by Brian Haig
Haggar planned on waiting till he made a bundle before cashing her in for his dream, a younger trophy, somebody with uplifted boobs, slimmer thighs, less wrinkles. Someone always ready and willing for a little sex.
Her plan was to wait till he was rich enough to be worth divorcing.
Well, what the hell, Haggar figured. After ten years of sleeping in separate beds, the dream could wait for another few years.
25
They picked up Jack the moment he rushed out of the big cylinder that housed CG’s headquarters, jumped into his car, and sped away. Following him was too easy. Months before, they had planted a tracking device on the undercarriage of his Lincoln. Though he spent much of his time at home, they liked the cool assurance of knowing he couldn’t slip away.
They stayed at a safe distance, usually at least three cars back. The risk of being spotted was much higher than any chance of letting him slip, which was essentially zero. The tracking device was the newest thing, tethered to a satellite thousands of miles overhead; he could be driving in Europe and they’d know which street, to within ten inches. They followed at a leisurely pace, as Jack shot across the Memorial Bridge, then ground his way through the thick, midday D.C. traffic. Once or twice he got a few headlights ahead, but the TFAC trackers remained calm.
They had expected him to jump on 95 and bolt north, directly toward Jersey and his big house. Apparently he had business in D.C. to accomplish before he made the long drive home.
They were stuck at a red light when Jack made an abrupt left turn and sprinted into the busier streets of a shopping section. Every inch of his progress was followed carefully and closely on their screen. They were only mildly concerned when he made another quick turn, then his Lincoln stopped for a moment, then picked up speed again and began doing slow circles on their screen.
“Better kick it up a notch,” the passenger ordered the driver. He glanced at his watch, then buried his face back in the tracking screen.
“What is it?”
“I dunno. Target’s doing small circles.” He thought about it a few seconds. “Maybe a parking garage.”
The driver tried edging around the cars directly to his front but it was no use. He pounded the horn a few times and was coldly ignored. D.C. drivers.
He finally turned left, then followed the tracker’s orders straight to a large parking garage on 18th Northwest. “Should we go in?” he asked.
“No, pull over. Let’s see when he comes out.”
By his calculation, Jack’s car had entered the garage only two minutes before. He watched the garage entrance for a moment before he saw people getting out of their cars, and attendants climbing in to park them.
“Damn it, it’s full-service,” he complained, banging a hand off the dash.
“We lost him,” the driver said, voicing the obvious.
“Don’t sweat it, we’ll find him. Cruise around. Keep your eyes peeled on the shops and local buildings. He can’t be far.”
Wrong guess, because Jack at that moment was seated in the rear of a taxi speeding toward Union Station. He had called for the cab from his cell phone, and dodged into the back a moment after the attendant handed him a parking ticket for his car. Thirty thousand dollars in large bills were stuffed in his pocket. Another pocket held his Amtrak ticket for an afternoon run to New York City. A rental car arranged by somebody else awaited him there.
This was his plan, the getaway meticulously plotted and prepared so many months before. It was always inevitable that CG would begin putting things together, eventually. Once they got an inkling of what he had done, things would turn dangerous. He knew his house was being watched, knew about the trailers who followed him everywhere.
It was time to dump the watchers and trackers and disappear for a while. Time to go underground, time to see how things developed and make his next moves from there.
Everything would be handled with cash. A complete set of papers sat in the bottom of his briefcase, under a different name, a passport, charge cards, driver’s license. His money, almost fifty million in cash, was at that moment electronically careening through various overseas banks. It would not stop moving for hours, until all possible trace was lost.
A trusted friend with long experience in these matters was handling the transactions. By six, the money would be cooling its heels in an impenetrable Swiss bank, undetectable to anyone hunting for Jack.
He pulled out a cell phone and placed a quick call to his lawyer. The conversation was short and to the point. The second he finished, he ditched the cell phone with a quick toss out the window. Ten more disposable cell phones were stashed in the rental car in New York. Can’t be too careful, he reminded himself as the Capitol dome flashed by to his right.
