by Dan Simmons
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?"
"Yes," said Frears.
"There's a Pontiac following us," said Angelina.
Kurtz swiveled back and looked in the rearview mirror. "Where'd it come from?"
"It was parked a couple of houses down from the place we picked these two up. It's been moving fast in traffic to catch up."
"It could be coincidence," said the violinist in back, looking out the rear window of the Lincoln.
Kurtz and Angelina exchanged glances. Obviously neither of them believed in coincidences.
"The car across the street from my house yesterday was a Pontiac," Arlene said.
Kurtz nodded and looked at Angelina. "Can we lose them?"
"Tell me who we're losing. I'm beginning to feel like the hired help today."
Kurtz thought of her black bag with the $200,000 next to Hansen's bag of C-4 in the trunk. "You have to admit, the pay's pretty good," he said.
Angelina shrugged. "Who's behind us? Mr.—?" She tapped the titanium briefcase Kurtz was holding on his lap.
"One or more of the detectives who are working for him," said Kurtz.
"You mean working for him or working for him?"
"For him personally," said Kurtz. "Can we lose them? I don't think you want this guy visiting you." He tapped the case.
Angelina Farino Ferrara checked the mirror again.
"He's only one car behind. They probably made the license plate."
"Still…" said Kurtz.
"Everyone buckle up," said Angelina.
* * *
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
« ^ »
The light was red by Nichols School at the intersection of Colvin and Amherst where the street ended at the park. The Lincoln was second in line. Kurtz glanced back and could see the silhouette of only one head in the Pontiac two cars back.
Without warning, Angelina swung the Lincoln around the old car ahead of them, almost hit a Honda turning left from Amherst, and accelerated through the red light—cutting off two other cars that had to brake wildly. She headed east on Amherst for a hundred yards and then swung south again on Nottingham Terrace along the edge of the park.
"The car's following," called Arlene from the back seat.
Angelina nodded. They were doing seventy miles per hour on the residential street. She braked hard and swung the big vehicle up a ramp onto the Scajaquada Expressway. A hundred yards back, almost lost in the snowfall, the Pontiac bounced and roared its way up the same ramp.
Cutting more cars off as she made the exchange from the Scajaquada to 190, she accelerated to one hundred miles per hour as they roared south over snow and black ice along the elevated sections paralleling the river.
For a minute, the Pontiac was lost in traffic, and Angelina braked hard enough to send the Lincoln into a slide. Going lock to lock with the steering wheel, tapping the brake and hitting the gas again to bring the rear end around, Angelina cut off a rusty Jetta and zoomed down another ramp, drove through a red light in front of an eighteen-wheeler to drive east on Porter and then swung around behind the old pumping-station building in La Salle Park.
The street here—old AmVets Drive—had not been plowed for hours, and Angelina slowed as the black Lincoln kicked up rooster tails of snow. To their right, the Niagara River widened toward Lake Erie, but it was all ice, all snow, as featureless gray-white as the frozen fields in the empty park to their left. The back street connected to the maze of local loops and streets around the Erie Basin Marina and the Marina Towers. The Pontiac did not reappear.
Hansen did not use the battering ram. He and Brubaker kicked in the side door of Gail DeMarco's duplex and went up the stairs width their guns drawn.
The tiny little apartment up there was empty. Photographs on the bedroom dresser showed the nurse Hansen had interviewed, Gail DeMarco, Kurtz's secretary Arlene, and a man who was probably Arlene DeMarco's dead husband. Hansen and Brubaker searched the rooms, but there was no sign that the secretary or Frears or Kurtz had been there.
"Shit," said Brubaker, holstering his weapon and ignoring the frown at the use of such language. Brubaker gave Hansen a shrewd, ferret look. "Captain, what the hell is going on?"
Hansen stared at the detective.
"You know what I mean, Captain. You couldn't care less about this Kurtz, and now you've got Myers and me running all over town and back trying to find him and his secretary and this violinist. We've violated about three dozen department procedures. What's going on?"
"What do you mean, Fred?"
"Don't Fred me, Millworth." Brubaker was showing his smoker's teeth in a leer. "You say you're going to cover my back in an Internal-Affairs investigation, but why? You're the original straight-arrow, aren't you? What the fuck is going on here?"
Hansen lifted the Glock-9 and laid the muzzle against Detective Brubaker's temple. Thumbing the hammer back for effect, Hansen said, "Are you listening?"
Brubaker nodded very slightly.
"How much did Little Skag Farino pay you to get Kurtz, Detective Brubaker?"
"Five thousand in advance to arrest him and get him into the system. Another five when someone whacked him at County."
"And?" said Hansen.
"Fifteen K promised if I killed him myself."
"How long have you been on the Farino payroll, Detective Brubaker?"
"December. Just after Jimmy died."
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Hansen leaned closer. "You sold your gold badge for five thousand dollars, Detective. This situation—with Frears, with Kurtz—is worth a hundred times that. To you, Myers, me."
Brubaker rolled his eyes toward Hansen. "Half a million dollars? Total?"
"Apiece," said Hansen.
Brubaker licked his lips. "Drugs then? The Gonzagas?"
Hansen denied nothing. "Are you going to help me, Detective? Or are you going to continue asking insulting questions?"
"I'm going to help you, Captain."
Hansen lowered the Glock-9. "What about Tommy Myers?"
"What about him… sir?"
"Can he be trusted to do as he's told?"
Brubaker looked calculating. "Tommy's not on anybody's payroll except the department's, Captain. But he does what I tell him to. He'll keep his mouth shut."
Hansen saw the shrewd glint in Brubaker's eyes and realized that the detective was already planning on how to eliminate Tommy Myers from the payoff once the work was done. Half of a million and a half dollars was seven hundred and fifty thousand for Detective Frederick Brubaker. Hansen didn't care—there was no drug money, no money of any sort involved—as long as Brubaker did what he was told.
Hansen's phone rang.
"I lost them on the downtown section of the Thruway," said Myers. He sounded a little breathless. "But I got a make on the license plates. Byron Farino of Orchard Park."
Hansen had to smile. The old don was dead and the Orchard Park estate closed up, but evidently someone in the family business was still using the vehicle. A woman had been driving, Myers had said. The daughter back from Italy? Angelina?
"Good," said Hansen. "Where are you?"
"Downtown, near the HSBC arena."
"Go over to the Marina Tower building and find a place to watch the garage exit."
"The Farino bitch's penthouse?" said Myers. "Sorry, Captain. You think this Frears and the others are there?"
"I think so. Just keep a good watch, Detective. I'll be down to talk to you in a bit." He disconnected and told the other detective what Myers had said.
