by Trace Conger
Normally, I would have jumped at the chance, but something didn't feel right. Maybe it was because Sontag was rotting away waiting for trial, or because I knew there was someone out there who still wanted me dead.
"It's tempting, but I've got a lot of stones to turn over."
"Maybe another time," she said. "You know where to find me. Where can I find you?"
"The Beacon." I stood up and set my coffee cup on the saucer.
"Did you ever tell Joseph about us?" I asked.
"Of course not. That would be suicide for both of us. Why do you ask?"
"There seems to be a growing number of people who want to kill me. Just curious if I should keep Joseph on that list."
"Nicky wouldn't miss any opportunity to piss on your shoes, but Joseph... He always liked you. That's probably why Nicky didn't."
"It was good to see you again, Gretch. Maybe we'll cross paths again."
"I hope so." She tilted her head back and finished her champagne. "That list you're working on. I hope it's not a very long one."
"It's longer than I'd like it to be."
She winked.
I walked back toward the lobby.
15
Greenwich, Connecticut
Finding an asset who doesn't want to be found is an art form, and for the most part, it's easy. People leave footprints everywhere, and all it takes is to apply the right strategy from the detailed checklist in my head. It starts, as most investigations do, with a phone call.
I didn't have Nicky's cell, but Porter would, so I called him. It didn't take me long to convince him I was working for Sontag and needed to find Nicky before someone else did. Porter was happy to provide the digits. I dialed, and for a moment I thought Nicky might answer. That would be too easy. Of course, even if he did answer, there wasn't anything I could say to lure him out of hiding. As far as he knew, I was the person coming after him, and no matter what I told him over the phone, he wasn't going to pop his head up and let someone take a shot. I waited anyway, counting the rings. After ten rings, he didn't pick up and there was no option to leave a message, so I hung up. On to step two.
These days, most everyone is on some social media website. It's the easiest way to find someone. Most criminals are stupid. It's why they're criminals. We've all heard of the bank robber who wrote the give-me-the-money note to the bank teller on the back of his dry cleaning receipt. Social media also has its equal share of morons. I can't count the number of times I've heard of someone on the run posting a photo to a website, leading the authorities right to them. Nicky wasn't your average criminal, and while he's prone to make mistakes, he wouldn't make that one. Except for his cell phone, he stayed as far away from technology and the Internet as he could. He didn't even have an email address because it was too easy to track. He handled all of his business in person, something he learned from his old man.
Past employers are another great way to find someone. Even people on the run often file an address with their previous employers to get any future paychecks. I've found three people over the years by merely calling their employer and claiming I was an insurance investigator following up on a workers' comp claim. Employers love to rat out anyone they think is running an insurance fraud scheme. That approach wouldn't work for Nicky either, as the Sontag Clan had no HR department.
My next option was to find a connector, someone who knows the asset and can lead me right to them. Maybe someone who doesn't even know the asset is in hiding. Parents, ex-girlfriends, college buddies, coworkers, anyone who could have an address, alternate phone number, or something. This was a dangerous approach because I didn't know who inside the Sontag Clan was still loyal to Nicky. I assumed Porter was, but he didn't know where Nicky was hiding out, or if he did know, I'd been unable to convince him to give him up.
If I asked the wrong person, I could end up with a baseball bat to the back of my head, something I wasn't about to entertain.
Nicky wasn't your typical mark and the usual approach wasn't going to work. I started with what I knew. From my time in New York, I knew the Sontag Clan had a dozen or more safe houses throughout the five boroughs. Places that were off the beaten path where one could cool off if the heat got too intense. I used the house in Brooklyn twice when I had to disappear for a few weeks.
Nicky wouldn't hole up in any of the safe houses though. If whoever was after him was on the inside, they'd know all the same rabbit holes Nicky did. It was too risky. Nicky would have to go deep underground, and in this city, that could be anywhere.
Nicky had a home in Tribeca, at least he did the last time I was here. That would be a safe place to hold out for a while, but not long term. Whoever was after him would station a man or two on the outside and wait for Nicky to come out for food or some other necessity to go in. Once they had proof their target was inside, they'd go in firing in all directions until they hit something. Or they'd station a sniper on the neighboring rooftop and pop Nicky through a window.
Nicky would need to acquire another residence outside the city. The beach house where Porter once held a gun to my head was a logical starting point. Only a few high-ranking members of the clan knew about it, and Sontag went to great lengths to keep it that way. Sontag used the residence for highly sensitive meetings, the kind of meetings Nicky and I were usually involved in. The beach house was a good place to look. Nicky would want to stay close to the city in case he needed to step back into his role, and the beach house was only an hour away. That was my first stop.
I followed I-95 to Greenwich. Sontag's beach house was behind a solid iron wall about seven feet high. From outside the wall, it was impossible to see if any vehicles were in the driveway. Parking in front of the property and buzzing the intercom wasn't going to cut it, so I drove a half mile up the street, parked in a convenience store lot, and strolled back toward the house via the sandy beach. The houses were far apart, privacy the owners paid a hefty price tag for. The wind blew across Long Island Sound and cut into me. I pulled my jacket up around my neck and watched as the surf crashed along the beach.
