Cozy Up to Death

by Colin Conway

  “What about it?”

  “Nothing. I didn’t take you for a reader.”

  “I can read.”

  “I didn’t say you couldn’t, but back in Quantico, you said you didn’t.”

  “Maybe I changed, or you underestimated me.”

  “Clearly.”

  “So what happened with Evie when she turned herself in?”

  Onderdonk carefully laid the paperback on the counter. “Just what you would expect. Initially, the agent on duty didn’t believe her. Then she started dropping the names and dates of the people and places that Danny mentioned in his sleep. The agent wanted her to go home and told her that someone would be in contact. Evie refused. She knew it was too dangerous to leave.”

  “Obviously,” Brody said. “If she went home, she was a dead woman.”

  “She didn’t give up though. She kept after it until they located an agent who was investigating the mob, and he took an interest in her. He listened to her story and realized what she had. After getting authorization to put her in a safe house, the agent and his team interviewed her in earnest. Initially, Evie didn’t want to admit to the robberies she committed, but the names and dates of the mob hits had been printed in the newspaper. It wasn’t enough to build a case around or to protect her.

  “When she finally copped to the robberies, though, the game changed. The agent sent a couple of others to pick up her partners. That’s when the proverbial sh—” Onderdonk paused, “stuff hit the fan.”

  Brody nodded his appreciation for Onderdonk’s avoidance of swearing in his store.

  The lawman continued. “The agents discovered some unknown men in broad daylight had already grabbed the first partner. That guy was never heard from again. Another group of unidentified men tried to grab the second partner, but he fought back. That man died in a gunfight. All a sudden, only Evelyn Spier was left to finger Daniel O’Leary.”

  “And she did?”

  “She had to. What other choice did she have? If she went home, she was a dead girl. By this point, the mob and Danny Boy knew she was talking to the FBI. As for the G-Men, they had her pinned to the wall. She told them everything—everything Danny Boy did, everything she did, everything she ever saw at the club.”

  “I understand,” Brody muttered. “I’ve been there.”

  “That’s when the FBI agents caught a break and snatched O’Leary.”

  “They grabbed the dirty cop?” Brody asked.

  Onderdonk nodded. “Once the man’s girl was in the tank, his head was quickly put on the chopping block. The G-Men had wiretaps in various places around town and overheard an order to take out Danny Boy.”

  “Did he talk to the feds?

  “He eventually did, but he didn’t have to. Just having him inside caused the mob to go crazy. People were talking on the phone when they shouldn’t have. Guys were getting clipped so they would keep their mouths shut. From what I read, the spring of seventy-nine was brutal for the coroner.”

  “Snitches get ditches,” Brody said. He knew he still faced that ugly reality if anyone from the club ever found out where he was hiding.

  “In the end, there were seventeen arrests, eleven convictions, and almost a dozen dead guys who were no longer playing in the cesspool.”

  “And you had to park Evie somewhere.”

  “Not me, I was still a kid, but yeah, the bureau agreed to give her protection which passed to us to provide. That’s when we bought this store here. Before Evie got her hands on it, the place sold books for the hippie types. She was the one who made it a mystery bookstore.”

  “She was sent here in eighty-one?”

  “January of eighty-one, to be exact. Almost forty years ago. I inherited her file when her original handler retired. She was an easy witness. She loved this town and this bookstore.”

  “You think this new restaurant around the corner, the one that’s a front—”

  Onderdonk interrupted by lifting a finger. “That you suspect is a front.”

  “That I know is a front.”

  “You don’t know.”

  Brody’s eyes slanted. “I know.”

  “Whatever.”

  “You think they could have something to do with her going missing?” Brody asked. “I mean, I would imagine they’re connected to Boston, right? And we’re talking the Chicago mob forty years ago. How would anyone even know?”

  “The mob never forgets,” Onderdonk said, his face solemn. “Besides, it’s all about quid pro quo. You find one of their traitors; hopefully, they’ll find one of yours.”

