“Yes, sir. Again, sorry, sir.” The bodyguard cast a glare in Clinton’s direction that could spark a forest fire.
When he left the room, Talbot motioned them into the sitting area. “What are you doing here Detectives and it better be good.”
“We have a name.”
“You’ve found the assassin?” He twisted his wrist and looked at his watch. “Very impressive. In just over twenty-four hours.”
Wingham dropped herself into the same chair from last night. Clinton remained standing.
“Does the name Brenda Hunter mean anything to you? The hair pulled from the body came back a DNA match to her.”
He shook his head. “Should it?”
“We don’t have time for this Governor.”
“What do you expect me to say?” He crossed one leg over the other.
Clinton looked at Wingham directing her in silent eye communication that it was time for her to excuse herself. They had discussed the possibility of this happening. If there were repercussions from what was going to be said, Clinton would take the heat alone.
Talbot watched nervously as she left the room.
Clinton sat on a sofa across from the Governor. “What are you afraid of?”
“What—”
“I know that Governor Behler was discussing things with you. Things you don’t want coming to light.”
He uncrossed his legs, leaned forward, and clasped his hands. His expression saying, what do you think you know?
“Behler had a connection with the Italian Mafia—”
“Ludicrous! I won’t stand for this besmirching of a murdered, respected colleague.” He glanced at Wingham.
“Because you’re afraid—”
“Watch your allegations, Detective.”
“She came to you with them backing her.”
“Insane. You must have spent the night dreaming and fabricating these lies.”
“I know you stand hard against organized crime—”
“Damn right I do. Have you looked at my track record?”
“That’s part of the problem. Clean.”
Talbot appeared confused.
“What Governor or politician has a clean history? Name one.”
“This is ludicrous.”
“What’s ludicrous is your hindrance in this investigation. And I don’t care why, that’s not my issue. But the man who joined you and Governor Behler for dinner Saturday night at Casa Grande, what was his name?” Clinton knew he was acting on a hunch, a speculation, not a suspicion, as it was grounded on nothing but a gut feeling.
“I told you last night. I don’t remember.”
“But the name Hunter, it sounded familiar to you.”
He shrugged a shoulder. “I’ve heard the name before—”
“So—”
“But I hear lots of names in my line of work. Surely you understand that.”
Clinton sat back, exasperated. Talbot was a politician through to his sinew. A minute of silence passed.
“I know you’re afraid, and if the Mafia had Behler killed, well, then it’s quite plausible you could be next.” Clinton watched as the Governor pulled out on his necktie and then undid it. “We could protect you.”
“Like you did her?” Talbot’s jaw tightened, but then he continued, “The man that night. His name was Hunter.”
“She knew him?”
“Yes. She introduced him as her accountant.”
SINCE WHEN ARE THINGS EVER STRAIGHTFORWARD? Clinton stepped into the hallway to meet back up with Wingham. He filled her in on what he found out about the man named Hunter.
“So he followed her from Detroit to here?” Wingham analyzed the information aloud. “He must have a connection to the Mafia. But he’s got a wife and two children.”
The background report they pulled on Brenda led them to the name of Raymond Hunter, her husband.
“Lots of men keep secrets from their wives.”
“Yeah, other women and hidden Playboys in the attic, not their second career as an Italian Mafia hitman. Besides, the guy’s an accountant. Aren’t they supposed to lead boring lives?”
“Well, apparently this one doesn’t.”
“Forensics has her hair, though, not his.”
“It’s just like the duck theory.”
“The what?”
Clinton thought he had explained this to her before. But he went about doing it again. “Just because forensics could put Brenda Hunter’s hair near the body, doesn’t mean she is the killer. It doesn’t even mean she physically came into contact with the body.” That’s where DNA failed.
“I think you’re going to have to come up to this century, Clinton. Forensics have kept a lot of innocent people from going to prison—”
“But how many more has it sent there?”
CLINTON DIALED THE NUMBER FOR Leone’s cell phone a few times, but there was no answer. It didn’t leave him with a good feeling. He needed him to go over and pick up Raymond Hunter. Finally on his fourth attempt and the fifth ring, there was an answer.
“Hello.” Leone picked up as if there were no hurry in life, no concerns that weighed him down.
Arrogant bastard. Hearing the man’s voice only reaffirmed the value of distance between them. Clinton relayed the findings in the investigation including that of Raymond Hunter.
“I’ve actually come across a potentially good lead myself. There’s a power shift going on within the Italian Mafia,” Leone said.
“How would you know—”
“Just trust me.”
Not a chance.
“I went to go through Carson’s things at his house. There was a car in the driveway.”
Interesting. Didn’t Wingham’s PI friend say that the address on file was for an abandoned warehouse?
Clinton played along. “Was the man killed there?”
“I looked in the window and it didn’t show any sign of a struggle or a break-in.”
“The car?”
“I have a plate for you. I was hoping you could do a quick check. Let me know who I’m looking at.”
Clinton typed in the digits as Leone fed them to him. “Raymond Hunter.”
