The Jack Hammer

by Derek Ciccone

  Tim,

  Oh my god!!!! You found him. Where are you?

  Please don’t be mad, but I told Sam about my father. We promised to keep it our secret, I know. But I’m not so sure we should keep pursuing this, he could be really dangerous!! Maybe we should turn over what we know to the police??

  So when are you coming home? Are you still going to Las Vegas? I can’t wait to see you.

  Talk to you soon (-:

  She literally provided more questions than answers … and a head-splitting amount of exclamation points. But one thing was clear—Anna wasn’t keeping things to herself, which was his worst fear … and eventually would be hers. He scrolled down to find emails from a Sam O’Connell. The tone of the message sounded like a nagging woman, and having the same surname, he assumed Sam was his wife.

  The remainder of the inbox was nothing but spam, which was a relief. He moved his search to O’Connell’s phone—incoming and outgoing calls, text messages. Again, it was very limited, and the majority were between him and Anna, with a few to Sam mixed in. It was an old phone, and when he took it apart, he realized it didn’t have a GPS device. But just to be safe, he turned it off, and decided it would come to a fiery end along with its owner.

  He slipped out of the room, taking the laptop with him, holding it under his raincoat. The rain was now starting to let up. It was a typical Sedona thundershower; the sun would be shining bright within the hour.

  He returned a few minutes later with a garbage bag, and removed all the remaining items from the room, placing them with their owner in the trunk of the Ford Focus. He then stealthily dropped the key in the box near the front entrance, essentially checking Foye out—the Sky Lodge required a pre-payment for rooms, so he was all paid up. The last thing he wanted was for a dead PI to be traced to Sedona.

  The rest of the day didn’t match the excitement of his morning. Work at the garage all day, and then baseball practice at Fisher Field. When the practice concluded, he gathered the team around and told them of how honored he was to represent the community at the Youth Baseball Convention. The sun gleamed over the red rocks in the background, creating a picturesque scene worthy of a movie—one in which he was playing the starring role.

  He drove Trent home after practice, where Jineane was cooking spaghetti and meatballs. She’d predictably prepared his favorite meal to atone for making him yell at her this morning. Katie would have never stood for his display—he would have been eating bread and water for the next month.

  They ate happily as a family. Blake discussed the convention topics with Trent, including the safety of metal bats, and ways to raise money for urban programs that couldn’t afford facilities or equipment.

  After dinner, Trent locked himself in his room and blared the new Green Day album, if they even called them albums anymore. Jineane took the opportunity to apologize to Blake for upsetting him this morning. He accepted the apology by making animalistic love to her for the next two hours. A reward for having his back.

  When she fell asleep, it was time to head out for the convention. He hoped to make it to Albuquerque tonight, but first he had some business to attend to.

  The highway was dark and desolate. He claimed to have a fear of flying, which provided an excuse to make the long drive to St. Louis. But in actuality, his real fear was of the security cameras and other high-tech devices in airports that might help the FBI stumble across him.

  He was in a rush, but maintained the speed limit. Being pulled over with a dead body on your vehicle just looks bad, and he wasn’t in the mood to kill a police officer tonight. He never enjoyed having to eliminate an innocent. But the people who came after him this time were anything but innocent, and he would do whatever it took to defend himself.

  He continued south on I-17, the opposite direction of Flagstaff, where he would pick up I-40 to Albuquerque. Thirty miles outside of Phoenix, he arrived at his destination, aptly named Dead Man’s Wash. It was a deep gully that looked as if it were a one-time riverbed. The drop was about fifteen feet. Brush and cactus filled the landscape, and likely many poisonous snakes and scorpions. Tim O’Connell would soon join them.

  He pulled the truck to the side of the road and lowered the Ford Focus off the flatbed. He removed O’Connell from the trunk and placed him in the driver’s seat. He then rolled the car into the gully.

