Thirty-Five
Minorini was glad to be back to work the next day, though he felt as if he’d never get caught up. When Haskel came in to shoot the shit, Minorini asked him, “We get anything interesting from our wiretap yet?”
“Nada. Either Dossi’s not our boy or somebody tipped him off. Maybe your girl fingered the wrong guy.”
“Maybe pigs can fly.”
Haskel laughed. “How you been makin’ out with her?”
“She’s a witness.”
“Don’t tell me you wouldn’t like to get in her pants.”
“I’d like to get a raise. What’s your point?”
Haskel laughed. He spotted the video games on the desk that Minorini had bought for Sean. “Having trouble qualifying?”
“What?”
“Playing these is a hell of lot more fun than banging away at the range. Cheaper, too.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“That kid in Paducah. Never shot a gun before, then he walks into his school and nails eight out of eight. All head shots.”
“Get out of here.”
Haskel chuckled. “Butler wants to see you sometime this morning.”
Butler leaned back in his chair and made a steeple with his fingers. Minorini had seen him do it often, hadn’t figured out if he was bored or trying to project some obscure image.
Butler said, “I need a favor.”
Minorini raised he eyebrows.
“I need someone to stand in for me at the State’s Attorney’s Christmas Party. You just have to show up with a date so there’re no empty places at my table.”
Minorini shrugged. “Okay.”
Butler seemed more relieved than the “favor” warranted. He could have simply ordered Minorini to go. “My secretary’ll give you the details.”
Minorini nodded.
“On this other thing—We got any chance of finding our car bomber?”
“Not unless someone decides to talk.”
“Or of tying it to Dossi?”
“Doubtful.”
“Okay. Give it another week. That should give the marshals time to make their arrangements. Then you can get on with something more productive.”
Minorini nodded. “They’re still shorthanded. I’d like to keep spelling the guy who’s guarding Lessing until his relief is back from sick leave.”
“That’s not in our budget.”
“I’ll do it on my own time. It wouldn’t hurt to have them owe us.”
“I guess what you do on your time is your business.” He didn’t say “Should you screw up, the Bureau will disavow any…” but the implication was unmistakable.
As Minorini turned to go, he remembered something else and stopped. “There is one other thing—a long shot.”
Butler put on his mildly interested face.
“Lessing’s expressed her willingness to help us nail this guy.”
“How does that work?”
“She’s got friends she could send her son to stay with, then she’d put herself at our disposal—as bait.”
“Nah. Too risky.”
When Minorini took over for Carver that evening, Sean was restless as a caged coyote. Even the new video game Minorini’d brought didn’t seem to settle him.
“What’s wrong, Sean?”
“You gonna erase us?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“You know, like in that Arnold Schwarzenegger movie where he made people the mob was after disappear—erased them.”
Minorini nodded. “Something like that.”
“I miss my friends. It’s funny. I was fine before we moved here. I never had a really good friend in L.A. Then we came here. I miss ’em.”
There was no good response to that. Minorini nodded sympathetically.
“And there’s nothing to do here. I’d like to kill whoever’s doing this to us.”
“That might solve one problem, but you’d end up with a worse one.”
“I know.” He stopped pacing and shook his fists. “I’m just bummed!”
“I might have something that will help with that. Come with me.”
He led the way to the basement, to a door at the far end secured with a combination lock. He unlocked it, opened the latch and snapped the lock shut on the staple, locking the door open. As he reached in and flipped the light switch, he felt a sense of déjà vu.
The room was an oversized walk-in closet furnished as a gym. It had an old-fashioned bench press with barbells, a wall-rack of dumbbells—from two pounds to twenty-five—a stationary bike, and mats for floor exercises. A heavy bag and a punching bag hung from the ceiling joists.
Sean followed him across the threshold and stood just inside, taking it in. “Cool!”
“When I was a kid I’d come down here and take it out on the equipment if I felt like beating someone up.”
Damn! He hadn’t meant to let that slip. The trouble with losing your objectivity.
“Is this your house?”
“No, but I used to come here when I was your age.” He pointed to the bench press. “This you gotta be careful with. You drop this on your throat or chest, you could strangle or suffocate. You need to get someone to spot you.”
“Did you?”
“Always.”
Sean was polite enough to keep his “Yeah, sure” to himself.
Minorini showed him how to use the punching bag, to set up and maintain a cadence. The kid was bright. It didn’t take him long to build a mesmerizing rhythm. After he’d done enough reps with the barbells to tire himself out, Minorini left him working up a sweat on the bike.
He didn’t try to soft-pedal it when he broke the news to Joanne. “I mentioned your offer to be bait—no dice.”
“Could Sean spend a few weeks with my friends anyway?”
“You seem pretty intent on getting rid of him.”
“I want him out of danger.” She sighed and blew her breath out upward, so it stirred her bangs. “And I guess I secretly hope you’ll change your minds and try to trap these bastards so we can go back to our lives.”
He didn’t dignify that pipe dream with a response.
Joanne felt isolated and restless. This was what they meant by stir-crazy.