  “How would they even know to look for her or what she might look like?”

  “They know,” the marshal said flatly.

  Brody laughed. “No, they wouldn’t.”

  “Yes, they do.”

  “Really, Ted? Don’t be obtuse.” He hoped he was using the word correctly.

  Onderdonk rolled his eyes. “They use a little thing called the Internet, Beau. Ever hear of it?”

  Brody scrunched his face, but quickly relaxed when he noticed that Onderdonk had pulled back as if he was regretting the words he had just uttered. “What is it?”

  “Nothing.” The marshal suddenly seemed anxious.

  “Yeah, there is something. You got all weird like you’re holding something back. What is it?”

  The lawman closed his eyes and slowly inhaled. While he thought, he nodded several times to himself.

  “Don’t mess with me,” Brody said. “If it’s bad news, tell me.”

  Onderdonk opened his eyes and said, “Start your computer.”

  The big man turned to the keyboard that was on the counter and tapped the spacebar, which brought the monitor to life.

  “Open the browser and type this in.”

  When Brody was ready, Onderdonk slowly said, “www dot the FBI is a bunch of dirty rats dot com.”

  Brody did so with a single finger on each hand. Onderdonk watched in fascination as Brody hunted and pecked his way around a keyboard.

  “Good lord, man, how do you ever get anything done on a computer?”

  “We hardly ever used them. If we needed something, the prospects or one of the girls did it.”

  A nearly blank page popped up with only space for a username and password.

  “Type in user where it says username,” the lawman said.

  Brody’s eyes slanted.

  “Trust me,” Onderdonk said.

  The big man’s two fingers typed in the word. “Let me guess. The password is password.”

  “You’re a genius. Type it in.”

  Brody stared at the marshal.

  “We have a hacker in the WitSec program. He helps us out. We found out about this site, and he got us access.”

  Brody typed in password, and a new screen greeted him.

  Emblazoned across the top of the monitor was FBI Rats.

  Leaning in close to study the screen, he whispered, “What is this?”

  “This is the mob’s repository of all their missing people. This is where they list those we’ve put into the Witness Protection Program.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “I wouldn’t do that. There are some listed that we aren’t protecting, but they believe we are. Why would we correct that mistaken assumption, right?”

  Brody glanced up to the marshal.

  “Type in Evelyn Spier,” Onderdonk said.

  He returned his attention to the computer but hesitated from typing. The words FBI RATS mocked him from the monitor. He swallowed and licked his lips. Then he looked down at the keyboard. Brody’s two fingers jumped around the keyboard.

  When Evelyn’s profile popped up, there was a photograph of her from the late seventies as well as a computer-manipulated photo to make her appear older. He tapped an altered photo. “Is that her?”

  “Not exactly. That’s their attempt to show what she might look like now. It’s a pretty good representation though. Her hair is shorter and grayer, but it’s actually quite close.�
�

  Brody studied the picture. “That’s Alice, huh?”

  “We monitor her profile here. If they remove it, we’ll know for certain that she’s dead. As long as it remains up, that means they’re still looking for her, too.”

  His eyes moved to the marshal. “You’re not sure she’s dead?”

  Onderdonk shook his head. “She may be. Perhaps she went for a walk and got hit by a car, and no one has found her yet. We don’t know that the mob is involved with her disappearance.” He pointed at the screen. “But if that profile comes down, we’ll know they have verified she’s dead.”

  Brody crossed his arms and returned to studying the computer screen. “Is that why you allow this site to exist? Shouldn’t you take it down?”

  “First of all, this falls into the gray area of freedom of the press. As a law enforcement agency, we would have to tread very lightly on pulling something like this down. Second, they’re not advertising this site. It doesn’t pop up on any Google searches. Most of all, we like being able to monitor what they’re doing and what they think our people look like.”

