by Bob Mayer
30 OCTOBER, 9:35 p.m.
Charlie D’Angelo stared at the two men in front of him as he listened to their report. D’Angelo was in his early thirties, neatly attired in a tailored suit, an expensive pair of designer glasses complementing his businesslike demeanor. He was the antithesis of the “mob boss” look favored by his predecessors, the Torrentinos. His chief subordinates were gathered around his desk, awaiting his reaction to the news the two men brought.
When they were done, he leaned back in his seat. “You left this Giannini woman alive?”
The shorter of the two men—Tony—fidgeted. “She’s a cop. I figured we didn’t need the heat.”
D’Angelo’s voice chilled the room several degrees. “But didn’t Volpe tell you that Giannini knew who had his sister? And isn’t that the information we want?”
“Yeah, but we got the phone number she was trying to call. It’s in North Carolina and that’s where Jill went.”
“Jill’s dead,” D’Angelo snapped. “And I’m the one who has to tell Mike Torrentino that tomorrow.”
Tony swallowed and shuffled his feet.
“And what’s this crap about Philip Cobb being dead?”
“That’s what Volpe said his sister told him.”
“Who the hell would kill Cobb?” D’Angelo wondered out loud. He leaned forward. “Track down who she called. Whoever it is better be able to point us to the Cobbs—dead or alive. If not, cop or no cop, I want Giannini.” D’Angelo pointed to the door. “Everyone out.”
They all moved except his right-hand man, Roy Delpino. When the door shut behind the last one, D’Angelo kicked his feet up on the desk that used to belong to Mike Torrentino and idly fingered his Harvard ring. “You think they got the truth out of Volpe?”
“They torched him, Charlie. They got the truth.”
“If Philip Cobb is dead, that changes things.”
“Unless his wife knows where the money is,” Delpino noted.
“I don’t like it,” D’Angelo said. “Something’s fishy. I didn’t know a thing about Jill going to North Carolina until we tracked down her plane reservations after finding her body up here. So did she go on Mike’s orders or did she go alone? I don’t think Mike is telling me everything.”
“Of course Mike’s not telling you everything,” Delpino said. At D’Angelo’s frown, he continued hurriedly. “Think about it. Mike’s in jail along with his brother—Louis—and Tony Lorenzo. The only power he has to keep his hand in things here is knowledge. If he gave up his knowledge, we wouldn’t need him anymore. Then you’d be the real boss, not just the acting one.”
D’Angelo nodded. “He won’t give me the names of all the contacts I need to do business. But I don’t understand why he won’t level with me about the Cobbs. He wants them a hell of a lot more than I do. It’s just business for me. For the Torrentinos, it’s personal.”
“Maybe he has his own plans,” Delpino said. “And if he gets to them—even if Philip is dead—he gets to the money.”
D’Angelo swung his feet off the desk and stood. “Well, we’ll just have to make sure that doesn’t happen.”
FAYETTEVILLE
30 OCTOBER, 10:45 p.m.
Hammer checked the rearview mirror one more time and pulled a sharp U-turn in the middle of Bragg Boulevard. He watched behind as he immediately turned right off the main street, drove through one of the countless mobile home parks that lined the boulevard, and then came out onto a side street. “We’re clean,” he announced. “Nobody following.”
Lisa Cobb had been silent ever since departing Riley’s apartment, lost in her own thoughts, feeling overwhelmed by everything that had happened in the past forty-eight hours. The pickup pulled in front of a garishly lit bar, the flashing signs boasting GIRLS-GIRLS-GIRLS. “What are we doing here?”
Hammer set the parking brake and cracked open his door. “We need a place to stay, and a buddy of mine runs this place.” He jerked his head toward the blacked-out front door, which belched three drunken 82d Airborne troopers. “Let’s go. You’re safer sticking with me.”
