Heavenly covered the cell’s microphone with her hand.
“Take a left at the next light,” she said. “That’s Broad Street.”
I did what she told me. The SUV stayed on our bumper.
“All right, Marcus, I believe you,” Heavenly said into the flip phone. “Then you won’t be unhappy if something nasty happens to him … Call me tomorrow, Marcus. Not early … Good night.”
Heavenly hung up the phone and dropped it into her bag.
“That was Marcus,” she said.
“I gathered.”
“He claims the tail doesn’t work for him or Doc Young.”
We were idling at a red light, the Tahoe directly behind us. I couldn’t make out the driver’s face in the mirror, and I refused to turn my head to look.
“Yes, but can he be trusted?” I asked.
“Most men lie to me; they lie all the time.” Heavenly studied the SUV some more. “They say they want to be friends, but truthfully all they really want is twenty minutes of my time. You’re an exception. So is Marcus. I think.”
The light changed, and we drove ahead.
“Marcus said something earlier, though, that I found very interesting; something I didn’t press him on,” Heavenly said. “He told me that he knew someone would be going after the Stradivarius, he just didn’t know it would be me.”
“How ’bout that?”
“You were right to bring us here.”
“We need to get rid of this guy.”
Heavenly pulled the .40 S&W out of her bag.
“That’s the last resort,” I said.
She slid the handgun under her sling.
“Temple University is coming up on the right,” she said. “Lots of narrow streets.”
I took one—and another—and another, driving at speeds that invited catastrophe. I ignored a couple of stop signs, but nothing came of it. Late Monday night in Philadelphia, traffic was sparse and only a couple of pedestrians were on the streets. An old man walking a dog—I didn’t know if he raised his fist out of protest or solidarity when I flew past him.
The most important thing to remember in a high-speed pursuit—especially if you’re the one being pursued—is not to crash, because even if you survive an accident in one piece, you’re going to be a sitting duck. That’s why high speeds are not recommended. By keeping your speedometer under sixty miles per hour, you’ll have greater control of your vehicle, and evasive maneuvers will be easier to accomplish. Oh, did I tell you? One of the things they taught at the police academy besides body language—how to drive.
Unfortunately, the city streets were so narrow that I couldn’t allow the Ford to drift even a couple of feet one way or the other. I needed to keep it in an absolute straight line as I accelerated, no fishtailing allowed. Plus, the corners were virtually invisible from a distance what with cars parked right to the edge of the crosswalk; I only knew they were there because of the street signs. And they were so sharp that instead of gradually slowing before making a turn, I was forced to brake hard, giving up all of my speed.
Still, the SUV was outmatched. The Focus didn’t have much giddy-up. It was nimble, though, while the Tahoe was unstable, with its high center of gravity; there was a real chance that it could tip over when cornering at high speeds. Also, it had four-wheel drive, which was great for off-road excursions yet reduced its acceleration. I would easily have lost it in the Cities where I knew the ground, but driving strange streets in a strange land eliminated any advantage I might have had. It became a battle of attrition—whoever lost control of his vehicle first was screwed.
To be honest, I might have enjoyed myself, except it was obvious that the driver of the Tahoe no longer gave a damn that we knew he was following us, which meant he no longer cared where we were going, only that he was there when we arrived. The man was clearly looking for a confrontation.
I took a succession of right turns, leading the SUV in a wide circle. Heavenly was uncomfortable, her bad shoulder bouncing against the car seat, yet she tried not to show it.
“This is starting to get old, don’t you think?” she said.
“Just a bit.”
Heavenly slipped the S&W out from under her sling.
“Anytime you’re ready,” she said.
I managed to get a sizable lead on the Tahoe before hanging another sharp right down a one-way avenue with cars parked on both sides. The SUV sped up; turned sharply, nearly sideswiped the vehicle nearest the corner, straightened out, sped forward, and slammed hard on its brakes. It skidded to a halt only a few feet behind the rear bumper of the Ford Focus; the car was now parked in the middle of the street, blocking traffic, the driver and passenger doors hanging open.
Heavenly and I were no longer inside. I was on the sidewalk on one side of the street, and she was on the sidewalk on the opposite side, the parked cars providing us with cover. We moved cautiously until we were even with the Tahoe, our guns held low. It took a few beats before the driver realized what was happening. I saw him peering at me through the open window. I recognized him instantly. The man in the sports coat. He looked afraid.
Well, that’s something, anyway, my inner voice said.
The driver threw the Tahoe into reverse and started backing away at great speed. We stepped into the center of the street. Heavenly brought her gun up. She fired three times. The first two bullets ricocheted off the pavement. The third shot caught the front passenger tire. It exploded. The Tahoe slid sideways into a car parked at the corner. There was a satisfying sound of crunching metal and broken glass. The SUV stopped.
I ran forward. When I reached the driver’s side door I brought my SIG up and pointed it at the driver’s head.
“Hands on the steering wheel,” I said.
He seemed confused.
“Do it now,” I said.
