited for a signal. A small nod from the man giving him the floor before turning back to face forward.
“Alex Aquino.”
Launching the name straight out there, Reed watched as any lingering bit of levity from their initial interaction faded. The man’s features hardened, his face becoming nearly unreadable.
To the point Reed nearly expected him to pull out a pair of sunglasses to match those of Rickey outside.
“What about him?”
“Lieutenant Schoen tells me you have a unique finger on the pulse of the city,” Reed replied, choosing each word carefully so as to protect his colleague and not unintentionally anger their temporary host. “I have two questions specifically with regards to Aquino I was hoping you might be able to help me with.”
The Promisor: A Suspense Thriller Page 20