  No vehicles drove by. And if they did, he would claim to have found the car here with the dead body. It wouldn’t surprise people if Blake Fisher stopped to help—he always stopped to help. But it would be harder to explain why he was headed in this direction.

  He proceeded to take a gas can and soak the interior of the Focus. He then expertly ran a long wick to the gas tank and lit it. As an explosives and fire expert, he’d blown up high-security buildings, so the rental car wouldn’t be much of a challenge. And this wasn’t his first rodeo when it came to fiery car crashes. But he dumbed it down to make sure it didn’t look like a professional job.

  The car would ignite in five to seven minutes, leaving the body unrecognizable. When the authorities did figure it out, it would look like O’Connell had an accident while traveling to Las Vegas.

  Chapter 34

  Steve Carthage and Bernie Lewis normally didn’t get called to the scene of a car accident. So their presence at Dead Man’s Wash was the first indication foul play was involved.

  The firemen were already at the scene, as were the forensic units and other science guys. Now it was up to Steve and Bernie to make sense of it.

  With Bernie Lewis’ short stature, mustache, and tough-guy New York homicide stories, he became known as “Sipowicz” throughout the department, after the curmudgeonly television character from NYPD Blue.

  In contrast, Carthage was about as fun loving as a homicide cop gets, and much less moody since he cut back on the bourbon. He was gangly tall with snow-white hair and nose painted alcoholic red. His fellow officers referred to him as “Tip” for his facial resemblance to former Speaker of the House, Tip O’Neill. Around the precinct they became known as the Sip & Tip Show.

  Carthage came to the warmer temperatures from Chicago, where he served a quarter century as a homicide cop on the South Side. It also gave him a chance to be closer to his grandchildren. Lewis ran into some trouble back in New York when he treated a suspect like a sparring partner. Arizona was a new beginning for both men, but they were finding out that murder was the same wherever you went. Even if Carthage often joked that it was a “dry murder” in Arizona. Lewis didn’t get the joke.

  “What do we got heya?” Lewis asked the lead forensic analyst, who was wearing a blue Phoenix PD windbreaker on the cool desert morning.

  “Car was burned beyond recognition, and we found one body. We have a piece of the license plate found over there,” he pointed to a spot of desert brush. “We think it might help us to ID the car.”

  “How long will that take?” Carthage asked.

  “The car, maybe later today or first thing tomorrow. The body?” He shrugged. “The weekend at the earliest. There isn’t much left of it.”

  “Any theories as to what happened?” Carthage continued.

  “The victim appeared to be driving northbound when his car careened off the road and blew up. Terrible accident.”

  “This ain’t no accident,” Lewis said, not picking up the sarcasm.

  “I think Bernie might be on to something,” Carthage said with a smile. “Anything you might have found that might back up Officer Lewis’ theory that it wasn’t an accident?”

  “For one, there are no skid marks. And there isn’t enough gasoline in a car to cause this type of explosion. I think the vic was killed prior, and then someone tried to make it look like an accident.”

  Tip and Sip looked at the burned wreckage, sadly shaking their heads. “Once we get that ID we’ll be in business. Before then, we have nothing to go on,” Lewis stated.

  “No sooner than this weekend fellas,” the analyst said, as he made his way back down to the
crime scene.

  “Dead Man’s Wash … ironic,” Carthage said and let out a small chuckle.

  It was easier to laugh than cry in this business.

  Chapter 35

  Anna Stepania scurried around her closet-sized Bronx apartment trying to find a matching shoe. Today was Thursday, which meant her big biology test, and not a second to spare.

  But that’s when the phone rang. Ling picked up and began immediately calling for Anna.

  “Ling, I have to be in class in half an hour. I’m not here,” Anna said, waving her off.

  “I think you want to take this one,” Ling said, holding her hand over the receiver.

  Ling’s tone surprised Anna. “Who is it?” she asked curiously.

  “I’m not sure because he’s speaking in Spanish, but I think it’s your brother.”

  Anna ran to the phone with one shoe on and one sock foot. She grabbed the receiver, almost knocking down the petite Ling. “Teo!?”

