Joe Kurtz Omnibus

by Dan Simmons

  She had put herself in harm’s way with Emilio Gonzaga when she was in her early twenties because she thought that Gonzaga was going to introduce her to a safecracker she’d always wanted to meet. Instead, as she put it, Emilio introduced her to his dick.

  Exiled to Sicily to have the baby, she had married a local mini-don, an idiot exactly her age but with half her IQ, “to keep up appearances.” After appearances were kept up and after the baby died and after the young don had his unfortunate hunting accident—or accident cleaning his pistol, Angelina let them choose the story they wanted—she flew to Rome to meet the famous Count Pietro Adolfo Ferrara. Eighty-two years old and suffering the effects of two strokes, the count was still the most famous thief in Europe. Trained by his legendary thief of a father between the wars, active in the Italian resistance, and credited with stealing the communiqués from Gestapo headquarters that led to the interdiction and assassination of Mussolini and his mistress, it was often said that the handsome, daring Count Ferrara had been the model for that Cary Grant character in To Catch a Thief.

  Angelina had married the bedridden old man four days after they met. The next four years were, in her words, a training camp for becoming a world-class thief.

  What are you doing?” said Kurtz. He was moving from foot to foot on Hansen’s patio. It was damned cold and his hair was wet with snow.

  Angelina had cut a circular hole from the lower part of the patio door, had removed the glass carefully, and was reaching inside with a long instrument. She ignored Kurtz.

  “Isn’t that security system set for motion or messing with the glass?” asked Kurtz. “Haven’t you tripped it already?”

  “Would you shut up, please?” She reached in to clip on red and black wires and connected them to a module that connected with a Visor digital organizer. She studied the readout for a second, shut off the Visor, and unclipped the wires. “Okay,” she said, standing and throwing her heavy black bag over her shoulder.

  “Okay what?”

  “Okay we open the door the usual way and have eight seconds to tap in the six-digit code on the keypad.”

  “And you know the code now?”

  “Let’s see.” She studied the back door a minute, removed a short crowbar from her bag, broke the glass, and reached in to slip the chain lock and undo the main lock. It seemed to Kurtz that she had used the full eight seconds just to do that.

  Angelina walked into the rear hallway, found the keypad on the wall, and tapped in the six-character alphanumeric code. An indicator on the security keypad went from red to green to amber. “Clear,” she said.

  Kurtz let out his breath. He pulled his pistol out from under his coat.

  “You expecting someone else to be home?” said Angelina.

  Kurtz shrugged.

  “You going to tell me now whose house this is and how it relates to Gonzaga?”

  “Not yet,” said Kurtz. They went from room to room together, first the large downstairs, then all the bedrooms and guest rooms upstairs.

  “Jesus,” said Angelina as they came back downstairs. “This place is the definition of retro anal retentive. It’s like we broke into Mike and Carol Brady’s house.”

  “Who the hell are Mike and Carol Brady?”

  Angelina paused at the top of the basement stairs. “You don’t know the Brady Bunch?”

  Kurtz gave her a blank look.

  “Christ, Kurtz, you’ve been locked away longer than twelve years.”

  The basement had a laundry room, a bare rec room with a dusty Ping-Pong table, and a room locked away behind a steel door with a complicated security keypad.

  “Wowzuh,” said Angelina and whistled.

  “Same code as upstairs?”

  “No way. This is a serious piece of circuitry.” She started pulling instruments and wires from her bag.

  Kurtz glanced at his watch. “We don’t have all day.”

  “Why not?” said Angelina. “You have things to see and people to do today?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, don’t get your jockey briefs in a bunch. In two minutes, we’ll either be in or we’ll have armed private-security people all over our ass here.”

  “Private security,” said Kurtz. “This guy’s alarms don’t go to the cop house?”

  “Get serious.” She focused her attention on removing the keypad from the wall and connecting her wires to its wires without setting off the silent alarm.

  Kurtz wandered back upstairs and looked out the front window. Their black Town Car was parked in plain sight, although the increasing snowfall made visibility more problematic. Kurtz was thankful that Hansen had bought a relatively isolated house with such a long driveway.

