by Dan Simmons
“Do you have a list of those cops?”
“Sure. So what?”
Kurtz was too busy thinking to answer.
The Farino ice-fishing shack was only a few hundred yards out on the ice, but in the dark and the snow and the howling wind, it seemed like miles from shore. A few other shacks were visible in the headlights, but there were no vehicles. Even idiots who thought ice fishing was a sport weren’t out tonight.
Kurtz and Angelina Farino Ferrara wrestled the stiffened bundle out of the trunk and carried it into the shack. There was a large hole centered where men could sit on plywood seats on either side and watch their lines—the whole building reminded Kurtz of an oversized outhouse—but a film of new ice had grown over the hole. Angelina took a long-handled shovel from the corner and bashed away the scrim of ice. The wind literally howled, and icy pellets pounded the north wall of the shack.
Angelina had added some chains to the package so there was no need to hunt for additional weights. They lowered Leo through the hole, his shoulders barely squeezing through and bunching up the plastic shower curtain, and watched the last bubbles rise in the middle of the black circle.
“Let’s get out of here,” said Kurtz.
Back on Highway 5, Angelina said, “It’s a good thing you chose Leo.”
“Why?”
“Marco wouldn’t have fit through that hole. We would’ve had to chop a new one.”
Kurtz let that go.
Angelina glanced at him in the light of the instrument console. There was almost no traffic going through Lackawanna and back into town. “Did it occur to you that Leo might have had a family, Kurtz? A loving wife? Couple of kids?”
“No. Did he?”
“Of course not. As far as I could find out, he left New Jersey because he’d beaten his stripper girlfriend to death. He’d killed his brother the year before over some gambling debt. But my point was, he might’ve had a family. You didn’t know.”
Kurtz wasn’t listening. He was trying to fight away fatigue long enough to work through this thing.
“Okay,” Angelina said. “Tell me. What was this about the cops?”
“I don’t know.”
She waited. As they drove into the Marina Towers basement garage, Kurtz said, “I may have a way. For us to get to Gonzaga and survive. Maybe even put you in the position you want to be in and take Little Skag out of the equation.”
“Kill Stevie?” She did not sound shocked at the idea.
“Not necessarily. Just get rid of his leverage.”
“Tell me.”
Kurtz shook his head. He looked around the garage and realized that his Volvo was still parked at the Buffalo Athletic Club. That cute little Boxster would never get through this snow. And where am I going? Hansen probably had his room at the Royal Delaware Arms and the office staked out. Kurtz thought of how crowded Gail’s tiny apartment was tonight—violinist on the sofa, wino on the floor, whatever—and it made him more tired than ever.
“You have to drive me back to the Athletic Club,” he said dully. Maybe he could sleep in the car there.
“Fuck that,” Angelina said in conversational tones. “You’re staying in the penthouse tonight.”
Kurtz looked at her.
“Relax. I’m not after your body, Kurtz. And you look too wasted to make a pass. I just need to hear about this plan. You’re not leaving until you tell me.”
“I need a B-and-E expert tomorrow,” said Kurtz. “Your family has to know someone really good at defeating security systems. Maybe cracking safes as well.”
Angelina laughed.
“What’s so funny?” said Kurtz.
“I’ll tell you upstairs. You can sleep on the sectional in the living room. We’ll build a fire, you can pour us a couple of brandies, and I’ll tell you what’s so funny. It’ll be your bedtime story.”
CHAPTER
TWENTY-FIVE
James B. Hansen awoke on Wednesday morning refreshed, renewed, and determined to go on the offensive. He made love to his very surprised wife—only Hansen knew that it would almost certainly be for the last time, since he planned to move on before the approaching weekend was past—and even while he made her moan, he was thinking that he had been passive in this Frears/Kurtz thing far too long, that it was time for him to reassert his dominance. James B. Hansen was a Master chess player, but he much preferred offense to defense. He had been reacting to events rather than being proactive. It was time for him to take charge. People were going to die today.
His wife moaned her weak little orgasm, Hansen dutifully had his—offering a prayer to his Lord and Savior as he did so—and then it was time to shower, strap on his Glock-9, and get to work.