Things were about to turn really interesting.
The neighborhood was dark and almost spookily quiet. The skies were thick with clouds that hid the moon, and that made them happy. They were parked in a narrow alleyway up on a hill less than a block behind her house. They could look down and see everything.
She got home from work later than the past three nights, at eight, and launched into her usual ritual. After seven days of watching and peeking, they could almost predict what she’d do next. They made a game of it and tried, but it was too easy to be fun. They quickly lost interest.
It was a small house with large windows—women had such a thing for light—and they could observe her every move with a pair of good German-made binoculars. First, thirty minutes in the kitchen cooking roast beef and potatoes. Chicken the night before, now she was in the mood for beef. She carried her plate into her den, sat down on the couch, and settled in to catch the evening news as she nibbled from her plate. At nine she switched channels, started to watch a movie, quickly became bored, dumped the plate in the kitchen, and shifted to the bedroom.
She undressed and changed in her bathroom, emerging fifteen minutes later with her teeth and hair brushed, in a stingy teddy they all admired immensely. Nice long legs, broad shoulders, wonderful athletic build, they agreed. They laughed and shared a few lewd comments to illuminate the extent of their veneration. After fifteen minutes of reading, the bedside light flipped off. Nighty-night, Mia, one of them crooned.
That was three hours before. “Time to go, boys,” Castile, the boss, hissed at the others. The moon had just dodged behind some thick clouds, the lights were off in the surrounding homes. It was perfect.
They eased out of the car and crept through the small, well-kept yards of the two houses directly behind hers. Three men in all, scooting along in dark pants, black sweatshirts, and running shoes, and each had a balaclava hood rolled on his head, which they tugged down the moment before they entered her home.
Castile, the expert at locks, did the honors. He had it picked in less than a minute, he eased the door open, and one by one they snuck inside. The house was pitch-dark but for a few nightlights sprinkled in strategic locations. Just right. Jones hauled in the bag filled with the evidence it was his task to plant in some suitable location. Phillips crept swiftly and silently through the kitchen, through the tiny living room, straight to her bedroom door, which was closed tight, as they knew it would be. He hefted the baseball bat in his right hand and waited. He was the security hack. If the door opened, if she peeked out, he would bean her, hard, and they would bolt into the dark night.
Castile tiptoed to the den. He flicked on his pencil flashlight with a concentrated directional beam and surveyed the surroundings for a moment. A small room, nothing much here. Two bookcases packed with thick legal volumes and a few novels. A short wooden filing case in the corner. A desk against the far wall—a wooden double-pedestal model with three locked drawers on the right side.
After deciding to tackle the desk first, he bent over and got to work on the locks.
Jones, in the interim, had found the back stairs and worked his way down to the basement, which was pitch-dark. His flashlight came on and he began nosing around to select the perfect place. The b
asement had recently been refinished and was nicely done in his view—a fifty-inch flat-panel hanging on the wall, with a pair of thick leather couches arrayed for a great view. There were two doors, and Jones eased open the nearest one first. A small bathroom that definitely wouldn’t do, and he quickly moved on. He opened the other door, and voilà—a storage room cluttered with boxes, oversize luggage, and unwanted furniture. Perfect, just ideal. He hauled in the bag and got to work, unpacking the contents and stashing bits and pieces in various places that weren’t too obvious, but not too inconspicuous either.
It was at that moment that the lights flashed on. He would remember that distinctly, for whatever it was worth. They emanated from outside and seemed to pour through every window in the house, accompanied by the loud sounds of both the front and side doors crashing open at once.
Then what seemed like an army of cops swarmed inside, hollering and flashing their guns. As though they had X-ray eyes, they spread out and lunged straight for the three men inside.
Phillips was still standing beside the door, hefting his bat, when three cops showed up, pointing big mean pistols in his face, one screaming, “Drop the bat, asshole, or you’re dead.”
