“Thank you so much,” I repeated. “Very nice.”
She continued smiling noncommittally, but I got the gist of how my worth had been appraised and found wanting.
“Jeez, Mace,” Kippy said when I made it back to the CACC truck, “what took you so long?”
I got behind the wheel and shut the door. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
* * *
Sure, the Maps app on my iPhone would have led us the hour-plus jaunt from Rockford to Lake Mills, I thought, but I doubted it would have been able to steer us all the way to the Feist family cabin. Of course, this was a moot point as our smartphones lay disassembled in the glove compartment of my F-150, which I prayed still rested in undisturbed peace in a parking space at O’Hare International. The road had switched from blacktop to gravel as we weaved the CACC truck past the winding lanes leading down to the cabins on the western shores of Rock Lake, of which Feist’s cabin was one. Fortunately, there were address signs on metal posts, or nailed at waist-level to trees, proclaiming the family summer abodes that lay at the foot of the descending driveways.
I spent the trip thinking about my parents, and how by now this nightmare had to have splashed all over them. Hell, they’d probably already been served with a search warrant. Investigators were no doubt in the family room smashing apart my old pine wood derby cars in search of the meth. My brothers—normally jovial spirits—would fail to see any humor in this situation and might even believe that somewhere in the mental wreckage of my divorce and its aftermath, a hot brunette could lead me down a perilous path. I couldn’t believe Mom or Dad or Big Sis Kathy would ever buy into my working for some Mexican drug cartel or, good god, having gone on a killing spree. Of course they knew how bad I’d taken Mickie’s departure from my life—how bad I’d taken her engagement—and how I’d spent much of the past two years in a less-than-pleasant place, stumbling about on autopilot like a zombie in a piss-poor horror movie, and downing a bit too much booze at night.
Mickie would likely connect with Mom and Dad and offer her two cents’ worth on how chummy Kippy and I had appeared when she’d stopped by the other week. My parents also knew my chosen profession hadn’t set me on any kind of fast-track toward becoming a millionaire. And, as they read about their son in the newspaper, maybe they’d start thinking of Kippy Gimm as some sort of twenty-first-century femme fatale … leading their poor boy down a lethal pathway and beyond the point of no return.
Plus, Detective Ames—sphincter that he is—would likely seize the opportunity to stick a knife in both our backs. I could picture him trashing Kippy in the press, saying there’d always been something dubious about her, about the two of us … and call for our scalps.
We were so screwed.
A thought occurred to me. “This didn’t begin with Feist, but with that Siskin guy that got stomped to death at that downtown firm, right?”
Kippy nodded. “David Siskin was a real estate investor from Minneapolis who had some ventures with the Michael J. McCarron Investment Group in Chicago.”
“And McCarron leads the firm, right?”
Another nod.
“Well, after all that’s happened, McCarron’s got to be shitting bricks,” I said. “Maybe he can help.”
“From what I read in the newspaper, McCarron was shocked and horrified at Siskin’s death.” She shrugged. “He probably knows or suspects something but doesn’t want to die or put his family in danger.”
We drove awhile farther until another thought occurred to me, and I don’t know if it was frayed nerves or if I’d finally lost my marbles, but I started cackling like a toddler on helium.
“What’s so funny?”
“We’re making our getaway in a dog catcher truck.” I glanced Kippy’s way. “There’s something inherently absurd in that.”
She looked glum but said, “I wish it were an ice cream truck … I’d kill for butter pecan.”
“Then we’d have a bunch of kids on our ass as well.”
Kippy had become a vigorous navigator since my numerical skills had proven subpar; I’d incorrectly veered off at a fork in the road and cost us ten minutes in backtracking. She’d even dug about the cages and nets, tongs and gloves, snare poles and leashes in the back of the truck, and when she finally returned to the shotgun seat, she had a pair of binoculars hanging from a strap about her neck. She also handed me a bite stick—which is basically a police baton—as our only other weapon on hand was Kippy’s Beretta.
“I wonder if the snare pole could be used,” I said. A snare or catch pole is a long rod with a wire loop at one end to capture rowdy animals around the throat and then hold them off at a safe distance.
