Storm Rising

by Douglas Schofield

  She picked herself up off the pavement and got her bearings. To her right was the broad stone stairway leading up to the park overlook. She’d often seen Bayonne PD cruisers parked up there, engines running, with officers in discussion. It seemed to be a meeting point.

  She ran.

  Fifty feet from the car, she could still hear the screaming from the man in the back.

  Seventy-five feet from the car, she heard a squeal of tires. She checked over her shoulder. The vehicle wasn’t pursuing her. It was speeding back the way it had come.

  Lucy flew up the stairs. She’d run them enough times to know there were forty-four shallow steps. She caught herself counting as she surged toward the top. Before she crested the last flight, she was craning to see if there were any police cars in sight.

  There were none.

  But there was an older man near the flagpole. He had a German shepherd on a leash and they were walking in her direction. She rushed toward him. He froze in place, taking in the sight of what Lucy later realized must have looked like a madwoman. She came to a gasping halt just beyond the reach of the man’s now alert and growling dog.

  “Do you have a cell phone, sir? I’ve just got away from some men who tried to kidnap me!”

  A BPD patrol car arrived within minutes. As soon as the lead officer had the gist of Lucy’s story, he interrupted her to get a description of the men and the vehicle. He told his younger partner to relay the details on his radio.

  “The man in the backseat got a good shot of de-icer in his eyes,” Lucy added. “The other one’s going to need stitches. They might go to a hospital.”

  The officer nodded to his partner, who got back on the radio. “That was damned quick thinking, ma’am,” the officer remarked, in an admiring tone.

  Lucy didn’t answer. It hadn’t felt very quick to her.

  The officers took the dog walker’s name, and Lucy completed her narrative as she led them down the stairs to the scene of her escape. It wasn’t difficult to locate—the spray can was still lying on the spot where she’d bailed out of the car. After they’d photographed and bagged it, and Lucy had assured them she didn’t need any medical treatment, they drove her to the police office to record a formal statement.

  The older officer, whose name was McQuarrie, conducted her interview with sympathy and careful attention to detail. Lucy sensed that he had recognized her name. If so, he was polite enough not to mention it until they reached a certain point in the interview.

  “He said you were a ‘delivery’? He used that word?”

  “Yes.”

  “Can you help me with that? It sounds like someone hired these men to grab you.”

  “I know. But I don’t understand it. I’m a schoolteacher! I don’t have any enemies like that. As far as I know, I don’t have any enemies at all.”

  “I apologize for bringing this up, but … have you thought this might be related to your late husband?”

  Lucy bristled. “I was waiting for this.”

  “I’m sorry. But it can’t be ignored.”

  “So, are you another one?”

  “Another one what?”

  “Another one who believes the myth.”

  “As I understand it, there were unanswered questions.”

  “Yes, there are unanswered questions. Like what my husband was investigating that got him killed! And why someone tried to make that good man look bad! No one has ever answered those questions … I suspect because they don’t want them answered.” Lucy stood. “Are we finished?”

  McQuarrie sighed. “For now.”

  He offered to ask his supervisor for Lucy to be provided with police protection until they caught the two men. The thought of being followed everywhere by a BPD officer appalled her. She declined, but accepted his alternate suggestion. He said he could arrange for patrol officers to make regular passes at her house.

  The next morning’s paper was entirely unabashed about identifying Lucy. The police hadn’t released her name, but a reporter had interviewed the dog walker. The paper featured a short account of her ordeal at the bottom of page one, and then used the report as an excuse to remind inattentive readers that the victim …

  … a local schoolteacher, is the widow of Bayonne PD Detective Jack Hendricks, whose activities were the subject of a lengthy police probe after his December 2006 murder in a Jersey City parking garage. His killing remains unsolved.

  When Lucy saw the article, she threw the newspaper across the room.

  That afternoon, she enrolled in a self-defense course.

  14

  The knock on her door startled her out of her doze.

  It had been another long day, and it had taken longer than usual to get Kevin settled down and into bed. As tired as she was, she hadn’t really minded. She treasured her time with her son.

  But the strains of the day had taken their toll.

  On top of her teaching duties, there’d been the anxious questions from Garrett about her abduction in the park. Then there’d been the questions from her fellow staff members, some of whom, until now, had remained mostly aloof. Their new and somewhat dubious expressions of concern grated on her. There had even been questions from her class. The questioners were two of her more mature female students; apparently the boys didn’t have the nerve to ask.

  And then … more questions from a detective who’d been assigned to her case. John Boyd was a cop she’d never met and never heard of before today. He appeared in the back of her classroom at the end of her last teaching block. She’d made him wait there while she delivered Kevin to daycare.

  Their subsequent interview was bizarre. The man had a weird habit of talking fast, changing subjects, jumping back and forth, and not finishing sentences. It was like being interviewed by someone on speed. On top of that, he kept leaning forward, examining her as if she were a museum exhibit.

  The police had had no luck tracing the silver car or identifying the two men who had grabbed Lucy. Wearily, in fits and starts punctuated by the detective’s staccato questions, she repeated the story she’d told Officer McQuarrie. By the end of the interview, as far as she could tell, she had added nothing to her original statement. The detective went away.