Phillips cursed, closed his eyes, and dropped the bat.
Castile was caught just as he pried open the second drawer. He wasn’t ordered to do anything—two cops jumped on top of him, forcefully wrestled his arms behind his back, and slapped on a tight pair of cuffs.
Jones had just removed another brick of heroin from the sack when his turn came. Two cops pounded down the stairs and burst in, at exactly the wrong moment as far as Jones was concerned. They smiled as he dropped the brick and tried desperately to look innocent.
In less than a minute all three burglars were standing in the living room wearing matching pairs of cuffs. They were efficiently patted down by a mountain of a cop, who observed to the others that none of the three were carrying identification. The matching dark clothes, the lack of ID—the cops understood immediately. They were dealing with pros. “Keep your mouths shut,” a plainclothes officer barked in their faces every time they tried to speak.
The front door flew open and Mia Jenson, dressed in dark jeans and a dark overcoat, stepped inside. A gun was holstered to her waist; a pissed-off frown was holstered to her face. “Well, well, what are you boys up to?”
The breath seemed to escape from their lungs at the shock of seeing her. How did she get outside? They had seen her in bed, with the lights out. How did she get dressed, and what was she doing with all these cops?
The idea that they’d been set up dawned on them like a bad dream. One of the cops began blasting their rights into their stunned faces; they shuffled their feet and stood dumbly taking them in.
But they were all professionals and had a well-rehearsed routine in the event something like this happened. Well, not exactly like this, not with ten cops staring down their throats in a trap they had blundered right into. And definitely not with the home-owner standing with her hands on her hips, a pistol strapped to her waist and a knowing look in her eyes.
Castile owned the lead role, and plunged in with a high-pitched squeal: “I don’t get it. What’s going on here?” he demanded. “What are you doin’ in my cousin’s house?”
“Your cousin?” Mia asked, cocking her head.
“Yeah, Juanita Alvarez. She asked us to do a little favor.” A perplexed expression popped onto his narrow face. “Wait a minute, don’t tell me we got the wrong address.”
Mia seemed to smile. “What kind of favor would that be?”
“She had some stuff in the basement she wanted picked up. Important papers in her office, too. The drawers were locked, so you know, I had to jimmy ’em open.”
Mia searched the faces of the other two men. “Is he telling the truth?”
“Absolutely,” Jones rushed to say.
“Definitely true,” Phillips echoed quite fervently.
The faces of the three men now looked aggrieved and flabbergasted at the shocking injustice of the situation. We’re good guys, their faces screamed, just doing a family favor, and how could this mean lady misinterpret the purity of our motives?
“What’s the bat for?” Mia asked Phillips.
“Uh… Juanita said the place had rats. I hate rats.”
She faced Jones. “And what’s in the bag?”
“Rat poison,” Jones said, smiling at his pals.
“And I suppose you lost the house keys Juanita gave you?” Mia asked, again facing Castile.
“Must’ve put ’em in the wrong pants,” he acknowledged, shrugging his skinny shoulders. They were sounding and looking quite cocky now.
Mia crossed her arms and stood back a minute. “What a creative alibi,” she said, heavy on the sarcasm. “If it weren’t for the pictures, and all we already know about you boys, I might let you walk out the door.”
“What pictures?” Castile asked. This didn’t sound good.
It wasn’t. A helpful cop quickly shoved a clutch of ten-by-twelve black-and-white photographs into Mia’s hand. Each was helpfully date and time-stamped. Mia flashed them up, one by one, long enough for all three men to enjoy a long gape. There was Jones picking his nose while seated in a nondescript gray car parked across the street from her house, taken a week before. Then Castile with his skinny, bony ass stuck up in the air, bent over, inspecting the lock of her side door in bright daylight only two days before—the time stamp said it was two in the afternoon. Mia was at work, and he wanted to be sure he brought the right pick for the break-in.