Hansen went to the office long enough to have “Captain Millworth” clear his schedule except for a mandatory meeting with Boy Scout Troop 23 at 11:30 and a lunch with the Chief and the Mayor an hour after that. He called the two detectives: Myers was on the stakeout at Kurtz’s secretary’s house in Cheektowaga after a few hours’ sleep; Brubaker had checked the Royal Delaware Arms and Kurtz’s office downtown—no joy there. Hansen told Brubaker to join Myers in Cheektowaga, he would meet them there.
He went down to the precinct basement to requisition tactical gear.
“Wow, Captain,” said the sergeant behind the cage wire, “you starting a war?”
“Just running a tactical exercise for a few of my boys,” said Hansen. “Can’t let the detectives get fat and lazy while ESU and SWAT are having all the fun, can we?”
“No, sir,” said the sergeant.
“I’m going to back my Cadillac sport ute around,” said Hansen. “Would you pack all this stuff in two ballistic-cloth bags and get it up to the rear door?”
“Yes, sir,” said the sergeant in an unhappy tone. It wasn’t his job to hump gear bags up the back stairs. But Captain Robert Gaines Millworth had a reputation as a humorless, unforgiving officer.
Hansen drove out through heavy snow to Cheektowaga, thinking about how easy this apprehension would be if he could just call a dozen of his detectives into the ready room and send them searching for Frears and Kurtz: checking every hotel and motel in the Buffalo area, running credit-card searches, going door to door. He had to smile at this. After years of being the ultimate loner, James B. Hansen was being contaminated by the group-effort persona of Captain Millworth. Well. I’ll just have to get by with Brubaker and Myers. It was too bad that he had to rely on a venial, corrupt cop and a fat slacker, but he’d use them and then discard them within the next couple of days.
The venial, corrupt cop and the fat slacker were eating doughnuts in Myers’s Pontiac, across the street from Arlene DeMarco’s house.
“Nothing, Captain,” reported Brubaker. “She hasn’t even come out for her paper.”
“Her car’s still in the garage,” said Myers, belaboring the obvious. The driveway showed six inches of fresh snow and no tire tracks.
Hansen glanced at his watch; it was not quite 8:30 A.M. “Why don’t we go in and say hello?”
The two detectives stared at him over their gnawed doughnuts and steaming coffee. “We got a warrant, Captain?” asked Myers.
“I’ve got something better,” said Hansen. The three men got out in the falling snow. Hansen opened his trunk and handed the pneumatic battering ram to Myers. “Brubaker, you ready your weapon,” said Hansen. He took his own Glock-9 out, chambered a round, and crossed the street to the DeMarco house.
He knocked three times, waited a second, stood to one side, and nodded to Myers. The fat man looked at Brubaker as if questioning the order, but then swung the ram. The door burst inward, ripping its bolt chain off as it fell.
Hansen and Brubaker went in with pistols held high in both hands, swinging their weapons as they moved their heads. Living room—clear. Dining room—clear. Kitchen—clear. Bedrooms and bathrooms—clear. Basement and utility room—clear. They returned to the kitchen and holstered their weapons.
“That bugger packs a wal
lop,” said Myers, setting the battering ram on the table and shaking his fingers.
Hansen ignored him. “You’re sure someone was home when you started the stakeout?”
“Yeah,” said Myers. “I could see a woman moving around in the living room yesterday afternoon before she pulled the drapes. Then the lights went off about eleven.”
“The lights could have been on a timer,” said Hansen. “When was the last time you saw someone move?”
Myers shrugged. “I dunno. It wasn’t dark yet. Maybe, I dunno, four. Four-thirty.”
Hansen opened the back door. Even with the new snow, faint tracks were visible crossing the backyard. “Stay a few paces back,” he said. Not bothering to pull his Glock from its holster, he followed the faint depressions in the snow across the backyard, through a gate, across the alley, and through another backyard.
“We got another warrant for this house?” asked Brubaker from the yard as Hansen went to the back door.
“Shut up.” Hansen knocked.