Hammer politely held open the front door for Lisa. The interior was dimly lit, and the thudding beat of the DJ’s music reverberated through the soles of their feet. The eight-by-eight stage at the far end of the room was currently unoccupied. A scattering of soldiers with high and tight haircuts was intermingled with two tables of long-haired, bearded bikers. Hammer strode directly across the room toward one of the tables. All eyes turned to follow Lisa, the lone woman in the room other than the two half-dressed Korean waitresses scuttling between tables with mugs of beer.
A mountain of a man, black beard streaked with gray, arose from the far end of the table toward which Hammer was heading. He opened his arms wide and wrapped them around the shorter man, lifting Hammer off his feet. When his feet regained the floor, Hammer returned the gesture, lifting the taller man and swinging him around.
Lisa hovered behind Hammer, her eyes flickering about the bar, uneasy with all the attention. She was startled when the tall man bent over and kissed Hammer on the lips with a loud smack.
“Fucking faggots!” one of the GIs at a nearby table yelled out drunkenly.
“Come and get some, asshole,” the tall man growled, middle finger extended toward the ceiling.
The GI muttered something and turned back to his comrades. Hammer tapped Lisa on the arm. “This is Jim Lightfoot,” he said, pointing at the man who had kissed him. “He’s an old buddy from my Vietnam days and he owns this bar.”
“Pleased to meet you, ma’am,” Jim said, bowing slightly at the waist. He led the way to an empty booth away from the bar and motioned for them to slide in. “Can I get you anything?”
Hammer shook his head. “I need to talk to you and make a couple of calls.” He inclined his head toward a staircase behind the bar. “Privately.”
“Certainly,” Jim replied. He glanced down at Lisa. “You’ll be all right. My buddies will make sure you’re not hassled. They may not look it, but they’re all former Special Operations.”
Lisa nodded, having not said a word since entering the bar. Hammer and Jim made their way behind the bar and disappeared up the stairs. The music changed beat, and to a scattering of applause, one of the waitresses discarded her tray and assumed the stage. Lisa sank back in the slashed vinyl seat where generations of America’s elite fighting men had sat to watch women disrobe. Blocking out the music and the howls from the other patrons, she held her head in her hands and tried to concentrate, thinking back on all that had happened today. The sudden departure from the NCO club had turned Lisa’s upside-down world on its side and taken it for a few spins. She’d pinned her hopes on the meeting this evening, and now she had no idea what was going on.
She suddenly sat bolt upright in the booth. Riley had lied to her— he had to have lied. There was only one way the mob could have gotten to Giannini—through Tom. Lisa stood and walked across the room, oblivious now to the looks. She lifted the receiver on the pay phone hanging to the right of the bar, grateful to hear a faint dial tone. She dialed the operator, one hand pressed over her free ear to block out the music.
“I’d like to make a collect call.” She recited Tom’s number from memory.
“May I ask who’s calling please?”
“Lisa.”
“One moment please.”
There was a click and then the phone began ringing on the other end. Lisa checked her watch. Tom rarely stayed out this late, especially on a weeknight. By the third ring, the chill in her stomach began expanding.
A large hand reached over her shoulder and slammed down on the hook, disconnecting her. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Hammer demanded.
“I’m checking on my brother,” Lisa retorted angrily.
Hammer poked a stubby finger at her. “You’re the one who needs checking on, not him.”
“Riley lied,” she returned hotly. “If they got to Giannini, they most likely got to Tom.”
Hammer shru
gged. “Yeah, so? What good is calling going to do?” He pointed at the phone. “They can trace a call nowadays in seconds and the other end doesn’t even need to be picked up. Did it ring?”
Lisa nodded.
“How many times?”
“Four.”
Hammer closed his eyes and counted to five under his breath. “Did you call collect?”
“Yes.”
“What name did you use?”
“Lisa.”
Hammer counted to ten this time. “Great, just fucking great. So much for hanging around here. Let’s go.”
He stepped toward the door, but his way was blocked by three soldiers. “What are you doing with the woman, faggot? You giving her a hard time?” asked the one in the middle, pushing himself up to Hammer and poking him in the chest.