He rested his hands on top of the steering wheel, yet kept staring at me. I opened the car door, grabbed his shoulder, and yanked him out. Heavenly was on my right, holding her gun with one hand, aiming at the driver’s core. I pushed him against the car. Apparently, he had done this sort of thing before, because he immediately assumed the position. I used my foot to kick his legs apart and back farther and farther until he was positioned as if he were doing push-ups against the SUV. He couldn’t have made a move against me without first attempting to stand up, which would have given me plenty of time to retaliate. Even so, I was careful, using quick taps of my fingertips to search the areas where he might have been carrying a weapon and a few where no one goes armed. He was clean. I wondered if he had a weapon inside the vehicle, yet I didn’t bother to look.
“We don’t have time for this,” Heavenly said.
She was right. I didn’t know what the Philadelphia Police Department’s response time was, but it couldn’t have been more than a couple of minutes.
I found his wallet and removed his driver’s license—I saw instantly that it had been issued by the State of Minnesota. I tossed the wallet inside the SUV and stuffed the driver’s license into my pocket.
“Who are you working for?” I asked.
He didn’t answer.
“Why are you following us?”
He didn’t answer that question, either.
“This isn’t getting us anywhere,” Heavenly said.
He turned his head and smirked.
“I’m going to fuck you up, bitch,” he said.
Heavenly kicked him in the groin just as hard as she could from behind. He screamed. His knees buckled, and his hands came off the SUV. He fell against the asphalt. His hands cupped his balls, and he rolled into a fetal position. He moaned like a dying man.
“Happy?” I said.
I was speaking to the driver, yet it was Heavenly who smiled brightly and nodded her head.
We returned to the Focus; I walked backward, making sure the driver of the SUV didn’t pop up and start shooting at us. I slid inside the car and drove away, not bothering with the seat belt until we were back on Broad Street.
I did not see any police cars; I didn’t hear any sirens.
“That was fun,” I said.
“Who was he?”
“I call him the man in the sports coat. He was following me when we were in Bayfield. He was the guy I chased out of the bar right before you were shot.”
“I should have put a bullet in him.”
“Maybe.”
I pulled the driver’s license out of my pocket and handed it to her. Heavenly dropped the sun visor and slid the mirror open. A small light flicked on, and she read the license.
“Weldon Lamm…”
“Weldon?”
“Really? You’re going to make fun of the man’s name—Rushmore?”
“Not me—Heavenly.”
“Weldon Lamm, 126 East Ninth Street, St. Paul, Minnesota, 55101.”
“126 East Ninth Street?”
“Is that significant?”
“I think that’s the address for the Lowell Apartments in downtown St. Paul, a kind of unofficial halfway house. A lot of convicts coming out of prison stay there. It used to be convenient because it was a block away from the St. Paul PD. The cops and probation officers had an easy time keeping track of them. Not so much since the department was moved to the Griffin Building a few years ago.”
“You think he’s an ex-con?”
“I’ll make a call tomorrow and find out.”
“How did Weldon know we were in Philadelphia? He couldn’t have followed us. I would have known.”
“Someone must have told him.”
“Who? El Cid?”
“That’s one possibility.”
Heavenly said the next name like it was a curse.
“Maryanne Altavilla.”
“That’s another.”
SEVENTEEN
It was tough going to bed fifteen feet from Heavenly, but not for the reasons you might suspect. The fractured collarbone made her a restless sleeper; it was impossible for her to roll over or sleep on her side without piercing pain.
“Can I get you anything?” I asked at one point.
“No” was her flat response.
After that, I kept quiet.
When I woke in the morning, I found that Heavenly had moved to the rocking chair. She was dressed in shiny blue pajamas; I could see the corner of a bandage peeking out from under the collar.
“Morning,” I said.
“Morning.”
“Did you sleep well?”
“No.”
Damn, McKenzie, what a dumb thing to ask.
“I need to take a shower and get cleaned up, but I waited because I didn’t want to wake you,” Heavenly said.
“You’re very kind.”
“Helluva girl, ask anyone. Do you mind if I go first?”
“Not at all.”
“I already had an apple and an English muffin, so if you’re hungry don’t wait on me.”
It took painful effort for her to extricate herself from the rocking chair. I nearly offered my assistance as she made her way to the bathroom, but thought better of it.
One dumb question at a time.
I glanced at my watch perched on a small bedside table. Eight fifteen; seven fifteen in the Twin Cities. I made my way to the kitchen, brewed a pot of coffee, and toasted a bagel that I slathered with, yes, Philadelphia Cream Cheese. Afterward, I watched the Weather Channel.
At exactly eight-oh-one Minnesota time, I made a call on my cell phone. He answered the way he always did.
“Commander Dunston.”
“Hi, Bobby. It’s me.”
“McKenzie? It’s … it’s eight o’clock. Since when do you get up before ten?”
“Hey, man. The sun is shining, the birds are singing—”
“What are you talking about? It’s raining like hell.”
“It is?”
“Where are you?”
“Philadelphia.”
“Are you in trouble?”
“Of course not.”
“Of course not—so why are you calling me at eight o’clock?”
“Because I knew you’d be in. You’re the most punctual person I know. You’re even worse than Nina.”
“What does that have to do with anything?”
“I need a favor.”
“Here it comes.”
