Lucas Holt Series: Books 1-3

by JP Ratto

  Taking the opportunity, I slipped behind a neighbor’s open gate and crouched. The street was quiet again. Two full minutes had gone by before someone padded toward me. I let him pass and peered out from my hiding place to see the figure standing in front of my house. He didn’t climb the stoop but instead stepped beyond the short iron gate to the unoccupied basement apartment.

  I stepped back to the sidewalk and ran toward the intruder. As I reached the gate, he spun around and attempted to run past me. I grabbed his arm. He took a swing at me, missed, but before he could try again, I hit him in the face with a right hook. He stumbled back and fell to the ground. He began to rise. I lunged, forcing him on his back and held him down, my ass on his chest and my knees on both arms.

  “Why are you following me?” I leaned closer. “Who the hell are you?”

  I placed my arm across his neck, making it difficult for him to breathe. He choked. I applied more pressure. He panted and struggled to free himself. His breath smelled of tobacco and beer and his skin reeked of cheap cologne and garlic. The pungent odor made my stomach churn. I lifted my arm allowing him to speak.

  “Get off me.” He blew a gust of foul air into my face. “I’m not following you.”

  “The hell you’re not. You were in McAllister’s, and now you’re peeping through the windows of a private residence. Why?”

  Instead of answering he lurched, nearly head butting me. I hit him again and jammed my arm against his throat. He gagged. If it wasn’t dark I’d probably see he was purple. I could make out his round face and sizeable Mediterranean nose. Beads of sweat glazed his skin and his face stubble scratched against my hand. He was Mr. Nerves from McAllister’s.

  “I swear…”

  “You’re lying. Tell me who you are and why you’re here.”

  “Okay, okay,” he gasped, “I have information.”

  “About what? Why didn’t you tell me at the bar?”

  “It’s private and it wasn’t the right time. Let me get up and we’ll talk.”

  “No, say what you have to say, and I’ll think about letting you up.”

  I could feel him sigh and knew he had decided to cooperate when someone yelled from a window, “What’s going on? Get outta here. I’m calling the police.”

  Damn neighborhood watch.

  I pressed again. “You don’t have much time before the police haul you away for loitering, trespassing, and attempted burglary.”

  “You assaulted me!”

  “You know who I am?”

  He nodded. “Yes.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Giaconne. Frank Giaconne.”

  “Last chance, Frank. What’s this about?”

  “Marn…”

  He stopped speaking at the sound of approaching police. What? I believed he was about to say Marnie. I released him.

  “Get up.”

  He rose. I glanced back at the street when a police car turned the corner, lights flashing. Pulling out a business card with my private number written on the back, I handed it to Giaconne. “Call this number tomorrow and we’ll talk.”

  I watched his bulky figure bolt toward Second Avenue as a police officer cut the lights and exited his car. Fortunately, I knew Officer Jack Avery. I met him at the curb.

  “Beating up the neighbors, Lucas?” he asked.

  “Hi, Jack. No, just a misunderstanding. I saw someone outside the basement apartment I’m renting out. I guess I overreacted a bit. Turned out he’s looking for a place.”

  I wasn’t going to give Jack any details. If Frank Giaconne had information about Marnie, I wanted to talk to him before the police.

  “Weird to be house hunting this time of night,” Jack said. “I’d be careful who I rent to.”

  “Good advice.” I thanked him for his prompt response and said goodnight.

  Sobered by my altercation with Giaconne, I walked back to my house and stood at the bottom step listening to the innocuous noises of the city. A truck passed on Third, its transmission grinding. Two cats wailed in the distance; another fight for territory was imminent. I was tired and wanted a nightcap and about ten hours’ sleep.

  About to climb the steps, another menacing sound caused me to turn. I focused on the dark figure approaching me at a quick pace. Does Giaconne have a partner? He moved with an assertiveness Giaconne lacked. What were the odds of two middle-of-the-night encounters?

