by Bob Mayer
“It was a mob hit; of course Guyton would be there,” Giannini said.
“Uh-huh. ‘Cept why’d he tell us not to talk to you? You working for the mob?” Willis asked with a chuckle. “You got the right kind of last name—one of them that ends in a vowel.”
“I was closing out one of his old files on the Torrentino case and I found some discrepancies,” Giannini explained. “He didn’t take that too nicely.”
“No, I imagine he wouldn’t.” Willis looked up at her. “What kind of discrepancies?”
“Nothing I can put my finger on.”
“If you put your finger on it, and it pertains to this case, you’ll let me know, won’t you, Lieutenant?”
“Of course. What about Fastone?” Giannini reminded him.
Willis hesitated for a moment, then pulled a file folder out from one of the many piles on his desk. He slid it toward her. “If anyone asks, you didn’t see that. Guyton may be a shithead, but he’s a heavy shithead, and I don’t need that kind of grief.”
“Thanks,” Giannini said. She flipped open the folder and quickly scanned the autopsy report. 9mm round. Most likely a subsonic load to work in conjunction with a silencer, which helped explain why the bullet had stayed in the skull. Giannini’s eyes widened slightly as she read another reason why the round had acted the way it had. The round was a modified Glaser safety slug. A Glaser round consists of a thin, serrated copper jacket filled with bird shot and sealed with a rounded polymer nose cap. On impact the round ruptures, saturating the inside of the target with the bird shot. In this case, someone had removed the usual number six bird shot and replaced it with larger number four shot. Liquid Teflon had also been added to slow down the dispersion of the shot, keeping it inside the target’s body. The modifications spoke of someone who knew what they were doing with weapons and ammunition.
Time of death was estimated between midnight and three in the morning on 29 October. There was little else, except for a short note regarding two small burn marks on the victim’s chest. Giannini glanced over the top of the manila folder at Willis, who was laboriously typing at the keyboard of his computer with two thick fingers. “What’s with these burn marks?”
Willis paused and glanced up at her. “I asked the examiner that. He said it looked like they were caused by electric current.”
“Electric current?” Giannini repeated.
“Yeah. Zap,” Willis amplified. “You know, one of those stun guns. Looks like someone zapped her, then finished her off. A stone cold killer, whoever it was. Professional all the way.”
“Any idea who the professional was?”
“Nope. The body was dumped and we got no fibers, no rope marks, no nothing. No sign of struggle. It was a very clean job.”
“If it was so clean, how come the body didn’t just disappear off the face of the earth?” Giannini asked. If someone had gone to such lengths to make sure nothing could be taken off the body and used in a case—other than the bullet—it seemed as though it would have been a lot easier to simply weight down the body and dump it in the lake.
“Good point,” Willis conceded. “I guess whoever killed her wanted her to be found.”
“A message,” Giannini mused. But to whom and for what purpose? Giannini handed back the file. “Thanks, Howie.”
She left Homicide and went back to her office. She flipped open her Rolodex and searched for a name and an address. It was time to pay the feds a little visit. Giannini pulled out a card and slipped it into her coat pocket. Then, with a great deal of effort, she managed to shut the door to her tiny office with herself on the inside. She took the chair off the desk, where she’d stashed it, and wedged it up against the doorknob. The feds didn’t start work until eight in the morning and she needed some sleep. She curled up on the floor, feet poking into the well of the small desk, leather jacket under her head, and fell asleep within minutes.
CUMBERLAND COUNTY, NORTH CAROLINA
31 OCTOBER, 12:53 a.m.
Hammer pulled up to the old trailer at the end of the dirt road and parked behind it. “Home for the night,” he announced. He’d driven down dark roads for the last thirty minutes getting here, the ride in total silence. They’d passed a couple of trailers, then nothing for the last fifty meters. They were at the end of the line.
Lisa took in the decrepit structure and the empty wooded lots surrounding the area. “Are you sure it’s safe?”
Hammer was already out the truck door. He leaned back in. “It’s safe. We need to get some sleep. We have a lot to do tomorrow.” He escorted her inside, and made sure she was settled down in the back bedroom on an old mattress that was lying on the floor. He gave her his poncho liner. “I’ll be right down the hall if you need anything. All right?”
“All right.” Lisa paused, then asked the question uppermost in her mind: “Do you think my brother is in trouble?”
“Huh? What?” Hammer asked, his mind elsewhere.
“My brother. Do you think he’s all right?”
“I have no idea.” He seemed to focus back in. “Listen, I’ll check on things in the morning, okay? There’s nothing we can do now without stirring up a pack of trouble.”
She gave a brittle laugh. “Seems like more trouble won’t make any difference.” She looked at Hammer with her bloodshot eyes, holding his gaze, speaking slowly and firmly. “I want to know about my brother.”
Hammer held up a hand. “All right. I’ll check with Riley as soon as I can.”
She stared at him and nodded. “All right.” Her eyes were still on him as she asked another question. “Why did you do that in the bar?”
Hammer regarded her for a few seconds, as if the question had been posed in a foreign language and he had to process it. “We had to leave. They were blocking our way,” he explained, as if it was quite obvious.
