Phantom Limb

by Dennis Palumbo

  “Fuck ’em. He’s made most of them rich.”

  That sounded like a dollop of sympathy for Charles. Or at least an appreciation for what he’d accomplished over the years. But then she laughed. “And no, I’m not going soft in the head all of a sudden. My hubby’s a prick, no matter how many strokes he has. I just hate to see the goddamn vultures circling. Reminds me of the movie business. Sharks always biting your ass when you’re on top, vultures waiting to eat your innards when you’re down.”

  It was good to hear her spirits returning. I said so.

  “Yeah, yeah. Meanwhile, that video’s still out there. In James’ hands. Like a ticking time bomb.”

  “I’ve been thinking about that. There’s got to be a way to get it back from him. To find out where he’s hidden it.”

  “Forget it, Danny. I’m screwed and you know it. Shit, I got a good mind to go up to Charles’ room right now, shove a pillow in his face, and send him to that Great Boardroom in the Sky. Then I’ll raid the nurses’ station for all the pills they got and follow the old man right off this mortal coil.”

  “Great plan, Lisa. Except for the murder-suicide part.”

  “C’mon, Danny, I’m kidding.”

  “Uh-huh. I think I liked you better when you were sedated. Besides, we have a suicide contract, remember?”

  “Of course I remember. Jesus, man, anybody ever tell you you’re kinda obsessive?”

  We chatted for a few more minutes, then Lisa said she couldn’t stall going up to Charles’ room any longer. Apparently, print and TV reporters were camped, at a prescribed distance, outside his closed door. All waiting impatiently for the ailing billionaire’s loving wife to make her appearance.

  “So I gotta get ready to be all over the evening news. Then everybody can talk trash online about how old I look. Now, tell me again why this is better than just taking myself out?”

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Special Agent Anthony Wilson shut off the tape recorder.

  “That’s the extent of your statement, Dr. Rinaldi?”

  “That’s it,” I said evenly. “Including everything I can remember about finding Tommy Ames’ body.”

  He slid off the edge of his desk and went to the shuttered window. Surprisingly, when I’d shown up at the Federal Building I was immediately ushered into Wilson’s office. I assumed I’d be giving my statement to some junior G-man, as before. But it looked like Wilson wanted to hear it from me himself.

  Now, lifting the shutters to squint out at the noonday sun, he presented the familiar demeanor of a disappointed law enforcement officer. The stern, puckered face I’d seen many times before in my dealings with the cops—and the Feds.

  “Are you sure there aren’t some details you’re withholding from us?” He turned from the window, taking a seat behind his desk. I was in the sole chair facing it.

  “Not consciously. But you know what a tricky devil the unconscious is, Agent Wilson. Things slip through the cracks.”

  “This is no time to be facetious, Doctor. To be candid, I have some concerns for your safety.”

  “I’m touched. Care to elaborate?”

  “The death of Tommy Ames is of no value to this case, except for the one notable assumption it allows us. Namely, that Raymond Sykes feels strongly enough about you to leave Ames’ corpse in your office.”

  “If you recall, I said something to that effect in my statement. In my opinion, Sykes is a classic narcissist.”

  “I remember quite clearly. But Ames’ death also tells us that, as of last night, Sykes hadn’t left the tri-state area. In fact, it appears he still hasn’t.”

  “What are you talking about? Biegler believes that Sykes wanted to get his business house in order before skipping the country. Which he’s probably done by now. Right?”

  “Probably. All I’m suggesting is that it’s possible Sykes is personally offended that you’ve escaped him, Doctor. Twice. And that if, for whatever reason, he’s still in the vicinity, and could arrange to do so safely, he’d—”

  “Take one final crack at me before he gets out of Dodge.”

  “I’m not saying it’s smart. I’m just saying it’s possible.” Then, hands folded on the desktop, he smiled. There’s something about the way an FBI agent smiles that really bugs me. It always manages to be both self-assured and condescending, even when it’s supposed to be conveying concern or sympathy. Yet somehow it stops just short of being smug. I don’t know; it must be something they teach at the Academy.