“If you feel the need to chase Callum’s driver around the block with that damned thing, have at it,” Kippy replied. “I plan to blow his head off.”
We drove in silence after that, each of us lost in thought, until—at eleven-thirty sharp—Kippy pointed at a numbered sign screwed to a green post. “That’s it.”
I kept driving, unhurried, curving around a bend in the gravel road, and eased to a stop at the top of the neighbor’s driveway.
“Take Vira,” I said.
Kippy nodded, and she and my golden retriever were quickly in the woods, slanting downhill, diagonally toward Feist’s cabin, toward the basin of Rock Lake. I’d taken a quick peek down Feist’s dirt path as we’d maneuvered past his entrance. I couldn’t spot his cabin from the access road; therefore, no one kicking about the lake home could glance up and spot us. Seclusion. Beloved seclusion. It had been that way for most of the homes on this side of the water. And, like the other cabins, Feist’s driveway curved downward as it worked its way slowly toward Rock Lake. Ice fishermen would need four-wheel drive to pilot most of these driveways in the winter months or pray a gracious neighbor wouldn’t mind towing them up from their lake lots.
Another plus was the acre or two of dense woodland between cabins. No one this side of the lake lived atop another—a short nature hike, laterally, in order to borrow a cup of sugar or coffee, and longer still if you were herding toddlers. This being a weekday, I was rooting for added seclusion. A final checkmark in the plus column was the nice weather. A sunny day in mid-May; warm. What we were attempting to accomplish would be difficult under the best of conditions but rendered shit-like had it been rainy and forty degrees.
It had been decided—Kippy vetoed my request to carry out recon duties—that it would be her task to cut through the pine and birch, cedar and poplar, ash and evergreens, and perhaps even some willow as she worked her way downhill to inspect Feist’s cabin for any signs of life. If no signs of life, we’d park the CACC truck in an inconspicuous spot, possibly hidden behind the tree line, where it wouldn’t be seen from above or, just as importantly, spotted from the lake. Then we’d had a short discussion about our preferred method of B and E—breaking and entering—but, considering the bind we found ourselves in, a smashed window here or a kicked-open door over there wouldn’t tack much more time onto our prison sentences.
My immediate task was far simpler than Kippy’s. I was to turn the truck around—hang a u-ey—without, god forbid, getting a tire stuck in the soft ditch of weeds beyond the gravel. I worked the wheel, swooped wide left at the mouth of the neighbor’s driveway, pulled forward slowly, making sure the front tires were never close to running out of gravel, backed up, and then turned left, heading back to Peter Feist’s driveway. I took the fifty-yard bend at a crawl, giving Kippy the time she needed without providing any potential passersby cause for concern at the sight of a parked vehicle. By the time I pulled even with the driveway, Kippy and Vira were next to Feist’s address sign, both staring at me as though I’d been away since Easter.
Kippy walked to my window and said, “It’s empty.”
CHAPTER 37
Cordov Woods drove past an intimidating set of wrought-iron gates and steered the Lincoln Continental another half mile on the paved road that wound itself toward the Cappelli estate. Fran
k Cappelli Sr. and family lived in Winnetka, a tony, high-end village in Cook County, about fifteen or so miles north of downtown Chicago. Not only is Winnetka one of the richest and most exclusive suburbs in Illinois but in the entire country. The Cappellis lived on a forty-acre compound, their mansion of light stone and curved roof tiles was shrouded by a discouragingly tall security fence along with numerous high-res, night-vision cameras as well as motion sensors powerful enough to detect anyone stupid enough to be lurking about in the bushes. Woods even imagined some kind of patrol marched the perimeter at odd hours during both the day and night.
In other words, no one got in unless Frank Cappelli Sr. wanted them in.
Woods was greeted by a man in a dark suit—a man with something bulky beneath his left breast pocket—and flagged to park the Lincoln on one side of a roundabout that surrounded a two-story fountain of some Roman god spitting water. Woods had been here on a handful of occasions before as a go-between for Superintendent Callum, in situations where something physical needed to be exchanged with Cappelli Sr.
