by Steve Hadden
“He’s going straight,” Mac said as the light turned green.
Ike looked ahead. All the traffic was going left. There was no sign of a road straight ahead. Just a large opening in the trees and an area of broken pavement and gravel. Beyond the opening, Ike spotted what looked like dilapidated storage stalls half filled with gravel. “He’s headed to the river?”
Mac pointed. “To the right along the river is the old water-and-sewer maintenance shop, then a small low-cost marina. To the left is the lock road to Lock 2 on the river. Halfway down, there’s an old park that has some old stairs leading to a concrete dock, riverside. Before you get there, there’s a bed-and-breakfast and an old house.”
Mac’s knowledge of the area he’d worked for forty years always impressed Ike.
He moved with the traffic, but the three cars insulating him from Latham followed the rest of the traffic to the left and he found himself entering the opening behind Latham.
“Go right, go right,” Mac said. Ike turned right and Latham went left. Ahead, Ike spotted an old railroad trestle, stained black by the decades of coal soot that had soaked the area for the first seventy years of the previous century. Beneath it, he spotted a front loader just beyond the gravel bins and a two-story yellow corrugated-steel building he assumed was the water-and-sewer maintenance building. He slowed without hitting his brakes and eyed Latham’s Caddy in the rearview mirror. It was going the other way, down what looked like a single-lane road. Then he saw Latham’s brake lights illuminate.
“He’s turning,” Ike said.
“I got him,” Mac said, stretching forward to get a view in the side mirror. “He’s waiting. Now he’s in.”
Ike killed the lights and swung the Buick around, then stopped next to the gravel bins. The bins gave a little cover, but he and Mac could still see the point where Latham had left the road.
“He’s in the house. It’s an older place, large, with lots of riverfront property. I think it was owned by some old Howard Hughes type. Made lots of money but no one ever saw him.”
“Let’s wait here and see if anyone else arrives,” Ike said. He didn’t expect to see anyone else. He’d seen guys like Latham before. They liked to make a grand entrance once all their minions were present.
They waited for fifteen minutes and watched the dark night sky chase away the last remnants of light. Ike suggested one pass by the house with lights on, as if they were a couple of mechanics headed to the lock. Mac agreed. One pass in. One pass out. Same speed. No delay.
The passes revealed a long faded eight-foot privacy fence, with a sliding security gate about a third of the way down. The entire complex stretched from the bed-and-breakfast to the decaying concrete steps that led from the abandoned park to the river. From the car, Ike had seen the rusted-out railing on the old dock below the stairway. The darkness was thick now and Ike slipped the car behind the last gravel bin, avoiding the few overhead lights closer to the water-and-sewer building.
“I’m going in,” Ike said as he unbuckled and reached into the backseat for a duffel bag he pulled to his lap. He pulled out the flat black directional microphone and parabolic dish.
“You gotta get within a hundred yards unobstructed with that thing to pick up their conversations, and that fence goes all the way around,” Mac said.
Ike jammed the battery pack and transmitter into their cases and slipped it over his shoulder. He handed the receiver to Mac. “Don’t worry. I got it figured out. Just capture the recording.” He yanked on the black Under Armour pullover he’d retrieved from the Shelby.
Mac assembled the small receiver and placed it on the dash. “Be careful. Don’t know what they have in terms of security there.”
Ike could see the message in Mac’s eyes. He didn’t agree with any of this. The crimes Ike would be committing soon were the very thing Mac had battled in his career to keep Pittsburgh livable. And while it wasn’t assault or murder, he knew Mac understood that Ike’s actions might lead to those outcomes. On the other hand, Mac was here and the depth of his involvement demonstrated that he knew Ike needed this—more than anything.
Ike reached across and patted Mac’s shoulder. “Thanks, Mac. And sorry for pulling you into this.”
Mac’s eyes glistened for a moment, and then he faced forward. “Just get the bastards on this thing and get out.”
