Radcliff’s face darkened in irritation. “You’re not considering giving it to me, are you?”
“I am. Yes. Why not?”
“You want to dump your secrets on Radcliff who will then be the target of the same murdering elements who are hunting you?”
“Something like that. But you’re not a wanted man; you can get to the bottom of the mystery.”
“While you sneak out of town and start a new life?”
“What’s wrong with that?”
“Everything.”
They stared out the window at a wrinkly-faced old man wearing a long raincoat who was crossing the street. A gust of wind came along and blew his umbrella inside out. The man turned his body from the wind and the umbrella flopped back in place. Then Radcliff said, “Start at the beginning.”
“The night I knifed the Latino I took his purse; he was dead and I needed money.”
“Go on.”
“Unbeknownst to me the purse contained a cyber key that opens a storage unit at the Piedmont Secure Storage facility. It is also the key that everyone is searching for. I do not know what unit the key opens because the owner cleaned the lettering from the tag.”
“So you want me to . . . do what?”
“Convince the storage facility attendant that you are investigating a crime and that you need to search the unit. Surely the guy has the ability to match the key to the unit.”
Radcliff thought for a moment. “I’ve got a blank warrant in the trunk that I can fill out; could work if he doesn’t study it too closely.”
“Will you give it a try?”
“Yes. But if you don’t have something worthwhile in that storage unit, you’re immediately going into custody and working your legal issues through the system.”
“I’m not a beginner, Radcliff,” he said, draining his latte. “I know there’s something very valuable in that unit.”
“Let me make this clear, Palmer; if you try any tricks at all, I’ll blow you away.”
“That’s very clear.”
A few minutes later Radcliff was standing in front of a squat, square security booth flanked by tall security fences topped with coils of razor wire. He was speaking to an attendant through a small speaker affixed to a thick glass window and showing him his badge and the warrant. Then he slid the key through a mail slot. The attendant examined the key and then accessed his computer screen. A minute later he slid a slip of paper and the key through the slot and a side door opened.
Radcliff motioned for Trent to follow and said, “Before we go in, I have one question for you.”
“Which is?”
Radcliff studied Trent’s face and said, “Why did you shoot the dog?”
After a pause Trent said, “A wild Doberman was mauling a domestic shepherd dog. I couldn’t stand to see the underdog die.”
Radcliff turned for the tall-pillared, six-story redbrick building and said over his shoulder, “Killing gangsters is one thing, but killing dogs?”
“You would have had to be there.”
Chapter 48
Trent followed Radcliff to a bank of elevators in the middle of a redbrick corridor. “Level 4,” Trent said, reading from the slip of paper. “The unit number is DD642.” He was rubbing his hands together. “Let’s see what’s inside.”
“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?” Radcliff said, as the silent elevator opened onto the fourth floor. They walked down perfectly identical corridors that were white and barren.
“Church quiet in here,” Trent said.
“You could shoot someone and no one would hear it.”
“You’re the only one with a gun, so don’t get any ideas.”
“Relax, Palmer. I’m beginning to like you.”
They were standing in front of the correct unit. Radcliff inserted the key into a slot in the keypad. There was a beep and a small green light on the pad illuminated and the door opened. They were looking into a fifteen-by-ten cubicle with two head-high stacks of wooden crates sitting in the middle of the floor. Trent followed Radcliff in, turned on the fluorescent lights, and shut the door.
When McClure and Jake and Elwood had told Trent they were searching for an ‘object,’ he had visions of a giant bag stuffed full with bundles and bundles of cash or something valuable discovered in a tomb with the pharaohs. What they meant to say was that they were all searching for long wooden boxes about the right size to carry several pairs of snow skis. Numbers and letters were stenciled in black on the boxes.
“Smell the gun oil?” Trent said, as he and Radcliff lifted the top box stamped ‘Benelli Corporation’ down. It was damn heavy.