A woman in her seventies peered fearfully through the kitchen curtains. Hansen held his gold badge to the window. “Police. Please open the door.” The three detectives waited while a seemingly endless number of bolts and locks and chains were released.
Hansen led the other two into the woman’s kitchen. He nodded at Brubaker, who beckoned to Myers, and the two began searching the other rooms of the house while the old lady wrung her hands.
“Ma’am, I’m Captain Millworth of the Buffalo Police Department. Sorry to bother you this morning, but we’re looking for one of your neighbors.”
“Arlene?” said the woman.
“Mrs. DeMarco, yes. Have you seen her? It’s very important.”
“Is she in some kind of trouble, Officer? I mean, she asked me not to mention to anyone…”
“Yes, ma’am. I mean no, Mrs. DeMarco’s not in any trouble with us, but we have reason to believe that she may be in danger. We’re trying to find her. What is your name, ma’am?”
“Mrs. Dzwrjsky.”
“When did you see her last night, Mrs. Dzwrjsky?”
“Yesterday afternoon. Right after Wheel of Fortune.”
“About four-thirty?”
“Yes.”
“And was she alone?”
“No. She had a Negro man with her. I thought that was very strange. Was she his hostage, Officer? I mean, I thought it very strange. Arlene didn’t act frightened, but the man… I mean, he seemed very nice…but I thought it was very strange. Was he kidnapping her?”
“That’s what we’re trying to find out, Mrs. Dzwrjsky. Is this the man?” Hansen showed her the photo of John Wellington Frears.
“Oh, my, yes. Is he dangerous?”
“Do you know where they went?”
“No. Not really. I loaned Arlene Mr. Dzwrjsky’s car. I mean, I almost never drive it anymore. Little Charles from down the street drives me when I have to—”
“What kind of car is it, Mrs. Dzwrjsky?”
“Oh…a station wagon. A Ford. Curtis always bought Fords at the dealership out on Union, even when—”
“Do you remember the make and year of the station wagon, ma’am?”
“Make? You mean the name? Other than Ford, you mean? My heavens, no. It’s big, old, you know, and has that fake wood trim on the side.”
“A Country Squire?” said Hansen. Brubaker and Myers came back into the kitchen, their weapons out of sight. Brubaker shook his head. No one else in the house.
“Yes, perhaps. That sounds right.”
“Old?” said Hansen. “From the seventies perhaps?”
“Oh, no, Officer. Not that old. Curtis bought it the year Janice’s first daughter was born. Nineteen eighty-three.”
“And do you know the license number on the Ford Country Squire, ma’am?”
“No, no…but it would be in that drawer there, with the registration forms and the car-insurance stuff. I always…” She paused and watched as Brubaker rifled through the drawer, coming up with a current license-registration form. He said the tag number aloud and put the form in his coat pocket.
“You’re being very helpful, Mrs. Dzwrjsky. Very helpful.” Hansen patted the old woman’s mottled hands. “Now, can you tell us where Arlene and this man were going?”
Mona Dzwrjsky shook her head. “She did not say. I’m sure she did not say. Arlene just said that something very important had come up and asked if she could borrow the station wagon. They seemed in a hurry.”
“Do you have any idea where they might have been going, Mrs. Dzwrjsky? Anyone that Arlene might try to contact if there were trouble?”
The old woman pursed her lips as she thought. “Well, her late husband’s sister, of course. But I imagine you’ve spoken with Gail already.”
“Gail,” repeated Hansen. “What’s her last name, ma’am?”
“The same as Alan’s and Arlene’s. I mean, Gail was married, twice, but never had children, and she took back her maiden name after the second divorce. I used to tell Arlene, you can never trust an Irish boy, but Gail was always…”
“Gail DeMarco,” said Hansen.
“Yes.”
“Do you know where she lives? Where she works?”
Mrs. Dzwrjsky looked as if she might cry. “Gail lives near where Colvin Avenue becomes Colvin Boulevard, I think. Arlene took me to visit her once. Yes, right near Hertel Plaza, north of the park.”
“And where does she work?” asked Hansen, his voice more impatient than he meant it to be.
The old woman looked afraid. “Oh, Gail has always worked at the Erie County Medical Center. She’s a surgical nurse there.”