  There was still a call to make—she needed to tell Ricki before she and their father learned of her abduction by other means. She’d been putting that off until Kevin was asleep. Except now she’d almost fallen asleep herself. At least tomorrow was Saturday. Maybe she’d just get an early night and call Ricki in the morning.

  Another knock. Three sharp, confident raps. Whoever it was had no use for doorbells.

  Maybe it was a BPD officer, checking on her.

  When she stood up, the book she hadn’t been reading slid off her lap to the floor. She left it there.

  She’d left the porch light on, but the foyer was dark. That was deliberate. Without backlighting, no one on the porch would know if she was checking the peephole.

  Her visitor looked to be in his sixties. A grave and orderly man in a three-piece suit. A hard-lined face that still hinted at the strikingly attractive younger man who had preceded it.

  He stood waiting, staring straight at the peephole.

  Staring straight back at Lucy.

  This was no police officer.

  She called through the door. “Yes?”

  “Lucinda Cappelli.”

  It wasn’t a question.

  Instantly wary, she replied, “Sorry. Wrong house!”

  “Lucinda! My name is Dominic Lanza. I would like to speak with you.”

  Lanza! The name pulsed through her like an electric shock.

  “Please leave, or I’ll call the police!”

  “That’s the last thing you should to do.”

  “Please go!” Lucy pleaded. “If anyone sees you here, it will just confirm all those rumors about my husband!”

  It happened without warning.

  There was a rustle of cloth, and a thick hand covered her mouth. In a precisely executed a
ction, an arm reached past her, unlocked the door, then encircled her torso and moved her effortlessly aside. The door swung open and Lanza stepped in. He closed and locked the door behind him.

  Abruptly, Lucy was released.

  A tall man with a pallid, heavy face and a receding hairline appeared from behind to her. “You should have checked your patio door,” he said, with unexpected politeness.

  “This is my friend Carlo,” Lanza said. “He won’t hurt you, and neither will I. May we sit down?”

  “The police have orders to check on me! They’ll be here any minute!”

  Lanza was unfazed. “This won’t take long. Please lead the way.”

  Trembling with fright, Lucy led them to the living room.

  Lanza pointed at the near end of the couch. “After you.”

  Lucy sat.

  Lanza settled on a soft chair across from her, while the tall man positioned himself near the front window.

  “First,” Lanza began, “I want to apologize for those fools who abused you last night.”

  Lucy’s eyes widened. “You sent those men?”

  “Yes, and no. They overheard me saying I wanted to meet you. They thought to impress their employer. They acted stupidly and without my authority, and for that I am sorry.” He paused. “De-icer. That was fast thinking.”

  Lucy wasn’t interested in his assessment of her thinking. “Are you saying those men grabbed me just so you could meet me?”

  “They’ve been severely dealt with, I assure you.”

  Lucy felt a chill. “What does that mean—‘severely’?”

  “Normally, I would say you don’t want to know. In this case, after we got them patched up, I sent them away. To one of our … branch offices.”

  “So they’re alive?”

  “Yes.”

  “That man I sprayed. Did I blind him?”

  Lanza looked amused. “Do you care?”

  “No. Well, yes. I mean, he roughed me up, but he didn’t hurt me. I wouldn’t want—”

  “You are a strange lady. No, he’s not blind. There was a bottle of water in the car. He rinsed out most of the chemical in time. He’ll be wearing sunglasses for a while. But his companion didn’t do so well.”

  “I didn’t spray the driver.”

  “Maybe not, but our doctor had to sew a piece of his nose back on.”

  The man at the window let out a bark of laughter.

  “I’m sorry … this is funny?”

  “Of course not. I make no excuse for what my men did to you. But the fact that they were completely outwitted by a schoolteacher … well, perhaps you can guess the entertainment value.”

  Lucy started to relax. The conversation was bizarre, but it was becoming apparent that Lanza wasn’t here to harm her.

  So, why was he here?

  Lanza had stopped talking. He shifted back in his chair and just sat there. Watching her.

  Unblinking.

  “Are you afraid of me?” he asked.

  His tone had changed. Now his voice was quiet. And menacing.

  Feeling suddenly ill, she realized she had relaxed too soon.

  “Yes.” She clasped her hands to stop them from trembling.

  “You should be. If you know something about your husband, now is the time to tell me.”

  “There’s nothing to tell!”

  “Someone may have been paying him off. Someone with a motive to eliminate him and make trouble for me at the same time. You will know something.”

  “I don’t, because no one was paying my husband. I would have known. I would have seen the signs. But Jack was an honest man, and it never happened.”

  Lanza said nothing, his eyes boring into her. Finally: “We didn’t kill him, Lucinda. Do you believe that?”

  Her jaw tightened. “I don’t know if I believe that! I don’t know what to believe!” In a flash, anger overcame fear. “But if you did, Mr. Lanza, one day, somehow, you will pay!”

  Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Carlo turn away from the window. Lanza held up a hand and the man turned back to his vigil.

  “Thank you, Lucinda.”

  “For what?”

