Revenge at Sea: (Quint Adler Book 1)

by Brian O'Sullivan

  I missed him all the time.

  I got a call from Tom Butler out of the blue one day.

  “Quint, how is your recovery coming?”

  “Hey, Tom. I’m getting better. My shoulder is getting more of a full range of motion every day.”

  “That’s great to hear. You know, I tried to call you a few times after what happened. I even went to John Muir hospital, but they only allowed a few people to see you.”

  “Yeah, it was just Cara and my mother. I saw you called, Tom. As you can guess, I had tons of people reaching out and it was tough to get back to everyone.”

  “I understand. I just wanted to make sure that you know that I care. So does Krissy. And the rest of the staff at the Times.”

  “Thanks, Tom. I appreciate that.”

  “We’d love to have you come by the office one of these days. Krissy and I have even talked about potentially bringing you back on board.”

  Listening to the audio of Charles Zane’s car wouldn’t be possible at the office, so that was a non-starter.

  “I’m so busy right now with physical therapy that it’s probably not the best time.”

  “Of course. Just thought I’d throw it out there.”

  “Thanks. I miss you guys too. I’m sorry for my actions.”

  “No need to apologize. You’ve suffered much more than you deserved.”

  “You mean a few white lies doesn’t deserve a few gunshots?”

  “Very funny, Quint. You know what I mean.”

  “I do. Just trying to get back to our old tête-à-tête.”

  “I miss you, my friend.”

  “I do, too. But now is not the best time for me. Can we talk in a few weeks or a month?”

  “Of course. And if you’d like to come by the office, stop in at any time. Everyone would love to see you. Maybe Crystal could set up another little party.”

  “That was a fun night. Until I was arrested the following day.”

  “You’ve been through a lot.”

  “Yeah. Oh well,” I said.

  “Last thing, Quint. Remember when you came to my house and I said I knew a lot of people in the publishing business?”

  “I remember.”

  “I wasn’t just blowing smoke. I really do. And I’ve talked to a few of them and they’ve expressed interest in your story. You have to admit, it’s pretty wild.”

  With a few more chapters to be written, I thought to myself.

  “That’s great, Tom. Thanks.”

  “Anyway, let’s talk soon and I can put you in touch with them. You can flex your writing muscles.”

  “That would be great. And thanks for looking out for me.”

  “You’re welcome. Stop in the office soon.”

  He’d mentioned it three times. I knew it was important to him.

  “I will. Take care, Tom.”

  “You too, Quint.”

  I’d had the audio to Charles Zane’s car for five days, and it had still produced nothing. It wasn’t like he didn’t talk in his car. He did. But it was usually in code.

  Did you take care of that thing? Yeah, talk to that one guy. We’ll deal with that other thing soon.

  It was smart, leaving nothing you could pin back to him. He likely worried about a tap being on his phone and not in the car, but regardless, he watched his words.

  I started to presume my greatest potential lead to this point was going to amount to nothing. Like seemingly everything else involving this case, I was wrong about that as well.

  31.

  My first lead occurred on Friday, one week to the day that Paddy Roark and Dennis McCarthy had stuck their necks out for me.

  I was sitting in my new apartment, as had become the norm, when I heard the car start up on the audio. I instinctively got excited each time this happened, despite being let down time and time again. I was one of Pavlov’s dogs, foaming at the mouth, just waiting for some information from Charles Zane.

  Nothing happened for the first fifteen minutes and I started doing a few dishes that had been left in the sink. The burner phone was never far away from me, however. I had the volume at its max as I scrubbed down the pan in which I’d made chicken piccata the night before.

  Usually I’d do the pans right after dinner, but I’d gotten a little lazy as of late, I had to admit. I discovered that having more free time actually worked against you getting things done. It seemed counterintuitive, but I’d found it to be true.

  As I towel-dried the cleaned pan, Charles Zane’s voice came to life. I could always hear his end, but would only hear the person he talked too if he had his phone on speaker, which he rarely did. He must have used a Bluetooth or equivalent.

  This time was no different. He spoke to someone else, but I only heard his end of the conversation.

  “Hi, Doug.”

  That grabbed my attention.

  “You’re fucking kidding me.”

  Pause.

  “How the fuck did that happen?”

  Pause.

  “What do you mean, that’s not it?”

  Pause.

  “Jesus fucking Christ. Well, we have to get them both out of there. And toss them in the ocean.”

  Pause.

  “Too risky during the daytime.”

  Pause.

  “I’ll send someone over there at 10:00 p.m. tonight.”

  Pause.

  “Goodbye.”

  There was then a five-second pause, followed by the loudest “FUCK!!!” I’d ever heard. It reverberated through my apartment.

  This was a crucial moment in my investigation of Charles Zane. In my life, if truth be told.

  I went back over all I’d heard.

  I had to assume Zane was talking to Doug Anderson. And at 10:00 tonight, I would be outside of his house. Of that, there was no doubt.

  I was parked on Oakland Avenue by 9:30 p.m. Not with my own car, however. Certain that Charles Zane and his associates knew what kind of car I drove at this point, I wasn’t going to risk them easily identifying me. I decided to rent a vehicle. One with tinted windows.

