by Trace Conger
I wanted to know who tailed me, not to mention how they found my car. I assumed someone put a GPS tracker under my Navigator. It’s the only way I could explain someone finding me, and it’s what I would have done. No one knew about the boat, and they wouldn’t have known to find my car at the library without some type of electronic surveillance. My gut told me it was Bishop because he would have been the only one with access to my SUV.
Dunbar pinched me near the coffee shop and never laid eyes on my car, and I didn’t think the U.S. government supplied the FBI with Shelby Mustangs. That left Bishop. I’d been at his home twice, and that white envelope Bishop handed Fat Sam the last time I was there looked more suspicious by the minute.
While the engines idled, I sat in a deck chair and swept the parking lot with my binoculars, looking for the red and white. I concentrated on the dark corners of the lot, away from the bright overhead lights. I didn’t want to focus solely on the Shelby because if whoever was tailing my car knew Albert made them, they would have dumped it for another car. I helped Albert untie his line and then eased the throttle forward. The boat slowly chugged through the inlet toward the river. I gave Albert the wheel and headed into the cabin. I put my cell phone in a plastic sandwich bag, zipped the bag tight and stuffed it into my rear pants pocket. I kicked my shoes onto the bed and headed topside. Albert gripped the wheel with both hands. The veins in his forearms popped out more than usual. I gave him the signal, and he cut back on the throttle.
“You sure you want to do this?” said Albert.
“I’ve got to search the car.” I checked the inlet for any boat traffic. Clear. “Just remember to be back in thirty minutes.”
“Thirty minutes,” said Albert.
“And keep a line out for me when you get back.” I climbed over the side and lowered myself into the water, careful not to make a splash. The goosebumps started at my feet and worked their way up to my shoulders. I pushed myself away from the boat and the twin props churning just below the surface and watched Albert chug toward the river.
THE REAR PORTION OF THE visitor parking lot butted up to the river. If anyone staked out my car in the lot, they’d be watching the entrance from the road, not the river. I could have made the swim in under five minutes, but I kept my strokes slow and short so I wouldn’t create a wake. No point using the river for cover if you’re splashing around like a speared fish. Taking it slow, I stretched the swim to ten minutes. As I swam closer to the visitor lot, my hands touched the muddy river bottom a few feet from shore. I crawled the rest of the way onto the narrow beach, which was littered with broken bottles, garbage and a few used condoms.
I climbed the ten-foot embankment, over the exposed tree roots and more garbage until I reached the fence that separated the tree line and the rear of the lot. Placing my hands on the top rail, I leaped over and came down hard on a broken piece of asphalt. My teeth clenched and I rerouted the scream coming from my lungs back into the depths of my stomach. I crouched behind a Toyota SUV, took a deep breath and waited for my foot to stop throbbing.
A young couple, both in jeans and T-shirts, argued a few rows over. They were the only people in the lot. I moved slowly around the parked cars until I came up on my Navigator. I yanked my cell phone from my rear pocket, laid on my back and used the rear axle to pull myself all the way under the vehicle. I turned on my cell and used the backlight to scan the underside of the vehicle. It didn’t take long. Right there on the oil pan was a GPS tracker, a red magnetic square the size of a matchbox. Whoever planted the unit was lazy. Had it been me, I would have placed it high on the engine block, out of sight. But I didn’t plant this one. Fat Sam did. He couldn’t get his tubby ass under the car. Instead, he would have laid down, thrown an arm under the chassis and attached the tracker to the first metal surface he could find. The oil pan.
There are two different types of GPS trackers. Those you plant on a vehicle and then retrieve later to download the vehicle’s location history, and the second type, the kind on my oil pan. This unit had a built-in transmitter that enabled Bishop to locate my car in real time. He could pinpoint my car’s exact location within three feet, from his cell phone, while taking a shit.
I returned my phone to the plastic bag, pushed it deep into my front pocket and crawled out from under the SUV. The couple across the parking lot had made up and were now looking at the stars from the hood of a rusted-out sedan. I headed for the fence and was back in the river, paddling toward Albert a minute later.