  I assessed the man’s height and build; he’d be harder to fell. He wore sunglasses—at night—and walked with a disciplined gait. Wondering what branch he’d served, I thought of my last encounter with ex-military. I stepped back closer to the street lamp, forcing him into the light; I wanted a good look. I remembered my recent threat to legal counsel representing a presidential candidate. It’s a long story; bottom line was I’d made a few enemies. The guy smiled, but I wasn’t waiting to find out if he was friend or foe. As soon as he was within distance, he raised his arm. Maybe I’d had too much to drink or my adrenaline was high after the confrontation with Giaconne. I viewed his movement as threatening and threw a left jab to his face, which was neatly blocked. He adopted a defensive position, ducking his head between both arms, fists raised, head weaving and bobbing. The smile never left his face as I kept jabbing, my ineffective punches making me angrier than I already felt.

  Directly under the lamppost, I peered at his face, his hands, and the army insignia ring he wore. My eyes snapped back to his. I stopped and lowered my fists. He pointed a finger toward his face.

  “May I?”

  I nodded, and as he removed his glasses, full recognition registered.

  “You were always a good sparring partner, Holt.”

  “What the hell is this?”

  “Commander Gates needs your help. It’s personal.”

  ***

  Gerard McFadden―Mac, as everyone in our unit had called him―sat across from me in one of the tartan-covered club chairs in my home office. As he and I drank Scotch, we assessed each other over the tops of Glencairn whiskey glasses.

  We hadn’t seen one another since the Gulf War. Mac was fit as ever, just as I remembered him, five-o’clock shadow and his dark hair cropped short. He’d never married, and moved from one military related career to another—the latest, working with Charles Gates, former commander of our Delta Force Unit, who owned Gates Global Protection.

  Mac set his drink down and glanced around my second floor office.

  “This is a fantastic room, Lucas.”

  The office, located in the back half of the brownstone, occupies two floors. My desk, a huge African mahogany, and a sitting area occupied one. A spiral staircase leads to an open gallery of bookshelves spanning the perimeter of the upper floor.

  I nodded in agreement. “I spend a lot of time here.”

  “It suits you. You being a man’s man, the only thing missing are a couple of tiger heads and a bearskin rug.”

  “Not for me; I had enough hunting and killing in Iraq.”

  Mac hesitated, then said, “I don’t think I adequately thanked you for―”

  “I’m sure you did,” I said.

  “You’re good at what you do, and that’s why the commander needs you. Right away.”

  “Sounds like an emergency, yet you’re sitting there drinking my Scotch, admiring my house, and talking about old times.”

  “Yes, well, I know about your wife and the commander understands—”

  “Understands what?” I asked. “Let’s cut to the chase, Mac. What’s going on?”

  Mac drained his glass and stood. “Lucas, I need you to come with me to Bethesda.”

  “I have a funeral to attend in the morning.” I didn’t mention the fact that I had a missing daughter to find.

  “After that. This can’t wait too long.”

  Neither could finding Marnie—I’d waited what seemed like a lifetime for evidence she was still alive. I hadn’t slept the night before, and my hard day had begun to wear on my already heightened nerves. I wasn’
t looking forward to Susan’s burial and needed to get a few hours’ sleep. I rose and walked to the office door. Mac wasn’t going to give me any details. My loyalty to the commander was a given. He knew I’d go with or without an explanation.

  “Okay, Mac. As soon as the funeral is over, I’ll drive down to Maryland. Give me the address.”

  “I’ll take you there,” Mac told me.

  “I’d rather drive myself. I like to have my own car.”

  “Okay, you can drive me.”

  Mac left my office, and I followed him down to the front door. He opened it to let himself out, turned, and extended his hand.

  “The commander appreciates your assistance and is anxious for your arrival. See you in the morning.”

  Chapter 8

  Stevie Benson and Tim Minsky trudged along the streets of the Lower East Side on their way to school. They showed no concern at being late with their steady, slow pace. Just another tedious day, learning stuff they’d never use in a million years. What’s a kid, who can barely get through middle school and has no interest in college, going do with Geometry and Statistics?

  Their attention span or lack thereof, was another problem for the boys. After being up half the night playing video games, they dreaded sitting in a stifling classroom all day.