“That’s quite the coincidence.”
“I don’t believe in coincidences.” Clinton hung up the phone. It left him wondering where Leone got the plate number. And how did it pull in Raymond Hunter? Something was about to go down, and there would be a rogue FBI agent right in the heat of it.
OUTSKIRTS OF DETROIT, MICHIGAN
LEONE HAD A HARD TIME suppressing the smile that wanted to engulf his entire face. Here he was headed into a combat field with nothing but determination and the plan of blaze of glory, yet he felt confident. Clinton had no idea what was going on here in Detroit. Leone only fed him what felt safe. Next time Clinton called, he wouldn’t get an answer.
Leone pitched his cell phone into the field behind him and kept walking toward the hangar. He would be killing more than just Christian Russo. He would take out his competition.
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Chapter 81
OUTSKIRTS OF DETROIT, MICHIGAN
MONDAY, JUNE 14TH, 7:00 AM
EVERYONE HAS A POINT IN THEIR life when it’s time to own up to what one’s done. Sometimes coming to face that truth isn’t easy. Sharing it with loved ones may even be harder. But if given the choice between holding it in any longer, and breaking free of its rein over your conscience, at what point do you say enough is enough?
The four walls of this room hadn’t provided me with the answers to those questions, or the dilemma I’ll face when I get out of here—and I will get out of here.
For the last while, I traced the walls of the room looking for any sort of secret opening or means of escape. I found nothing. My only hope of getting out of here was someone openin
g the door. And when they did, they would die.
LEONE CONTINUED THROUGH THE FIELD wishing that the cornstalks were taller and provided coverage. This entire situation was insane if he let himself really dwell on it. Who goes after a member of an Italian Mafia Family alone? It was ludicrous really.
Even knowing that Agostino directed his moves with the backing of The Commission, Leone still felt vulnerable. Christian Russo didn’t make it to where he was simply because he was Pietro’s blood and flesh. The man was a killer in his heart. Leone had witnessed it firsthand in Detroit years ago. And what kind of a sick man must you be to exact justice on a ten-year-old child?
Even the sixteen-year-old teenager was raped prior to being murdered. To simply imagine carrying out such a crime didn’t do anything for Leone. He preferred the real thing—a full grown woman in stilettos, experienced in the ways of pleasing a man. He couldn’t even imagine conjuring an erection for a child. The idea was disgusting and revolting on many levels.
Leone pulled out a Glock 22. Not his favorite weapon of choice, but still deadly. The naïve marksmen always thought in terms of Hollywood. It was as if they believed numerous bullets were required for a kill shot. Leone knew it only took one.
He crouched down further into the mounded dirt of the cornfield. Of the two men guarding the front of the hangar, one had a larger build than the other, but one thing working in Leone’s favor was neither of them seemed to be very alert. They had probably been stationed there most of the night and not called upon to take care of anything. The AK-47s they held were likely cool from the night air and not kissed with the heat of gunfire.
Leone thought of Hunter. If the man was here to execute some sort of justice, why? Leone remembered from what Clinton told him that the man was an accountant. How did he get mixed up in this situation? He must have had a prior connection to Christian and been the man hired to assassinate Behler. The thought actually brought a smile to his lips. The man had failed the first time. If he took aim at Leone, maybe he would fail again. Leone didn’t make room for failure. The accountant would die.
Hunter was likely Tux, the term both of the detectives used for him. Such a childish way of going through life—assigning nicknames to people around you. But Leone supposed that was the way a lot of people functioned. He just wasn’t one of them.
He lifted the Glock preparing to take fire. He would have to seek shelter the minute he popped the guy on this side. His partner would likely be more than trigger happy just to get the chance to do something other than stare over empty cornfields.
Leone moved closer to the building. He would take the shot, roll and hide behind the side of the hangar. Gunfire would ring out over the field in the direction of the deadly shot, but Leone wouldn’t be there to receive payback.
As he neared the edge of the building, his heart beat rapidly and he noticed the white wisps of his breath rise in the cool morning air.
He braced down, his Glock readied and took aim on the man who never had a clue his life was about to end. Leone squeezed back on the trigger and executed the rest of his plan.
YVONNE SENSED FEAR IN HER mother and the sudden pullback from their embrace only confirmed it.
“Mom?”
Her mother shook her brother aggressively. “Wake up! Wake up now!”
“Mom?” Yvonne watched her mother with large eyes.
“Max!” She huddled over him and dropped her head to his chest. “He’s not breathing.”
Tears streamed down Yvonne’s face, her heart racing faster than when Jamie stepped into home class.
“What do you mean…he’s not breathing?” Yvonne moved over to her brother, her eyes on his chest. It no longer moved up and down.
“Mom, what was that noise?”
Her mother kept working on Max trying to make him come to. Yvonne’s extremities were frozen in place. Even willing herself to move an arm, to stir her brother, was impossible.
“Mom?”
Her mother’s body sagged as she sat back from Max. Both hands went to her face. Yvonne had never seen her mother so heartbroken.
