by Jon F. Merz
And so do wheelchair-bound private investigators.
The cops had the advantage in this one since they can disguise themselves to some extent. I got nothing to disguise unless I want to sit in a trash pile looking like an old Lazy Boy recliner someone dumped.
By the time McCloskey was able to get some SWAT snipers positioned on the roof of Black Falcon Terminal, time was already growing short. He put some more in the various windows of the offices overlooking the rearmost parking area.
The next closest piece of real estate was runway C at Logan International Airport, three-quarters of a mile away.
Across the harbor.
I arrived in a mini-van taxicab converted to hold us ambulatory-disadvantaged folks. The cab driver waited until his hydraulic ramp lowered me and then smiled as I fed him a twenty for the trip down from Copley Square.
He roared off.
I wheeled myself across the bumpy old railroad tracks that still run down here and continued going until I found the rear parking area.
Sometimes, a State cop will drive down into the deepest parts of Black Falcon, but it's rare. Truth is, there's not all that much going on down there that would warrant the time it takes to get down here.
It's a nice place to go and make-out, though.
Especially when it's getting dark.
Like it was now.
Across the lot, I saw the black exterior of a Ford Explorer and hoped to hell it wasn't the SWAT team. I breathed a sigh of relief a moment later when I heard an audible female moan creep across the lot carried by a warm breeze off the ocean.
I heard another engine and wheeled myself around.
McCloskey's department issue Toyota Land Cruiser eased to a stop nearby. McCloskey got out and walked over.
We'd decided beforehand that Darmov might have the place under surveillance and not make an appearance until he'd ascertained everything was kosher.
McCloskey shook my hand. "Evening, Mr. Thunder."
"It's Jake, Frank, remember?"
"Sorry. Just sort of nervous and all."
"Did you bring the money?"
"Oh sure. Yeah. It's right in the truck."
"You didn't have any problems?"
"Well, it's not like I had 75k just laying around or something. But I managed."
"Excellent. I expect your child will be here shortly."
McCloskey nodded and stood shuffling from one foot to another. I chewed my lower lip.
And across the lot, the couple kept moaning.
After five minutes of not seeing Darmov, I checked my watch. Any moment nowÉ
And then I heard the sound of the heavy engine.
Darmov's black limousine cruised around the corner and pulled to a stop nearby. I resisted the urge to look up. I wondered how many crosshairs were fixed on us right now.
It suddenly felt very unusual to be right smack in the middle of a killing zone.
Danger-close.
Gregor hopped out of the passenger side of the limousine and held open the door for Darmov. He stepped out and brushed an invisible speck of lint from the lapel of his double-breasted suit coat.
He looked up as if noticing us for the first time and came striding over, hand already extended. Behind him, Gregor shut the door quickly.
"Jake, how are you?"
I reached up and grasped his hand. It felt warm. "Fine, Mr. Darmov. This is Frank McCloskey. The gentlemen I told you about. Frank, this is Mr. Darmov."
"I'm glad to make your acquaintance, Mr. Darmov."
"As am I," said Darmov. "Tell me, did you have any problems dealing with Jake here?"
"Not a one. I thought he was great."
Darmov nodded. "Excellent. I always enjoy hearing good things about my employees." He frowned then and glanced around, sniffing the air.
I cleared my throat. "Everything okay?"
Another moan floated across the parking lot toward us. Darmov's face softened. "Ah, yes. I'd forgotten this place is a favorite among young lovers."
"They've been here for a while," I said. "Must be having a marathon session."
"They might be some office members from the mutual fund company up the street," said Darmov. "Seems like the only good thing they can do is generate lots of frenetic humping among their younger employees." He winked. "Judging by the less-than-spectacular returns on my mutual funds last year."
"Ought to switch companies," I said. "I took all my money out of them when a buddy of mine got framed by his idiotic boss."
"Indeed," said Darmov. "But we're not here to speculate on mutual funds, are we Mr. McCloskey?"
"No sir. We're not." He smiled wide, exposing his pointed canines so he looked like a cheery vampire.
I nodded toward McCloskey's Land Cruiser. "He's got the money in the car."
"Where is the child, Mr. Darmov?"
Darmov smiled. "Close. Very close. First, however, I need to see the money. Make sure it's all there and all. You understand."
"Of course," said McCloskey. "Let me just get it." He walked over to the Land Cruiser.
Darmov leaned in close to me. "Everything okay, Jake?"
I nodded, trying to play it cool despite the hammering of my heart. "Yeah, Mr. Darmov. Everything looks really cool. McCloskey seems to be playing it straight. Nice guy and all. He's very anxious to see the child, though. You know, see what he just blew 75 grand on."
Darmov stood again and nodded. I noticed he was wearing some kind of earpiece. Maybe he was wired for sound. "Of course he is. Of course."
"Where's Viktor tonight?"
Darmov frowned. "Vitya is actually a bit under the weather. He's seeing a private doctor I have on staff. Last I checked the big fellow had a fever of one hundred and three."
"Steep."
Darmov nodded. "I'm sure he'll recover soon."
"I sure hope so."
Darmov chuckled. "Really."