  “Okay, Wilson, what the hell are you keeping from me? What’s happened?”

  Smile fading, he looked off, as though needing a moment to decide something. Then he reached for a file folder tucked under his desk blotter, slid it across to me. I opened it.

  I recognized its contents. A pair of preliminary homicide reports, color-coded in a way that distinguished them from those of the Pittsburgh PD. Along with pages of hastily written notes, signed and dated only hours ago by various Bureau field agents, there were two harrowing crime scene photos. Two different men, roughly the same indeterminable age, in two different locations. Each lying in a pool of blood. Each with the backs of their heads sheared off.

  “Their names are Burrows and DeNardo. Two higher-ups in Sykes’ operation. Both shot execution-style, sometime between midnight and five this morning. Burrows was killed in the backroom of a nightclub he owns in Steubenville, Ohio. The other one, DeNardo, got whacked in the crib of one of the whores he runs for Sykes out of Greensburg. All in all, counting Tommy Ames, a busy night for Sykes and Griffin.”

  “But what does this mean?” I handed him back the file.

  “It means that Sykes wants to send a message to his other lieutenants. To anyone who might be thinking of making a move against his leadership if and when he skips town. Turns out, Biegler was right. Sykes does want to get things in order before he disappears. Before he leaves town for an extended vacation in Barbados or the Caymans or whatever. Which means he’s going to make his escape on his own timetable. Not ours.”

  I stroked my beard. “But then if he’s still in the area, where the hell is he?”

  Wilson carefully tucked the file folder back under the blotter. Whose eyes he was hiding it from was a mystery to me.

  “Sykes could be anywhere in the state. Or Ohio or West Virginia, for that matter. Given the size of his operation, his contacts, he has a hundred different holes he could hide in. Remember, there’s a reason he’s eluded arrest all these years, despite the circumstantial evidence the Bureau’s compiled. He’s smart, thorough, and knows how to hide in plain sight.”

  I suddenly remembered Biegler’s reluctance to inform the FBI about the discovery of Ames’ body.

  “I assume you’ve sent copies of that murder file to the cops. Biegler. Chief Logan.”

  A noncommittal shrug. “When we’ve put together a more formal, more complete set of evidentiary material, then of course we’ll share it with Pittsburgh PD. For the present, my understanding is that the director has contacted Chief Logan and the mayor to let them know that Sykes is probably still in the vicinity. Whereabouts as yet unknown.”

  “That means the Department will have every uniform and detective hitting the streets again. Rousting their informers. Looking for Sykes. Doing your legwork.”

  “Just as we’ve stepped up our surveillance of his known associates. The ones who still have a pulse, that is. Though my guess is, after what happened to Burrows and DeNardo, Sykes’ remaining under-bosses will get the message and crawl under their respective rocks until the heat dies down.”

  “And when will that be?”

  “Well, if I were to take a guess, I’d say Sykes would stay around at least long enough to kill you.”

  I took a breath. “I have to admit, I agree with you. Sykes wants me dead. Everything he is demands it. But not just because of his fragile ego, h
is blatant narcissism. And not because of the two times I escaped from him.”

  “What are you getting at?”

  “When he failed to kill Agent Reese and myself, thus allowing us to be able to identify him to the authorities, we forced his hand. Now Sykes has to go into hiding, and for a considerable time, if not permanently. Plus he has to deal with ambitious men in his organization. Making sure his authority is unchallenged. Which entails the huge risk of hanging around here, when he’d certainly rather be long gone.”

  I paused, as another thought occurred to me.

  “There’s something else. According to what Gloria told me, Ray Sykes has been this successful by keeping his operation contained. Local. No threat to the big families or the Russians. Who’s to say, once he’s out of the country, that one or the other won’t swoop in and take over Sykes’ little slice of the criminal pie? See what I mean? Instead of Lisa Campbell’s kidnapping being a one-off source of big money, a crime of opportunity whose perpetrators were never to be known, it’s led to the dismantling of his whole world. And all because I was involved in it.”