  “Holy shit!” Angelina’s voice sounded far away.

  Kurtz trotted down the stairs and went through the open door. It was quite a private office—mahogany-paneled walls, a lighted gun case running from floor to ceiling, a heavy, expensive-looking wooden desk. On the wall above and behind that desk were photographs of James B. Hansen posing with various Buffalo worthies, plus a scad of certificates—Florida Police Academy diplomas, shooting awards, and commendations for Lieutenant and Captain Robert G. Millworth, Homicide Detective.

  Angelina’s eyes were narrow when she wheeled on Kurtz. “You had me break into a fucking cop’s home?”

  “No.” He walked over to the large wall safe. “Can you get into this?”

  She quit staring daggers at Kurtz and looked at the safe. “Maybe.”

  He looked at his watch again.

  “If this were a small, round safe, we’d have to pry the fucker out of the wall and take it with us,” said Angelina. “You just can’t get any blast leverage on a round safe. But our boy went in for the heavier, more expensive type.”

  “So?”

  “So anything with corners, I can get into.” She set her bag down near the safe door and began removing timers, primers, thermite sticks, and wads of plastique.

  “You’re going to blow it?” Kurtz was wishing that he’d gone to check on Arlene, Frears, and Pruno before doing this errand.

  “I’m going to burn our way into the lock mechanism and get at the tumblers that way,” said Angelina. “Why don’t you make yourself useful and go make us some coffee?” She worked for a few seconds and then looked up at Kurtz standing there. “I’m serious. I didn’t get my full three cups this morning.”

  Kurtz went up to the kitchen, found the coffeemaker, and made the coffee. He found some cannoli in the refrigerator. By the time he started down the stairs with two mugs and a dish with the cannoli, there came a loud hiss, a muffled whump, and an acrid odor filled the air. The safe looked intact to Kurtz’s eye, but then he saw a fissure around the combination lock. Angelina Farino Ferrara had attached a slim fiberoptic cable to the Visor organizer and was watching a monochrome display as she clicked the combination.

  The heavy safe door swung open. She accepted the cup of coffee and drank deeply. “Blue Mountain roast. Good stuff. Cannoli’s just okay.”

  Kurtz began removing things from the safe. A heavy nylon bag contained more than a dozen carefully wrapped cubes of what looked to be gray clay nestled in with foam-wrapped detonators, delicate-looking timers, and coils of primer cord.

  “Military C-Four,” said Angelina. “What the hell does your homicide captain want with C-Four in his home?”

  “He likes to burn down and blow up his homes,” said Kurtz. Shelves in the safe held more than $200,000 in cash and bearer’s bonds, a bunch of certificates and policies, and a titanium case. Kurtz ignored the money and carried the case to the desk.

  “Excuse me,” Angelina said. “You forgetting something?”

  “I’m not a thief.”

  “I am,” she said and began transferring the money and bonds to her bag.

  “Shit,” said Kurtz. The locks on the case were also titanium and did not give when he went at them with the small crowbar.

  “That little case may take longer to crack than the
safe,” said Angelina.

  “Uh-uh,” said Kurtz. He took out his .40-caliber Smith & Wesson and blew the locks off. The gap allowed the crowbar to get a grip and he popped the briefcase open.

  Angelina finished loading the contents of the safe, lifted her heavy bag, and came over to the desk where Kurtz had laid out some of the photographs. “So what exactly are you… Holy Mother of God!”

  Kurtz nodded.

  “Who is this motherfucking pervert?” whispered Angelina.

  Kurtz shrugged. “We’ll never know his real name. But I was sure that he’d keep trophies. And he did.”

  It was Angelina’s turn to look at her watch. “This is taking too long.”

  Kurtz nodded and hefted the bag of C-4 over his shoulder.

  Angelina was sipping her coffee and heading for the door. She gestured. “Bring the other bag with the money and my burglar’s stuff. Leave the cannoli.”

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  Hansen showed his badge to three nurses and two interns before being told where Nurse Gail DeMarco was.