  The sound of an approaching sanitation truck caused Tim to perk up and turn around. Now, there’s something he could see himself doing. He poked Stevie to get his attention. “Be cool to drive one of those, huh?”

  The huge white truck passed the boys and stopped a few yards away near a mountain of black garbage bags. They watched as two men hoisted the heavy sacks into the truck. Near the bottom of the heap, trash leaked from the plastic that had been ripped open by animals—stray cats, dogs, and rats. The putrid smell made the seasoned collectors cringe and turn away. The boys covered their faces and laughed when the bottom of one bag split open, causing the sanitation worker to jump back and swear.

  Tim laughed. “Aww, man, look at all that shit.”

  While one worker did his best to pick up most of what was at his feet, the other rolled a dumpster from the side of a building and down to the street behind the truck. The boys watched intently as two giant arms latched onto the container and lifted it. They moved closer so they could see as the dumpster tilted toward the opening in the truck. A stream of trash poured out. Stevie and Tim stood transfixed. Anything, even trash collection, was more interesting than ratios and subsets.

  Tim recoiled when a large solid object rolled out and caught on the edge of the bin. It dangled over the truck’s hopper, where it would be crushed and compacted. He grabbed Stevie’s arm.

  “Whoa!” Stevie yelled. “That dude’s messed up. Is he dead?”

  The sanitation worker looked up and yelled, “Ho!” A man’s mangled body hung by the collar of his jacket. “Shut it! Stop the compactor,” the worker shouted again to stop the hydraulic crusher. The loader halted and jerked. The lifeless body swung as if in a noose and fell into the truck.

  At the sound of police sirens, Stevie and Tim raced down the street, leaving the awful scene as sanitation workers shouted with shock and disbelief.

  Tim’s eyes bulged. “No way! That did not just happen.”

  Within minutes, the boys’ horror turned to ghoulish awe at what they had witnessed. Stevie punched Tim’s fist. “That was mad awesome!”

  Quickening their pace, they discussed the grossest way to describe what they’d seen. They grinned at each other, imagining their classmates’ reaction when they told them about the body in the bin. Stevie and Tim knew, as soon as word got around, they’d be hounded like celebrities to relate their story. Getting to school had become their number one priority.

  Chapter 9

  I stood three rows back amid the crowd of mourners who had come to pay their respects to Susan.

  She loved the fall as I do and thought it was the perfect time of year to pass—to be buried beneath fresh cool grass and falling leaves. Much better than snow. It’s amazing what inane thoughts go through your mind when you’re trying to keep from collapsing in grief. Granted we’d been divorced for fourteen years, but it wasn’t because I didn’t love her. It was Susan who couldn’t be with me. I was a constant reminder of the loss of our child. It pained her too much. For me, Susan was a reminder that we had a child, and as long as we were together, there was hope we would bring Marnie home one day.

  Susan had lost hope. I never did.

  It’s ironic that after I received the photo of Marnie, Susan succumbed to her illness. It broke my heart that she would never see our daughter. My only consolation was she saw the photo and died believing Marnie would be found.

  I didn’t notice the tears on my cheeks until I felt a hand on my shoulder. Ray Scully was there with his wife. Ray didn’t speak. No words of comfort were offered—none were needed.

  The priest finished his eulogy, and I watched as Jim O’Brien and his family placed roses on the casket. I composed myself and nodded my head at Ray to let him know I was okay. As he removed his arm from my shoulder his cell vibrated, and he turned to take the call. I knew it had to be about work. He finished the call and came back to stand next to me.

  “Sorry about that. I told them I would be here today. Sean will take Abruzzi with him to the scene.”

  “What is it this time?” I asked, looking for a way to take my mind off Susan, even if it meant talking about a homicide. Ray stared at me for a moment; he understood.

  “Body in a dumpster on the Lower East Side. Some kids walking to school saw it as it was being emptied into the truck.”

  “Poor kids,” I said.

  “You sure you’re okay?” Ray pointed to the bandage on my right hand. “What happened?”