“Jethro,” Woods said to the young man in glasses beside him, “you’re going to want to move into the back seat because I guarantee he’ll want the front. I know you’ve not the gift for gab and, in this case, that’s a good thing because he’s volatile, like handling nitroglycerin.”
As Jethro grabbed his gear and scrambled around to the rear of the sedan, Woods joined the man in the dark suit and headed up a front stoop that would look more natural in a coliseum. Woods was led through a lengthy foyer and deposited in a surprisingly modest den.
Frank Cappelli Sr. stood from an armchair beneath a window, dropped his Wall Street Journal onto the ottoman in front of him, and crossed the room.
“Good to see you again, Cordov.” Cappelli Sr. reached out a hand.
Woods took it. “Always an honor, sir.”
Cappelli Sr. had a thin face, thin arms, and thin legs that contrasted awkwardly against his burgeoning paunch, as though the head of the Chicago Mob had affixed a half-deflated basketball to his midsection. He eats well, Woods thought. Although approaching sixty, Cappelli’s hair and mustache remained as black as a raven’s feather. A dye job, Woods figured.
Cappelli Sr. motioned for Woods to sit in the chair across the ottoman from where he’d been perched. “Would you like some coffee?”
“God yes,” Woods said, and sat down. “It was a long night.”
“So I heard.” Cappelli shut the twin doors leading into his office, went behind a bar that took up the south side of the room, and began working a French press. “My son will be down in a few minutes, but I wanted a chance to talk to you first.”
“He’s all well, I trust.”
“As right as rain,” Cappelli Sr. said and looked up. “Does that count?”
“It does, sir. And thanks for remembering.”
Cappelli brought Woods his coffee in a china cup and saucer. “Never could get that. How is something considered as right as rain?”
Woods shrugged. “It originated in England, where rain is part of their daily life.”
“I guess that makes sense,” Cappelli said; he sat back down in his armchair and focused his attention on Woods. “Have you given any thought to my offer?”
“I have,” Woods replied, gingerly. “The way I see it, sir—in a manner—I already work for you.”
Cappelli Sr. nodded, perhaps appeased. “The reason I keep pushing is on account of my son,” he said. “You know he thinks the world of you.”
“I’m awfully fond of the kid myself.” Woods was startled and hoped it didn’t show. He could barely stand Cappelli Sr.—he had to—but Cappelli Jr. was a demented little shit.
“The work I do,” Cappelli Sr. said, “has kept me away from home during most of my boy’s formative years. To be honest, I’d not been there when he needed an authoritarian figure, when he needed guidance … when he needed me.”
Woods sipped at his coffee and said nothing.
Cappelli Sr. continued, “I’m ashamed to say that Frank Junior has not had the greatest of male role models in his life, if you know what I mean.”
Woods put his cup and saucer down on a side table. He found it odd that Cappelli Sr. was waxing on as though his freak of a son were twelve instead of twenty-five. “It’s hard raising children in this day and age, sir. Especially for a man in your position.”
“That it is,” Cappelli Sr. said. “That it is.”
Woods read between the lines. The offer on the table was more to provide daycare for Frank Cappelli Jr., to mentor him on the acceptable manner in which things should be done, and to keep him out of trouble with the authorities. On some level Cappelli Sr. had to know what kind of shitshow he’d sired, and now he wanted someone else to reel the kid back in, to keep him from spinning off the rails. Quite frankly, Woods thought, the kid was already off the rails, and had been for years. Woods would never accept Cappelli’s offer of employment, not in this life or any other. And if Cappelli Sr. wanted Cordov Woods’s honest advice—advice Woods was far too bright to ever share with the head of the Chicago Mob—it would be to snap the kid’s spine, toss him in a shallow hole in the middle of nowhere, get a trophy wife, and start anew instead of trying to pawn his Frankenstein monster off on someone else.
“We’re having a gathering for my wife’s birthday tomorrow evening,” Cappelli said.
“Is that so?” Woods replied. “A pivotal one?”
“She won’t allow me to mention any numbers but, by all means, come if you can.”