“Unmistakable,” Radcliff said, finding a claw hammer in a tool box that he used to pull the nails out of the box’s lid. They lifted the lid off and laid it on the floor. The box was full of packing foam. Trent dug around and came out with a long gun that was bubble wrapped. He scratched at the plastic with the tip of his front door key until he started a hole. Then he hooked his thumbs in the slit, palms down, and forced his hands apart. When the plastic was stretched enough, he slid the gun out; it was a brand-new M4 12-gauge combat shotgun.
“What do you make of it?” Trent said, admiring the matte black corrosion resistant finish. He handed the gun to Radcliff.
“A high quality weapon,” he said, pumping the action, crunch crunch. He pulled the trigger and it clicked like a high-end camera. “Extremely durable. And versatile.” He collapsed the buttstock and said, “Now it’s a brutal, close-up shotgun.”
“I see what you mean,” Trent said, thumbing through the M4 manual. “It fires slugs, buckshot, or teargas canisters; it’s also semi-automatic, so you don’t have to pump it. More time to aim.”
“The perfect gang weapon.”
Trent dug through the box and found a carton of Remington magnum slugs. He broke open a box, loaded four shells in the shotgun, and jacked one in the chamber. Then he set the gun on a shelf beside the door and caught Radcliff looking at him. “Not going to do me any good if it’s empty.”
“True. Did you set the safety?”
“Yes.”
“Good. One of those slugs will punch a hole through that concrete wall large enough to climb through.”
They lifted the next box down. It too was marked ‘Benelli USA Corporation.’
The lower six boxes were stenciled ‘MANPADS.’
“What the hell are those?”
“Jesus, Palmer,” he said, his voice edged with great worry. The nails squealed as he removed them with the claw hammer. “If these are what I think they are . . .”
“Which is?” Trent said, helping Radcliff prop the lid against the wall.
“MANPADS stands for Man Portable Air Defense System,” Radcliff said, digging both hands into the wood shavings and coming out with a thick metal tube painted dull green. It looked like it had been assembled from Legos; it had a trigger and a scope and an infrared antenna bolted to the frame. “Stingers,” he said. “Short range American surface-to-air-missiles.”
“Designed for a single person to shoot down aircraft in flight.”
“You got it,” Radcliff said, hoisting it up on his shoulder to check the fit. “Good up to fifteen thousand feet.”
“You could use it from a truck on I75. Imagine hitting a commercial jet landing or departing from Hartsfield.”
“Be God awful,” Radcliff said, lighting a cigarette. “You have six boxes, two stingers to a box . . . Any idea what effect a simultaneous MANPADS attack on US soil against passenger aircraft would have?”
“Catastrophic. The economic impact would be in the tens of billions; and the psychological impact . . .”
“The airspace would shut down. Then there would be the fear of flying; and increased security. It would make 9/11 look like a Toy Story flick.”
“Total chaos throughout the nation.”
“That’s exactly what terrorists like.”
“Who is the shipment for?”
“Al Qaeda or any o
f the dozens of international or homegrown terrorist groups who want to punish us.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Go straight to the authorities,” Radcliff said, pocketing the cyber key. “Right fucking now.”
Trent waved his hand at the weapons. “This should buy me twenty-four hours to tie up some loose ends.”
“Loose ends killing more gangsters?”
“Yes.”
“You’re a cold fish, Palmer. Anyone ever tell you that?”
“Only my closest friends.”
“I think I’m the only friend you have.”
In Radcliff’s worried face Trent could see a thousand questions trying to get out, but he didn’t ask anything more.
“Twenty-four hours, Palmer. Clock’s ticking.”
Chapter 49
At two that afternoon, Trent studied the business card that had fallen from Cowboy’s pocket. It was white with black engraving and read, ‘Atlanta Animal Medical Clinic. Dr. Lynn, DVM, Board Certified in Canine & Feline Practice.’
Jack worked for him; Triple’s thug had his card. Has to be a connection.
He needed a cover to get into the clinic, so he found a length of nylon rope, tied a suitable noose, then put chunks of cheddar cheese into a Ziploc bag.