“The computer sitting on the right-hand side of your desk. Can you type in a name for me, find out if he’s in the system?”
“Some guy from Philadelphia?”
“No, no—he’s from Minnesota.”
“You want me to check him out because…?”
“He’s been following me for about a week.”
“Why?”
“Bobby, this is starting to be an awfully long conversation, and I know how much you hate talking on the phone.”
“Why, McKenzie?”
I told him. It took longer than when I explained myself to the FBI because Bobby kept asking questions. I was surprised that, like Nina, he took a keen interest in Heavenly’s health and well-being, especially since he’s been anxious to arrest her for one thing or another for years.
“Jeezus, McKenzie,” Bobby said. “You can’t get into enough trouble at home, you have to travel now? What’s this guy’s name?”
“Weldon Lamm, 126 East Ninth Street, St. Paul, Minnesota, 55101.”
“Lowell Apartments? Just a sec.”
While I waited, Heavenly stepped out of the bathroom. She looked gorgeous, which didn’t surprise me. But I had to ask—how did she manage it with one arm, her makeup, her hair; the clingy shirtdress with all those snaps up the front?
“Magic,” she told me. “Who are you talking to?”
“Bobby Dunston.”
“Ask him why he wants to put me in jail.”
“I can tell you that—you’re a menace to society.”
“McKenzie?” Bobby said.
I removed my hand from the cell phone’s microphone.
“Yeah,” I said.
“Lamm is an all-purpose asshole. He did time for receiving stolen property. Apparently an insurance investigator caught him attempting to pawn a boatload of jewelry. That was his first jolt in prison. The second, he shot a guy over a gambling debt. I have no idea who owed whom. His latest—the state kicked him after doing thirty-eight months of a five-year sentence for sexual assault. He raped a teenage girl who was living in his building. McKenzie, the man’s a registered sex offender. He should not be in Philadelphia. He should not have been in Wisconsin. He should not be anywhere except at the Lowell Apartments. The minute I’m off the phone, I’ll be notifying his PO that the man is off the reservation.”
“Okay.”
“Do you know where he is?”
“No.”
“The Philadelphia PD will be receiving a bulletin directly.”
“Tell them that Lamm is driving a red Chevy Tahoe, probably a rental. Sorry, I don’t have a license plate number.”
“By the way. Barbecue. My place. Saturday. No excuse will be accepted. From you or Nina.”
“I’ll be there.”
Heavenly waved to attract my attention.
“Tell the commander I said hi,” she said.
“What was that?” Bobby asked.
“Heavenly Petryk says hi.”
There was a long pause. When Bobby spoke again I could hear the grin in his voice.
“She’s welcome to come to the barbecue, too,” he said. “Provided she’s not under arrest.”
I hung up the phone. There must have been a smile on my face, because of the way Heavenly looked at me and said, “What?”
* * *
I took a lot less time in the bathroom than Heavenly had, but then I had two hands to work with and I didn’t need to take time to clean and rebandage a gunshot wound. When I emerged, I found her sitting on the rocking chair, the flip phone in her hand. She was wearing her sling again. I mentioned it to her.
“I’m a glutton for punishment,” she said. “But not that much punishment.”
�
�Dr. Candy said it would take a few weeks.”
“I’ve been counting the days, trust me.” Heavenly held up the flip phone. “Marcus called. We’re on for tonight.”
“Where?”
“What is your favorite spot in Philadelphia?”
“I haven’t been here long enough to have a favorite spot.”
“Let me rephrase—what is your favorite spot in any decent-size city in America?”
I gave it a few moments thought. I like to travel, and when I travel …
“The ballpark,” I said.
“Citizens Bank Park, where the Phillies play, because…?”
Really, Petryk, you’re quizzing me?
“Security,” I said. “Metal detectors and pat-downs at the door make it harder to smuggle a weapon inside. Plus there are guards and cameras and twenty thousand potential witnesses depending on how the Phillies are drawing this year. Whose idea was it?”
“Mine.”
“You really did get thirty-two on your ACT, didn’t you?”
“Actually, I lied about that. I only scored a thirty.”
“Well, you’ll always be a thirty-two in my book. How do you want to spend the rest of the day?”
“Would it bore you to visit the Philadelphia Museum of Art?”
“Not at all. Although, in retrospect, that might have been an even more secure location.”
“Except it closes at five P.M. on Tuesdays, and the doctor refused to meet until this evening.”
“I wonder why.”
“Yeah. It’s not like he has a daytime job.”
* * *
Third row center in the left field seats, I was eating a sandwich with sauce that dripped over my fingers onto the wax paper on my lap.
“Eww,” Heavenly said. “What is that?”
“Called a Schmitter. Really good. Thinly sliced steak, cooked salami, fried onions, tomatoes, cheese. It’s the sauce that makes it tasty, though—mayo, relish, ketchup, and Worchestershire.”
“God, you’re brave.”
“I thought it was named after the Hall of Fame third baseman Mike Schmidt, the greatest Phillie of them all, but the woman at the food stand told me it was actually named after a beer that was brewed on Chestnut Hill, wherever that is.”
Stealing the Countess Page 24