  Brody leaned forward and let his two fingers type in a once-familiar name. He hoped nothing would pop up, suspecting nothing would. The Satan’s Dawgs rarely had contact with the mafia. On the rare occasions that they did, it was to provide interference on transport jobs the Italians were doing.

  When the picture of him with long hair and a beard appeared on the monitor, under the site’s banner, he felt a clutching around his heart. There was no escaping the truth of the matter.

  Beau Smith, the former bookkeeper for the Satan’s Dawgs, had officially been branded an FBI Rat.

  “This is not good,” he muttered.

  The website listed his physicals. Six foot four. Two hundred twenty-five pounds. Blonde hair. Blue eyes. It showed various photos of the tattoos on his hands, his chest, and his back.

  Brody turned to Onderdonk, whose face remained passive. When the big man turned back to the computer, he scrolled down to find additional pictures of himself with various haircuts

  One photo showed him bald. It would have been funny if it wasn’t being used for people to hunt him.

  Another replaced his blonde mane and beard with short black hair and a mustache. He looked like an angry plumber.

  Yet another photo showed him with a spiky haircut and a five o’clock shadow. The portrait made him look like he was ready for a day playing beach volleyball.

  It was the final picture, though, that gave him pause. In it, Beau Smith’s long blonde hair was trimmed to a friendly businessman’s cut, and his unruly beard was entirely shaved off to reveal flawless skin underneath. It looked like Brody Steele was staring into a mirror.

  His mouth slowly dropped open, and he turned to Onderdonk.

  “As I said, Beau, we do our best to monitor this site.”

  Brody crossed his arms and stared at the computer screen. “This should come down.”

  “It’s a tactical play.”

  He lowered his head in thought.

  “I’ll look into the Italians,” Onderdonk said. “I’ll bring Ekleberry into it as well. The mob is the FBI’s territory.”

  “Everything will be all right.”

  Brody slowly rubbed both hands over his face then looked up at the marshal. “You should also look into a body that was found in Massabesic Lake.”

  “Where’s that?”

  “Down in New Hampshire, near Manchester. There was an article in the newspaper a couple of days ago. An elderly woman was shot in the back of the head, and her fingers were snipped off.”

  “Sounds like a professional job,” Onderdonk said.

  “If it was, it was sloppy.”

  “You still have that paper?” the lawman asked.

  “No, but I read about it while I was at the Italian restaurant.”

  “Huh,” Onderdonk grunted.

  “That’s what I thought.”

  “I’ll look into it and get back to you.”

  “When Alice went missing,” Brody asked, “what did you do with her car?”

  “We never found it,” Onderdonk said.

  “What about the furniture in her apartment? It’s pretty empty. Did you guys come in and clean it out?”

  “That we did take. A crew came in at night and pulled everything out for forensic analysis. We’ll bring some new stuff in for you.”

  “And no one saw you?”

  Onderdonk shrugged. “This town rolls up the sidewalks at eight p.m. It wasn’t hard to do for some professionals.”

  Brody stared at his picture on the computer monitor. “You’ve got me here like a worm on a hook.”

  “It’s okay, Brody. No one knows you’re here. Besides, we’re watching you.”

  “But weren’t you watching Alice, too?”

  Onderdonk didn’t answer. He merely rapped his knuckles on the counter and gave Brody a comradely nod before he left the shop. On the way out, he let the bell ding.

  Chapter 22

  He was out back, looking at the rusty 1985 Ford he’d received from the WitSec program.

  Maybe he should just jump in it and run to someplace far from Pleasant Valley. Brody ruefully shook his head. Everything seemed far away from Maine, but the most northeastern state in the U.S. really wasn’t the problem.

  He couldn’t go into the heartland of America where there were brother chapters of the Satan’s Dawgs everywhere. Every state had a group that was friendly to the Dawgs, except Minnesota. For whatever reason, the Dawgs were never able to make a connection in The Gopher State. No one in the crew wanted to go there anyway.

