by David Stever
Shame on me. This case was twenty-four hours from now on.
They came back out of the room. Brindisi got into the Mercury and peeled out from the lot. Rosso went back into the office and picked up the phone. A moment later, Katie called my phone.
“Are you at the Harbor Court?”
“Yes.”
“Mike said the TV news is reporting cars on fire in the parking garage of the Marriott hotel.”
“You’re kidding.”
“He said three cars are burning, and all the streets are blocked off.”
“Might be nothing to do with us but—”
“You think it’s Claire’s car.”
“One way to find out.” I closed the call. Did Brindisi go to the Marriott and set Claire’s car on fire? Did he torch the wrong car and that’s why Rosso was screaming at him?
Katie called again. “I put the news on and they are saying it looks like arson.”
“If my guess is correct, I’m not surprised.”
“Wait…” Silence on her end and then I heard my TV in the background. “Unbelievable…at least one was a black Audi. They interviewed the fire captain.”
“Thanks.” I hung up and sat there. Why would she have her own car destroyed? I started my car to head to the Marriott to confirm it was her car. Then I’d confront her.
A cab pulled into the Harbor Court just as I started out of the McDonald’s lot. I stopped and reversed back to my spot. It waited a few moments and then Claire came out of her room, wearing jeans and a blouse, and got into the cab. I wished all my clients had hair like that. Makes surveillance much easier.
The cab turned on Harbor Boulevard, and I slid in right behind it. It wasn’t necessary for me to follow. I knew exactly where she was going.
Chapter
33
I followed the cab until it pulled to a stop three blocks from the Marriott. Claire got out and walked the rest of the way. Three fire engines and several police cars had the road and front portico drive to the hotel blocked. I couldn’t get any farther by car so I parked and waited.
My phone buzzed no more than ten minutes later—a sobbing Claire. Through her whimpering, she told me her car was torched and I needed to come to the hotel right away. She sounded scared, distraught and said she didn’t know what to do. What she said and what I thought were two different things. No doubt in my mind that she knew exactly what she was doing.
I hustled the three blocks and as I got there, the firemen were winding fire hoses back into the trucks. People—curious guests, staff—bustled around the lobby but I made my way to the elevators and up to room 503. Two police officers were in the hall, and they stepped up to me as I approached. The door was open; Claire must have heard us and called for me to come in. I walked in and I was stunned. It was as if she’d been staying there for at least a week. She had clothes in the closet, snacks and makeup on the dresser, her purse on a chair, shoes on the floor, magazines and a book on the desk, the bed unmade. Another officer was in the room, asking questions.
“He’s with me,” she said to the officer. She threw her arms around me and started crying again. “Do you believe this?” She had changed her clothes from what she had on when she left the Harbor Court. She wore sweat-pants and a T-shirt, no makeup, and had her hair pulled back. Like she’d never left the room.
“Tell me what happened,” I said.
The officer interrupted and rightly so. He’d want to ask the questions.
“Who are you?” I showed him my ID and my retired police ID. He identified himself as Sergeant Mooney. “Three Audis set on fire. Funny thing is, the cars were not next to each other. So, whoever did this either has a vendetta against Audis or didn’t know which one to target, so he lit up all three.”
Was this the reason Rosso was browbeating Brindisi? Could he be stupid enough to do something like this?
Claire sat on the bed. “She said you’re working with her. Anything to add?” he asked.
I looked at him and nodded to the hallway. “Can we?” He said sure and we went out in the hall and huddled up with the other two officers.
“Domestic case. She’s afraid of her ex-husband but I don’t think he has the stones to do something like this. The more I get into the case, the more I think she’s the one who needs some help. What about the other two cars?”
“One belongs to a doctor who’s in town for a meeting, and the other car is rented to a guy who’s up in the penthouse suite, but he can’t tell us what he does for a living,” he said.
“Open-and-shut,” I said. “Somebody was short on his last payment to his supplier.” All three guys chuckled.
“I think you’re right.” Mooney nodded toward Claire’s room. “Why are the good-looking babes always the craziest?”
“Tell me about it,” I said. “Wish me luck.” We all laughed. I hoped I held them off for a couple of days. Brindisi on a security camera would eventually bring them back to Claire. They said their next stop was the penthouse and we parted ways. I went into the room.
Claire sat on the edge of the bed and I sat down beside her. “What did you say to them?”
“Only that I was involved in an investigation and I think I was a target.”
I held her hand in mine. “I realize this is upsetting, but I don’t want you talking to the police or anyone else for that matter.”
“What should I say?”
“That you have no idea why someone would do this to you. I’m glad you called me when you did. Anything else like this happens, don’t say a word.”
She hooked her arm through mine and drew closer to me. She put her head on my shoulder. “This is all my fault. I’m aware I started this, but I never expected all this to happen.”
“I’m sure you thought this would come down to me and Mr. Bocci looking for a bank account.” A leading question and I was doing my best to lead. No more surprises.
“Yes, I did.” She turned more into me and her hand went on my thigh. Those stunning, green eyes welled with tears. Her other hand slid up my back, onto my neck, and then pulled me to her. Her eyes held mine, our lips closing in.