Then more shots of all three men taken at various times and in an assortment of angles and poses over the past week, observing her house, casing it, preparing the break-in.
The pictures were irrevocably damning. The alibi suddenly sounded stupid.
It struck Castile that this might be a good time to shut his mouth.
Mia said, very cool, very indifferent, “Breaking and entering, that’s good for seven years, minimum. But the bat’s a deadly weapon, and that has to be considered. I’d say at least another five.” She pointed at the bag by Jones’s feet. “I’m betting those ugly brown bricks are pure heroin. Looking at it, I’d say it’s about ten pounds’ worth, probably good for another thirty years. All told, that’s forty years, give or take a few. What do you think, Lieutenant?”
“A little on the cheap side,” the cop in plainclothes opined. He scratched his big nose and looked thoughtful. “Conspiracy, too. You forgot that.”
“Oh, damn. Add another five.”
They let that sink in a moment, then the lieutenant shifted his feet and said, “But I’m guessing the guy without the bat or drugs will cut a deal and rat out the other two. The guy with the bat, well, he could avoid the thirty for the dope, so probably he’ll squeal, too. That leaves bozo here”—he pointed a thick finger in Jones’s face—“my money’s on him. He’s doing the long stretch.”
Poor Marvin Jones suddenly couldn’t breathe. He closed his eyes and nearly passed out. This was so unfair.
“Sucker’s bet,” Mia announced, playing along. “Definitely, he’s the lifer.”
“We ain’t talking,” Castile sneered, looking more at Jones than anybody else. “In fact, we want our lawyers.”
The lieutenant, a rough-looking type with a pot gut, edged forward. He got up in their faces. “I suspect you guys already know how this game works. Still, here’s a few tips. Cops hate lawyers. Know what I mean? They suck all the generosity out of the room. Sure, you can have your damn mouthpieces, any damn time you want, but the deals won’t be nearly as sweet.”
“Let’s separate them and see who’s willing to volunteer statements now,” Mia suggested. She pointed a manicured fingernail at Castile and Phillips. “Take them into separate rooms. See who wants to talk.”
Castile and Phillips were hustled out of the room. Castile disappeared into her bedroom, Phillips stumbled into the compact kitchen.
Mia and a uniformed cop with an eviden
t affection for the weight room, along with a sulky-looking Jones, were left standing alone in the small living room. Nobody spoke. Not a word, not a whisper. Jones couldn’t seem to tear his eyes off the pattern of the Indian carpet on the floor. His chest was pounding. Sweat was forming a puddle in the small of his back.
After an interminable three minutes, Mia asked Jones, “Would you care to guess what they’re saying in there?”
He shuffled his feet a moment, then said, “My buddies would never screw me.”
“Jonesy, you’re an idiot if you really believe you’re worth thirty-five more years in prison to them. Could it be you’re even stupider than you look?”
His name. She knew his name, and that really shook him. Only one way that could happen, somebody was already talking, already ratting. In fact, as he thought about it, somebody had tipped her off about the break-in. How else could they have been caught in this setup? His body began shaking. He never imagined they would get caught. And nobody ever mentioned that the idiot hauling the dope got the booby prize.
“Thing is,” Mia continued, still very factual, “I should be very pissed at you. I’m betting that dope was meant to frame me, a federal agent.”
Another nail in the coffin. Was it worse when you tried to frame a federal agent? Jones bit his lip and stared harder at the carpet. How much more did that tack on to his sentence?
“Odd, I know, but now I just feel sorry for you,” Mia said, and she sounded very genuine.
At least they had something in common. Jones was definitely feeling sorry for himself, too. Were it he in one of the other rooms, he wouldn’t hesitate a moment; without the slightest qualm he’d cut the fastest deal he could get, and begin shoving the blame at the idiot carrying the bag. The dope charge terrorized him. It was twelve pounds, not ten—not that the additional two made any difference. The sentencing guidelines for twelve pounds of heroin were brutal.
