The Betrayal

by Jerry B. Jenkins

  Wednesday, February 10, 4:00 p.m.

  Boone wouldn’t have recognized Carl Earl as a cop if he’d been wearing a badge. The fat man in his late sixties who emerged from the security shack at the Elkhart truck plant wore untied construction boots, no socks—or maybe anklets or socks that had slid from view—denim coveralls over a bare chest, and an unzipped sweatshirt that provided little protection from the lake-effect, below-zero gusts.

  Carl was freckle faced and hatless, despite that he was bald on top with a rim of gray hair that extended over his ears. And he wore gold reading glasses perched precariously on the end of his nose.

  He gave Jack a bear hug and shook hands with Boone. “The hero,” he said. “I always had that in me, just never the chance to prove it.” And he roared with laughter.

  “Aren’t you cold?” Boone said.

  Carl nodded toward the security shack. “Hot as fire in there. Anyways, I got my own installation—” obviously meaning insulation. “Been buildin’ it up for years!”

  He led the cops to an auxiliary white cement-block building at the back of the complex. “Handlin’ this job myself,” he said. “Obvious reasons.”

  “Good idea,” Jack said. “But I didn’t know you were a handyman.”

  “Built my own house, man. And believe it or not, from wood I harvested from my own tree farm.”

  “Are you kidding me?” Jack said.

  “God’s honest truth, JK. Tuned up my own cars too, back when we had to do that kinda thing. Also made myself one of the weapons I used to carry on the street. You knew that.”

  “I did. It was a monster that shot .50 caliber bullets, wasn’t it?”

  “That’s the one. Watch commander put the kibosh on it. Stewie Lang—’member him?”

  “Sure. He’s at the 11th now.”

  Carl raised his eyebrows. “That right? Said he’d never be able to explain to the brass or the press if one of his guys blew a hole like that in a bad guy. Tell you what, there woulda been no wounding anybody with that sucker. Death was the only option.”

  “You still got it?”

  “Shore do. I’ve hunted with it.”

  “You have not!”

  “I swear. Kilt myself more’n one deer with it. Gotta be sure, though, to get ’em in the head. Normally you wanna shoot a deer through the heart, you know, to be humane about it. But with that monstrosity I’d get so many bullet and bone fragments in the meat that you had to eat careful like.”

  “You’re incorrigible.”

  “That’s nothin’. You know what Jimmy used to like?”

  “Your little guy?”

  “He ain’t so little anymore, Jack. He’s almost as big as me. In his forties now.”

  “No way!”

  “Kids of his own. Anyway, when he was little, we’d be out huntin’ deer, him with a Winchester and me with my .50, and he’d goad me into shootin’ squirrels. Still feel bad about that. Those tiny varmints didn’t stand a chance and never knew what hit ’em. That baby made stew of ’em, one shot. Would you believe I did that twice and actually lost sleep over it? I’m no pacifist, but I couldn’t make that justifiable, so I quit doin’ it.”

  “Admirable,” Boone said.

  “Well, doing it even once was shameful.”

  Inside the building, they came upon a gleaming new white tanker truck.

  “Tricked out nice for a municipal vehicle,” Carl said. “It’s got a digical clock and peda-stool seats.”

  Boone bit his lip to keep from bursting. How he wished he could spend more time with this fountain of malapropisms.

  “What’s the smell?” Jack said.

  “Glue.”

  He led the men around the other side of the truck, where two one-gallon cans of glue sat on a pallet. “I know I ought to shut one of ’em at least, but I’d rather the smell and the fumes distipate a bit out here than in the tank when I’m down in there.”

  “Makes sense,” Jack said.

  “I can only spend about twenty minutes down in there at a time as it is. Kids get high on that stuff, so they tell me, but I just get a headache and dizzy. Hard to breathe. Can’t be good for you. ’Course, I don’t suppose too many people carry glue into a tanker truck anyway.”

  “What’s it for?” Boone said.

  “Gluin’ foam mats to the walls. Jack tells me you want to put people in there while she’s rolling. Gonna be hard to keep your feet, though, even with the handles.”

