Hidden Charges

by Ridley Pearson

  “I need a bag,” he called out, and left another detective with the task of bagging the shirt for evidence.

  The glasses case made by OK-Optics was under a Styrofoam container for chicken McNuggets. It was bagged as well. Shleit found the box of disposable surgical gloves under the bed. Kneeling there, in the stench of collected garbage, in the glare of the single bare bulb of the ceiling light, Shleit felt a tremendous wave of pity. John Steuhl was as much victim as felon. The system had failed him, the very system Shleit was part of.

  “Lieutenant.”

  Shleit looked up. One of the lab crew, a man named Horton, said, “It has your name on it.” He was pointing to an envelope taped to the back of the door to the room. Detective Doug Shleit was written in a crude handwriting across the front of the white envelope.

  “Shit,” said Shleit, reading his name. “Open it.”

  ***

  A moment later, Horton held the notepaper with forceps so that Shleit could read it.

  “Oh, Christ.” Shleit looked frantically for a phone. Unable to locate one, he ran from the apartment as fast as his feet would carry him, his subordinates close on his heels.

  When he reached the sidewalk he looked both ways and, not seeing a pay phone, ran ungracefully to his unmarked car. He placed the call by radio. Unable to reach Jacobs, he was put through to Dispatch and left Steuhl’s cryptic message with Brock. He finished by saying, “Tell him we’re sure it’s Steuhl. We missed him here. He may be there already. I’ll be there as soon as I can.” He pulled the door shut and drove off quickly.

  2

  John Steuhl had not slept last night. As a result, he felt somewhat numb. He had spent the night reviewing his cassette tapes that had surreptitiously recorded the goings-on in both Jacobs’s and Haverill’s office. As a precaution he had checked these tapes every two hours on Friday, but to make sure he hadn’t missed anything, he listened again, all through the night.

  He pictured himself with two hundred grand cash in a briefcase, boarding a plane for Mexico. He retrieved the handgun from the hiding place and jammed it down into his pocket. It had been there for over six weeks. He trusted it would work if he needed it.

  He checked his watch. Now hidden in hardened cement, his timer would be counting down toward four o’clock. Only he could prevent it from detonating the hidden charges in the walls and support columns of the new pavilion.

  If anyone messed with him at this point, the pavilion would blow on schedule. He held all the cards.

  His stomach growled. He wondered if this was how rock stars felt as they walked out on stage: heart pounding, butterflies in the stomach, weak legs.

  He tried to sit still, crammed into a narrow space between pipes he used as a seat and the cement ceiling above him. Below the pipes hung the nondescript Armstrong panels of the suspended ceiling in the telephone utility room, Pavilion C.

  Not too much longer, he told himself. By now, they ‘re totally confused, totally convinced.

  He thanked God for giving him the foresight to plant the listening devices in the air ducts of the offices. Without those listening devices….

  He tried to think of what might go wrong. One of the biggest threats to his plan succeeding was the Level 2 entrance to Spanner’s Drugs. The second level of the new pavilion could not be sealed as the ground level could be. People could evacuate through the drugstore.

  For this reason Steuhl had planted charges at the top of each of the four escalators. These charges could be detonated by phoning one of the three telephone numbers he had placed in the memory of a small telephone autodialer he now carried in his pocket.

  He had the entire operation mapped out in his head.

  3

  The sun climbed higher in the sky with seemingly little effort, unleashing its August heat on the protestors who had gathered at all six of the major traffic entrances to the mall. “Niggers” have rights too! read one of the hand-painted signs. The unusually heavy traffic backed up for over half a mile from every entrance. Six overheated cars and a stalled delivery truck killed any hope of a quick solution to the traffic jam. By five minutes past noon, a commuter helicopter en route from Boston to Hyannisport reported the mess to the State Police, who relayed the message to the Hillsdale police. Police cars sent to investigate also got caught in the traffic and found that cars were using the sidewalks and, in one instance, even opposing lanes.