Ike reached to the dash and turned off the dome light switch, opened the door, and slipped the strap of the black equipment bag over his head to the opposite shoulder. The colder air tightened his lungs and the smell of grease drifted from the front loader behind the car. He made his way alongside the rusted chain-link fence that lined the old road to the end of the city’s property and crouched behind a lone evergreen that marked the beginning of the bed-and-breakfast.
Beyond that, the lock road began and the privacy fence for the bed-and-breakfast stretched about thirty yards on one side. Thick woods lined the other. The twenty yards between him and the lock road was a no-man’s-land. The headlights of the cars coming down Washington Boulevard acted like searchlights that fired through the opening to the area and swept away when the cars made the left turn onto Allegheny Boulevard. The lights would easily nail him trying to enter the dark road. The intervals between the cars were unpredictable, other than when the lights turned red and the beams pointed straight at his path, so he waited for a green light and allowed traffic to clear. Then, with his eyes vacillating between Washington Avenue and the lock road, he darted across.
Scanning the fence, he noted that the bed-and-breakfast had no security cameras. He crossed the road and crept down the edge of the woods, then settled in a crouch just short of the recluse’s estate. The faded stained fence was smooth and at least eight feet tall. There were no security cameras along the outside of the fence, but the entrance was recessed from the road and he suspected a camera and a call box were used to allow entry. With his plan formulated, he pressed ten yards deeper into the woods. Then he paralleled the road, pushing through the underbrush as it crackled under his feet and snagged at his pullover.
When he reached the beginning of the small abandoned river park, he dropped to one knee and surveyed the end of the estate across the street. The fence ended and reached through the thin line of brush to the river. To the left of the fence, he could see the bent and rusted rails to the stairs that led down to the old concrete dock Mac had mentioned. There were no signs of cameras or security, but he could see the light coming from the entrance to Lock 2 about three hundred yards down the narrow road. He hoped no emergency would arise that would require the arrival of Corp of Engineers personnel down the lock road.
With the speed he’d once reserved for eluding defensive ends, he raced to the stairs and bolted down them with the crumbled concrete crunching under his feet. Reaching the bottom, he tried to stop but slipped on decaying concrete and stopped just short of the edge. He peered over and saw the black water swirling against the dock, five feet down. He knew the Allegheny was about fifteen feet deep here, but the depth wasn’t what bothered him; it was what lurked on the bottom. Over the years he’d heard about all the junk in the river. Cars, refrigerators, and old boats. One diver had even pulled up old wagon wheels from the 1800s. And with the dam only three hundred yards away, he didn’t want to fall in.
Ike dropped to one knee and scanned the dock to the north. It appeared to narrow and terminate at the estate’s fence that ran from the road to the river. Ike crept to the eight-foot fence and leaned over the river to look around it. Another chain-link fence was tied to it and blocked him from swinging around the privacy fence. It was attached at the top, then tapered down to four feet high about ten yards up the river. It was firmly mounted into a six-inch-thick retaining wall that dropped into the water.
He followed the fence line until it intersected an old dock in the river. Two large boats were moored there. To his right, through a line of maples, he could see lights from the house. But the yard was dark and anyone could be watching. S
till, he had to get closer.
Ike checked the bag slung across his body and then flexed his hands. The cold night air had stiffened them and he warmed them with his breath. There was only one way in. He dropped onto all fours and backed toward the river. Ignoring the water rushing below, he dropped over the retaining wall, hanging by his fingers. His weight strained his fingers and he knew he’d have to move fast.
He moved sideways, checking his grip with each move, as he squinted to keep the pieces of crumbling concrete from dropping into his eyes. He moved closer and closer to the dock, pulling himself up every few feet to scan the yard for any threats. Halfway to the dock, his left hand reached for the wall and it crumbled. He fell against the wall. The bag was pinned against his body and the strap snapped. Suddenly, he was dangling by one hand above the dark water. If he fell, the current would sweep him to the dam. And if he went over, he’d be rolled in the undertow until he drowned. If he tried to pull himself up, the listening equipment would disappear into the river. He tried desperately to catch the bag with his knee, but his right hand was losing its grip. In one motion, he swung his left hand and reached for the wall as the equipment splashed into the dark water below.
