Crisscross rj-8

by F. Paul Wilson

  "You will," Richie told him. "In the photos."

  Gorcey shook his head and his lips tightened further. "I'm going along, Mr. Cordova, one way or another. Either in your car, or in my own, following you as you follow Brady."

  Richie recognized a note of unswayable finality in Gorcey's voice. Shit. The last thing he wanted when he was working was a tag-along amateur. Especially if said amateur was queer. And double especially if it turned out Brady had a bona fide dirty little secret.

  But it didn't look like he was going to have much choice.

  He sighed. "Okay, Lou. I'll take you along. But I won't be able to guarantee success. And I'll want the money up front."

  Gorcey relaxed his rigid posture. "Of course. That's only fair."

  "By the way, what's your sign?"

  Gorcey's eyebrows rose as he smirked. "I'm usually in a bar when I'm asked that question."

  Richie felt heat in his cheeks. "Don't be a wise ass. 1 want to check to see if our signs are going to be compatible tonight."

  "I'm a Taurus." His smile changed. "And don't worry, Mr. Cordova, I won't get in the way. I promise." Something strange about his new smile… unsettling. "You'll hardly know I'm there."

  10

  When Jack checked his voice mail outside Cordova's and heard Abe's message—"Your package has arrived"—he hopped a cab to Manhattan.

  He entered the shop, locked the front door behind him, and headed for the rear.

  "Did you really find one?" he said as he approached Abe in his customary spot.

  Abe said nothing, merely stared.

  "Abe?"

  "Jack?" His gaze ranged from Jack's hair to his glossy, wheat-brown loafers, to his man bag, then back to his hair. "This is you?"

  "It's part of a fix."

  "On Christopher Street you're working maybe?"

  "I'll explain later. Did you get the gun?"

  And still Abe stared. "Your hair… it's wet?"

  "Nah. Just some sort of gel. The Beretta, Abe?"

  "And your coat. Like a robe it looks with that tie thing around the waist."

  All this scrutiny was making Jack uncomfortable.

  "Earth to Abe. Did—?"

  "Has Gia seen you like this?"

  "No, and she's not going to." She might like it and want him to dress like this all the time. "I'll spell it out for you: B-E-R-E—" Yes-yes.

  Abe shook himself out of whatever transported state he was in and reached under the counter. He came up with a brown paper lunch bag and slid it across the counter.

  Jack slipped his hand inside and removed a stainless-steel 9mm Beretta 92. It was beautiful. It was perfect.

  "Abe, you are amazing," he said, turning the gleaming pistol over and over in his hands. "Truly amazing."

  "I am. Yes, I am." When Jack glanced at him with a wry smile he added, "What? I should pretend to be humble? Hours on the phone I spent. No one else in this city could have found such a thing for you on a Sunday. No one."

  "I thank you for this, Abe. Really. If you hadn't found it, this whole afternoon spent setting up the fix would have gone down the drain." He looked around. "Where are your cotton gloves?"

  Abe pulled an oil-smudged pair from under the counter and handed them across.

  "Want some oil?"

  "No. Just need to wipe it down. Don't want our fingerprints on it."

  "Certainly not."

  He slipped on the gloves and polished the pistol's shiny planes and bevels, its Brazilian walnut stocks. Then he pushed a release button, rotated the cam, and pulled the slide assembly off the frame in one piece. He wiped the barrel and underside of the slide.

  "It's used," Abe said, "but well kept."

  "I see that. Used is better than new. I just want to double-check there's no serial number on the slide."

  "With a Beretta, only on the frame."

  "Perfect." He replaced the slide assembly, then ejected the empty magazine from the grip. "Got those Hydra-Shoks?"

  Again Abe's hand disappeared under the counter, returning this time with two boxes of 9mm rounds, each with the familiar red Federal across the top.

  "Federal Classics, as requested. Grain-wise I've got one-twenty-four and one-forty-seven."

  "The one-twenty-fours should do."

  He intended to be up close and very personal when he pulled the trigger, so he preferred a lower muzzle velocity. Jack slipped open the box and removed ten rounds. He rubbed each carefully with his gloved fingers before pressing it into the magazine.