“You didn’t have to hurt them.”
“I did them a favor,” Hammer said.
“A favor?” Lisa repeated incredulously.
“Yeah. They’re young and they’ll heal. The next guy they try to mess with in a bar might carve ’em up or put a bullet in their back in the parking lot. They got off easy and learned an important lesson.” Hammer pointed at her. “You got enough troubles without worrying about some kids in a bar. Now, get some sleep.”
Lisa pulled the poncho liner tightly around her body as Hammer closed the door. The snatches of sleep she’d had over the past few days had been derived from sheer physical and emotional exhaustion. She knew she couldn’t face another day without getting some rest. Things seemed to be so far beyond her control that she felt she was outside herself, watching everything going on with a sense of detachment. Only thoughts of her brother, and the danger she’d put him in, made her feel involved in this crazy scenario. As she slid into a troubled sleep, she wondered if it wouldn’t be easier to just give up.
Hammer made his way to what once had been the living room but was now a beer can-littered party room. The trailer was a safe house that Jim Lightfoot and his buddies used to escape irate wives or girlfriends, and occasionally the law. Hammer located the phone socket in the wall, then pulled up the wire through the debris until he found the device on the end—an old rotary-dial phone that had seen better days. He picked up the receiver and ensured he had a dial tone, then replaced it. Sitting down in the dark, he stared out into the woods, wondering how Riley’s vigil was going.
After fifteen minutes of hard thought, Hammer picked up the phone and began to dial.
FAYETTEVILLE 31
OCTOBER, 1:10 a.m.
The dome light in the car went on for a second and then just as suddenly went out. The slight thud of both doors being shut echoed across the parking lot. Riley watched the two men move across the asphalt, right hands hanging straight down at their sides, the glow of streetlights reflecting off the metal in those hands. Riley stood in the kitchen, slinging the H & K 94 over his shoulder and drawing the silenced High Standard .22. He backed up farther into the darkness, angl
ing so he could watch out the window and also have the front door in his sights. He figured to let them both come in, then take out the trail man with the pistol and try to subdue the lead man without serious injury for interrogation. It all depended on how good they were. The better they were, the more likely he would have to kill them both with the submachine gun.
The men were more than halfway across the parking lot. Riley slipped the safety off both weapons, pistol in his left hand, sub in the right. The two men had their own weapons up now; both held revolvers, which Riley estimated gave him the advantage of superior firepower, in addition to the element of surprise.
As the lead man stepped on the concrete sidewalk that fronted the apartment building, a pair of high-beam headlights reached through the darkness, pinning both men in their glow. The men spun, weapons pointing. A silent strobe of flames spit out from the left side of the car, above the headlights; both men arched back, their bodies twitching from the impact of the rounds that tore through their flesh, not even able to get off a shot in return. As the bodies were still settling onto the pavement the headlights went out and three men sprinted toward Riley’s townhouse, silenced submachine guns cradled in their arms, the man in front also carrying a sledgehammer.
Riley spun and raced for his living room as the front door splintered under the first blow. Extending the metal stock of the submachine gun before his face, Riley exploded through the plate glass sliding doors.
“Hold it!” someone yelled from behind, and a string of bullets churned into the living room ceiling. Riley tore through the makeshift trip wire he’d rigged across the small concrete patio, cans jangling with the pennies inside, and then he was gone into the night.
1:12 a.m.
Master frowned as he pressed the phone against his ear. “But I don’t understand.”
“It’s not up to you to understand.”
“What about Riley?” Master asked.
“Terminate all loose ends.”
The commo man twisted in his seat, gesturing urgently at the comm link lying on the desk.
“Hold on,” Master said into the phone.
“No,” the voice replied. “You just do your damn job.”
“Shithead,” Master muttered to himself as he put down the phone. He picked up the comm set. “Master here.”
“This is team two. Target has bolted.”
“Goddamnit, I told you just to surveil!” Master exploded.
“We were, but someone else had other ideas. There were two men moving up on the target, and it looked like they planned on terminating. We interrupted and the target split.”
Master closed his eyes and rubbed his temples. “Is the scene clean?”
“We’ve secured the bodies. We’re still cleaning the site. So far no official reaction.”
“All right. Finish cleaning up and then put the bodies on ice—you know where. Out.” Master took off the headset. He went completely still for a minute, then turned to the commo man. “Get me that jerk on the secure line.”
The commo man punched in the number and Master waited. The phone was picked up on the second ring.
“Yes?”
“This is Master. I think you’d better hold off on your little plan. We’ve lost track of your loose end down here.”
CUMBERLAND COUNTY
31 OCTOBER, 1:21 a.m.
With a start, Lisa Cobb woke from a dream-filled sleep, her eyes casting about in the dark, trying to orient herself physically and emotionally. Reality flooded back in, pushing out whatever unpleasant images had floated through her dreams. She knew where she was and why she was here, and she realized that the real nightmare was as bad as anything she had been dreaming.