  “I caught it on a door jamb while carrying something too wide to fit through. I’m fine. Thanks for being here. You guys are great friends.”

  “Don’t mention it, Lucas.”

  “I want to see Jim before he leaves. Let’s get together soon.”

  “Sure. Anytime. Need anything, just call.”

  Ray and I shook hands. I kissed Regina and moved toward Susan’s husband. She had married into the large O’Brien clan. They hadn’t any children. I’m sure it was a disappointment for Susan, though she never spoke of it. Maybe she hadn’t wanted any after what happened to Marnie.

  When Jim―a big burly guy―saw me, he grabbed my hand and pulled me into a hug. It was brief but full of emotion, and I struggled not to cry again. We both said the appropriate words expressing our mutual grief. Jim joined his family and walked toward the limousines waiting to take them home. They had invited me to a traditional Irish wake, but I declined.

  I waited until all the mourners left to say goodbye to Susan. As before, absurd thoughts of the weather and how her grave was situated in a prime location among the sea of other graves entered my head. I scanned the floral arrangements brought from the funeral home to decorate the burial site. I read some of the cards. My younger brother Evan, who I hadn’t seen in years, had sent a basket of white lilies, Gerbera daisies, and roses. Don’t ask me how I knew what flowers they were—I just did. Maybe Gerbera daisies had been Susan’s favorite flower. I was dismayed that I didn’t know for sure. I tried hard to remember.

  Yes, it was daisies.

  I pulled one white flower from the basket, placed it on the casket amid all the red roses, and left.

  Mac leaned against my Rover, his arms folded over his chest. He wore dark clothes and the same sunshades he’d worn the previous night. I unlocked the car, and without speaking, we slipped inside for the long drive down to Bethesda. After Mac expressed his sympathy, we said no more about it or the reason the commander summoned me into service. Knowing Charles Gates as I do, I believed he had a good reason and that was enough. We rode for miles without speaking; Mac and I had spent many occasions in the Gulf War huddled in silence while we waited orders to advance.

  I began to drift into thoughts of Susan and Marnie whe
n Mac cleared his throat. “Remember the time Saddam Hussein ordered a retreat of Iraqi forces from Kuwait?” Mac asked.

  “I do.”

  “One unit, at Kuwait International Airport, didn’t get the message and put up a strong fight. Those were the days I thought I was invincible and kept crawling ahead.”

  “Hell, after a few fire fights, I was beginning to think you were invincible.”

  Mac laughed but his eyes were glazed and he appeared to be deep into the story he was telling. “It didn’t work out so well for me. I had blisters on my knees for weeks afterwards. Two Iraqis trapped me in crossfire as I crawled out onto the hot tarmac. I took hits in both legs and one shoulder. I had nowhere to go; I began saying goodbye to family and friends.

  “Then you stood up. I didn’t even know you were there. I still remember you screaming…” Mac shook his head and chuckled. “Like foul language would be enough.” He lowered his eyes a moment then looked up at me again. “You took them both out and dragged my sorry ass back to the unit.”

  I glanced at Mac. He stared straight ahead and swallowed hard before speaking again. “I still owe you, man.”

  “Forget it. You would have done the same for me.”

  Mac nodded and we moved the conversation to filling in a few blanks about our lives since the Gulf War, mostly about our work. I didn’t mention Marnie’s kidnapping or that I’d postponed acting on the first promising lead I had in fifteen years to respond to Gates’s request. I hoped I wouldn’t regret it.

  ***

  It was late afternoon when we entered Maryland. Mac insisted he give me directions rather than plug the address into Gypsy; it’s what I call my GPS. Fine with me. Once off the interstate Mac directed me through lush neighborhoods and winding local roads. The suburbs of Baltimore were beautifully swathed in brilliant fall color.

  I turned the radio to a Sirius jazz channel and glanced at Mac, who nodded at my choice and relaxed against his seat. The volume cranked up, the saxophonist’s rich, soulful riffs and licks blended with the meandering, rolling road. Immersed in the music, I pressed the gas for more speed as the high-pitched cry of the sax crescendoed. I could have driven for days listening to the blues.