by David Putnam
The clock tick-tocked in my head. I didn’t want to look at the digital time on the dash, the little red numbers that never stopped marching on and on. I couldn’t take my eyes off them. Six-oh-five. I had less than two hours to find Marie. How could I do it in two hours? I couldn’t think of any past scenario when I had worked on the Violent Crimes Team that fit into what had to happen and allowed a resolution in less than two hours. I wished Robby Wicks sat next to me to lend some of his arrogant confidence. He’d have a plan, no matter how cockeyed crazy or over the line into the gray. But he’d have a plan and be able to sell it to me. “A cake walk,” he’d say. “We’ll take these bastards down and be drinking a beer in one hour and twenty-five minutes.” No way could he back up his outrageous claims, not with credible reason. Even so, I’d find myself saying, “Yeah, I’m with you, let’s do it.”
I tried to peel my eyes off the clock and force my brain to think.
I didn’t even know if the golden doughnut would still be there. We had the safe open, but we had fled before taking that extra step to check. The golden doughnut could possibly link the SS organization to the armored car robbery. Planned and executed by them. Robbery was a predicate crime. The statute of limitations was up on the robbery. But the guard had been killed, and there wasn’t any statute limit for murder. The worst part about the plan, I had to throw Drago under the bus. He would have to testify. He wouldn’t, of course. He had that misplaced loyal gangster code coursing through his veins. I only hoped Dan Chulack would let me go pending trial. If nothing else, the recovery of a million two had to be worth something, a big feather for the FBI.
The FBI agent assigned to watch me sat in the front seat, his jaw set tight from anger at having to babysit. I said, for the fifteenth time, “Where’s Dan Chulack? The deal was for two hours, it’s been almost four.” The inactivity and the inability to control the situation made me want to smash the window, climb out, and run down the street, moving somewhere, anywhere, at least doing something.
Finally the FBI SWAT team arrived in a long caravan. They got out already suited up, dressed all in black. Their long guns hung from team slings across their chests. The ballistic helmets and goggles made them look like aliens from a foreign world.
Okay, here we go. From another car, Dan got out and walked up to the SWAT team leader. They spoke a few words. Dan shook the man’s hand, wishing him luck. Dan walked up to the Escalade, all too slowly. Couldn’t they all move a little faster? Just a little? Didn’t they know what was at stake? A woman’s life and three small, helpless children?
Dan got in.
“What the hell? You said two hours.”
He held up his hand. “I know, I’m sorry, I had a lot to coordinate. I just got the warrant addendum signed. We had to do this right. We want it to hold up in court later.”
“What, at the risk of the lives of a woman and three children?”
“I said I’m sorry. After we do this, I’ll personally put every possible resource at your disposal. Is there something I can do right now, something we can get started on?”
I couldn’t think of a thing and it gave me a headache.
“How’s my friend John Mack doing?”
“I’m sorry, I should’ve told you, but as I said—”
“Just tell me.”
“He’s out of surgery and his prognosis is great.”
I sighed and sat back. I took a breath, “What about Drago?”
“Banged up. He’s got a broken leg. He’s shot in the foot, that one’s recent, and he’s got a gunshot wound to the leg.” Dan smiled, “You know anything about the gunshot wounds?”
I didn’t answer and said, “That’s great about Drago. What about Roy Boy?”
Dan shook his head, “He’s alive, but they think he might be paralyzed from the chest down.”
Dan paused, then said, “Well?”
He wanted the information about the evidence for the predicate crime needed for the RICO indictment.
“Can you call Chief Wicks and have her meet me at the clubhouse—”
“Here she is now.”
Barbara pulled up in a maroon Crown Victoria. She got out and came up to the Escalade as the SWAT team mounted the step-sides of the SWAT vehicle and held on to the exterior rail at the top. We were finally rolling. Barbara got in the back next to me, cool, not catching my eye. I didn’t blame her. The Escalade started up. We moved in behind the SWAT vehicle. We were two miles away from the clubhouse. I didn’t know what to say to her.
“Mack’s going to be okay?” I asked.
“Define okay. He’s going to prison, and he won’t ever be a cop again.”
“I made a deal.”
Her head whipped around. “You what?”
“That’s what this is all about. I made a deal that Mack walks if we find enough evidence to put away the SS.”
Hope in her expression faded as I said the second part about evidence and the SS. “Evidence?” She said, “Did you actually see anything at all while you were in there?”
I looked away.
“That’s what I thought. This is a fishing expedition.”
“It damn well better not be,” Chulack said.
We rode in silence for a few seconds. Every increment of time went by far too slow. Tick-tock.
“Do you have the file on Jonas, the one that was in the back of his T-Bird?” I was grasping at the least little bit of intel that would help bust through the mental road block.
She still didn’t look at me. “No.”