  "A CSI team you're expecting?"

  "You betcha."

  "And you won't tell me about it?"

  "After I'm through, I'll fill you in on every last detail."

  "The clothes too?"

  "Everything."

  "So till then I must hang?"

  "But you won't be hanging alone," Jack said. "Trust me on that."

  11

  As he walked back toward his apartment Jack realized he had just enough time to pay a visit to the ersatz Mama Roselli. He dialed her on her cell.

  A weak, raspy voice said, "Hello?"

  "Mrs. Roselli? This is Jack. I stopped by last night but I heard you weren't feeling well. Are you okay?"

  "I'm better, thank you."

  "I was wondering if I could come over to give you an update. I found Johnny and—"

  "Can this wait until tomorrow? 1 don't think I'm well enough yet for company."

  Yes, it could wait till tomorrow, although Jack would have liked his questions answered tonight. But if she was feeling as bad as she sounded—if she was faking it she deserved an Oscar—then giving her more time to recover made sense.

  "Tomorrow then. I'll see you about noon or so?"

  "I'll be here."

  Jack cut the connection. Her sudden frailty bothered him. He'd suspected her of being kin to Anya, a tough old bird who looked like she hadn't had a sick day in her life. The only time he'd seen her not in control was when she'd had that sudden sharp pain in her back. Took her a day or so to get over it. And the next day he'd seen an oozing sore on her scarred-up back… on what she'd called "the map of my pain"… the map of where Brady was burying his pillars.

  Could it be…?

  He'd find out tomorrow. Tonight he had to share a car with Cordova and somehow keep himself from strangling him.

  12

  They sat parked east of Lexington, where Jack had waited Friday night. Cordova had insisted on using his aging, smelly Jeep Laredo, saying he had all his equipment stowed in the back, plus they might need the four-wheel drive.

  So Jack had parked his rental a couple of blocks from Cordova's Williamsbridge house and cabbed to Tremont Avenue. They'd met in front of Cordova's office and driven downtown together.

  "What's with the gloves?" Cordova said. "It ain't that cold."

  Jack looked down at his hands, tightly swathed in black leather driving gloves. "My fingers are very sensitive."

  Cordova snickered. "Why am I not surprised?"

  "Pardon?"

  "Never mind."

  Probably thought he was funny. A real comedian.

  Jack eyed his suet body, his suet lace with its suet cheeks, his suet hands resting on the steering wheel, and wondered if this was the same car he'd used to snatch Sister Maggie.

  Be so easy to reach over and grab his suet throat and squeeze… squeeze until he passed out. Let him wake up, then start squeezing again… and then do it again…

  Jack wondered how many hours he could keep it up, how many times he could—

  "Hell-o-o?" Cordova said. "Did you hear me?"

  Jack shook his head, not trusting himself to speak at that moment.

  "I said, What time's Brady usually head for the hills?"

  Jack stared at the garage exit. Eight o'clock already and so far no sign of Brady. Jack remembered Jamie telling him about Brady's Sunday night trips, but had she said anything about time? He didn't think so. Had to improvise here.

  "Varies. Sometimes early, sometime
s late. But always after dark."

  "Well, it's already after dark, so let's hope this is an early night. I hate stakeouts anyway. And to be frank, Lou, you ain't much of a conversationalist."

  "I'll have plenty to say once I have Brady where I want him," he snapped. "I gave you your money. Don't expect chitchat too."

  He noticed Cordova's quick, sidelong glance and reminded himself to remain in character.

  He let out a long sigh. "Oh, I'm sorry, Mr. Cordova. I'm usually quite a talker. Sometimes I swear I just can't shut up. But tonight I'm a little tense. No, I'm a lot tense. I mean, this just might be the night I get something on him." He reached over and laid a gentle hand on the fat man's suety shoulder. "You simply have no idea how badly I want this."

  Cordova shrugged off his hand. "Easy with the touching stuff. I ain't into touching."

  Jack snatched his hand back and dropped it into his lap. "Sorry."

  Cordova's laugh sounded forced. "Hey, relax about the rest. If there's something to get, I'll get it."