  The few police who had been assigned to keep an eye on the protest found themselves with a nightmare on their hands.

  To his dismay, Jacobs had been forced to reassign a full third of his personnel to try and cope with the traffic jam. He now stood in Haverill’s office overlooking the mass confusion below. Even through the thick double-pane glass he could hear the horns.

  Haverill said, “We need those traffic lanes open. This has been going on nearly two hours.”

  “We waited too long to make our decision. They were too well organized. By the time you authorized filing complaints to have them arrested, we had lost the jump on them. We’ll get it straightened out, but it’ll take another hour, at least.”

  “Damn. I didn’t want the blame on us, that’s all.”

  “I think they realized that. That’s why they’re on our property, not city property. That’s how they got around the need for permits.”

  Haverill not only looked exhausted, he sounded it. “Walker’s a smart kid. He gets everyone all worked up over this housing issue, and yet I have a feeling all he’s really doing is drumming up public support for his lawsuit against us.”

  “Speaking of which, what do our attorneys say about Peter?”

  “He’s turned state’s evidence. They have him locked up downtown. We were able to keep it out of the press, but that won’t hold more than through the weekend.”

  “Did I tell you about Larry Glascock?”

  “Who?”

  “He ran the lab that falsified the tests on the concrete,” Jacobs explained.

  “Ran?”

  “Died of a heart attack in Cleveland on Thursday night. No one can figure out what he was doing in Cleveland. He was due home for supper. He was our one link to Romanello and Russo. With his death, all we have is Knorpp, and all the evidence is stacked against him. It’s funny, I suppose,” he said softly, “but it would appear it’s going to work out the way Russo intended all along, despite the fact that we made the first move. Some things are like that, I suppose.”

  “It’s up to the engineers now. If the building is tested and is found to be below code then we start looking for solutions. I’m told they may be able to pour some outside columns that wouldn’t look too bad. We won’t know for a few more weeks.”

  Jacobs said nothing.

  “What about Steuhl?”

  “I got a message from Shleit. He was on his way over here nearly an hour ago. Must have got caught in the traffic. He thinks Steuhl is here, or on his way. We got confirmation last night, about one o’clock, that the prints in the storage area we discovered are in fact Steuhl’s. We have two men in the storage area waiting for him. If he is here, if he makes a move, we’ll get him. Dispatch is paying particular attention to all the utility tunnel entrances. We just have to wait him out.”

  “It’s nerve-racking, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, it is.” Jacobs added, “If I’m not needed here…”

  “Go on, go on. I’m sure you’d rather be down on the floor.”

  “If it’s any consolation, sir, the people are still pouring in. We’re getting a hell of a lot of foot traffic. We had a record attendance, for the hour, at nine this morning. I’m sure we’ll have a good crowd even with the protestors.” Jacobs was at the office door.

  “I had no idea they would have this kind of support. Look at all those people carrying signs. When we were told they planned this, I thought maybe twenty, thirty people. There must be two, three hundred down there. You know what the sad thing is?”

  “What’s that?”

  “There are a lot
of people who hate us.”

  “I’ll be on the main concourse, sir.”

  “Right.”

  Jacobs left.

  Haverill felt the tears coming again. He walked over to the door and pushed it shut. She hadn’t been home last night when he had finally gotten up the nerve to go speak with her. He had decided to forgive her, to accept all the blame himself.

  He had tried phoning her good friends. No one had heard from her, or, if they had, they were protecting her. He had spent most of the night cruising the town, hoping to find her in a bar or at an all-night food joint.

  He had discovered the hashish on the floor to her closet and had flushed it down the toilet. He was worried sick about her. Why hadn’t she called? Why hadn’t she left a note?

  His decision-making had gone to hell. He couldn’t think about the Green. It all seemed so unimportant. How could that be? He didn’t care about the damn protestors. He didn’t care about the new wing.

  All he wanted was his little girl back.

  4

  “What are you doing here? How did you get in?” Mykos Popolov, busy putting the final touches on his store, tried to ignore Civichek.