I shrugged. "Well, it sounded a lot better than saying something along the lines of Ôgod, I hope he dies.'"
"That it did." He looked back at McCloskey's Land Cruiser. "Is everything okay?"
I frowned. I stooped a little in my chair. I could see McCloskey's legs from my vantage point but nothing else. He didn't seem to be moving.
What the hell was going on?
"Frank!" I called. I frowned.
Darmov began moving toward his limousine. Gregor began opening the door.
And then the whole parking lot lit up with gunfire.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Staccato bursts rang out from a nearby rooftop, scarring the parking lot in front of my chair. I jerked the right wheel and spun around, heading for the loading dock.
Behind me, I heard the muffled thud of rounds finding a body. I couldn't risk a look back, though, not until I'd found cover.
I knew McCloskey's boys would be trying to pinpoint the shooter's location and take them down. That was risky in and of itself because it would mean explaining the presence of cops to Darmov later.
But that was only a problem if we both lived.
And right now, that didn't seem so likely.
Another set of bullets tore up the ground ahead of me, one of them dinging off the frame of my chair. I jerked sideways and kept trying to zigzag as I headed toward the loading dock.
Still, trying to move fast in a wheelchair during a hail of gunfire is next to impossible.
As it was, I poured too much speed on and lost control of the chair. I tilted and then toppled right. I tumbled out of the chair and just kept rolling until I came to rest under the loading dock.
My body slammed into a bunch of old lumber with rusty nails jutting out. Cripes, if the shooter didn't get me, I'd die from tetanus. Lucky me.
I squirmed further under the loading dock, aware of the putrid smell nearby. I'd probably rolled into a den of decomposing rats and old shit.
Nifty.
I peeked out and saw Darmov's limousine gone. There was no sign of Darmov anywhere.
But Gregor's body lay sprawled
in a pool of blood. His body close to where we'd been talking. From the volume of blood pooling around his body, I estimated he might have been hit as much as five times on the way down.
I could still see McCloskey's feet behind the Land Cruiser. I hoped he was still alive.
But I didn't hold my breath.
My heart ached.
And then the gunfire stopped.
The silence seemed abrupt compared to the maelstrom of ricocheting bullets that had zinged all around us a few seconds earlier.
It was only then I heard the steady thumping of my heart in my ears.
The first overt police units arrived on scene four minutes later. And let me tell you, there's nothing as weird as laying under a loading dock, scraping rusty nails and smelling rat shit and wondering if you're the only fool left alive to make four minutes seem like an eternity.
This was twice in the last few days there had been an attempt on my life. This case was turning my life into Dodge City.
The cop cars rolled in and immediately everyone poured out with guns drawn. Someone noticed my chair and came over, hesitantly.
I kept my hands where he could see them when he bent down and saw me trapped under the loading dock.
"You Thunder?"
"Yeah."
"Okay." He holstered his piece and helped me out. "You okay?"
"Aside from the probable tetanus and rats, yeah. I'm okay. What about everyone else?"
"We're sorting that out now." He eased me into the chair.
I rolled myself over to McCloskey's Land Cruiser. One of the cops was bent over McCloskey, checking for his pulse. He looked up after a minute.
"He's alive."
The breath came out of me in a whoosh. "What the fuck happened here?"
The cop nodded at McCloskey as he helped him sit down against the Toyota. "Judging from the bruise on his neck, someone must have clocked him bad."
I shook my head and turned when I heard someone behind me. The SWAT commander dressed in starched black battle fatigues was walking toward us with a frown.
He saw me and shook his head. "You want to tell me what the hell happened here?"
"Wish I knew."
"Makes two of us. I got three guys up on the rooftops all telling me someone crept up on Ôem and knocked Ôem out cold."
"You mean they weren't shooting?"
"Nope."
Shit. Who the hell had unleashed the rain of lead on us? And more to the point, why was Gregor the only who got killed? They could have taken out McCloskey and all the SWAT guys, but chose not to.
I voiced my concerns to the SWAT commander who nodded. "And why the fuck didn't you get your ticket punched, Thunder? No offense or anything, but it seems to me you'd be a pretty damned easy target to hit in that chair."
"Yeah. I would be." I sighed. "What time did your guys get into position?"
"About an hour ago."
"Means that whoever did this was in position before then."
"Not only that," said the commander, "but they were total pros. It's not the easiest thing in the world to sneak up on my guys."
I could have debated that but I chose not to. My decision was helped along by McCloskey coming back from his unconscious coffee break. I rolled over to him as he sat and massaged his neck.
"Jesus, Frank. What the hell happened here?"
He shook his head. "No idea. Someone cold-cocked me, though. Put me right down."
"This makes no damned sense."
"Darmov get away?"
"Yeah." I sighed. "Don't suppose you got anything worthwhile on tape?"
"Not a word," said McCloskey. "We hadn't even discussed the kid exchange yet beyond money. We got nothing we can use which makes this whole damned operation a big fat waste of time."
"We were right about one thing."
"What's that?"
"Darmov was wearing an earpiece. Someone was keeping him appraised of what we said ahead of time, most likely."