A cold wind was blowing, and huge silver flakes were cascading from a gray sky the color of dirty slush. The wind pulled Trent’s breath from his lungs as he hiked into the park in search of a stray.
A while later he found a brown dog of average height licking a barbecue grill. It had sad eyes and a black tongue and it was shivering. The dog looked at Trent with interest, as though it had not had a decent meal in some time.
“Hey, buddy,” Trent said, tossing him bite-sized pieces of cheese. The dog gave a soft woof and his lips flapped. He wagged his tail while eating the cheese. Trent knelt next to the animal and rubbed its lightly furred brown skin. With numb fingers he looped the rope around the dog’s neck and led him to a no-star hotel that accepted cash and asked no questions.
The wind outside was black and rattling. Trent flipped on the TV to catch the recent updates while the stray drank from the toilet. All the stations were running breaking news about the worst massacre in recent Atlanta history. They were also replaying the official police statement.
Inspector Priest was standing in front of Trent’s charred office door reading from a sheet of paper. Trent could tell from the tightness around Priest’s eyes that he was in pain from the gas station shooting.
“This is a very preliminary statement,” Priest said. “At this juncture, we know that a gun battle took place at this office early this morning between the lease holder, Trent Palmer, and an unknown number of assailants who appear to have been attempting to gain entrance to his office. We have . . . we have four confirmed dead in the office; Mr. Palmer was not among the deceased. Until we locate Mr. Palmer, he should be considered armed and very dangerous. We are requesting that anyone in the area of east Piedmont Park and the surrounding neighborhoods who might have seen or heard something to contact the police department. Also, there was an early-morning double homicide at the Piedmont Park Gazebo. There are significant differences in these two crime scenes, however, we are looking for possible connections . . . An artist sketch of the Piedmont Park murderer will air within the hour,” he said, “and the police are asking the public for help in locating a white van they believed the killer escaped in.”
Trent relaxed when the news switched to an update on the Midtown Alliance Sewer Renovation Project. He looked at the dog as it sniffed the garbage can. Its eyes were droopy from long days in the cold park. It had stopped shivering, though. Trent rubbed its ribs with his toes while he dialed the veterinarian. A brisk voice said: “Atlanta Animal Medical Clinic. How can I help you?” Yelping dogs chorused in the background.
“Hi. My name is Joe Chips; I’ve just moved to Atlanta, and I need to check my dog in with a vet. I travel a quite a bit and have a plane to catch this evening; I’ll be gone for two days.”
“We’d be happy to board your dog,” she said. “Are his shots up-to-date?”
“I doubt it.”
“He’ll need a complete examination; and a full set of shots.”
“Sounds reasonable.”
“We’re open until five this evening.”
“I’ll be there before then.”
Trent was on his way out the door with the dog when his phone chirped. It was Rikki Clay’s number. He knew he shouldn’t answer it, but he did.
“Hi Rikki.”
“Are you alright? Trent? Are you all right?” She sounded rushed and her voice had lost most of its warmth.
“I’m fine.”
“The office shootout! Your Wanted poster has been passed to every street cop and is hanging in every Atlanta precinct! Turn yourself in now!”
“No way. I’ll end up in a police cell when I’m so close to finding Chloe.”
“Turn yourself in now—”
“Listen. To. Me! This is about Chloe, not those dead gangsters. Tomorrow morning I’ll have Chloe back to her mother. Then I’ll turn myself in. Can you keep quiet until then?”
“Did you kill them?”
“Kill who?”
“The gangsters in your office.”
“Yes; but it was self defense.”
“Tread carefully, Trent. The longer you stay on the lam, your chances of getting a fair trial in this town will be slim and none.”
“I’ll take my chances.”
“You’ll really have Chloe tomorrow morning?”
“You better believe it.”
“OK, then. I’ll keep quiet. But, Trent, something else has happened. And I need to talk to you about it immediately.”
A lot has happened, Trent thought. “Sure,” he said, trying not to sound alarmed.
She hesitated. “I have to see you in person. Come by my father’s home this evening after five thirty.”