Eventually, purely from boredom, she loaded her F1 with fast black-and-white film and started snapping candids. Because she had only two rolls left, she waited for the best shots—the ones she’d have selected from a roll of okay pictures. She tried to catch the others in poses or activities that suggested the inner man. Sean, who was used to having her record his every activity, ignored her. Carver seemed oblivious. She wondered how much experience he’d had as a marshal. He seemed to resonate between the deadpan of an FBI agent and the enthusiasm of a kid playing cops and robbers. Joanne thought the picture of him showing Paul Minorini photos of his very pregnant wife would probably be something Mrs. Carver would like.
Minorini seemed annoyed when she told him what she was doing: “Practicing.”
He didn’t ask her what. “Aren’t you almost out of film?”
“Yes.”
“What’s the point?”
“It’s what I do.”
Thirty-Six
Haskel was waiting in Minorini’s office the next morning. “Butler’s had second thoughts about your long shot. Wants to talk.”
Haskel invited himself to join the party, trailing Minorini into Butler’s office, parking himself in Butler’s other chair.
Butler got right to the point. “I’ve decided your little trap idea wasn’t bad at all—just needs a few adjustments.”
“No, you had it right when you said it’s too dangerous.”
“It would be if we really used Lessing. But we don’t have to involve her at all. We’ll do a bait and switch. The Marshal’s Office told me Reilly’s coming back to work tomorrow. She’s about the same size and build as Lessing. We’ll let it leak that we’re sending our witness off somewhere secluded. We have the Marshals pick u
p Reilly instead of Lessing and when Dossi sends someone in to kill her, we’ve got him.”
“Supposing it works and we nail him. How does that help Lessing?” Haskel asked.
“It doesn’t. But it’ll help us plug our leak. And that’ll make it safer for the next confidential source we’re forced to put on the stand.”
“Meanwhile, what do we do with Lessing?”
“Nothing. We leave her right where she is. If Dossi hasn’t found her there by now, she’s probably safe enough.” Butler pointed at Minorini. “Paul, find out where she was proposing to send the kid. I’ll have somebody check the place out, and if it looks safe, we’ll send him there and plant someone to keep an eye on him. Just for insurance.”
“Who’s gonna guard our decoy?” Haskel asked. “I’m game.”
“Okay. And check with the Marshals. I think they got some new guy coming in. Maybe he could join you and Reilly.”
“Isn’t this all pretty labor-intensive?” Minorini asked.
Butler gave a mirthless laugh. “So’s investigating dead protected witnesses.”
“Who’s gonna deliver the kid?”
“You seem to enjoy volunteer work, Minorini. I thought you’d like to do it.”
“Who guards his mother while I’m gone?”
“She’s got a marshal guarding her,” Haskel said. “Carver’ll just have to tell his wife to put a cork in it and work 24-7 until we nail this thing.”
Minorini agreed to baby-sit the kid all the way to Florida so he could check out the security at the friends’ “gated community.”
They checked in early and took seats in the waiting area where Minorini could eyeball the other passengers. When they started boarding, he had an attendant seat Sean first, then watched everyone else board. He got on just before they closed the door.
They were on American with the 2/3 seating. He had them put Sean by the window; he took the aisle. The boy was excited. He actually listened to the preflight safety lecture, then sat with his hand shading the cabin-light glare so he could watch the rollout and takeoff.
“Wow!” he said as the plane banked over the city and climbed above the lake.
“You ever flown before?” Minorini asked.
“Not at night. We flew from L.A. a few times to visit my grandparents, but always during the day. When we moved here, we drove. The lights are awesome!”
Minorini nodded. He envied the kid the experience. He himself had flown so much it had lost its luster.
The flight was blessedly uneventful. Minorini used the quiet time to go over the whole business in his mind, from the first call after Siano’s death to Butler’s peculiar change of mind.
Sean alternated between dozing and peering out at the lights. They were somewhere over Kentucky when he asked, “You gonna marry my ma?”
Minorini shook his head. “Can’t. She’s a witness.”
“But would you if she wasn’t?”
“If my aunt was a man she’d be my uncle.”
Sean gave him a look of annoyance. “But do you like her?”
“You’re not shy about asking questions, are you?”
“Ma always says, ‘If you want to know something, ask.’”
“Does she always answer your questions?’
“No, but when she doesn’t, she at least tells me it’s none of my business.”
“Ah. Well, I guess a straight question deserves a straight answer.” Sean waited. “I like your mom. If she weren’t a witness, I’d probably ask her out. As for marrying, that’s something it’s best not to think about until you know a person really well.”
Sean thought about that and nodded. “That’s cool.” Then he put his headset back on and retreated into his music.
Thirty-Seven
Joanne regretted sending Sean away as soon as the door closed behind them. Odd how someone who hadn’t even existed fifteen years ago had become the center of her life. She didn’t know how she would survive if he came to harm. She spent the next two hours cleaning, interrupting John Carver’s work to demand he help her move a couch or reposition rugs.