My mind scavenged around for something, anything at all to keep her talking. I had the need to hear her voice. Maybe we would happen on something of mutual interest, and that would once again bring us close together as friends. And, as friends, we could figure this thing out. I had an itch, a niggling in the back of my brain, that I had missed something. Something vital and I just needed it to float to the surface. Talking with her could trigger that effect if we could put aside this emotional wound between us.
We rounded the last turn and headed for the clubhouse one block away.
“What happened with the car?” I asked.
“What car?”
“The Rent-a-Wreck Jonas rented two years ago?”
“That was a dead-end. It comes back to a vacant house on Roswell Avenue in Montclair. No one’s lived there for years. He used it as a dead drop, an address only, for the rental forms, social security, and a fake driver’s license.”
“Roswell?”
Ahead of us, the SWAT vehicle smashed through the wrought-iron gate to the clubhouse and sped right up to the front door. The team jumped off and ran. The lead man threw the ram through the door as men lined up and entered, long guns at the ready, all of them yelling, “Get down. Get down.”
We pulled into the parking lot and stopped, waiting for the “all clear.” This time the parking area was loaded with Harleys of every style and model. Most had the ape-hanger handlebars. Toys, stuffed animals, and games were strapped to various parts of the bikes with bungee cords, highly visible on purpose, the rebranding, their attempt to shift the public’s perception. I could only hope the public did not easily fall prey to such elementary school tactics.
Six fifteen. An hour and forty-five minutes left.
Within seconds, the SWAT leader came out and gave Dan the thumbs up. Dan and Barbara got out. I opened the door and put a foot on the ground. Dan blocked my exit.
“The location is secure. I fulfilled my end of the deal, now tell me where inside? What are we looking for?” He wore anxiety like a wild, unwanted monkey on his back, an emotion that didn’t suit him. He liked to be in control, and now everything depended on me. He’d gone way out on a limb, and I still held the saw.
Barbara came up behind him. I lowered my voice, said to him, “No, your end, the difficult end, is when you have to let me walk.”
He nodded and didn’t say anything else. He didn’t want to risk my anger, or to hear me suddenly burst out in laughter, that th
is had all been an elaborate gag just to ruin his career and make the FBI out to be a bunch of buffoons.
I pushed past them, my hands cuffed in front. “Follow me,” I said.
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
For the second time in the last seven hours I walked into the Sons of Satan clubhouse. This time at least sixteen bikers sat on couches in the front room, hands zip-tied behind them. Another eight lay face down on the floor amongst their biker detritus. Most had shaved heads, all had ugly antisocial tattoos that blared out to the world that they would not cross the street to help a person and that they’d rob you while you were down. Some wore bandanas around their heads or hanging from pockets. All wore their denim ‘cuts’ with the SS rocker and death head accented with their evil, angry scowls. By not wanting to look like everyone else, they’d ironically created their own conformity. What a bunch of lost sheep.
Clay Warfield sat amidst the people he lorded over, pretending to be just one of the guys. “Come back for some more, Deputy Johnson?” he asked.
I didn’t answer. Clay saw my handcuffs. “That’s right, now you have the right man. You don’t have a thing on us.”
“Have you read the warrant to him?” I asked Dan.
Unlike in the movies, which take short cuts for dramatic effect, the warrant had to be read to the person in control of the premises before any search could be completed. Dan nodded to an agent in a blue windbreaker. The agent took out a folded piece of paper and a micro recorder. He read from the paper.
Clay smiled, unconcerned. He knew there wasn’t anything in his clubhouse, so why should he worry? He smirked. “When you assholes get done with your little game of cops and robbers, I want to press charges against Deputy Johnson for burglary and grand theft auto. He stole our plumbing truck. Roy Boy will also press charges for kidnap and attempted murder. What do you think about that, Deputy Johnson?”
I looked at Dan. “The gold’s in Clay’s office.”
Clay lost his smile. “There isn’t any gold in my office.” He tried to struggle up off the couch. His zip-tied hands, and the other bikers packed hip-to-hip, made the move impossible. “You’re not going to plant any evidence, not on me you won’t. I’m going along. I’m going to watch.”
Dan nodded to the agent who’d read the warrant. The agent helped Clay up off the couch. We all walked down the hall through the trash, most of which by now had been flattened against the crusty carpet.
We entered the once-immaculate office still tossed from our last visit.
“Okay,” Dan said, “What gold, and how does it work as a predicate crime?”
I had taken a big chance believing Drago.
Clay yelled, “There isn’t any gold in here. If there was, I’d know about it. Don’t you think I would know about it?” His eyes blazed a hole right through me.
Dan asked again, “What gold? Where?”
“It’s in the safe,” I said.
Clay’s anger shifted away and he smiled. “Go ahead and look, there isn’t any gold in the safe.”
“We don’t need your permission to look,” said Dan.