Aside from a photographer shooting toward the water and a couple holding hands and struggling to conquer the sand, cold, and wind, the beach was deserted. I kept close to the tall grass on the high-end of the beach to stay concealed from anyone who might be watching the area from Sontag's home. I doubted Nicky would have an extensive security detail protecting him, but all it took was one person inside that house to take an interest in the man in the green military jacket coming down the beach to screw things up.
I was just about to come upon the house when an older couple walking a black-and-white beagle stepped onto the sand and stopped directly behind Sontag's home, about twenty yards from where I was going to hop the wall. They laughed, plastic bag in hand, as their beagle squatted on the sand. I walked past them, fighting the urge to look up at the house. If there was someone up there, I didn't want to draw any attention to myself.
I slowed down, passed the house and waited for the couple and their mutt to move along. After a moment, they did. I looked over my shoulder and lingered until they were far enough away they wouldn't hear what I did next. Satisfied, I took another glance around the beach, and not seeing anyone, I ran full speed toward the Great Wall of Sontag, leaped out of the sand, grabbed the top of the wall and boosted myself over to the other side. I was up and over in less than three seconds, and when I landed, I scrambled across the small back yard until I reached the back of the house.
Sontag's beach house was a two-story stone structure that resembled an old English manor. There was a wooden staircase that led to a wooden deck overlooking the sound that spanned the entire width of the back of the house. There were two sets of doors leading from the living room to the back deck, flanked by several windows. If there was anyone in the living room, they'd see me the moment I ascended the steps onto the porch. On the side of the house though, were two basement windows. I knew from my previous trips to the home that an alarm company monitored the
place, but I remembered the alarm keypad next to the front door was an older unit, which meant the alarm window sensors were probably old too.
Windows are the weak point of most security systems. The alarm company installs sensors on the window frame and the wall just above the frame. As long as those two sensors are touching, the alarm doesn't trip. The trouble comes when you open the window, which breaks the circuit between the two sides of the sensor. The result is a screeching siren and a police visit. Bypassing the alarm is as simple as breaking the window, but keeping the frame intact.
Hi-tech alarm systems include vibration monitors and glass-break sensors which can trip an alarm should someone break the glass, like I was about to do, but as I said, Sontag had an older system. I dropped to the ground and laid on my side next to a basement window. Thanks to the imposing wall surrounding the home, there was no chance anyone would see me. I drew my right leg up and drove my boot through the glass, shattering it into big chunks, which fell to the concrete floor inside the home. No alarm siren. I used my boot heel to chip away the remaining bits of glass from the window frame, and when it was clear, I climbed through, landing on the concrete floor.
I drew my .45 and climbed the steps to the main level. I opened the basement door, but before I entered the kitchen, I scanned the walls for motion sensors. Nothing. I couldn't remember if Sontag had motion sensors or not, but even if there were, they wouldn't be turned on if someone was inside the house. You usually only activate those at night or when you've left home. If Nicky were hiding out here, they'd likely be turned off.
Crossing the kitchen floor, I listened for any signs that someone was in the house. Talking, television, anything. The home was silent, and it had a musty smell as if the windows and doors hadn't been opened for a while. I reached the entrance to the living room and slowly peered around the corner. The room was bare. No furniture or any other signs someone was here. There was a motion sensor on the far wall, which meant I'd have to bypass that to get to the steps to make it to the upper level. The home had four bedrooms on the second level, so if Nicky were staying here, there would be some sign upstairs, something as simple as a toothbrush in the bathroom. If I found anything, I'd wait for him to return. But first, I'd have to get upstairs.
Motion sensors are easy to fool if you know how. Most beam motion sensors, the type common in home security systems, don't cover the entire field of view. They have blind spots. The best way to defeat them is to walk slowly against the wall underneath the motion sensor. That's their weak point. The sensor I was looking at was on the other side of the wall, so getting underneath it wasn't going to happen. The other option is to stay low to the floor. Most people have pets, which is why motion sensors aren't calibrated to scan the floor. The last thing a homeowner wants is for Whiskers to trip the motion sensors while roaming the house at night. There is about a twelve-to-eighteen-inch dead space along the floor.
I slipped my .45 back inside my jacket, laid on the kitchen floor and slowly crawled into the living room. I flattened my body as much as I could for a six-one, 195-pound man and Army crawled to the foot of the steps. As I moved, I listened for anyone who might be upstairs. Nothing. I made it to the base of the steps, which was along the same wall as the motion sensor, and slowly crawled up the steps, keeping my chest against the carpeting the entire way up the stairs. Reaching the top of the steps, I scanned the upstairs hallway but saw no motion sensors. I stood up, drew my weapon again and checked each bedroom.
There were no signs anyone had been in this house for months. All the beds were made and there were no personal items of any kind in the bedrooms or bathrooms. When your life is on the line, most people will do all they can to keep hidden, and that means removing all traces that you're staying somewhere, but this house was too clean. I doubted even Nicky would go to such lengths to conceal his living here. There was one more telling sign. I checked the two upstairs bathrooms and found red rings around the water line in the toilets. No one had flushed them in weeks. You can cover your tracks as much as possible, but everyone has to piss.