Hammer regarded the three for a second. Then without a word he reached forward with one hand, grabbed the back of the GI’s head, and jerked it down while bringing up his right knee at the same time. The man’s nose crunched on impact, blood splattering over Hammer’s pants.
Hammer stepped slightly to the side and propelled the man into the bar, at the same time swinging his left hand in an open palm strike into the chest of the soldier on the right. The man’s breath exploded out of his lungs and he sank slowly to the floor, desperately trying to get some air.
Hammer was still moving, even though the third GI put his hands up, indicating he was out of the fight. Hammer grabbed both hands and bent them forward from the wrist, the pain causing the soldier to fall to his knees. Hammer leaned over and whispered in his ear: “Respect your elders, sonny.”
Lisa grabbed his arm. “Stop it!”
Hammer paused and looked at her. The soldier was frozen, his face contorted in pain. Slowly, Hammer released his grip and the soldier scurried back a safe distance.
“You didn’t have to do that,” Lisa cried, shocked at his quick violence.
Hammer looked past her at Jim Lightfoot, who had the first soldier by the collar. “Can you take care of this, Jim?”
The long-haired man nodded. “No sweat. They don’t want the cops involved either, do you?” he asked, shaking the soldier.
“No,” the man gasped.
“That’s no, sir, right?”
“No, sir.”
Lightfoot smiled. “You see? I got it under control.”
Hammer grabbed Lisa’s elbow. “Let’s go.”
FORT BRAGG
30 OCTOBER, 11:23 p.m.
Master opened the drawer and sorted through the contents until he found what he needed. He slipped the leather wallet into his coat jacket and exited the van, accompanied by one other man carrying a metal briefcase. He walked up to the front desk in Moon Hall and flashed the badge inside the wallet. “Agent Watkins, CID,” he announced to the startled clerk on duty.
“Yes, sir, how can I help you?”
Master checked his notepad. “What room uses the phone number nine seven six, four two seven six?”
“That’s here in Moon Hall, sir, room two-seven-six. Second floor,” she added.
“I need a key to get in,” Master ordered.
The clerk turned to the computer behind the counter and punched in a code, ran a credit card key through the slot on the side, and handed it over to Master. “The room’s not occupied presently.”
“I’ll return this in a minute,” Master assured the clerk, and the two men headed for the elevator on the other side of the lobby. That was one thing he had always liked about dealing with the military: the sight of a badge—a symbol of authority thrust in their faces—and they cooperated without question.
They rode to the second floor and found room 276. Master slid the card down the lock, and the green light flashed. They entered and Master pointed wordlessly at the phone. The technician flipped open his briefcase and pulled out an aerosol can. He sprayed the phone while Master looked around the room. The lever on the inside of the door would also be a good spot, and he indicated so to his man.
Master waited patiently while the man worked, letting the spray settle and then looking over the surface areas for prints. “I’ve got multiple prints on all surfaces. Only one set that appears to be female—on the phone receiver. Several larger prints on the door.”
“Get them all,” Master ordered.
The technician picked up a handheld scanner from the case and quickly ran it over all the surfaces, electronically recording the prints. “They’re loaded,” he announced, checking the small digital display on the back of the scanner. “Ninety-three percent pickup. More than enough to make a positive ID.”
“Run them.”
The technician looked up in surprise. “From here? We might get traced back once I break into the system.”
Master pointed at the phone. “Run them.”
The technician shrugged and quickly hooked the modem of the laptop computer into the phone line. On the numeric keypad he punched in a number and then a security code. “I’m in the system,” he said. He downloaded the scanner into the computer and typed for half a minute, giving the appropriate orders. Then he settled in to wait. He glanced at Master, who stood gazing impassively out the window into the darkened parking lot. “If someone checks on this run, they’re going to get this location, and they’ll know the code I entered was misappropriated.”