  Teo couldn’t contain his excitement, telling her that he was in Los Estados Unidos.

  Was this a dream? How did he get here? When? Where was he? Was he safe?

  Teo gave an overview of the story—it sounded like something out of a movie. It worried Anna, especially the part about the mysterious American who helped him escape, and was going to represent him. But that was for another day—there was much to talk about, and plans to make.

  Teo was in Florida, and Anna wanted to run to the airport and get on the next flight. But a quick glance at the biology books scattered across the floor reminded her that their visit would have to wait. And Teo informed her that he began baseball practices today, so he was also unavailable. But they’d waited this long, what was another few days?

  Teo provided a brief update on their mother, and they could only hope and pray that she wouldn’t be harmed in response to the escape. He hadn’t been able to talk to her since he left, but they both knew she’d be overjoyed when she found out that her son was now free to showcase his talents for the world to see … and that her two children could be together again.

  It was turning out to be the happiest day of Anna’s life, no matter the results of the biology test … which made it all the more strange that she had a bad feeling in the pit of her stomach.

  Chapter 36

  The Florida sun burned brightly into the late afternoon. Geoff had secured a field at a middle school in the Miami suburb of Hialeah to host Teo Stepania’s first official workout on American soil.

  Geoff should have been brimming with excitement, but instead, he was filled with dread. He got up every half hour last night to make sure that Rafael hadn’t stolen his prized recruit away. And when he did finally get a few moments of shuteye, he had this horrible nightmare that Teo turned out to be a bust on the field—that the video was nothing but a hoax.

  He could never let himself feel comfortable—a dark cloud was always waiting for him around the next corner. That was just the reality of his life that he’d come to accept. The last time he remembered feeling happy was during those endless summer days on the beach, playing with Cam and the other kids in the neighborhood until the sun sunk into the Long Island Sound each night. And those days were long gone.

  He pulled off his suit jacket, rolled up the sleeves of his dress shirt, and grabbed a shovel. He was convinced the pitching mound was too high. Every little detail must be perfect. He stomped to the dirt mound and plunged the shovel in like a gravedigger.

  He believed in the old adage: if you want something done right, do it yourself. But that didn’t mean that he didn’t put together a star-studded team for Teo. It was led by Salvino’s father, Grapes, who agreed to come because he would do anything for “Katie’s kids,” even one that he didn’t particularly like.

  The rest of “Team Teo” was made up of well-respected pitching coach Jake Ruppert, numerous bodyguards, the translators, along with a personal trainer and nutritionist. He even hired a video technician to film the practices. The debt was rising quickly—he’d put all his eggs into the Teo Stepania basket.

  Ron Hartell, a washed-up pitcher who had more surgeries than starts the last few years, and a journeyman Mexican catcher named Enrique Rotunda, were the only players to stay with Geoff after his crash. Which meant that Teo now made up a third of his client list, and was the only one with marketable talent.

  Once the field met Geoff’s standards, Teo was brought out. He wore a “Team Teo” shirt, which Geoff had created for the occasion, along with fitted baseball pants and brand new spikes. Geoff had to exchange the “Team Cameo” shirts he’d already had made up. Working together was the right move for both him and Cam, but it seemed his brother would go to any length to spite him—another reminder that it was a long way away from those days playing in the sand.

  As Teo stretched with a personal trainer, and then began soft-tossing with Hartell, Geoff huddled with Ruppert and Grapes Salvino. The veteran baseball men were not putting too much stock into the stretching and warm ups. Geoff, on the other hand, placed emphasis on everything, including how Stepania went about tying his shoelaces.

  Twenty minutes later, Teo strolled to the pitching mound. Jake Ruppert stood behind the batting practice cage and pointed the radar gun. The lanky left-hander toed the pitching rubber and looked in at Enrique Rotunda, who served as the catcher. After receiving the sign for the fastball, Teo politely nodded. He then threw his first pitch on American soil. The leg kick was high, the hands went over the head and he fired the fastball to the plate.