  “She’s out of the O.R. and is…ah…right now, she’s in the Intensive Care Unit on nine.” The fat, black nurse was checking her computer monitor. Evidently all the hospital personnel were tracked by electronic sensors.

  Hansen went up to the ICU and found the nurse speaking on a cell phone while looking down at a sleeping or comatose teenage girl. The girl had bruises and bandages and at least three tubes running in and out of her.

  “Mrs. DeMarco?” Hansen showed his badge.

  “I have to go,” the nurse said into the phone and punched the disconnect button, but kept the phone in her hand. “What is it, Captain?”

  Hansen showed his most engaging smile. “You know that I’m a captain of detectives?”

  “It said so right on the ID you just showed me, Captain. Let’s step out of this room.”

  “No, we’re all right here,” said Hansen. “I’ll just be a minute.” He liked the glass doors and walls separating them from the nurses’ station. He went closer to the bed and leaned over the sleeping girl. “Car accident?”

  “Yes.”

  “What’s the kid’s name?”

  “Rachel.”

  “How old?”

  “Fourteen.”

  Hansen gave his winning smile again. “I have a fourteen-year-old son. Jason. He wants to be a professional hockey player.”

  The nurse did not respond. She checked one of the monitors and adjusted the IV drip. She was still carrying the stupid cell phone in her left hand.

  “She going to make it?” asked Hansen, not giving the slightest damn if the kid survived or went into cardiac arrest right then and there, but still wanting to get on Gail DeMarco’s good side. Most women were blown away by his smile and affable persona.

  “We hope so,” said the nurse. “Can I help you, Captain?”

  “Have you heard from your sister-in-law Arlene, Mrs. DeMarco?”

  “Not for the last week or so. Is she in some sort of trouble?”

  “We don’t know.” He showed the Frears photo. “Have you ever seen this man?”

  “No.”

  No hesitation. No questions. No sign of alarm. Gail DeMarco wasn’t responding according to the script. “We think perhaps this man abducted your sister-in-law.”

  The nurse didn’t even blink. “Why would he do that?”

  Hansen rubbed his chin. In other circumstances, he would take great pleasure in using a knife on this uncooperative woman. To calm himself, he looked down at the sleeping girl. She was just at the high end of the age group he liked. He raised her wrist and looked at the sea-green hospital bracelet there.

  “Please don’t touch her, Captain. We’re worried about infection. Thank you. We shouldn’t be in here.”

  “Just one more minute, Mrs. DeMarco. Your sister-in-law works for a man named Joe Kurtz. What can you tell me about Mr. Kurtz?”

  The nurse had moved between Hansen and the sleeping girl. “Joe Kurtz? Nothing, really. I’ve never met him.”

  “So you haven’t heard from Arlene in the last few days?”

  “No.”

  Hansen graced the woman with a last glimpse of his most charming smile. “You’ve been very helpful, Mrs. DeMarco. We are concerned about your sister-in-law’s whereabouts and well-being. If she gets in touch, please call me immediately. Here’s my card.”

  Gail DeMarco took the card but immediately slipped it into her smock pocket as if it was contaminated.

  Hansen took the elevator down to the reception level, spoke briefly with the nurse there, and took the elevator the rest of the way to the parking garage. He had learned several things. First, Kurtz’s secretary had been in touch with her sister-in-law, but Arlene probably had not told her any details concerning Frears or what was going on. The nurse had known just enough not to be concerned about her sister’s safety. Second, Gail almost certainly knew where Arlene was hiding. And probably Kurtz as well. Third, odds were good that Arlene and her boss, probably with Frears, were hiding at Nurse DeMarco’s borne on Colvin Avenue. Finally, and perhaps most important, Hansen had recognized the girl’s name on the ID bracelet—Rachel Rafferty. Most people would not have made the connection, but James B. Hansen’s memory was near photographically perfect. He recalled the notes in Joe Kurtz’s file: former partner in their private investigation firm, Samantha Fielding, one daughter—Rachel—two years old when Ms. Fielding had been murdered; Rachel later adopted by Fielding’s ex-husband, Donald Rafferty. And the nurse at reception, after being prodded by his badge, gave the details of the Raffertys’ auto accident—black ice on the Kensington Expressway, Donald Rafferty recovering well but under suspicion of sexually abusing his daughter, the investigation currently on hold until the girl either recovered consciousness or died.