  I went to a rental company and picked out a black Ford F-150, mostly because the windows on that particular truck were darker than most. It didn’t appear that you could see someone sitting in the driver’s seat. Especially at night. I rented the truck for a week, knowing this probably wasn’t going to be the last time I’d need an undercover vehicle.

  I parked twenty feet down on the opposite side of the street as the Anderson home. Good thing I arrived early. By 9:45, a van had pulled up to the Andersons’. It was the same make and model as the “rape van” parked in the back of the house. I wondered if it was the same guy Anderson had met when I’d tailed him.

  I looked down at my cell phone and made sure the flash was off. That would have been catastrophic. I started taking pictures of the van. I didn’t have an angle on the license plate, but figured I would at some point.

  Doug Anderson approached the vehicle a few minutes later. The driver got out and the two men headed toward Anderson’s house. They bypassed the front door and walked around back. The other man was short and squat, but I couldn’t see his face well.

  I continued to snap photos until they were out of view. The pictures probably wouldn’t turn out well in the dark, but I still took as many as I could.

  I looked over at Annie’s home. She’d told me she went to sleep early, so I wasn’t surprised to see every light out. I held out hope she wouldn’t turn any on if she heard them walking outside. Like me taking a picture with the flash on, it could be catastrophic for her.

  About five minutes later, the men returned to the van, carrying something approximately four and a half feet long and barely over a foot wide. It almost looked like a small carpet, but blue masking tape covered the whole thing.

  I felt sick. I knew it wasn’t a carpet. And if my fears were true, this wasn’t an adult. It was too small.

  Grief and anger overtook me in equal measures. If I’d had a gun, I mig
ht have stepped out of the car at that very moment and shot the two of them. Of course, these were just suspicions on my part, but from what Charles Zane had said, I had no doubt it was a body. What else do you throw in the ocean?

  They set their parcel (I didn’t know what else to call it) in the back of the truck and went to the back of the house a second time.

  This time, when they emerged, they were carrying something wider and longer. It could have been a full-grown adult. My stomach had tied into complete knots. I instinctively looked over in the direction of Annie’s home, hoping beyond anything that she was sound asleep. It killed me thinking the second body could be hers.

  I continued taking pictures.

  They set it down in the back of the van, shut the doors, and Doug Anderson got in the passenger side.

  I debated whether to call 9-1-1. I wanted to with every ounce of my being, but I’d ended up at the house illegally. We’d set up an (also) illegal audio device in Charles Zane’s car. It was all likely inadmissible. I’d also be selling out Dennis McCarthy and Paddy Roark, to whom I’d promised to keep my mouth shut.

  But Anderson might get away with murder. I decided I had no choice. I had to call. However, I couldn’t let them identify me, because then my evidence would be tossed out in a court of law.

  Maybe I could make this work.

  I looked down at my burner phone. It was a better alternative than calling from my own.

  The van started pulling off the curb. After it got about one hundred yards down the road, I started my Ford F-150 and set off behind them, keeping my headlights dark until they were farther on.

  At the same time, I picked up my burner phone and called 9-1-1.

  “9-1-1, what’s your emergency?” a young woman’s voice said.

  “I’m on Oakland Avenue and there’s a dark van driving a hundred m.p.h. Or more. Ignoring every stop sign. He’s going to kill someone if you don’t pull him over.”

  “Did you get a license plate number?” she asked.

  I didn’t have a chance. It was dark and when the van drove past me there was no time.

  “No, I didn’t. But he’s about to take a right from Oakland Avenue onto Harrison Street. He almost just hit a pedestrian, you better hurry.”

  I slowly approached the truck as it was about to take the right. I could now see the license plate. But the truck sat there a few seconds too long.

  I feared they saw the LED from my call to 9-1-1. While the side windows were tinted, the front windshield wasn’t, and they might be able to see the illuminated phone.

  “Send someone quick,” I yelled, turned the phone off, and tossed it on the passenger’s seat.

  I couldn’t risk staying on the line even to give them the license plate number.

  The van took the right turn very slowly. I started breathing again. But once they straightened out, they gunned it and accelerated off into the night. I took the right and sped up, but they were already way down the road. I’d been made.

  It was over and I knew it. I’d failed again.

  I just hoped the police were sending someone in their direction. And soon. Because if they didn’t arrive in the next minute, and that van made it to the freeway, my phone call to 9-1-1 was all for naught.

  I decided I had to do one more thing. I’d deal with the repercussions.

  I restated my burner phone and called 9-1-1 again.

  “9-1-1, what’s your emergency?” an older male said. I was happy to hear a different voice.

  “I was just parked outside of 254 Oakland Avenue and two people put two separate packages in the back of a van. I don’t want to jump to any conclusions, but they almost looked like bodies.”

  “Please hold, sir.”

  “I can’t stay on the line, but I’d send someone to that address now.”

  I hung up. And I drove home.

  My life had become pure insanity.

  32.

  I turned on the news the next morning and saw nothing. My 9-1-1 call had happened pretty late at night, but I’d still hoped for something.