  Grapes looked like he’d seen a ghost. “That’s Cam,” he mumbled.

  Pow … the streaking baseball pounded Rotunda’s mitt.

  “Eighty-three,” Ruppert said matter-of-factly.

  Geoff’s stomach sank. An average major league fastball was around eighty-seven or eighty-eight miles-per-hour, and nobody goes through this kind of trouble for guys who threw that speed. His dark cloud was beginning to block out the sun.

  The second pitch eighty-five, the third eighty-six, and then eighty-five.

  “What the hell is wrong with him? Is it the mound? What is it?” Geoff barked in a panic-filled voice.

  “Give him time,” Grapes replied.

  Calm wasn’t in Geoff’s vocabulary. Calm? Either the guy can throw or he can’t. He thought of firing Grapes on the spot. He needed to find a younger scout, one that was in his prime. And besides, you should never trust a man who earned his nickname because of his love of wine. For all he knew, he could be half in the bag right now.

  “Listen,” Grapes replied in a confident voice, “the kid just spent a couple days cramped up below a hot fishing boat in the Atlantic. The fact that he’s throwing this good is pretty remarkable.”

  It didn’t take long for Grapes to start looking like Nostradamus—the numbers began climbing, like watching floors pass by on an elevator ride to the penthouse. Eighty-nine, then ninety-one, three more at ninety-two and then his highest velocity of ninety-four. Geoff decided that Grapes was a genius. The guy found the Jack Hammer in some glorified beer league for God sake—he’s got an eye for talent!

  “Let’s see the slider, kid,” Ruppert shouted. Baseball has a universal language—no translator was needed. Sharp breaking pitch that snapped from left to right like it was being controlled by a remote control.

  Grapes wrote slider = nasty on his clipboard.

  “Nasty, why nasty? It looked good to me,” Geoff said.

  Grapes explained that in baseball terms nasty is a term of endearment, and filthy would be even better. And according to Grapes, Teo was as filthy as Oscar the Grouch. This brought a rare smile to Geoff’s face.

  After Teo threw a couple of pitches that seemed to defy the laws of physics, Grapes held out his tanned arm and instructed Geoff to touch it, causing a perplexed look.

  “Go ahead—touch it.”

  Geoff gave in and ran his hand along the forearm. “Is that one of those weird baseball superstitions?”

  “No—it’s the goose bu
mp test. You can take all the radar gun readings and do all the statistical analysis you want, but the best test for a truly special player is the first time I see them, I get goose bumps. It’s the same feeling I got when I first saw your father.”

  With each pitch, the velocity continued to rise. 97 … 98 … 99. Geoff couldn’t take his eyes off his new meal ticket. Grapes tried to explain the nuances of pitching to him, but all Geoff cared about was the radar readings. It gave order to the process—the harder he threw, the more money he was going to make.

  Then a familiar voice crept up on them from behind. “The kid looks good. But anyone can look good when they’re not facing a batter.”

  Chapter 37

  Cam stood with bat in hand.

  Geoff gave him a casual glance, as if he knew he’d show the whole time. “Glad to see you finally wised-up, bro.”

  Cam couldn’t believe his mother talked him into this. Actually, she just planted the seed. Just give it some thought, Cam. And of course he did—she always got her way.

  Grapes Salvino greeted Cam with a hug. “Good to see ya, kid,” he said, smelling like a cigar, as usual.

  “This kid got anything, Grapes?”

  The old scout beamed. “Best pitching prospect I’ve seen since, well … you.”

  “Tell him to take care of the arm then.”

  Grapes’ eyes automatically went to the elbow, and his face saddened. To a scout like him, a great talent unable to fully blossom tore at his insides.

  Cam had no interest in traveling back down that road. He pointed the bat in Geoff’s direction. “You offered a place to train, and that’s what I’m here for. That’s it, no contracts, no commitments … understood?”