  Mrs. Popolov, consternation plaguing her aging face, listened from behind the counter.

  “I figure it was you who called in Jacobs on us. I just want you to know that the Flock will stay in Hillsdale as long as we’re needed.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Now get out of here before I call Security.”

  “I’m entitled to be here, just like any other citizen.”

  “The building isn’t open yet. You’re not allowed in here. Besides, one of your people was caught with a gun. I was told no members of the Flock would be allowed back inside the mall.”

  Civichek untied his green neckerchief and shoved it into his pocket. “Who said anything about the Flock? I’m here as a private citizen.”

  “What’s going on, Mr. Paplav?” asked Earl Coleman, arriving from the back of the store with an armful of cans of black olives. “He bothering you?”

  “Back off, sonny boy, this is none of your business,” Civichek said.

  Coleman dropped the cans of olives. He stepped quickly over to Civichek and pushed the man away from Popolov. “I work here. It is my business.”

  “Earl—”

  “And if you go giving any more grief to Mr. Paplav, then we’ll work this out between you and me, hotshot.”

  Civichek stepped toward the smaller Coleman, but Coleman didn’t budge. Confident of his street-wise abilities, he found himself wishing Civichek would take a pop at him.

  “I said back off,” repeated Coleman. “We aren’t open yet.” Still staring down Civichek, he said, “Mrs. P., call Security and tell them we got a problem.”

  Civichek looked over at Mrs. Popolov and saw that she was dialing a number.

  “You make trouble, you get trouble,” Civichek told Popolov.

  “Same goes for you, hotshot,” said an unwavering Earl Coleman.

  Civichek grunted. “I’ll see you later,” he told Coleman, and left the store.

  “You didn’t have to do that,” insisted Popolov. “You could have gotten yourself hurt.”

  “Just protecting my own interests, Mr. P. Can’t get paid if I don’t have a boss.” He stooped down and retrieved the fallen cans.

  The Popolovs’ eyes caught just as Mrs. Popolov hung up the phone. She nodded her head, looking over at Coleman and back to her husband. She smiled.

  5

  “You responsible for this squeeze play?” were the first words out of Chester Mann’s mouth as he sat down in a chair facing Haverill’s large desk.

  “Don’t know what you’re talking about, Chester.”

  “I wish I could believe that. I’ll play along for the sake of expediency. Alex Macdonald has met the price the Treemonts set on our building. We have two options. We can see our lease through—it lasts another fourteen months—or we can pack it up and move now. If we stay, we have to tolerate construction on three sides for the rest of our lease. The plans have been sitting on Macdonald’s desk for a year. A contractor’s all lined up. They break ground in less than a week. It’ll kill the business. There’s really no choice at all.”

  “To answer your question, Chester, I wasn’t involved. But if I said I was sorry, I’d be less than honest. Does this mean we might work out an arrangement after all?”

  Mann rubbed his forehead. “This is something of a shock. The Treemonts have had our building overpriced ever since Macdonald started snatching up pieces of our block. It’s priced so damn high, even we steered clear. Now, all of a sudden, Macdonald agrees to their asking price and I hear they’ll close the deal Monday. How do you like that? We can stay, but with jackhammers and Cats working behind us, how many people are going to shop?”

  “We have a nice space in our new wing. I’m about to go downstairs and wax philosophical for our adoring crowds. Come with me. Mentioning that The Hauve plans on moving in would certainly be welcome news, and the attention of the media can’t hurt.”

  “Are we still talking about the same figures I have back on my desk? Peter’s offer of August twelfth, minus the twenty percent you agreed to come down?”

  “Let me see….” Haverill searched his files and pulled out a copy of the letter. He put on his reading glasses and reviewed it carefully. “That looks about right to me.” He placed the letter down where Mann could see it.

  After Mann had reread the letter he said, “Will a handshake do for now?”

  Haverill smiled warmly. “You bet it will.” He rose and the two men shook hands. “Have you ever been on TV, Chester?”