  Briefly, he played with the idea of racing down the east coast until he arrived in sunny Fort Lauderdale, the home of Travis McGee. But there were plenty of motorcycle chapters along the way that were friendly to the Dawgs.

  Even if he chose to flee his country and run to Canada, the Dawgs knew clubs up there, too. Besides, Canada itself was simply a miserable idea. Winter, hockey, and Tim Horton’s donuts were the only things Brody equated with the Great White North, and he hated all three. Canada was essentially North Minnesota.

  He put his arms on the edge of the truck and rested his head on the back of his hands.

  Maine seemed the right choice for a hiding place. There wasn’t a brother chapter this far north. As far as he knew, no one in the club had ever been to the state. Why would they?

  Even if Onderdonk was using him as bait, Pleasant Valley made a good home.

  Brody wondered if Evie Spier had any similar thoughts as she transformed herself into Alice Walker.

  The building’s rear door squeaked as it was pulled open. Brody glanced over his shoulder to see Daphne Winterbourne standing there.

  “There you are,” she said.

  He turned around and leaned against the truck. “Here I am.”

  “No one is handling the shop.”

  “That is true,” Brody agreed.

  “Aren’t you worried that someone will steal something?”

  “If someone is going to steal a book, let them. Maybe it will stop them from doing something stupid later on.” At that moment, Brody wondered if he had read more as a kid, would his life have been different?

  “Are you okay?” Daphne asked, stepping toward him.

  “Sure.”

  “You seem sad.”

  “I’m good.” He lifted his face to the sun to try and cut through his depression. Even the presence of the lovely Daphne Winterbourne didn’t cheer him up.

  “I wanted to say thank you for a lovely evening last night.”

  He dropped his chin and forced a smile.

  “Really,” she said, returning his smile. “I had such a wonderful time. I’m hoping we can do it again.”

  “I’d like that.”

  “What are you doing tonight? I’ll cook for you.”

  “Tonight? Isn’t that a bit forward?”

  The smile faded from Daphne’s lips. “I’m sorry.”

  “I w
as joking. Tonight will be perfect.”

  “Great,” she said, her smile returning. “Do you remember where I live?”

  “I can find it in the dark.”

  “You won’t have to. Dinner at six-thirty. Okay?”

  “Perfect,” he said again.

  “Want to walk me back to the grocery store?”

  They went most of the way in silence, each stealing glances at the other, smiling when caught. It was only a couple of blocks, but Brody enjoyed the quiet time with her. When they were about a block away, Daphne slid her hand into his.

  Herb Paxton, the older man from the breakfast diner, approached them on the sidewalk. He scowled at Brody as he passed. That was a response with which he was familiar.

  When they arrived at the front of The Pleasant Peasant, Daphne turned and faced him.

  “You left the store open,” she said.

  “I know, but it was more important to spend time with you.”

  Her eyes softened, and she pursed her lips together for a moment. Then she leaned in and kissed him on the cheek.

  “See you tonight,” she said and hurried inside the store.

  He didn’t walk back to the store so much as he floated on air. Brody had never felt like this way toward a woman. His relationships with the opposite sex had always tended to more transactional—momentary interludes between short-term associations with women that he knew would end badly. At the time, he had thought it was a great way to live. Not tied down and free to roam wherever he wanted. Now, he was sure that he didn’t want to do that anymore.

  Some of the guys in the MC had old ladies, but they were not wives molded by society’s expectations any more than their husbands were. Traditional spouses were committed to each other. In the club, the men dedicated themselves to the Dawgs first, and their old ladies came a distant second. That was normal behavior in the MC. It would be considered abnormal conduct in Pleasant Valley.

  Being away from the club was giving him a different perspective on life. Meeting Daphne added to how he felt. He was smitten with her, of course, but Brody thought it was more the town that was changing his perception. Around Pleasant Valley, the various couples, regardless of their age, seemed content. The relationships appeared peaceful and happy. They weren’t teased for being in love and for wanting to be solely with the other person.