“It would be an honor,” Woods said. He’d rather twist corkscrews into his temples than come back here tomorrow night, but when Frank Cappelli Sr. invites you to a party … you go to the goddamned party. Woods hoped it’d be crowded and busy—something he could slip out of early—and that there’d be no more talk of job offers or wayward sons.
The twin doors to the office opened and there stood Frank Cappelli Jr. in a brown suit that likely cost more than Woods’s entire wardrobe.
“A fucking road trip with Cordov,” Frank Cappelli Jr. said. “I call shotgun.”
CHAPTER 38
Feist’s cabin turned out to be more Ma and Pa Kettle than Ritz-Carlton. I backed the CACC truck onto the clumps of grass behind the cabin, in a spot clearly meant for stashing battered boat trailers. The truck could not be seen from above until you were nearly to the cabin itself, and Feist’s cabin blocked the dog mobile from being spotted from the lake. We didn’t want any fishermen or canoeists or other boaters—potential acquaintances of the Feist family, neighbors who were most certainly aware of recent events—coming to investigate or phoning the authorities.
Feist had been serious in his interview with Chicago magazine about conceding his once-frequent Rock Lake fishing weekends as his dock was out and had likely not been put in for the past season or two. Vira and I stood in the tree line near shore, while Maggie and Delta scouted about the woods. Kippy and I realized voices had the potential to carry so my new assignment was to stand hidden among the trees with a right arm in the air. I had a clear view of the lake and my raised hand indicated the coast was clear—no fishermen trolling nearby, no kids farting about in their Sunfish sailboats, and, despite the warm temperature, no water-skiers or inner-tubists zipping past.
Kippy, of course, had the more difficult task. The front door faced lakeside. We’d discussed breaking a pane, reaching in and unlocking the door, but we discounted that approach as anyone pontooning past might notice the broken or missing pane and recognize what that signified. It’s unlikely that Feist’s cabin would be the first on Rock Lake to be broken into, and neighbors tend to keep an eye out for each other. So it was decided that Kippy would attack a side window, the one above the kitchen sink, which no one looking in from the lake could spot as being broken. Kippy would break the lower pane of the top window as gently as possible with the bite stick, if something like that was possible, then twist the latch, slide the window up, and slither through the opening.
She was going to attempt this as quickly as possible due to potential lake traffic—potential witnesses to the break-in, potential phone calls to the local authorities.
But there were obstacles.
First, she’d have to pull herself up, position a forearm on the outer windowsill for balance, as well as brace the soles of her shoes against the cabin’s siding for added support. Second, all of this would leave only her right hand free to wield the bite stick, flip the latch, slide up the window, brush aside any shards of glass, and pull herself inside. Third, she had to accomplish all of this while continually peeking my way in case my arm dropped. A dropped arm meant she had to immediately hit the dirt, scoot behind the cabin, and hide by the truck. We figured the task might take Kippy two or three bites at the apple; that she’d need time to shake out her joints and take five before completing this particular gymnastic routine.
My eyes were glued to a couple of fishermen—geezers in a fiberglass Lund to my left—about sixty yards away and anchored in a bay of weeds. Perhaps they’d discovered Peter Feist’s honey hole. I shot a glance about the lake; a few other boats, all fishermen, but no one else close enough to cause concern. I glanced back at Kippy. She’d already made short order of the outer screen. It took her all of five seconds to pop that puppy off and toss it behind the cabin. Now she was in an awkward perch, spidermanned against the side of Feist’s shack, bite stick in her right hand as she studied the window as though it were a final exam. I looked back at the geezers. The chubbier of the two was working the anchor while the thinner guy reeled in his line.
Shit.
Evidently, they’d not discovered Feist’s honey hole.
The tink of breaking glass took all of a second. It wasn’t loud but I heard it, and so did the thinner of the two fishermen. His head jutted my way. I jerked down even though I was already hidden in the brush. But chubs said something and thinner turned to his friend and pointed across the lake. I dropped my arm as thinner set his fishing pole in the Lund and chubs began working the engine, flagging Kippy to drop and hide.
The Keepers Page 17