"Would have meant they'd need a parabolic or a shotgun mike." He glanced overhead. "But we had people on the rooftops." He sighed. "You're right. It makes no damned sense."
I leaned back, trying to ease an ache creeping up my spine. I turned and looked across the lot. The black Explorer was gone.
"Shit."
McCloskey looked at me. "Now what?"
"You remember a black Explorer when you drove in?"
"Saw it across the way, yeah. So what?"
"So we all heard moaning and just assumed it was a pair of lovers out for a fast screw."
"And you think it was more."
"What I think is that the Explorer is gone now. Conveniently so. With it go any chance of us finding some witnesses who might have had a better perspective on the shooting gallery that just happened."
McCloskey closed his eyes. "My head is gonna ache for days after this one."
"And Darmov got away clean."
"You know what this means?"
"Means my life expectancy might be pretty short right now if he think he was set up."
McCloskey nodded. "That's a definite possibility."
"You see any others?"
"Yeah. Yeah, I do."
"Go on."
"Your cover might be further solidified. Another attempt on your life might endear him to you even more."
"I get any more endearing I'm gonna be sick."
"Dead, more likely."
"Thanks."
"Don't mention it."
"And what about you?"
"What about me?"
"You didn't get capped. So, are you still going to be in the market for a kidnapped baby or did the shooting spook you?"
"What would look suspicious?"
"If you hung around. You're supposed to be an insurance salesman."
"Not exactly the type of folks who normally get mixed up in gun battles," said McCloskey. "Guess I'm spooked."
"Shit."
"Yeah."
I shook my head and watched the last trail of sunlight sink behind darker clouds. A soft sputter of rain suddenly drifted down on us.
McCloskey wiped his forehead. "Helluva way to make a living, eh, Jake?"
"Yeah. Big turn-on."
"We got shit out of this, you know that?"
"Well, maybe."
"Maybe?"
"Yeah. We got some stuff out of this."
"Explain that to me."
I grinned. "You're way too pessimistic. Anyone ever tell you that?"
"Heard that about a million times. I'm waiting."
"Well. You got a nifty headache."
"Probably a concussion."
"Yeah. And I got some tetanus."
McCloskey looked at me with a look of disbelief. "Is that it?"
I shrugged. "Think I got bitten by some rats, too. But I can't be sure of that one."
"No?"
"Can't feel shit down there."
McCloskey shook his head. "You know, Jake, it's a good thing for you I can actually tolerate your fucked up sense of humor. Otherwise after a stint like this, I might just take a vacation from your company."
"For how long?"
"For good."
I nodded and watched McCloskey walk away.
At least he could.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Jim Beam's curative personality helped take the edge off of the dust and splinters clogging my demeanor. I leaned back in my chair and suddenly realized how much I'd like to have the ability to just kick my legs up on the desktop and drink myself into oblivion.
Well, at least I could do the drinking part.
But somehow it didn't seem as romantic an idea as it had with the legs up. I sighed and poured another two fingers worth into the glass and sipped it this time.
I still smelled.
I think I'd decided it must have been rat urine or some other highly disgusting stench. And for some reason, I hadn't gone home right away.
Probably because I don't keep much Jim Beam there.
Out
side my office windows, darkness was falling fast. I had all the lights off inside my office, enjoying the dim glow filtering in from the streetlights outside.
I saw a cruiser parked down the street by the Indian restaurant. As far as I could see, the plainclothes were gone. Maybe McCloskey had called them off.
I didn't know.
In fact, I didn't know very much.
But I was definitely getting tired of being shot at.
One of these times, they just might actually hit me.
I stopped sipping.
It was a valid question. Why hadn't they been able to hit me yet? And if someone was so damned determined to get to me, why bother with a sniper rifle at all? What was to stop them from simply storming my office and killing me outright?
Not much.
Maybe that was what was concerning me.
The sniper shot seemed very close. Almost too close. They'd almost gotten me. Unless they weren't supposed to. Unless they were just supposed to make it look close.
I frowned. To be able to shoot from distance, adjust for windage, elevation, lighting conditions, and all the other jazz that goes into making a shot like that, and then to miss on top of everything, but only by a hairÉ
That would take some real skill.
I finished the drink and set the glass back down on the desk. Who did I know who had that kind of shooting skill? And who did I know who could shoot like that and was also connected to this case?
Darmov could probably shoot that well. Viktor could also be a shooter. Woolery was dead. Gregor was dead. Vanessa was a great lay.
Sometimes I don't much like how my mind tends to classify suspects, especially when Jim Beam is influencing my every thought.
I sighed and looked at the pockmarked spot on my wall, underneath my Rodney Dangerfield autographed picture and frowned again. The score across the paint from the bullet just stayed there.
Unblinking.
Never moving.
I stared at it, trying to will it into revealing something to me about what the hell was going on. I belched and tasted the liquor.
Yuk.
My face was reaching that tingling point of almost anesthesia and I knew I'd had a few too many. Of course, not having much in the way of something to eat during the last few hours didn't help either.
I rummaged in the top drawer of my desk and found some peanut butter crackers. Dinner of champions.