She whispered, “I don’t want to be alone.”
“Claire…” Don’t do it Johnny-boy—don’t do it. But I could not fight it. The hair, the green eyes, the body; there’s not a man alive who could say no. We kissed, soft at first, then harder. Her hands on me, and my hands on her…
A knock on the door. Unbelievable. “Miss Dixon?” The hotel manager.
“He’ll go away. Don’t stop.”
“Claire, we have to. We can’t do this. Answer the door.” She pulled on her shirt.
“Miss Dixon?”
“Just a minute,” she yelled. “Johnny, please stay. I need you.”
“We’ll talk later.”
She opened the door and the manager apologized for what happened with the car and offered to arrange for a rental. She took his information, thanked him, said she would call him once she had herself ready for the day.
She came back into the room and sat beside me on the bed. “Stay.”
“We can’t. You’re the client. It never ends right.” And with this chick, there’s no telling how it will end. “Come to the bar tonight for dinner, and we’ll see where we are. Somebody set your car on fire. Obvious warning—we need to figure out who sent it. Do not leave this room before then.”
She put her arms around me. “Why can’t we talk now?”
She kissed me full on. I kissed her back for a moment and then pushed her off. “Claire.”
She tugged at my belt buckle. I grabbed her hand and stopped her.
I stood. “Come to the bar tonight at seven.”
“I’m scared.”
“I know you are. That is why you go from here to the bar. Nowhere else.”
“Whatever you say.” She st
retched out on the bed.
Did she have her own car set on fire and why? To make it look as if she’s targeted and somebody—Tony?—is coming after her? I took a second to take in her long body and the hair that tumbled around her. I was mad that I allowed it to go as far as I did. I couldn’t trust her. I couldn’t even understand her.
“Do not leave this room. Okay? Take a cab to the bar tonight and don’t speak to anyone. We need to find out who did this. Hotel security will check their cameras and I’ll stay in touch with the police.”
“Johnny?”
I walked over to the bed.
“Thank you. I’m sorry about—”
“No apology necessary. Let’s stick to the case, and with any luck, we’ll find your money.”
“Deal.”
“See you tonight.” I turned and left. Unsure of everything.
Chapter
34
My car was three blocks from the Marriott, and I was glad. I needed the walk to clear my head. I couldn’t let her distract me like that again. Claire’s room had her clothes and things strewn about as if she had been there the entire week. What was the play? When did she move all her clothes and things to the Marriott? Was Brindisi the errand boy?
I called Katie when I got back into my car and filled her in. She was working on Bocci and the number he gave me but had not come up with anything. I also had Mike and Junior brainstorming on the number and they both struck out with federal and state databases. We’d tried everything we could think of. Was it some type of address, storage locker, phone number, stock ID number? We were running out of possibilities.
I arrived at the bar and Katie had moved herself down to the booth. I told her I wanted her back up in my place before Claire showed up. Too many mobsters around, and I didn’t need Katie to be used as a target or a pawn. She was kidnapped once; we didn’t need her abducted again and held for information or— let’s say—two million dollars.
“But I like working down here where I can be with live human beings.”
“I understand,” I told her, “but caution is the word of the day. I don’t need any of these guys getting any ideas.”
“Fine. Want some lunch? Mike said he’d fix me a sandwich.”
“Sure, whatever you’re having.” She went to the kitchen as my phone rang—Brindisi. I slid into the booth and answered.
“I did what you said. Rosso wants to meet. Tonight. Says we can work something out,” Brindisi said.
“What did you say to him?”
“Just what you told me. That we should work together. Made it sound like my idea.”
“Good.”
“You’ll take care of me, right?”
“Of course. Like I said. If this works, we all get paid,” I said.
“Tonight. Eleven. Pier 21.”
“Got it.” I closed my phone. I’d like to think they took the bait, but there wasn’t any bait to take. Rosso sent Brindisi to me, no doubt. Why? To draw me out? To find out what I know and get between Claire and the money?
If the money existed at all.
Katie carried two plates of food, chicken salad sandwiches, which she placed on the table. Mike came over and put a beer in front of me and gave her a soda. Her phone rang, and she answered it.
“Yes, speaking.” She listened and after a minute her face lit up. I hoped that meant good news. “Oh, that’s encouraging. Thank you. Yes, we’ll see you tomorrow at one.” She ended the call and sat down at the table. “Guess who that was!”
“Well, I’m hoping—”
“Margaret Finley from First National Bank. I talked to her a few days ago and she remembered my story and thinks the number is a safe deposit box. She remembered the safe deposit boxes are all four digits, each with a six-digit passcode. She said there is a box that matches our number. We go tomorrow at one.”
“Good job so far. What else?”
“What else what?”
“Even if it is a match, don’t we need identification? Some sort of document?”
She picked up her sandwich but stopped mid-bite. “Oh.”
“If it’s Bocci’s box, and I hope it is, we don’t have any ID—and you sure as hell don’t look like Bocci.”
“I said I was a niece and he passed away. Like you told me to do.”