After his third trip to the garage with trash and recyclables, Carver put his hands on her shoulders and said, “He’ll be all right. He’s probably safer in a plane than at his school. And Paul’s the best. He won’t let anything happen.”
“I know. It’s just—”
She was cut off by the beeping of his cell phone. He said, “Excuse me,” and flipped it open. He walked across the room to talk.
She could tell by his body language the news wasn’t good. She waited until he returned the phone to his pocket before asking, “What is it, John?”
“Ellie’s gone into labor—contractions ten minutes apart. I told her to call a cab and go straight to the hospital.”
“You’ll meet her there?”
“No. They’ve got no one to relieve me.”
“You have to go! You can’t let her go through this alone.”
“She won’t be alone. Her doctor’s meeting her at the hospital and there’re plenty of competent people on staff. Ellie understands.”
Howie had been off on a fishing trip beyond Catalina Island when Sean was born. Unable to reach him and with no family in the area, Joanne had called her Lamaze teacher. The woman dropped everything and came, but it had still been a terrifying experience, and Joanne had had to be medicated for the ensuing depression. Sean had been exclusively hers after that. She’d borne him; she’d birthed him. Howie had been as relevant as a sperm donor. It was one reason she’d encouraged Sean to have a healthy disrespect for lawyers.
“NO!” she told Carver. “No, no, no, no, no! None of them is her husband. Trust me on this. She needs you.”
“I can’t leave you alone. Even if nothing happened, I could lose my job.”
“Not if no one finds out. And I’m not going to tell. I’ll be fine. As soon as you’re out the door, I’ll set the alarm and go to bed. No one will suspect there’s anyone here. You can come right back as soon as you’re sure Ellie and the baby are okay; no one’ll be the wiser.”
“Unless something happens.”
“If anyone comes near the house, I’ll call you. If someone tries to break in, I’ll dial 9-1-1. As long as you don’t have an accident coming or going, everything will be fine.”
“It goes against all my training and good judgment.”
“It’s your first child. You have to be there.”
He held out for another half hour. Then a near-frantic call from Ellie did it, coupled with Joanne’s insistence that nothing would be different from the last two boring weeks. Ellie was at Evanston Hospital—not too distant—dilated to five centimeters when Joanne finally pushed John out the door.
Paul called to say they’d taken off safely from O’Hare and had been forced to land in Atlanta. He’d call when they finally got to Ft. Lauderdale, but it would probably be late.
She got angrier as she prowled the empty house, even the rooms used by Paul and Carver. She felt as if she were looking for something—she’d recognize what when she found it—then decided what it was she needed—film. She opened drawers, found Carver’s spare cartridges in a suitcase in his closet, Paul’s spare gun in a locked aluminum case in a dresser drawer. She found a pocket calculator, a bunch of keys, the homeowner’s—Elizabeth Cross’s—checkbook. But no camera equipment. She was out of options as well as out of film.
At six, she turned the news on.
Tom Skilling eventually came on to say it would start snowing between 7:00 and 9:00 P.M. “There ought to be a good accumulation.”
When they started to report the sports, she shut the TV off and resumed her stalking.
In the back hall, she turned off the house alarm and the back porch lights, and stepped out on the porch. The air seemed warm—as usual before a storm—and she could smell snow coming. There was a luminescence in the air, probably reflection off the cloud cover, that kept the night from being truly dark. She checked the yard for signs of
prowlers, then walked to the garage. Both the side and overhead doors were locked. And Carver must’ve taken the keys with him.
But what about the set she’d found with the checkbook? She could try them, though the probability of finding film in the garage when there was none in the house was remote at least.
She went back and got her coat and the keys. On the porch, she tried them until she found one that locked the back door. Another let her in the side door of the garage. Inside she found a silver-blue Mercedes. She walked around to the driver’s side and opened the door.
What if she borrowed the car? As long as she didn’t damage it, who’d notice? And even if they did, what could they do about it?
She sorted through the bunch of keys and found one for the car. She could go get film and be back before anyone noticed. Better yet, she could take her exposed film home to develop it. And get more from the stash she kept in her freezer.
But what if the car-bomber was staking out the place?
Surely after two weeks he’d have gotten tired and gone away. To be safe, she could park some distance away and sneak up to the house. If anything looked odd she could turn around and run.
She went back in the house and filled her pockets with exposed film, then went out to start the car. The engine turned over on the first try. She raised the overhead door and let the car warm up a while. Before she backed out, she familiarized herself with the vehicle and turned off the dome light so it wouldn’t give her away when she opened the doors.
There was an electric door opener tucked over the sun-visor, and after she pulled the car out, she closed the garage door.
By the time she got to her neighborhood, the few flakes that were falling hadn’t yet affected traffic. It took only twenty minutes. She parked one street over from her house, in a spot where two tall spruces cut off the glow from the streetlight. She stayed on the sidewalk as she rounded the block, walking like someone in a hurry to get home. When she turned onto her street, she searched the houses on either side for a bomber or any neighbors looking out. Fortunately, not enough snow had accumulated to bring out the shovelers. She left the walk and slipped along the hedge that marked the west boundary of her property.
The Fall Page 13