Hansen patted her hands again. “Thank you, Mrs. Dzwrjsky. You’ve been a huge help.” He nodded for Brubaker and Myers to head back to the DeMarco house.
“I hope that Arlene is all right,” said the old woman from the back door. She was weeping now. “I just hope Arlene is all right.”
Back in Arlene DeMarco’s kitchen, Brubaker used his cell phone to call Dispatch. They got Ms. Gail DeMarco’s address on Colvin and the phone number, and Hansen called. There was no answer. He called the Erie County Medical Center, identified himself as a police officer, and was informed that Nurse DeMarco was assisting in surgery right now but would be available in about thirty minutes.
“Okay,” said Hansen. “You two get over to the house on Colvin Avenue.”
“You want us to go in?” asked Myers, lifting the battering ram off the table.
“No. Just stake it out. Check the driveway and call me if the Ford wagon is there. You can ask neighbors if they’ve seen the car or Arlene DeMarco or Frears or Kurtz, but don’t go in until I get there.”
“Where will you be, Captain?” Brubaker seemed half-amused by all this urgency.
“I’m going to stop at the Medical Center on the way. Get going.”
Hansen watched from the front window as the two drove off in their unmarked cars. Then he walked back across the yard, through the carport, across the alley, and knocked on Mrs. Dzwrjsky’s back door again.
When the old woman opened the door, she was holding the phone but it appeared that she hadn’t dialed a number yet. She set the phone back in its cradle as Hansen stepped into the kitchen. “Yes, Officer?”
Hansen pulled the Glock-9 and shot her three times in the upper chest. Any other time, he would take the chance that the woman would call someone rather than take the chance of leaving a body behind, much less leave two detectives as witnesses, but this was an unusual situation. All he needed was a day or two and none of this would matter for Captain Robert Gaines Millworth. Probably just one day.
Hansen stepped over the body, making sure not to step in the widening pool of blood, picked up his ejected brass, and took time to reload the three cartridges in the dock’s magazine before walking back through the yards to his waiting Cadillac Escalade.
CHAPTER
TWENTY-SIX
Earlier that morning, Kurtz and Angelina Farino Ferrara sat
in the front seat of her Lincoln and watched Captain Robert Millworth drive away from his home. It was 7:15 A.M.
“There was another car in the garage,” said Angelina. “A BMW wagon.”
Kurtz nodded and they waited. At 7:45, a woman, a teenage boy, and an Irish setter backed out in the station wagon. The woman beeped the garage door shut and drove off. “Wife, kid, and dog,” said Angelina. “Any more in there?”
Kurtz shrugged.
“We’ll find out,” said Angelina. She drove the Town Car right up the long Millworth driveway and they both got out, Angelina carrying a heavy nylon bag. Kurtz stood back while she knocked several times. No answer.
“Around back,” she said. He followed her through the side yard and across a snowy patio. The nearest neighbor was about a hundred yards away behind a privacy fence.
They paused by the sliding doors to the patio as Angelina crouched and studied something through the glass. “It’s a SecureMax system,” she said. “Expensive but not the best. Would you give me that glass cutter and the suction cup? Thanks.”
Yesterday evening, in front of the fire over brandies, with Kurtz almost too tired to concentrate, she had told him her story…or at least the part of it that had made her laugh when he’d told her that he would need a B&E man.
Angelina Farino had always wanted to be a thief. Her father, Don Byron Farino, had worked to keep her sheltered from the facts of his life and would never have considered allowing her to take part in the family business. But Angelina did not want to be involved in every aspect of the business—not then. She just wanted to be the best thief in New York State.
Her brother David introduced her to some of the legendary old second-story men and in high school Angelina would visit them, bringing wine, just to hear their stories. David also introduced her to some of the rising young thugs in their father’s organization, but she didn’t care much for them; they bragged about using guns, violence, and frontal assaults. Angelina wanted to know about the smart men, the subtle men, the quiet men, the patient men. Angelina did not want to be another mobster; she wanted to be a cat burglar; she wanted to be The Cat; she wanted to be Cary Grant in To Catch a Thief.