  “For confirming that your husband was not corrupt.”

  He’s been playing you, Lucy …

  “I’m not sure I’m ready to thank you yet,” she said firmly.

  “Thank me for what?”

  “For not killing my husband.”

  Lanza’s jaw dropped, and then he roared with laughter. For a woozy second, Lucy wondered if she’d been dropped into an alternate universe.

  She waited.

  The mobster’s laughter ended as abruptly as it had begun. “I came tonight because I wanted to be sure about you,” he said. He reached inside his jacket.

  Lucy tensed—wondering if she’d read the situation wrong, wondering if she was about to die, disbelieving it because it made no damned sense!—until she saw what was in his hand.

  He leaned across the space between them and handed her a small, black Nokia cell phone.

  She stared at it, relieved, but bewildered.

  “It’s a pay-as-you-go,” Lanza explained. “Consider it my business card. When you’re ready to talk, check ‘draft messages’ and call the number you find there. It will ring—after a few intervening call-forwards—on the one I’m carrying.” He removed a similar phone from another pocket and showed it to her.

  “You’re giving me a burner?”

  “You know the term?”

  “I watch TV.”

  “Of course.” He smiled. “Cost of doing business. Certain federal agencies would love to monitor my calls. It’s not just a burner. When you call, it connects to a VOI system and goes through a couple of untraceable links before it reaches me.”

  “How very high tech.”

  “We move with the times.”

  “You said, ‘when I’m ready to talk.’ Talk about what?”

  “The press would like the world to believe that people like me have scores of crooked cops on the payroll. The fact is, there aren’t that many corrupt ones, and we stay clear of most of them. Your husband never had any contact with my organization.”

  “I know that! I’ve always known that. But you haven’t answered my question—talk about what?”

  “We may be able to help each other.”

  “Me, help you? I’m sorry, but why would I help…?” The word died in her throat.

  “A Mob boss? A Godfather?”

  Lucy didn’t reply.

  Lanza sighed. “I really hate those movies.” His woeful, offended look was almost comically human. “Listen, young lady. I’m not Vito Corleone, all unsmiling, talking in parables. And I don’t own a waste disposal company. So get over it.”

  Lucy pressed on. “And, why would you trust me? Aren’t you worried I’ll report all this to the police?”

  Judging from his expression, he’d expected her question.

  “Lucinda … did you love your husband?”

  She felt a rush of the old pain. She replied through gritted teeth.

  “Yes!”

  “Are you satisfied with the investigation of his murder?”

  “No.”

  “Do you believe me when I swear we had nothing to do with his death?”

  He had her. In spite of his sinister reputation, and in spite of his invasion of her home, she realized that she did believe him.

  “Yes.”

  “Someone murdered your husband and tried to make it look like I did it. That I ordered it. The police investigation went nowhere because it had nowhere to go. That was five years ago, but the media won’t leave it alone. It’s as if someone was deliberately trying to keep the story alive. I don’t like that.”

  “Why would that be a worry?” Lucy picked her words carefully. “I mean, to you. As you said, the investigation went nowhere.”

  “Let’s just call it a matter of principle. But it affects you, too. Do you want to keep reading these press stories?”

 
; “No! I just want the killer caught, and Jack’s name cleared!”

  “Good. As I said, maybe we can help each other. Don’t answer me now. Think about it.” He turned to the man at the window. “Carlo?”

  Carlo thumbed his phone, then waited. It beeped.

  “It’s clear.”

  Dominic Lanza rose to his feet.

  “Thank you for your time, Lucinda. We’ll let ourselves out.”

  * * *

  Lucy waited until she heard her front door click shut. Only then did she get up, go to the door, and lock it. Then she headed for the rear of the house.

  Kevin was sitting on the stairs.

  “Honey? What’s wrong?”

  “I woked up.”

  She went to him. “What woke you, sweetheart?” She was about to lift him into her arms, but changed her mind. She was still wobbly after her encounter with Lanza, and Kevin was already topping forty pounds.

  “That man,” he replied. He shook off her guiding hand and started climbing the steps himself.

  Man, not men? Lucy thought.

  She followed her son up the stairs and back to his bedroom. As she tucked him in, she asked, in an off-handed tone, “Were you listening to that man?”

  He lay there, looking up at her with those disturbing adult eyes she’d noticed lately. He blinked once, and then shocked her with his reply.

  “Lucy, be careful.”

  “Kevin? What do you mean?”

  But as quickly as the spooky moment had come, it was gone. The little boy rolled on his side, drew up his knees, reached for his teddy bear, and closed his eyes.

  Lucy was particularly cautious with each step as she made her way back downstairs. If anything, her legs were more unsteady than they had been going up.

  She checked the sliding doors that led to the rear patio from the dining room and the office. She couldn’t tell which one Lanza’s man Carlo had used to enter because both were now locked.

  Polite kidnappers …

  Considerate burglars …

  A warning from a five-year-old …

  What am I missing?

  She telephoned her sister.

  “Tell me what Dad did before he bought the Bronte!”

  “He worked in a mine in Sicily. He hated the life, so he and Mom emigrated.”