The engines slowed as Albert rounded the corner into the inlet. The lights of the instrument panel lit up the binoculars pressed against his face. Once he saw me, he climbed down from the wheel and tossed a towline over the side. As the boat chugged past me, I reached out, grabbed the rope and pulled myself toward the rear of the boat. If anyone watched the marina from the parking lot, I didn’t want them to see a houseboat stopping in the inlet to pick someone up, so I hitched a ride on the tow rope.
As we approached the slip, we passed by two large unoccupied cabin cruisers. They obscured us long enough for me to climb over the side onto the boat. I relieved Albert at the helm, eased the throttle forward and docked the boat in the slip.
“What’d you find?” said Albert.
I tied the boat to the dock. “They’re tracking the car with a GPS.”
“Did you pull it?”
“No,” I said, cutting the engines. “I’ve got other plans for it.”
FROM MY BOAT, I KEPT an eye out for the red-and-white Shelby but hadn’t seen it all morning. Albert needed to arrive at Brooke’s by nine for his weekend with Becca. He was packed and ready to go two hours before we had to leave. With the exception of pizza last Friday, he hadn’t seen Becca in several months. That was my fault. The urge to protect my daughter from the sights, sounds and smells of the Spring Lodge Retirement Community smothered the idea of taking my daughter to visit her grandfather.
Before we headed up the dock, I had to make a call. I opened my wallet, yanked out the card that Special Agent William Anders gave me and dialed.
“You get the information from Bishop’s laptop?” I said.
“We’ve got a team going through it now,” he said. “Bishop had some tough encryption, but we’ll get what we need. You calling with the second part of our deal? You ID Bishop’s connection in Cinci and Detroit?”
I kept an eye on the parking lot. “Rollo Watkins in Cincinnati, but he’s dead. I heard one of his men tore him apart with a shotgun. Guy by the name of Hickman.”
“What about Detroit?” said Anders.
I thought about giving up Dunbar’s name. Put the Feds on his tail to get him off mine. But I didn’t. Not yet.
“There’s no connection in Detroit. Just Cincinnati. Just Rollo.”
“No connection in Detroit? Our intel says otherwise.”
“All I can tell you is what I know, and Bishop’s never mentioned a connection in Detroit. As far as I know, it was just Rollo.”
“You protecting someone?”
“Got no reason to,” I said. I knew Anders would keep looking for the Detroit connection, but I wasn’t going to give it to him.
“You got something else for me?” said Anders.
“Nope. I’m just calling to make sure we’re square. Thanks to you, Bishop’s looking to dismantle my DNA. I’m taking steps to ensure that doesn’t happen.”
“Please tell me you’re not stupid enough to obstruct a federal investigation. We’ll take care of Bishop. Don’t get involved.”
“I’m already involved, thanks to you.”
“Listen, you dodged a big fucking bullet with Banks. Consider yourself lucky you’re not sitting in a concrete box with a metal door. You go after Bishop and compromise a two-year investigation and I’ll flush your dick down the goddamn toilet. You understand me?”
Albert tapped a finger on his watch and jostled the duffle in his hand.
“I’m not interested in Bishop,” I said. “I’m interested in the guy he�
�s sending after me. I’m leaving town for a few days, and when I get back, Bishop isn’t going to be happy. You got enough evidence to pull Bishop off the street, and you might want to make that happen soon. Wait too long and you could miss your chance.”
“I could just as easily bring you in,” said Anders. “Get you off the street and out of my way for a while.”
“You’ll never find me,” I said and hung up the phone.
Albert pointed to the parking lot. “Let’s go already,” he said.
I grabbed the binoculars and took another look at the main parking lot. I recognized each of the dozen or so vehicles in the lot. No one running surveillance on my SUV. I helped Albert onto the dock, grabbed my own bag and locked up the boat. I tucked the .45 into my waistband and walked up the dock, using one arm to keep Albert steady on his feet. We made it to my SUV in the visitors’ lot in five minutes.