He looked down and shook his head. Mac wouldn’t get any recordings tonight. Still, he eyed the dock and began to slide hand over hand. Reaching the dock, he grabbed the splintered wood and rolled onto the planks. Lying flat on his stomach, he scanned the boats first. Both were cabin cruisers that could easily hold ten to fifteen people. Ahead, he examined the walkway all the way to the house. A large bank of windows ran along most of the back of the old home. Ike could see motion inside, but he was still too far away. There was no motion in the lighted areas, but the shadows were still a problem.
Pressing himself up, he scampered to the first tree along the path. From there, he advanced, tree by tree, until he was ten yards from the house. The door to the house was closed and Ike moved to the other side of the tree and looked in the windows.
The large room was covered in knotted pine and spread across most of the back side of the house. Five poker tables were neatly spaced throughout the room. Ike’s heart deflated when the chance that this was only a poker game crossed his mind. Four men sat at each poker table, but their attention wasn’t on the cards in front of them; they all looked to the right end of the room. Ike crept to the next tree and scanned the last few windows.
Then he saw them. Brooks Latham stood next to Judge Kelly at the front of the room. Both looked to their left at three other men. Ike slipped over one more tree and peered into the last window. He easily recognized the three men: the DA, the assistant chief of investigations, and Nick Falzone. Ike dropped to his knee, trapped a yell inside his mouth, and pounded his thigh to stop it. He could go in right now and get enough satisfaction with his fists before they killed him. But then he thought about Maria and then he thought about Jack. He stopped punching his leg and held his head in his hand. He didn’t trust anyone now. Not the police, not the DA, and not even the FBI.
Ike stood, pulled his iPhone from his pocket, and snapped a few pictures. They’d be useless against the men with their alibi of a poker game. But he’d have them just in case.
Suddenly, he heard applause inside. Everyone stood and began to make their way out of the room. The back door opened and Ike lunged for the shrubs against the house. Most of the crowd moved out the door and to the boats. In five minutes, the boats were loaded and gone. Ike heard cars starting on the far side of the house as the remainder of the conspirators headed out the front gate.
Ike waited thirty minutes and then made his way back through the park and down the lock road to Mac. When he got to the car, Ike opened the door and got in.
“Lost the equipment?”
Ike just nodded and pulled out his iPhone, opened it to the photos, and handed it to Mac.
“Holy shit,” Mac said.
Ike started the Buick. “They’re going down.”
CHAPTER 42
Jenna entered the garage of her three-story townhome a mile north of the office just after nine p.m. She’d had a worse day than this—exactly one. That was the day her mother told her that her soon-to-be baby brother had Down syndrome. She was eight years old and didn’t understand the term. What she had understood was the love in her mother’s face.
She’d just spent the afternoon sitting with Lauren in the corner of the Capital Grill, comforting her client-turned-friend about turning Jack over to the very people she thought were trying to destroy him. Lunch, a bottle of Silver Oak cabernet, and three packs of Kleenex had resulted in a plan: Jenna agreed to go home with Lauren to explain to Jack that he’d be in his grandparents’ house at nine the next morning.
The look on Jack’s face had broken her heart and fueled the pile driver hammering guilt permanently into her soul. She’d comforted Lauren by reminding her that Joseph and Erin Falzone were very public figures, and at the end of the day, they were Jack’s grandparents. They wouldn’t do anything to hurt him while he was with them. They couldn’t afford the negative publicity. She knew it sounded cold, but cold was necessary to quell the emotional firestorm Lauren was experiencing.