“He’s probably just sleeping really deep.” The words sounded weak to her ears, but she had to help her mother through this. She wouldn’t give up on her brother.
Her mother went back to rest her head on Max’s chest.
Yvonne shook his shoulder, finally able to move. Her mother kept avoiding the other question about the noise they just heard, but she didn’t need her to confirm what it was. She had watched enough movies to know what gunfire sounded like. It wasn’t exactly like the movies, more like a cross between a firecracker and a car backfiring, but she knew it was unmistakably a gun. She started shaking her brother vigorously.
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Chapter 82
NIAGARA FALLS, NEW YORK
MONDAY, JUNE 14TH, 7:15 AM
CLINTON LOOKED TO WINGHAM WHO was sucking back on a new Starbucks. “We have no choice but to involve Detroit PD.” He said the statement and sensed the sulking nature in his voice. There went his headlines. Maybe he could salvage it by being the one involved with pointing the investigation in the right direction.
“I don’t think we do.” The way she watched him, he sensed she was analyzing him, trying to read his mind.
“We’re still the ones who got the investigation to this point.”
“That’s right.”
Not that it felt like much of a consolation prize.
“So you’re sure that this guy Hunter is the one who did it? I mean it was his wife’s DNA on the body. Maybe she’s the killer,” she paused. “And I don’t want to hear anything more about your dang duck theory.”
He smiled briefly. She could be such a smart ass. Maybe that’s why they made great partners. “Statistically, assassins are men,” he said.
Wingham lowered the cup and gestured with her one hand. “Again, the twenty-first century calls out to you, Dave. Women are equally as brutal these days.”
As if she needed to point that out to him. His last wife did the cheating. So much for the advancement of womankind. They were empowered with putting on a business suit and with it took balls in their own hands—sometimes literally. Anything was then free game, including retribution on past generations of men who discounted women’s contributions and value to society.
“It’s the guy,” he said.
“You can be so stubborn. You saw her background too.” Wingham put the cup back to her lips. She looked like she was about to say something when her cell rang.
Clinton watched the seriousness in Wingham’s eyes transform to enlightenment. She thanked her caller and smiled as she hung up.
“That was the car service. They have a name for us as to who rented the Town Car.” She held up her hand as she noticed he was about to interrupt her. “And they have a place where Tux was picked up before going to The Oasis motel.”
“We’re still calling him Tux now we know his name?”
Wingham shrugged her shoulders. “Sometimes the nicknames are better than their real ones. Anyway, he was picked up from a private hangar outside of Niagara Falls.”
OUTSKIRTS OF DETROIT, MICHIGAN
THE NOISE WAS UNMISTAKABLE. The report that saturated the air made its way inside my prison cell. I sat up using the support of the concrete wall. The abrupt movement shot pain from my leg through my entire body.
All I could think about was the safety of my family. I needed out of here now. I stumbled to the entrance of the room and pounded my fists on the metal door.
“Christian!” I didn’t know what to yell or what to say. But I needed to create a ruckus and make myself a large enough nuisance so that someone would come to silence me.
AND NOW, THERE WAS ONE.
Blood was expelled from the man’s head, and Leone watched as his body crumpled to the ground like a rag doll. Leone rolled across the mounds
of dirt and pressed against the aluminum exterior wall of the hangar.
“Rocco!”
Leone heard the panicked outcries of the other man. He knew he was alone now and a target.
“Shit! Rocco!” The voice got closer to the edge of the building.
Leone pictured the larger guy hunched over his fallen comrade.
Instead of feeling fear, Leone had been infused with adrenaline.
Deafening reports of the AK-47—sporadic and uncontrolled.
The man let out wails that accompanied the steady hail of bullets. Leone sensed the heat from the weapon. The man was close. Too close. As soon as he had a chance, Leone would round the bend.
Then there would be none.
MY FISTS ACHED FROM THE repetitive drumming on the metal door. With each impact, they bit a little more, the pain in my leg now a dull ache.
“Let me out!”
I screamed out random words hoping that someone would hear and that someone would come. Minutes passed.
“MAX!”
Brenda’s words fell flat against the confines of the room. She noticed the panic sweep over her daughter’s face when there was no response from her brother. Somehow she had to dig within herself and find the strength to be strong for her daughter.
Brenda’s arms went still as she dropped herself down to her son’s chest. If there was a heartbeat, it was so faint she couldn’t hear it. Had she lost her son in this place? If she had been alone without the fawn eyes of her daughter, she would have screamed and let out a wail that would permeate the walls and reach the city.
“Mom?”
Her daughter kept repeating herself. She was scared too. They needed each other to get through this and get out of here.
More loud reports littered the air. Brenda knew exactly what they were. Maybe she should tell her daughter.
And she would have, but Max coughed and struggled to sit up.
“Max!” Tears fell down Brenda’s cheeks, and both mother and daughter hugged him tightly. Brenda was the first to pull back. He would be okay—thank god! But she needed to get her family out of here—now.
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