  “How’d you manage those?”

  “Glued two-by-fours to the sides and screwed ’em into those. Wasn’t easy, either, because those walls are round. But I figured it out. It’s what I do. Wanna see?”

  “Sure,” Boone said, not sure how he’d manage the built-in iron ladder with one hand.

  “Just watch the wire comin’ from the ceiling. Leads to the only light I got in there. I wouldn’t climb down in, but you ought to be able to see okay from the top.”

  Boone shed his parka and started up, feeling it in his shoulder as he kept his left arm pressed to his chest and fought to stay steady. At the top he reached the manhole and peered in. The hanging light illuminated an area about six feet square that Carl Earl had fashioned with the kind of foam panels you see at the end of a gym, where basketball players hit the wall on fast breaks. They were wider than the opening.

  “How’d you get these through the hole?” he said.

  “Just folded ’em over. Wasn’t easy, but I managed. They popped right back into shape. Trouble was, they wanted to straighten themselves out when I was gluing them to the wall too, but eventually I got ’em to work. One advantage of being a big man, know what I mean?”

  “No, what do you mean?”

  “I just glued the wall and glued the back of the panels, then pressed my big old backside against the panels till they stuck. Guy I arrested once asked me if I carried a red hankie in my back pocket so I could make the wide turns. Even I had to laugh at that one.”

  Boone saw the two-by-fours adhered to the sides, bearing the steel handles. “So, you’re done?”

  “Well, that’s all Jack asked for, but the engineer side of me says you need more.”

  “What would you add?” Jack said as Boone made his way back down.

  “Seating,” Carl said. “Found a couple of old car bench seats with seat belts still on ’em.” He pointed to them in the corner.

  “The Candelarios aren’t going to be in there that long, Carl.”

  “Yeah, but it could be an hour or more at least, am I right?”

  Jack nodded.

  “I’ve seen pictures of the Mexican. He’s bigger’n I am. He wouldn’t have much trouble. But you say there’s a grandma and a little boy? They ought to have places to sit, and even use the seat belts.”

  “How long would that take?”

  Carl Earl shrugged. “Not long. I can do it yet today. Unless you need to take it with you when you go.”

  “I hope I don’t. I’m looking for you to drive it, maybe as soon as tomorrow.”

  “Count on me gettin’ it done.”

  “Can’t thank you enough.”

  “Yes, you can. I’ll bill ya.”

  For the next half hour the three men sat at a tiny wood table in the corner, and Jack outlined the plan. “As soon as you hear from me, you start heading our way. Depending on the time of day and the traffic, you should reach Addison in a little over two hours. Wear something that looks authentic for a city septic-truck driver.”

  Jack drew a map for Carl and told him he would pave the way by creating the plumbing problem and letting the guards know to allow the truck in. “And you can dirty up the truck so it doesn’t look like it just came off the assembly line?”

  “Oh, yeah. My sign painter’s coming in ’bout half an hour.” He pulled from a pocket a sketch of what he had asked the man to paint on the side. “They do the stencil in their shop, then spray it on here in just a few minutes.”

  “I hope you didn’t give ’em this spelling of Addison,�
�� Jack said. “It’s got two Ds, you know.”

  The fat man looked stricken. “What? I had the wife proofread this!”

  “Chill, Carl. I’m kidding. It’s perfect.”

  “Why, I oughta . . .”

  It was dark, and traffic crawled all the way back to Chicago. Boone had taken his meds and should have been mellow, but he was agitated. Something wasn’t sitting right.

  “Sit still, Boones,” Jack said. “When I hit jams like this, I just resign myself to it. There’s nothing we can do but ride it out. There’s nowhere to go.”

  “I’m not worried about the traffic, Jack. Doesn’t it strike you as odd that I haven’t heard from Haeley or Zappolo by now? Fritz should have been out of court by lunchtime and have gotten back with her.”

  Jack shrugged. “Don’t make too much of it. Maybe he had good news and she didn’t want to bother you.”

  “I don’t know. I don’t like it.”

  “So call her.”

  Boone was reaching for his phone when it rang. Fletcher Galloway.