  I grabbed my phone and went through my contacts. I found the number Annie had given me.

  It was only 8:30, but considering how early Annie told me she went to sleep, I assumed she was an early riser. I called and it rang five times before going to her voicemail. I tried again five and then ten minutes later. Same result.

  The knot in my stomach had never left from the night before, and it only tightened with each successive call.

  What card did I have to play? Detective Kintner and I had somewhat patched things up, but if I called asking about Annie, he’d immediately be suspicious. For good reason.

  I looked down at the burner phone and wondered if the police could trace it to my house. It wasn’t registered to me, so I wasn’t sure. I’d have a million more questions to answer if they showed up. I half-expected a knock at my door.

  I picked the burner up and clicked on the icon with the feed of Charles Zane’s car, but there was just silence.

  I didn’t know what the fuck to do!

  I tried Annie again, but still received no answer.

  That’s how Saturday went. I’d watch the news or check the internet, trying to find out anything. And call Annie periodically. Nothing developed on either front.

  I went to bed early that night, but didn’t sleep well. I still was expecting that knock at the door from the police.

  But it never came.

  Early Sunday morning, I went directly to my couch and turned on the news. A few minutes in, a young, bespectacled woman appeared on the screen saying the following:

  “If anyone has seen or heard from Annie Ivers, please call the Oakland Police. She’s been missing since Friday and authorities haven’t been able to find her. She’s sixty-eight years old. Authorities are not sure what she was wearing when she went missing.”

  A picture of Annie came up on the screen. I’d seen her recently and the picture was from several years ago. But it was close enough.

  I’d learned that Ivers was her last name. I don’t think I’d ever known. Not that it mattered. She was dead now. I had no doubt in my mind.

  I felt the world closing in around me. This was somehow worse than being shot. At least in the hospital, I had law enforcement around to protect me.

  And I’d had my mother and Cara. Now, I didn’t want to be anywhere near either one of them. I was radioactive. People in my vicinity just ended up dead. I couldn’t put them at risk. I vowed to not meet with either one of them until this was all over.

  I wondered if I was back on Charles Zane’s radar. Or if, in fact, I’d ever left. Could they have suspected me as the truck behind the van? Was I in mortal danger again?

  Just then, I heard a noise outside. It turned out to merely be a tree rustling, but I still jumped. My mind was going to overreact to any noise from here on in. I had to accept that.

  Despite my anxiety, I knew I would proceed. I wanted Zane dead more than I wanted to be alive. For Tricia Knox. For Annie Ivers. For myself. And most importantly, for my father.

  No, I still didn’t know exactly why he’d killed my father, but I knew what the guy said on the wiretap. And that was enough for me.

  In that moment I decided, if I could trade my life for Charles Zane’s, I would.

  Give me the chance!

  I called my mother and told her I was going to Las Vegas for a few days. I wasn’t sure if she believed me.

  I called Cara and told her the same story. I know she didn’t believe me.

  But I was on my own for a few days. Which was what I wanted.

  Little more about Annie Ivers appeared on the news that day. I found a tiny article online, but didn’t gain any more information. There was no mention of Doug Anderson, his home, or the van on either the T.V. news or the internet.

  And there was nothing from Charles Zane’s car all day. I hoped he hadn’t discovered the wiretap and turned it off.

  Be just my luck.

  33.
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  Monday arrived and I realized I hadn’t been out of my apartment since coming home Friday night. Well, that’s not entirely true. I’d stepped a few feet outside of my apartment to collect some deliveries from DoorDash.

  My face had become a mess of facial hair. I tried to remember the last time I shaved, but I couldn’t place it. And it wasn’t the cool kind of facial hair with straight lines and contours. It was a hot mess.

  Not that I cared.

  My only concern on earth was getting Charles Zane. It’s all I thought about.

  I got an incoming call early that morning. It was Detective Kintner.

  “Hi, Quint.”

  “How are you, Ray?”

  “Can we talk, man to man?”

  “Of course. What’s up?”

  “I know when you came clean to the feds you talked about meeting up with Annie Ivers. Have you heard she’s missing?”

  I suddenly knew why he was calling. “I heard. And I’m heartbroken. I’ve tried calling her, hoping by some miracle she picks up and is safe.”

  “You see, that’s the funny part, Quint.”

  I knew nothing funny was upcoming.

  “Oh yeah, why is that?”

  “Because the first time she was reported missing was on Sunday morning, but you called her eight times on Saturday.”

  There was no excuse that would make sense. And that was okay. I’d grown tired of lying.

  “Are you free later today?” I asked.

  He ignored me.

  “There were also two calls to 9-1-1 on Friday night. I have a sneaking suspicion you know about those as well.”

  “Are you free later today?” I repeated myself. He heard me this time.

  “Yes. You better have a good explanation. I don’t want to arrest you again, but if you leave me no option, I will.”

  “Maybe, just maybe, this time I’ll be arrested for a crime I actually committed.”

  “I deserve that,” Kintner said. “Look, I’m giving you more rope than I would to most. Because of all that’s happened. But don’t leave me without options.”