  Jack hoped they got something—the bigger the better. He had three scenarios planned. Plan A was the one most fully worked out, and would kick in if they hit pay dirt scandal-wise. If not—if Brady was involved in nothing blackmail-worthy—then Jack would go with Plan B. Plan C was the simplest and the least appealing: If Brady didn't show up tonight, Jack and Cordova would return next Sunday.

  The thought of allowing Richie Cordova to go on breathing for another week made him queasy. And to have to spend another night with him in this car… that might just be too much to bear. Might force Jack into doing something rash.

  "Hey," Cordova said, pointing across the street to where a black Mercedes was pulling out from the garage. "Is that our boy?"

  Jack squinted at the plates. "Yes! That's him! Go! Go!"

  "Just take it easy," Cordova said, singsonging as if addressing a child. "A professional doesn't tip his hand like that. We'll wait a few seconds, let another car get between us, then start after him."

  Jack wrung his hands. "But we'll lose him!"

  "No we won't. I guarantee it."

  13

  Jack had to admit that Cordova was good at tailing. It didn't hurt that Jack knew the Thruway exit Brady would be taking. At least he hoped he knew. Blascoe had said Brady owned a place not far from his, so Jack assumed he'd use the same exit Jamie had when she took him to Blascoe's. He told Cordova that he'd followed Brady twice to that exit and lost him afterward. That allowed Cordova to pass Brady and wait for him near the off-ramp. If Brady was watching his rear, he'd see no one follow him off the Thruway.

  Jack had a bad moment or two, sitting there with the pressure of the Beretta against the small of his back, wondering if he'd made the wrong choice. But then Brady's black Mercedes came down the ramp and stopped at the light.

  After that it was a trip up the same twisty road Jack and Jamie had traveled just three nights ago. Was that all it had been? Just seventy-two hours?

  Brady passed the driveway to Blascoe's place without even slowing. Two miles beyond he turned onto a dirt path and headed uphill. Cordova cruised farther on for a mile or so, then turned, killed the lights, and headed back.

  After he'd backed the Jeep deep into the brush about a hundred yards away from the mini-road, Cordova turned to Jack.

  "Sit tight and I'll go see what's up."

  Jack popped open his door. "No way. I'm going with you."

  "Lou, are you crazy? You don't have any experience—"

  "I'm going."

  Cordova cursed under his breath as he pulled his cameras and lenses from the back seat. He continued grumbling and muttering as they made their way up the hill through the brush. Jack was struck by a strong sense of deja vu: He and Jamie had made the same sort of trip on Thursday night just a few miles back down the road.

  Cordova turned and said, "Hey, almost forgot: If you got a cell phone, turn the goddamn thing off."

  "I already did."

  Jack wondered about perimeter security devices but decided not to worry about them. If Brady was into something shady up here, he wouldn't want to draw attention to the place by linking it to a security monitoring company, and especially not to the Dormentalist temple.

  "There's a cabin," Cordova said, pointing ahead to where lights glowed through the trees. "Time to slow down and keep it quiet as possible."

  Soon they reached the edge of a clearing. The cabin—made of real logs as far as Jack could tell—stood at its center, windows aglow. A plank porch ran across the front and around the left side.

  Cordova motioned Jack to wait and slunk into the clearing. Jack followed. When Cordova noticed, he waved him back, but Jack kept coming. The fat man's annoyance showed in the slope of his shoulders. Jack didn't care. He wasn't going to wait for Cordova to develop his film to see what Brady was up to.

  As they neared a side window Jack began to hear music. All the doors and windows were shut, so the volume had to be near max. Sounded classical. Jack couldn't identify it. Didn't even try. Except for some Tchaikovsky, he found most classical music unlistenable.

  They reached the side window and peeked through. The interior was similar to Blascoe's. So similar that Jack would bet they'd been built from the same design. The major difference was the collection of maybe half a dozen full-length mirrors spaced around the great room.

  "Must love to look at himself," Cordova said.

  And then the man himself appeared, wrapped in a big white terry cloth robe. He strode to the kitchen counter and poured himself some Glenlivet on the rocks.

  Shit, Jack thought. This wasn't quite what he'd been hoping for.