  Hansen smiled. He loved subtle connections. Even more, he loved leverage over other people, and this injured child might make wonderful leverage.

  Kurtz and Angelina had just driven away from the Hansen house in Tonawanda when Kurtz’s cell phone rang. It was Arlene. “Gail just called from the hospital.”

  “You told her that you were all staying at her place?” said Kurtz.

  “I called her earlier this morning,” Arlene said. “She called a minute ago because she was in Rachel’s ICU room and her friend at reception called up from downstairs to tell her that a plainclothes detective was there at the hospital looking for her. Gail was on the phone with me when the cop came in and she left the line open while they talked…it was Millworth. Hansen. He even sounded crazy, Joe. And scary.”

  “What did Gail tell him?”

  “Nothing. Not a thing.”

  Kurtz doubted that. Even with the titanium briefcase full of incriminating evidence in the car with him, it was no time to start underestimating the creature Kurtz thought of as James B. Hansen.

  “You and Pruno and Frears have to get out of there,” he said.

  “We’ll go now,” said Arlene. “I’ll take the station wagon.”

  “No,” said Kurtz. He checked where they were. Angelina had chosen the Youngman Highway to get them back to the city, and the Lincoln was approaching the Colvin Boulevard exit. “Get off here,” he snapped at Angelina.

  She gave him an angry look but glanced at the titanium case and roared down the off-ramp onto Colvin Boulevard South.

  “We’ll be there in ten minutes,” Kurtz said to Arlene. “Less.”

  Hansen had just left the Medical Center when his private cell phone rang.

  “We just got to the DeMarco place on Colvin,” came Brubaker’s voice. “A black Lincoln Town Car just pulled into the driveway—either the DeMarco drive or the one belonging to the duplex next door, we can’t tell from down the block. Wait a minute, it’s pulling out again…the Lincoln’s coming by us… I see a woman driving, not Kurtz’s secretary. There was someone in the passenger seat, but Myers and me couldn’t see because of the reflection and I can’t see in the back
because of the goddamned tinted windows…sorry for the language, Captain. You want us to stake out the duplex or follow the Lincoln?”

  “Did you see anyone get into the car from the DeMarco house?”

  “No, sir. But we can’t see that side door from where we’re parked. Someone might have had time to jump in. But the Lincoln wasn’t in the driveway for more than ten seconds. It was more like a car turning around than anything else.”

  “Is the Country Squire station wagon in the driveway?”

  “Yeah. I can see it.”

  “Did you get the tag numbers on the Lincoln?”

  There was a short silence that sounded to Hansen like Brubaker sulking at being asked if they’d carried out such an elementary bit of detective work. Hansen wouldn’t have been surprised if they’d neglected to get the tag numbers.

  “Yeah,” Brubaker said at last. He read the numbers. “There’s no parking on the street here, Captain. We pulled into a driveway a couple of houses down. You want us to go after the Lincoln? We can catch up to it if we hurry.”

  “Brubaker,” said Hansen, “tell Myers to follow the Lincoln. Tell him to run a DMV check while he’s tailing it. You stay there and keep watch on the house. Try to be inconspicuous.”

  “How do I look inconspicuous while I’m standing out on the sidewalk in the snow?” said Brubaker.

  “Shut up and tell Myers to catch that Lincoln,” said Hansen. “I’ll be at the duplex in five minutes.” He broke the connection.

  Where’s Pruno?” said Kurtz, turned in the passenger seat to look at the two in the rear. When they had swept into the driveway, only Arlene and John Wellington Frears had run to the Lincoln and jumped in.

  “He left early this morning,” said Arlene. “About dawn. All dressed up in his pinstripe suit. He said something about hiding in plain sight. I think he’s going to check into a hotel or something until all this blows over.”

  “Pruno in a hotel?” said Kurtz. It was hard to picture. “Did he have any money?”