  “Put me on speaker. There’s not anybody else there but you and Keller, is there?”

  “No, go ahead.”

  “I got to talk low, because I told the wife you guys just needed a little advice about a case, I gave it to you, and that was the end of it. But I’ve been noodling this thing and something jumped out at me. Did I get it right that after the break-in at your apartment, you loaded stuff in Haeley’s mother’s car, then went to see her, and when you got back, the car had been ransacked?”

  “Right,” Boone said. “And it made us wonder if it was coincidence. Whoever came to the apartment was after me. But if it was the same guys who messed up the car, why didn’t they just stake it out and follow me to the safe house?”

  “Exactly. Try this on for size. They were just trying to rattle you, throw you off your game, zig when they should have zagged. But they made a big mistake. They told you something they didn’t intend to. They didn’t need to follow you to the safe house. They wanted to ensure you would go there, worried about who was trashing your apartment and your car, but they didn’t need to follow you.”

  “Because?”

  “Think it through, Drake. Because they know where it is.”

  Boone looked at Jack and shrugged. “All due respect, Chief, but we figure they’re working for, you know, the inside guy, and we know he knows where the safe house is. We’re worried he’s got guys on the inside there, working for him when we think they’re working for us.”

  “Right, but all these guys having all this inside knowledge has me wondering who else they know. How wired in are they? I don’t want to say names over the phone, but think of who this guy knows and has worked with over the years. Besides colleagues throughout the department, he knows your lawyer. He knows our evidence guy. He knows people in the US Attorney’s office. You see where I’m going?”

  “He knows a lot more than we think he knows.”

  “’Fraid so. Sorry, boys. I’m just saying, you’d better act fast and get your people to safety.”

  Though the blower was filling the car with heat, Boone shivered. “I’ve got to ask you, Chief. Do you think there’s any way he could know the other, uh, hiding place? Where my friend is?”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised. And here’s why. Your guy, the lawyer, has a history of stashing people here and there. Witnesses, clients, you name it. He’s got his favorite places for that kind of thing. Even I know one or two of them. If I was looking for somebody he was hiding, I’d know where to start at least.”

  “I haven’t heard from my friend for quite a while. And I should have. Thanks, Chief. We’ll keep you posted.”

  “Better not. I’m on thin ice with the wife here. Made some promises I got to keep.”

  “So maybe we just text you?”

  “I don’t even speak that language, Drake. We’ll have you guys over for a barbecue in the spring and you can tell me all about it.”

  7:04 p.m.

  “Talk about a guy retiring before his time,” Jack said.

  “Yeah, I’m impressed too, but he just made me sick.”

  “Channel it, Boones. You can whimper or you can take action. Let’s get to work.”

  Boone called Haeley and got her voice mail. His mind raced. If someone was monitoring her phone, he had to confuse them and reassure her. He affected his breeziest tone, as if he suspected nothing and hadn’t a care in the world.

  “Hey, Hael, it’s me. I’m here with Max. See you soon for pizza. Call when you get a chance.”

  Boone dialed Zappolo, and all he heard was Fritz’s voice. “Secure line.” Click.

  “Now what am I supposed to do, Jack? Zappolo wants me to call his secure line, and I have no idea . . . Wait.”

  “What?”

  “I’ll try Stephanie in his office.”

  “It’s after hours,” Jack said.

  “I’ve got to try.” He dialed.

  “You have reached the after-hours recording for Friedrich Zappolo and Associates.” It was Stephanie’s voice. And despite what she said, it sounded live. He had called after hours before, and the voice had been a professional and the message different. “If this is an emergency, you may call our live answering service at the following number. . . .”

  “Write this down, Jack!”

  Keller scribbled on a pad on the dash. “Aren’t we a pair?” he said. “Me driving and you crippled. What’s up?”

  Boone put the scrap of paper in his lap and dialed.

  “This is Stephanie, Mr. Drake. Thank God for caller ID.”

  “And that was you on the so-called recording, wasn’t it? Live?”

  “The plan worked. Mr. Zappolo is pretty good at these things. He knew you’d call asking for the secure number.”