Sontag's Greenwich beach house was a bust, but it was a good first stop on my investigation. I walked back to the top of the steps, laid back down on the floor, and crawled back to the kitchen. A few minutes later, I was climbing out through the shattered basement window. Since there wasn't anyone in the home, I decided to abandon the wall climb and instead strolled down the driveway and left the property through a tall gate in the security wall.
The silver SUV parked down the street caught my eye immediately. It hadn't been there when I first drove past the house some forty-five minutes ago. At this distance, I couldn't tell the make for sure, but I was leaning toward a Toyota Highlander. I checked behind me after walking three hundred feet to see if it was still there, and it was. I didn't see it again until I reached the convenience store parking lot and opened my car door. It rolled past much faster than the posted twenty-file-miles-per-hour limit. Confirmed Toyota Highlander. It was impossible to tell if it was the same SUV parked outside the beach house, and even if it was the same vehicle, it didn't necessarily mean anything. Maybe the driver pulled over to find driving directions on his phone. Probably best not to overthink it.
I drove past the beach house on my way back to New York City and the SUV was gone.
Don't overthink it.
16
Brick Henry
Remember when I said one method of finding someone is to look at the those around them, the connectors? Nicky didn't have many connectors. His father was in federal custody, and he didn't have a woman as far as I knew. But he did have Brick Henry. Brick had been Nicky's bodyguard for as long as I could remember. He was attached to Nicky’s side like a 245-pound belt loop. If anyone was still loyal to Nicky, it was Brick.
Lucky for me, Brick was married, and while I had no idea where he and Nicky were, I had a good idea where his wife was—their brownstone in Brooklyn's Bed-Stuy neighborhood. Brick was as tough as they came, but he had a solid brain in his head. If I could get to him, I could convince him to talk to Nicky and explain Sontag's plan. Using Brick as a go-between, Nicky might hear me out. There was no guarantee, but it was my best next step.
I arrived at Brick's brownstone and knocked on the front door. An attractive woman in her forties opened it. She didn't say anything. Instead, she waited for me to speak.
"I'm a friend of Nicky Sontag's and I'm looking for Brick. Is he here?"
"No." She squinted her eyes against the afternoon sun.
"Do you know how I can reach him? It's important that I talk to him."
She eyeballed me up and down. We'd never met, and given the people Nicky and Brick associated with, she had every right to be suspicious. I'd worry if she wasn't.
After a moment, she nodded. "Come in. I can get you a number."
"Thank you."
I followed as she walked inside the house.
"Stay there," she said. "I'll be right back."
I closed the door and watched her disappear into the kitchen.
A moment later, someone rammed me from behind, sending me across the foyer and into the kitchen. I never played football, but I imagined this is what it felt like to be laid out by a linebacker. My side hit the counter next to the sink and I fell to the floor. I turned, expecting to see Brick rushing in from the foyer, but it wasn't him. Instead, someone I'd never seen before was coming at me with his right fist drawn back.
"Get him," yelled the woman who had opened the door. The big man had a wide neck and looked like he got paid to do what he was doing to me. He grabbed the counter and thrust a leather work boot into my ribs. He stomped, pulled back and stomped again, keeping his right had on the counter for balance.
I shielded my side from each blow with my elbow. When he stopped to reposition himself, I snatched his boot and twisted at his ankle until it snapped. He tried to stand on it but collapsed to the floor. Scrambling to my feet, I reached for my weapon, but the woman hit me from behind with somet
hing heavy dropping me on top of the man with the broken ankle. My right shoulder and arm immediately fell numb.
The man underneath me rolled over and threw his left elbow into my jaw. Sitting up, he swung his right fist, but I rolled out of the way and he connected with the stainless steel refrigerator, denting it and probably shattering a few bones in his hand. I'd used the counter to climb to my feet when the woman hit me from behind again, knocking me back on top of the big man. As I fell on top of him, he slammed his right hand into my stomach, screaming as his broken hand connected with my midsection. The damage to his hand sucked a lot of juice from the punch, but it still hurt like hell.
I punched the side of his neck, then delivered a second quick strike to his jaw, snapping his head back against the tile floor. I staggered backward. Somehow, he got to his knees and seized a knife from a block on the counter. He held it out in front, still trying to balance on his ankle. I stepped aside, snatched my .45 from inside my jacket and buffaloed his wrist, snapping it. He dropped the knife and fell to the ground screaming through clenched teeth. I staggered backward and raised my weapon.
"You hurt my brother," the woman said.
"Tell him to stay down and that's as far as it goes," I said, trying to catch my breath.
"You kill us and you'll never—"
"I'm not here to kill anyone." I braced myself against the counter with my free hand. "I'm working for Nicky's father. Nicky's in trouble and it's important I find him before anyone else does."
She knelt beside her brother and examined his hand. It bent upward at a sharp angle. She wiped her face and looked up at me.
I pocketed the .45, hoping it would encourage her to talk.