Alarm bells were sounding in Trent’s head. “Your father’s home? With the police searching for me? They’ll shoot me on site!”
“It’s Christmas Eve, Trent. No one will be here until after eleven tonight.”
“Where’s Robin?”
“My parents are taking her to grandmother’s to open presents. Then they’re going sledding and plan to take a late-night sleigh ride. I’m staying here because of my ankle.”
“You promise?”
“I promise. Besides, who would think to search for you at our home?”
“Good point. Well, OK then.”
She gave him instructions and said, “Be careful, Trent.”
It’s too late for that, he thought. “See you soon, princess.”
#
The wind sighed through the telephone wires, and Trent could see its force in the thrashing of the treetops, but the visibility had improved and the skies were clearing. He hailed a cab and had the driver stop at the Piedmont Secure Storage facility and then at a drugstore across the street from the Motel 6 where he picked up some Hershey bars, deodorant, cigarettes, and a bottle of red wine.
“Hey, Anima,” he said, rapping on the lime green door. “It’s Trent; I need to ask you a few questions.”
The door cracked an inch, and Anima peered at him over the security chain.
Trent held out the bag and the bottle of wine. “I’m alone,” he said.
Anima opened the door. “Have you caught the killer?”
“No, but I’m much closer. I need you to look at a few pictures.” Trent removed a stack of photos that were rubber banded together. He placed them face up on the table and said, “The morning the biker was murdered; did you see any of these faces?”
Anima sat at the small kitchen table, mumbling to himself as he shuffled the pictures. An occasional gust rattled the small window.
“Take your time,” Trent said, walking to the kitchenette. He found a chipped coffee cup and poured Anima a glass of wine.
When Trent returned he said: “Who
was it, Anima?”
Anima had wrapped the rubber band around the stack. One picture lay face up on the table.
Trent’s face flushed. “Merry Christmas, Anima,” he said, handing him the wine. Then he tossed the photos into the trash. “This will all be over with tomorrow morning.”
Chapter 50
Lynn’s veterinarian clinic sat on Ponce De Leon Street between Peachtree and West Peachtree Street, sandwiched neatly between the Southern Bell Tower Building and the FOX Theater.
The wind had begun to moderate, and from a cocoon of gray, the city began to open out. Misty clouds hung over the Skyscrapers, casting a flat shadowless light over the landscape.
Trent approached a formidable ten-foot-tall iron fence with gilded spikes that surrounded Lynn’s property. He walked his dog through an iron gate and bound up the steps. A brass sign affixed to an oak door read: “Dr. Jeff Lynn. Hours By Appointment.” Trent pushed it open and stepped into a foyer with a high arched ceiling.
To his right was an open door. He walked into an office with oriental carpets, cushioned chairs, and teak furniture.
A plump woman well into her seventies with gleaming white hair sat behind a glass-topped admissions desk. She was tapping the buttons on an old-fashioned adding machine. A small Charlie Brown Christmas tree with blinking lights sat on the corner of the desk.
Trent sat in a wingback chair and examined the office. Three large oil paintings hung from a wall. To the left was a sepia portrait of a bulldozer-faced old man wearing a black jacket with rounded collars. He had droopy eyelids, white hair, and white pork chop sideburns. The gold plaque read: ‘Dr. Lynn Sr. 1886-1961.’
The bespectacled man in the middle painting was thinner and younger and wearing a white lab coat. He held a heavily bandaged dog. Jeff Lynn’s father had died in 2004.
The third painting was of Jeff Lynn. He had blond hair and friendly blue eyes. Born in 1969, Trent read, realizing that Lynn was three years younger than he.
Trent thumbed through a pamphlet on why dogs need dental care and considered Lynn. Had Jack really cleaned kennels for him? And why did Cowboy have his business card?
The receptionist exited through a swinging door and returned carrying a plastic carry-kennel with a Siamese cat in it. The cat’s high-pitched cries all but muffled the barks and yelps coming from behind the door.
The Midtown Murderer Page 17