  “So, what is it?”

  “I’m it. You’ve reached my cell. There is no secure phone. Here’s what’s happened. Someone somehow has breached our security. All three hotels Mr. Z uses to stash people had their fire alarms triggered just after dark. Hundreds of people filed out into the streets until the all-clear signal was given. At the end of it all, Ms. Lamonica did not return to her room.”

  “Someone got her?”

  “That’s our fear. Mr. Zappolo told me to tell you he thinks it’s the one you believe is behind all this. He could have had people stationed at the three hotels watching for her. Then they probably identified themselves as working for Mr. Z and said she was to come along and meet him.”

  “She was desperate to hear from him,” Boone said.

  “Mr. Zappolo suggests that you—I’m reading his scribbled note here—‘trigger whatever plan you have to protect your charges.’ I assume you know what that means.”

  “Got it. Thanks.”

  “Officer, if there’s anything I can do . . .”

  “I’ve got your number. Thanks for staying late and all that.”

  Jack immediately called Carl Earl. “Got an emergency, Carl. What’s the status of the truck?”

  “Welded the seats in, belts and all. Sign done, paint almost dry.”

  “Can you leave right now?”

  “I can, Jack, but ain’t no way I’ll make Addison before about nine thirty.”

  “No choice. You’re the man, Carl.”

  “Can I bring my .50?”

  “Don’t you dare. I’ll see you there.”

  Both Boone and Jack slid their phones into their pockets, and Boone slammed his fist into his thigh. “I’m dead in the water here, Jack. Someone’s got Haeley, and I’ve got no leads. Plus, we’ve got to get to the safe house. I’ve never felt so helpless.”

  “That Stephanie’s something, isn’t she?”

  “What? Yes, but—”

  “I’d like to get her on board at the CPD. Sounds like she’d rather be doing our kind of work anyway, huh?”

  “Jack! You’re not helping. Yes, I’ve been impressed by her, but I’m going to kill somebody before I lose another loved one. Can we focus?�
��

  Jack held up a hand, not taking his eyes off the road. “That’s what I’m trying to get you to do, Boones. Have I taught you nothing? Now, where are you with your meds and all?”

  “Why are we chatting when we should be—?”

  “Stop, Boones! Stop!” Jack put both hands on the wheel. “We are stuck in traffic. We’re going nowhere fast. Here’s the plan: we’re going straight to Addison. I’m hoping to beat whoever or whatever Wade has planned for Pascual and his family. We’re going to stop up the toilets or make it look like we have, and then I’ll tell everybody that Streets and San is on its way. We’ll get the family out of there, and then we’ll head to Chicago to find Haeley. If we could do it in the opposite order, we would. But it’s not like I’ve got time to drop you anywhere. You want to hitchhike and see if you can find some help?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “I’m trying to get you to focus, man. By the time we leave Addison, we need to know where we’re going. I’m going to arrange to have the Candelario family taken into protective custody, and in a few minutes—because, unlike you right now, I’m thinking like a cop—I’ll come up with the perfect place. Meanwhile, you need to shake off the pain, the meds, the fear, the emotion, and figure this thing out. You’re thinking like a lover and not like a detective. Now I mean it, Boones. You need me to smack you in the face, conk you on the head, what? You know how frustrating it is to try to do your job when an emotional citizen is in your ear.”

  “Yeah, I do.”

  “Well, that’s how I feel right now. Don’t be that guy, Boones. Be my partner again.”

  Jack was right. Boone smacked his forehead with his open palm. Then again. Think! “All right, Jack, listen. Pete’s the mastermind; we know that. Fox is probably out of the picture, lying low, hoping for some kind of a deal. Jazzy Villalobos is too recognizable, but he might be one of the shooters at the safe house if Pete sends in marauders.

  “Some of the cops assigned as guards at the safe house have to be Pete’s guys, but we don’t know who. And who would he send to grab Haeley who could pretend to be working for Fritz? Someone who would know where to take her for safekeeping.”

  “Don’t assume safekeeping, Boones. She knows the truth. She’s a threat to Pete and his whole future.”