  Mann blushed, uncharacteristically. “No, I haven’t.”

  “Look over at the cameras and keep smiling. That’s all there is to it.” Haverill came around his desk. “Welcome aboard.”

  6

  The lines, eight to ten people wide, stretched for a hundred yards from every entrance. Dicky Brock, in Dispatch, reported by walkie-talkie that the estimated head count in the parking lot had swelled to two thousand. Jacobs knew another thousand to fifteen hundred had already jammed the Atrium in Pavilion C, awaiting the opening of the doors there as well. Total attendance of the entire mall at this moment pushed eighteen thousand—a record.

  Jacobs knew that most people would be at the opening ceremonies of the new wing and the drawing for the lottery prize. The two hundred thousand dollars in cash had arrived fifteen minutes earlier, under security and police escort—and much fanfare, Jacobs thought—and was now on display in a well-guarded Plexiglas case.

  Jacobs had spent the last ten minutes making rounds. Everything appeared to be in order—except his nerves. He checked one last time with Brock. Still no sign of Steuhl. Still no attempt on anyone’s part to enter the discovered dead space in the sub-level tunnel below the new wing. He began to wonder if they had the wrong suspect again. He felt uncomfortable okaying the opening of the doors and stalled a few more minutes as he continued his rounds.

  The three soap-opera stars and the baseball player arrived on the podium right on time, press agents waiting in the wings.

  Everything set.

  FunWorld would open as planned.

  He spotted Haverill and Mann from a distance. They ascended the platform’s steps and sat down side by side. Jacobs wondered what that was all about.

  A technician blew into the lone microphone, causing a wind sound to swoosh through the cavernous structure.

  “It’s time,” he called up to Haverill. “You all set?”

  “All set.”

  Jacobs nodded, shifting the hat on his head up his brow. He unclipped and spoke into the walkie-talkie’s handset. “Dicky, give me all units.”

  A moment later, Brock’s thinned voice said through Jacobs’s hidden earpiece, “Go ahead, T.J.”

  “All units, this is Jacobs. We’re about to open. Any problems down-line please report now.” He waited a full fifteen seconds for any rep
orts. “Dispatch, are we go?”

  “All set.”

  Jacobs paused, looking once around the empty building. “Okay, Dicky.”

  Brock typed the commands into the Chubb computer to release the magnetic locks on all doors at each entrance. He watched on a monitor as one of the female guards pushed against a single door between the new pavilion and the Atrium entrance, signaling the crowd that it was time.

  Jacobs winced at the alarming flood of people that heaved through the doors. Squeals of awe and unsolicited applause rose above the high-pitched murmurings of excited spectators as eager eyes delighted in the sights before them; cheering crowds surged forward toward the huge roller coaster from all directions.

  7

  Laura Haff and Sam Shole each clutched a child, Keze in Laura’s arms and the older Shelly reluctantly in Sam’s. Neither had expected this many people. It bordered on the frightening. Sam shouted to Laura, “Once we move through the entrance and into the new wing it’ll get better.”

  “I hope so,” she yelled back. The crowd was beginning to separate them. Shelly called out for her mother. Laura turned in time to see Sam elicit a smile from her.

  As Sam had expected, once they were propelled through the doors by the surging crowds, the vastness of the new pavilion absorbed the numbers easily and Laura’s paranoia subsided.

  Sam immediately bought each girl a helium balloon advertising FunWorld. The balloons cost a dollar apiece. Laura tied Keze’s onto a belt loop. Shelly gripped hers tightly in her hand at Sam’s instruction.

  “How about a ride on the Saucer?” Sam asked Shelly.

  “Sure!”

  Laura Haff smiled, her eyes sparkling. Contentment at last. Sam was clearly enjoying the children, and she couldn’t help but notice that Shelly had wrapped an arm more tightly around Sam’s strong shoulders and neck. Her daughter turned to face her and whispered loudly, “This guy is neat, Mommy.”