At the SUV, I reached under the vehicle to check if the GPS was still attached. Still there. Albert was already in the passenger seat by the time I tossed my bag in the back and opened the driver’s door. I checked my watch. Eight-thirty. We’d make Brooke’s house by nine, and I’d be on the road shortly thereafter. I just had one stop to make first.
WE WERE ABOUT TEN MILES from Brooke’s house when I pulled into a convenience-store parking lot. I drove around back, where the lot was empty, pried the GPS unit off my oil pan and tossed it in some tall weeds bordering the lot.
“I thought you wanted them to follow you,” said Albert as I returned to the car.
“I do, but if it’s tracking my location history, I don’t want Brooke’s address on the list.” I kicked the SUV into gear and pulled back onto the main road.
WE ARRIVED AT BROOKE’S HOUSE with time to spare. Brooke set a bag in the trunk of Dr. Dickhead’s Mercedes. She wore black yoga pants and a tight pink T-shirt. Her lean fingers gripped a white coffee cup. My attention teetered between what might be under the yoga pants and what coffee flavor her space-aged brewer flushed into the mug.
Albert’s mind must have gone straight to the yoga pants. “She looks good, Finn. Real good.”
“Imagine what she looks like naked,” I said.
He slapped me on the shoulder and closed his eyes. “I’m trying.”
I parked on the street and grabbed Albert’s bag. He’d already cleared the front yard and wrapped his arms around Brooke by the time I reached the lawn.
“It’s good to see you again, Albert,” said Brooke. “Thanks for helping us out and watching Becca.”
“My pleasure, sweetheart,” he said, releasing his embrace. “Where’s that daughter of yours?”
“She’s inside finishing up breakfast. I’ll go get her.”
Brooke disappeared inside the house, and I thought I caught a glimpse of Daryl watching from an upstairs window. I glanced back up, but he was gone. A moment later, Brooke and Becca emerged from the house. Becca ran to my father and wrapped her arms around his waist just as she’d done to me in the office at Saint Exorbitant. My father didn’t try to pry her from his hip. He bent over and gripped her tight. Tighter than he hugged Brooke.
“It’s good to see you again, kiddo,” said Albert, breaking their hug only long enough to go down on one knee and grab her again.
Brooke walked over to me.
“Thanks for letting him do this,” I said. “It’s all he’s talked about since I mentioned it to him.”
“Becca too. She’s really excited to spend some time with him. It’s been awhile. You should bring him around more often.”
“I’ll do that. I hope he’ll be okay here with Becca.”
“He’ll be fine,” said Brooke. She threw an elbow into my ribs. “I’m more concerned about you. Where did you say you were going again?”
I hadn’t mentioned where I was going because the last time we spoke, I didn’t know. She studied my face, waiting for an answer.
“I’m following up on a lead in Maine. I should be back on Monday. Late afternoon. I can pick Albert up then.”
“Business? You never could lie for shit, Finn. How bad is it?”
“It’s bad,” I said. “Real bad. But nothing I can’t handle.”
“Go to the police then.”
“Can’t. Not this time.”
She didn’t break her stare. I turned to watch Albert and Becca but could feel her gaze searing a golf-ball-sized hole in the side of my face. “Seriously, I’ll be fine,” I said, stepping forward to meet Becca and Albert.
Becca saw me coming and dove for my legs. I intercepted her dive-bomb and tossed her up into the air, caught her and flipped her over my right shoulder so she dangled near the center of my back. She laughed and I twirled her around like a dancer spinning his partner and set her back on the grass in front of me. She wobbled around, exaggerating every move until she fell backward onto the grass and giggled.
“Thanks for bringing Grandpa over,” she said as she stood up.
“I’m just sorry I can’t stay, sweetheart. Daddy has to go on a little trip.”
Brooke headed back inside the house and Albert darted for the SUV.
“Forgot something,” he said.
“I’ll be back in a few days, okay? You keep your grandfather out of trouble.”
Becca laughed. “I will.”