The noises of the woods penetrated the thin windows, the night animals calling out to each other. But it was something else—snatches of a conversation—that had penetrated her unconsciousness. She rolled onto an elbow, the plywood floor creaking under her. Footsteps sounded in the hallway and the door cracked open. She recognized the figure that loomed there.
“Everything all right?” she asked.
“Sure,” Hammer said. “I heard you move around—just wanted to check.”
“I thought I heard something,” she said.
“What?”
“I don’t know. Something.” Lisa shook her head, trying to concentrate and remember.
“Go back to sleep,” Hammer said. “Everything’s all right.” The door swung shut behind him and she was left in the dark again with her thoughts and elusive dreams.
Chapter Eleven
CHICAGO
31 OCTOBER, 12:49 a.m. CENTRAL TIME
Giannini fumbled in the dark and picked up the phone. “Giannini here.”
The dull throb of the dial tone penetrated her ear, its sound adding to her stubborn headache.
The phone rang again, and she put down the desk phone, flipped on the lamp, and grabbed her portable. “Yes?”
“It’s Dave.”
“Are you all right?”
“I don’t know what’s going on, Donna, but we’re in deep shit. I’ve got people killing each other to see who can be the first to kill me.”
“What?” Giannini asked, trying to clear her head. She listened as Riley succinctly described the events of the past hour. “Where are you now?” she asked when he came to a halt.
“I’d rather not say over the phone,” Riley replied. “I don’t know where the hell these people are getting their info, but some of it has to be from the phone lines. It doesn’t matter anyway—I’ll be leaving here as soon as I hang up.”
“You don’t have any idea who these people are? Either the ones coming in or the ones who killed them?”
“All I know is that the second group was more professional than the first group.” Giannini could hear Riley pause and take a deep breath. “I link up with our friends tomorrow. Then I’m getting us undercover. I haven’t figured out where yet. I’ll get in touch with you when I do.”
“Then what?” Giannini asked.
“Then we solve this,” Riley replied. “We stop running, we get our shit together, and we finish it. Right now they’ve got us reacting constantly. Whoever they are—which I’m not too sure of right now.”
“Maybe I can help with that,” Giannini replied.
“How?”
“I’ve got several things I need to check on, like I told you earlier. I think I can get some answers.”
“It’s too dangerous,” Riley replied. “Just get out of there and get undercover.”
“I remember saying that to someone earlier this evening and that person promising to get to a safe place.”
“I won’t argue with you,” Riley said, accepting the admonishment. “I did that once and learned my lesson. I trust you to do what you think is best. I’m going to keep everyone here undercover, so I guess it’s up to you. There’s only one thing I want to add, though, that I never said before.”
A long silence ensued. Giannini waited. When Riley didn’t continue, she finally spoke. “What’s that, Dave?”
“Well—I like you a lot, Donna.” Riley’s voice was low, almost a whisper. “And I don’t want you getting hurt.” He continued in an uncharacteristic rush of words. “I thought I lost you earlier and I realized I should have told you how I felt a long time ago. And now I have, and now you’d better just take care. Listen, I’ve got to go— I’ve been on this line too long already.”
“I love you too, Dave.” The phone line went dead.
FAYETTEVILLE
31 OCTOBER, 1:51 a.m. EASTERN TIME
Riley put down the phone and moved away from the McDonald’s parking lot. He pulled the MP-5 out from underneath his fatigue shirt. Keeping to the edge of Yadkin Road, he began running at a steady pace to the east. Every time a car’s headlights appeared from either direction, he’d sprint off the road and hide, either behind parked cars or in the shadows of the businesses that lined the road.
He was crossing the parking lot of one of the innu
merable laundromats when a set of high-beam headlights went on from a car parked across the street, pinpointing him with their light.
An amplified voice echoed through the chilly air. “Freeze where you are and drop the weapon!”
The blue stutter of police lights added to the authority of the voice. Blinded, Riley could hear a car door open and a voice repeat the order. He turned and ran, heading for the alley between the laundromat and the next store.
“Halt!” the police officer yelled, taking up chase.
A fence topped with barbed wire enclosed the end of the alley. Riley let the MP-5 hang by its sling as he jumped. The toes of his boots grabbed hold in the chain links. He paused for a second; then, grabbing the top of the fence just below the wire, he did a backflip over the wire and hit the ground with the balls of his feet. After a quick roll he was running again. He spared a glance over his shoulder. The cop was nowhere in sight; he must have headed back for the patrol car.
Riley ran through into the residential area behind the stores, randomly cutting through streets, cursing every time a dog started barking. Twice he spotted patrol cars cruising the street, handheld spotlights searching the night.
Finally, he made it to the overpass that crossed the All American Freeway coming out of Fort Bragg. He climbed over the guardrail, then eased underneath the bridge and hid the MP-5 atop one of the girders. He got back on top of the bridge and continued walking cautiously until he reached Skibo Road, where he took a left. At one of the many trailer courts that lined the road, he found another bank of pay phones. He went to the second phone and dialed information, getting the number he needed.
The phone was picked up on the second ring and the voice sounded alert, used to getting calls in the middle of the night.
“Sergeant Major Alexander.”
“Sergeant Major, this is Chief Riley. I need some help.”
“What sort of help?”