Master shrugged, long past worrying about such minor stuff. This whole thing was threatening to get out of control. He snapped the latex rubber gloves they’d put on during the ride up in the elevator. “We’re clean as far as the room goes. I’ll dump the ID once we’re done here, and I doubt the clerk will remember the name we gave her.”
The hard drive on the computer whirred, and the screen came alive with an incoming message.
“The female prints are Lisa Cobb’s,” the technician announced. His fingers flew over the keyboard. “The clearest ones on the door lever belong to a Riley, David. Chief warrant officer, U.S. Army, SSN 104-56-9246.”
Master looked over the man’s shoulder at the screen. “Give me more on Riley.”
The technician shook his head, nervous about being on the modem that long, but his fingers hit the keys. “Current assignment A Company, First Battalion, First Special Warfare Training Group, Airborne, here at Fort Bragg.” The technician glanced up. “He’s an instructor in the Special Forces School.”
A cold smile crept over Master’s lips. “A Green Beanie, eh? That explains some of this shit. Get me an address.”
The technician typed and then pointed. “Here in Fayetteville. Off Yadkin Road.”
Master noted the street and number. “How about a photo?”
“That’s all they have in the fingerprint file. I’d have to access army records to get anything more, and I highly recommend we do that from a secure location.”
Master nodded. “All right. I’ve got enough.”
Chapter Ten
FAYETTEVILLE
31 OCTOBER, 12:34 a.m.
The lights were still on in the upstairs bedroom, which fronted the street outside. Riley sat quietly in the dark downstairs, waiting, weapons close by. His eyes narrowed as a set of headlights pierced the darkness at the corner, then raked across the front of the apartment complex as the car turned in. The headlights went out, and Riley watched the darkened vehicle make its way slowly into the parking lot. It came to a halt fifty meters away, brake lights flashing briefly, front end pointed almost directly at Riley’s townhouse.
He knew the lights in the bedroom were the only thing giving the men in the car pause. He’d left the lights on to give himself a few extra minutes before anyone came crashing through the door. No need to delay the party any longer. He walked into the kitchen, opened the fuse box, and flipped off the power to the second floor, bathing the entire house in darkness. He figured the men in the car would wait about a half hour before trying to come in, if that’s what their plan was. The bait set, Riley settled back in the dark shadows and continued his vigil.
CHICAGO
>
30 OCTOBER, 11:47 p.m.
Giannini flipped through the homicide files; there was no record of Tom Volpe’s body being discovered. That meant that whoever had killed him and knocked her out either still had the body or had hidden it. She knew it might never be found. Giannini felt torn, knowing she should report what happened, but not sure how that report would be received and what effect it would have on Lisa’s safety.
She realized it was already too late: by not immediately calling in from Tom’s house, she’d compromised her professional integrity with the police department. But the events of the previous year, and her close association with Dave Riley, had reinforced one very strong lesson: never act until you’re sure what’s going on. Overriding all those concerns, though, was the fact that she would have to explain why she was at Tom’s house.
Guyton’s strange behavior this morning at the filtration plant still bothered Giannini. Besides the obvious problems with Lisa Cobb, there was something very odd going on with regard to the investigation into the death of Jill Fastone and, backing up farther from that, something was not quite right about the whole Torrentino case.
Giannini shook her head in frustration—and then immediately stopped as shock waves of pain radiated through her head. She put down the evening’s reports and looked up as the door to the Homicide squad room opened and Howie Willis walked in, eyes still half closed from sleep.
“Hey, Howie, what’s new?”
Willis glanced at her. “You’re here late—or early.” He peered at her more closely. “Do I look as bad as you do?”
Giannini forced a laugh. “No, you look worse.”
“Yeah,” he said as he sank down at his desk. “Got to get this stuff cleared off so we can go out on the streets in the morning.”
“You get the report back on Fastone?”
Willis leaned back in his chair. “You know, strange thing, that case. Seems like a whole bunch of people are interested in what happened. We had Guyton from the task force crawling all over us right after you left yesterday morning.”