  Wilson nodded. “When you put it that way, I can see why Sykes might want revenge. On you and on Agent Reese.”

  “Then I trust you’ll provide her with protection. At least in the short term.”

  “Don’t worry, I’ll detail a fellow agent to be with her at all times. And outside her place when she’s home.”

  “Good. I know she’ll probably bitch about it, and say that she can take care of herself, but—”

  “This is the FBI, Doctor. There’s a clear chain of command. If I give Agent Reese an order, she’ll obey it. Unfortunately, that isn’t the case where you’re concerned.”

  “Are you suggesting I have protection, too?”

  “I can’t force you, of course. Though perhaps, since you’re a police consultant, Lieutenant Biegler might have more luck getting you to comply.”

  “I doubt it. For one thing, though I’m paid for my services to the Department, I’m still a civilian. Besides, I’ve had police protection before. On another case. Let’s just say, it didn’t exactly work out. But I’m not as stubborn as you think, Agent Wilson. I’ll at least consider it.”

  “Good idea. I just hope you come to the right decision before Sykes has Max Griffin put a bullet in your head, too.”

  There it was again. That goddamn smile.

  ***

  “It’s just a theory, Danny.” Agent Reese was unhappy.

  “I agree. Maybe I’m wrong about Sykes, and he isn’t looking for revenge. I’m a psychologist, Gloria, not a mind reader.”

  We were in her office, a spacious room with a southern exposure, the mid-day sun gleaming off the modern lines of her functional furnishings. The only personal touches were a couple of Matisse prints on the walls, a Pittsburgh Pirates beer mug on top of a file cabinet, and an authentic-looking artificial banzai tree on her desk. Next to it was the standard government-issue computer-fax-printer combo.

  Opposite her desk were two plush armchairs, another out-of-place concession to human comfort in the sterile, no-nonsense environment of the Federal Building. I sat in one of them, while Gloria paced.

  She’d caught my eye as I was leaving Wilson’s office, and casually called me into hers. Closing the door, she asked what he and I had discussed. It was when I replayed the conversation for her that she started pacing.

  “I’m not saying it isn’t a good theory,” she went on. “I think your take on Sykes’ personality is probably correct. The problem is, I’m afraid Wilson will use his so-called concern about my safety as an excuse to keep me under wraps. Away from the action. I already feel frozen out. I mean, it’s subtle. I’m officially still on the case. But I can feel it. If he gives me a full-time babysitter, it’ll only make things worse.”

  She stopped pacing long enough to stare down at me. “And yet, you get to refuse protection. Pisses me off.”

  “I didn’t refuse. I said I’d think about it.”

  This hardly mollified her. But at least she stopped pacing, choosing instead to go around to her chair behind the desk.

  “Anyway,” I said, “I’m glad we bumped into each other. I was going to call and ask for a favor.”

  “Another favor? Sure, why not? I’ve got nothing else to do at the moment.”

  “Great, thanks. There’s a guy I wanted you to run a check on. A Marine vet named Skip Hines. Real name’s Julian Hines.”

  She started. “Julian…? Really…?”

  “Hey, maybe it means something, maybe not. Could you see what’s in the database?”

  “It wouldn’t be in ours. I’d have to check the Marines. Or the DOD database. Could take a while.”

  “This might help—Skip was injured in Afghanistan. Lost a leg. He wears a prosthetic one now.”

  She nodded and began typing. Really fast. I suspected that an official FBI computer search was practically an “open sesame” for most government databases.

  I was right. In moments, she looked up from the keyboard. “When was Hines discharged?”

  I told her the date he’d arrived stateside. When Charlene and I had talked, she said she’d never forget that day. Nor how happy she’d been when Skip called her from his hospital bed at Bethesda. Missing a leg, in poor health generally and poorer spirits, but back on American soil. “At long last,” Charlene had said, her eyes growing moist at the memory.