  Cordova's snide tone said he agreed. "Oh, yeah," he whispered—probably could've yelled, considering the volume of the music inside—"shots of this are gonna do real damage."

  "The night is still young."

  "Yeah, but he's alone."

  "For the moment."

  "You know something?"

  "No. Just hoping."

  "Yeah, well keep on hoping. Because even if we get shots of him whacking off or doing himself with a dildo, it's no big deal. You can embarrass the hell out of him, maybe, but you ain't gonna bring him down with stuff like that."

  But it'll be something, Jack thought. All I need is one thing… anything… just one little thing, and Plan A goes into effect.

  They hung around the window, Cordova calibrating and testing the low-light image intensifiers on his cameras, Jack studying Brady through the window. He watched him leaf through some big, antique-looking book, a hungry look in his eyes. What was it? Ancient porn?

  Unlike his burning rage against Cordova, Jack felt cold, clinical, almost detached about Brady. He could torture Cordova, do to him what he'd done to Sister Maggie, and not feel an instant's regret or remorse. But that wouldn't do for Brady. Jack had other plans for him, plans that Brady might well find worse than torture.

  "I say we give it an hour or so," Cordova said, now that his cameras were ready.

  "We stay until we get something or he goes to bed, whichever comes first."

  "Lemme tell you something: I ain't standing out here freezing my ass off till God knows when."

  Jack put a hand on Cordova's shoulder, just as he'd done back in the car.

  "Please, Mr. Cordova. I told you how much this means to me."

  He leaned away from Jack's hand. "And I told you how I feel about being touched. Now lay off, got it? If we—"

  Through the window Jack saw Brady pull a cell phone from the pocket of his robe.

  "Hey. Looks like he's getting a call."

  He and Cordova watched Brady go to the stereo and turn down the volume, then smile as he spoke on the phone. When the call ended, he upped the music again, and closed the big old book he'd been reading.

  "This could be it," Jack said.

  Cordova grunted. "And it could be nothing. But he sure do look happy, don't he. Wouldn't be surprised if—oh, shit!"

  Brady had carried the book to th
e center of the room where he knelt and pulled up a trapdoor that perfectly matched the rest of the floor. He started down into the basement.

  "If he stays down there we're fucked," Cordova said.

  Jack kept silent, watching. Moments later Brady reappeared and closed the trapdoor. What was down there? A secret library of some sort? Something that could be used against him? If the photos didn't work out, then maybe—

  "Oh, man!" Cordova said.

  Brady had tossed off his robe to reveal a well-toned, well-tanned body.

  "Buffed and baked," Jack said. "This is good. This is very good."

  Cordova was already snapping pictures. "Don't get too excited now."

  Jack put on a huffy tone. "I beg your pardon?"

  "I mean, this kind of beefcake ain't gonna hurt him. Might get him lots of calls from the ladies, though. Or the guys. Maybe even—holy shit!"

  Jack watched, fascinated, as Brady placed a feathered mask over his head, leaving only his eyes and mouth exposed. He examined himself in one of the mirrors, then slipped back into his robe.

  Cordova's shutter was clicking like mad. "I got a feeling we might be heading for pay dirt."

  "Shhh!" Jack whispered as he raised a gloved finger to his lips. "Is that a car?"

  Cordova cupped a hand around an ear. "Damn right it is." He picked up his cameras and began moving away. "Let's ease back into the bushes and wait."

  Jack followed him. They crouched in the brush as a pair of headlights became visible through the trees. Before long a Chevy van pulled up and stopped before the front door.

  "Get a shot of the plates," Jack told Cordova. "I want those plates."

  But Cordova already had his eye to the viewfinder. "So do I."

  A gray-haired man about Cordova's age, but whippet lean, was illuminated by the courtesy lights as he stepped out of the van. He opened a rear door and out hopped two boys, maybe twelve years of age, fourteen tops. He ushered them up to the front door where Brady was waiting. After the boys were inside, the man returned to the car and drove away.

  As soon as the car was out of sight Cordova was on the move toward the cabin, chortling. "Ho-ho-ho! The plot sickens!"

  Jack hesitated, then followed.