Brooke returned and leaned near the doorframe. Daryl stood behind her. I bent back down and wrapped my arms around Becca, trying to find the thin line between loving embrace and rib-cracking squeeze.
“I really do love you with all my heart. You know that, right?”
“I sure do. And I love you right back,” she said.
I stood up and patted Becca on the head. Albert walked around from the side of the house.
“Where’d you disappear to?” I said.
“Just looking around,” he said. Becca dove for his waist again and Albert put his right arm around her.
“Take care of her, Dad. Don’t take your eyes off her. Not for a second.”
“You know me better than that, Finn. You sure this is how you wanna play this?”
I nodded, and then I looked over my shoulder, down both ends of the street. “I need to end this far away from here.”
“Okay, then. Don’t linger here too long,” said Albert. He knelt down in front of Becca. “Why don’t you take your old grandpa in the house and show me your room? Someone told me you had ponies on your wall. What do you feed them?” Becca giggled, grabbed Albert’s arm and pulled him toward the house.
I walked toward the SUV, but stopped and scanned the house. The four of them stood in the doorway. Becca, Brooke, Albert and Daryl all stared back at me. Only one of them knew what was about to happen.
I HEADED BACK TO THE convenience store, retrieved the GPS from the weeds where I’d left it, and placed it back on my oil pan. I was halfway to Little Freddie’s house, when I reached under the driver’s seat to feel for the sawed-off shotgun that I’d stashed after putting Rollo down. It was gone.
I PARKED A BLOCK AWAY from Little Freddie’s home. Orchard Avenue belonged in a Hallmark Channel television special. Tree-lined streets, well-maintained houses, beautifully manicured lawns, kids riding bicycles, even a cardboard lemonade stand. And no vehicles with Detroit plates.
Little Freddie’s Volvo sat across the street from his house, a suitcase in the back seat. I stepped onto the porch and looked through the window to find Little Freddie climbing the steps to the second floor. I slowly turned the knob, opened the door and slipped into the living room. The floor creaked overhead. I closed the door and took a position behind the stairs, where Little Freddie wouldn’t see me until he was halfway across the living room. I pulled my .45 and waited for his foot to hit the top step.
The maroon duffle bag was the first thing I saw, followed by Little Freddie’s gray slacks. He walked off the last step, rounded the living room and stopped. His eyes met the .45 first and then rose to find my face.
“You planning to shoot me with that thing?” he said.
<
br /> “That depends,” I said. “Hands up and turn around.”
Little Freddie held his arms out to his side, still grasping the duffle in his hands, and slowly spun in a circle. No weapon.
“I’m surprised,” I said. “Figured you were the type who always carried a piece.”
Little Freddie put his arms down. “No need to carry a weapon in my own home. Until now, no one’s been stupid enough to come in and point a gun at me.”
“You left it unlocked.”
“In case you didn’t notice, it’s a nice neighborhood, Finn. Finn Harding. No reason to lock it.”
“How’d you figure me out?” I said.
“Your pal Diane at the Spring Lodge gave you up. Bishop wanted your full workup. And that starts with your name. Apparently, he’s got this thing about people fucking him. Might have something to do with you going to the Feds.”
“I didn’t go to the Feds. They came to me.”
“You tell them about me?”
“No, but they got to Bishop’s computer. If he has anything on you, e-mails or whatever, assume the Feds got it. What about my profile? What does Bishop know?”
“He knows all about you. Knows about your wife, kid and father, too.”
My muscles tightened and I glided my index finger up on the slide to keep from involuntarily squeezing off a round. My mouth dried up and I swore the room tilted under my feet.
“You going after them? After my family?” I said.
“No, I’m not. But Wallace is.”
“Wallace? He drive a red-and-white Mustang?”
“Yep. He’s a heavy hitter from somewhere in Kentucky. Bishop brought him in.”
“What’s he got on me?
“He’s got a few addresses to work through,” said Little Freddie. “It might take him some time to pinpoint you. Wallace is a hothead, but he’s not stupid. He’ll find your family, so you might want to do something about that.”