  “Found him.” Gloria squinted at the computer screen. “Hines did two tours in Afghanistan. About eighteen months apart.”

  “He lost his left leg on his second tour. An IED.”

  “Know anything about his first time in action?”

  I shook my head. “Could you check?”

  Another rapid-fire series of keystrokes. Then, suddenly, the staccato tapping stopped.

  “You better take a look at this, Danny.”

  I got up and went around to her side of the desk. Peered over her shoulder at the monitor screen.

  I felt my pulse quicken. “I’ll be damned…”

  During Skip Hines’ first tour in Afghanistan, he was in a combat unit under the command of Lieutenant Raymond D. Sykes. Also on the twelve-member team was Sergeant Maxwell J. Griffin.

  “Julian ‘Skip’ Hines served with Sykes and Griffin.” Gloria nodded slowly. “So all three knew each other.”

  “Intimately, I suspect. Nothing bonds a group of people like combat. Your fellow soldiers become family.”

  She leaned into the screen again. “According to their files, everyone in the unit was honorably discharged. With no record of their activities after that. As civilians.”

  “Well, we know where Skip ended up. Working security at Starr Sentinel. Where he met Mike Payton.”

  Gloria tapped another succession of keys and another file appeared. This one was bannered with the FBI logo.

  “And from our own data, we know what happened to Sykes and Griffin. They decided to go into business together when they came back to the States.”

  I considered this. “Assuming they met while serving together, they probably saw in each other a kindred spirit.”

  Gloria smirked. “That’s putting it a lot more poetically than I would.”

  “Granted. But what I mean is, from what I experienced of the two of them, Sykes saw himself as an unquestioned leader. Like he’d been during the war. Yet someone who stayed away from the action. Griffin is his exact opposite. Action is all he understands. He’s a weapon himself, but one in need of another’s finger on the trigger. A narcissist like Sykes fit the bill.”

  She regarded me warily. “I appreciate psycho-babble as much as the next person, but how does that help us?”

  “Maybe it doesn’t. But it helps me understand how the two of them got together. Remember, Sykes comes from money. With an Ivy League education. One of ‘the best and t
he brightest,’ as the phrase goes. You yourself said he was the black sheep of his prominent family, who’ve probably long since disowned him. What better way for a narcissist to get his own back, to rub his family’s nose in the dirt, than to become a career criminal?”

  “Good point. I’ve seen that kind of thing before.”

  “With an eager, probably psychotic second-in-command like Griffin at his side, I bet it didn’t take Sykes long to start building his operation.”

  “It didn’t.” Again, Gloria checked the monitor screen. “He first showed up on the Bureau’s radar less than a year after his discharge. Taking over a local drug dealer’s territory. And it went on from there. Not that we have enough evidence to bring to the state attorney. And even if we did, there’s no way to know that he doesn’t have officials like that in his pocket.”

  “Makes sense. Probably how he’s managed to stay out of a courtroom all these years.”

  Gloria sat back in her chair. “Even so, what does all this have to do with Julian Hines?”

  “I’m not sure. But think about it—after his discharge, Skip goes to work for Starr Sentinel, where he meets Payton. Then, not long after Payton leaves the firm to go work for Charles Harland, Skip re-enlists. Gets sent for a second time overseas, where he loses his leg. Then he comes home again.”

  “What are you getting at?”

  “Once Skip got back, I wonder if he looked up his old buddy from Starr? What if he pays a visit to Mike Payton at his new job, sees all that Harland wealth, and figures why not kidnap the famous wife for big money? But he’d need help, so he brings in his former Marine buddies, Sykes and Griffin.”

  “But what about Payton? Was he involved, too?”

  “Could be. But even if he wasn’t, and merely knew or suspected who was behind the kidnapping, he’s kept silent about it. Which could explain something I’ve been thinking about.”

  “What do you mean?”

  I paused, choosing my words carefully. Wanting to share my thoughts without revealing everything I knew about Payton’s former relationship with Lisa.