“Then we stick with that story. At least we have something.”
We clinked glasses. My new concern was the Rosso, or Karl Boyd, and the Brindisi connection, and how Claire had brought them into her world. Or did Rosso orchestrate all this and bring Claire in as a front? If he’s supposed to be in a self-imposed witness protection program, he would need somebody like Claire. But why now after all these years? What if Claire’s story is legit? Her mother died, she’s carrying out the dying wish? She knows the once hidden away Rosso was back and she finds him through Aunt Elena and he happens to be closer than Claire ever expected. Claire pulling Rosso into the gig made more sense.
But she hired me, why the need for anyone else?
I called Claire to check in, but she didn’t answer. Deliberate, or did something happen? Now with her car, and my GPS device with it, looking like burnt toast, we had no way to track her.
We finished our lunch and cleared the table. I asked Mike to sit in and we talked through a plan for this evening’s meet-and-greet with Rosso. Prepare for the worst and hope for the best. Mike and I lived by that credo for many years, and we were still alive.
I gave Katie the access code for the GPS that was in my car. All I wanted her to do was stay in touch with Mike tonight by phone. Mike had no time for computers. He could operate a beer tap, and that’s all he ever intended to do. But tonight, I needed him to have my back.
Claire did not answer any of my calls that day. I dressed in all black and prepared my duffel with tools I might need for tonight’s meeting with Rosso. I left my apartment at nine and went to the Marriott. I got lucky with an assistant manager. I flashed my old police ID, and he agreed to go with me to Claire’s room. She didn’t answer our knock and he opened the door. Nothing had changed in the room except that the sweatpants she was wearing were now in a heap on the floor.
I thanked the manager and drove over to the Harbor Court Motel and found just what I thought I would find. Nothing. I parked in the side alley, walked up to room 112 and knocked. No answer. No lights on in the room. Was she missing or hiding? Did somebody grab her because she’s the conduit to the money? A good possibility.
The one I dreaded the most.
Chapter
35
I arrived at the harbor at ten o’clock, one hour before the meeting with Rosso and Brindisi. Most weeknights, the docks operate until eleven o’clock, the dock workers on a two-shift day: seven to three, three to eleven. But on a Saturday it was only me, the seagulls, and Harbor security. Pier 21 is the last pier, twenty-one out of twenty-one, and the significance was there was only one way in and one way out. Depending on how I positioned myself, my back could be against the wall, or the water, in this case. Rosso made a smart choice in choosing this location. I needed to make sure I used it to my advantage. Locked gates prevented access to the piers but this meeting, located on the service road, was patrolled by private security. PCPD maintained a presence on the docks during the day, and rent-a-cops kept watch at night.
I parked my car between two containers at Pier 19 and walked along the edge of the bulkhead, the containers providing great cover, except that a full moon hung in the night sky. That was bad for two reasons: it brought out the crazies, and I had enough crazy on this case already. Second, the moonlight shone so bright you could read by it. I stayed in the shadows of the containers as much as I could. I took a position on Pier 20 that gave me a clear view of the roadway. Anyone approaching 21 had to come past me—unless they came by boat.
Harbor security rolled by at 10:15 and did a cursory drive-by. If mem
ory served, it took them an hour to cover the piers and the surrounding area, and most of their time was spent chasing off drug dealers and couples making out in cars. It was a warm night, so hopefully there would be enough necking teenagers to keep security busy. If Rosso showed up on time, we would have fifteen minutes to discuss business before security came through again.
I found a spot behind an office shed and grabbed an old crate to sit on. I sent a text to both Mike and Katie to let them know I was in position. I told them I would text them again when I saw Rosso, and if they didn’t receive a message from me within fifteen minutes, Mike should come looking. Katie sent a text back confirming my location through the GPS in my car.
I had participated in plenty of stake-outs in my life, waiting for some lowlife to show up or for some deal to go down, but I always had the entire PCPD behind me. Tonight it was me and my Beretta and a couple of washed-up mobsters living in the past. My nerves were up, my senses wide awake. I heard every seagull caw, every splash of water as it lapped against the piers, every creak and squeak that you only hear at night. I had the gun in my shoulder holster under my jacket—safety off.
At 10:58, the low whine of a car came up, and I peeked around the office shed. It was the old Lincoln Mercury. The headlights blinked off as it went past Pier 20 and then it slowed and stopped at 21. I left my spot and stayed as concealed as much as I could while I made my way to 21. The car doors opened and two guys got out. One was the skinny guy with the gray ponytail I saw working the Harbor Court. Had to be Rosso. I did not recognize the second man, but he was tall and muscular. No Brindisi either, which now meant Rosso had more goons stored away somewhere. Which meant more men to pay—or promise to pay—which meant more men who would talk, which meant more who need to be eliminated when this all goes bad, or if Rosso doesn’t want to share. Not too smart.
They stood in front of their car, silhouetted by the arc lights that lined the roadway.
“Delarosa?” It was Rosso. I didn’t say anything for a minute. I was now behind a container and he would see me as soon as I stepped out.