As the garage door rolled shut on another day in Jack’s case, Jenna realized just how tired she was. She also realized she had only two days left before his trial. She dragged herself up the two steps into her condo. The hallway was dark and she spotted the digital clock’s numbers glowing from the microwave. Another Friday night alone. The place seemed emptier on the weekend nights. Cranberry’s nightlife was nonexistent, and she’d quickly grown tired of lonely dates arranged by her friends and family and the occasional foray into the online-dating world. But she’d never leave Cranberry and the company of her brother. At least once a week he’d fill the place with his joy and great sense of humor, usually targeted at her.
She moved into the kitchen, where she dropped her purse on the small island. Checking her phone for messages, she headed upstairs to change. As she reached the top of the stairs on the second floor, a ripple of hesitation moved through her. She stopped and scanned the small den and office space. Something felt out of place despite everything’s appearing to be in order.
Convincing herself it was just fatigue, she made the turn, flipped on the hallway light, and headed up the last set of stairs to the bedroom.
Entering her bedroom, she could see the light from the streetlamps filtering through the sheers covering her bedroom window. She turned on the lamp next to her bed, pulled her jacket off, and tossed it onto her reading chair tucked in the corner. Rather than give Mr. Epperson, the peeping Tom across the street, a show, she pulled the heavy drapes shut. She stripped to her underwear, decorating the chair with the rest of her clothes, then moved to the closet and opened the door.
A masked face lunged from the darkness and crashed into her, driving her toward the bed. She knew from the contact it was a powerfully solid man. She used his momentum and spun away, hooking him high with an elbow to the head. She darted to the door, but he was too quick. Her head yanked back and she thought her scalp was on fire. Pulling her hair, he reeled her back to him and clamped his hand around her throat, the other arm clamped across her chest, locking her arms at her sides. Jenna felt him struggle to lift her from her feet, but she was too tall. Still, his grip was strong and she was using more air than she could take in. She stopped struggling, hoping he’d relax his grip on her throat. He didn’t.
“I can see you like to fight,” he said. “That’s why you’ve been such a pain in the ass.” He yanked his grip even tighter. “You need to listen. I’ll say this just once. Tank the case with the kid, or your brother dies. Tell your father or the cops and I’ll kill him, too.” His voice was raspy, as if damaged somehow, and he sounded like a Texan.
At first, the words cut through her. She pictured the goon manhandling her brother. Then her protective anger rose and swallowed the words. She pulled to the right, then launched her left foot to his crotch. The move freed her left
arm and she back-fisted him to the jaw. She twisted from his failing grip and threw a punch to his throat. She wanted to kill him now and end the threat. He reeled back but caught himself with one step back. He reset and spun, and she never saw what hit her jaw.
She awoke on the bed with a headache that reminded her of the concussion she’d had in her junior year at Pitt. She shot up, ready to face her attacker, but she was alone. The clock on the nightstand read 1:00 a.m. She’d been out for three hours.
She scrambled out of bed, found her phone on the floor, and dialed her parents’ house.
Her mother answered in a half-frightened tone. “Hello?”
“Sorry, Mom. It’s me. I know it’s late.”
“What’s wrong, honey? Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.” Jenna knew the truth could be deadly. “I had a nightmare, Mom. It was terrible. Dad and Michael, are they okay?”
“Of course. Michael is sleeping and your father is looking right at me.”
“That’s great, Mom. I’m so sorry. It was a really bad dream, but I’ll be okay.”
“Are you sure?”
“I think so. Just do me a favor. Be sure the doors are locked and the alarm is set. It will be easier for me to get back to sleep if you promise to do that.”
“Okay, honey. Hang on …” Jenna heard her father say something. “Your father wants to know if he should come over.”
“Oh. No, Mom. Tell him thanks but I’m fine.”
“You’ve both been working too hard on that case.”
“I know, Mom. I’ve kept you guys up long enough. I love you. Good night.”
“Love you, too. Good night, honey.”