Someone had closed the safe doors. The dials were still knocked off and the holes Drago had drilled still in the door. Dan moved quickly over to the safe and swung open the heavy doors. His head whipped around. “It’s empty.”
Clay threw his head back and laughed. “Just like I told you. Is this the best you got?” He snapped back to anger. “Now untie my hands and get the hell out of my clubhouse. You’ll be hearing from our attorneys. We’re going to own the federal government.”
“Johnson?” asked Dan.
“It’s underneath the safe,” I said.
Clay’s eyes went wild. He didn’t know what was under his own safe and didn’t want to find out. “Hold it, stop what you’re doing. I want my attorney here before you do anything else.”
Dan smiled, sensing victory. “You don’t have that right. In fact, you don’t even have the right to be in this room right now. You’re here out of courtesy.”
While he spoke, I moved over to the safe. I had to see the four bolts Drago had described.
On the safe floor, inside, I counted four holes through the thick steel. No bolts. All the air left my body. I staggered back a couple of steps until my butt came up against the desk’s edge.
Barbara Wicks took hold of my arm. I’d forgotten she was there. “What’s the matter?”
Dan, too excited to notice with his longtime goal now in sight, yelled to his men, “A couple of you move that safe, slide it to the side.”
Two agents tried, but couldn’t budge it.
“Get two more agents,” Dan said. “Find a fulcrum.” An agent ran from the room.
Clay calmed. “There’s nothing under the safe. Deputy Johnson has been a bad boy. He’s been yankin’ you all’s dick.”
Two big SWAT guys came in with the ram they’d used on the door and a pry bar they must have retrieved from their assault vehicle.
Barbara whispered to me, “What’s the matter, Bruno?”
“I think I’m in deep shit.”
She socked me in the arm, just like Marie would have. The move brought Marie foremost in my thoughts and, with it, a terrible ache in the pit of my stomach.
The two SWAT guys put the ram down on the floor at the farthest end where the safe sat closest to the wall. They got on the pry bar intent on flipping the safe onto its side.
Clay laughed, not a nervous one but one with confidence. “The Feds are going to have to rename the Lincoln fucking Memorial, call it The Clay Warfield Memorial, after I get done suing your asses.”
The weight of the safe thwarted the agents’ best efforts. Not that it mattered; I already knew the outcome.
“You two,” said Dan, “get over there and put your backs into it.” Two agents with blue windbreakers moved over to help. One of the agents started to wiggle between the safe and the perpendicular wall on the side.
Clay jumped forward. “You assholes are in enough trouble. You damage or break something, and I’ll have your jobs. You hear me?”
The two SWAT guys and the two windbreakers got on the lever, as the guy in between the safe and the wall pushed at the top of the safe. The safe slowly started to rise. The agent in between the wall and the safe, his face turning red and bloated with exertion, pushed harder. The drywall behind him caved in with a loud crack. The safe’s top started to yield and lean. Dan yelled, “That’s it. That’s it. Push. You got it.”
The safe fell over. The agents jumped clear. The dead weight thudded to the concrete floor. The entire clubhouse gave a little shudder.
Underneath, where the safe had sat, revealed nothing but smooth concrete. No bolts rose out of the concrete floor. No gold doughnut painted gray and inset as a gasket. Drago had been so believable. How had I fallen for his lie? But why had he lied? There could only be one reason. Drago was batshit crazy to make up a juvenile tale of a pirate’s gold with safes and SS. His lack of sanity did not bode well for my family’s future.
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
Dan rushed over to me, his face right up in mine. “Is this how you return my trust?” He pointed to the overturned safe. “This was a big joke all along, wasn’t it?”
I couldn’t speak, and shook my head “no.”
Dan put a finger up by my eyes. “Now, you are going to rue the day you crossed me. I am going to file every possible charge. You’ll never get out of prison.”
Clay laughed loud and hard, most of it forced to help rub it in.
Dan pointed at me, “Get him out of here.”
The two agents wearing the blue windbreakers moved in. One came away from the corner, away from the damaged drywall, that was now visible. Right above the smooth concrete where the doughnut should have been.
My mind locked on to the obvious solution, I physically struggled. “Wait.”
The agents on each of my arms kept dragging me along.
“Chulack, wait. Wait.”
The two agents h
esitated and looked to him for direction.
Dan pointed his finger to the door. “I said, get him out of here.”
The two agents resumed their tug-of-war in earnest. I violently swung my shoulders one way, then the other, and broke free. I ran to the overturned safe, the agents close behind, and picked up the ram on the floor. They were all over me.
Dan was almost to the door and turned toward the disturbance.
Clay’s eyes went wild. “Get that asshole away from there.”
“Wait, look,” I said. “Look at Warfield. He knows I’ve figured out his game.”
Clay yelled, “I’ll sue you assholes, I swear to God, I’ll sue you until you don’t have a penny left to your name.”
Dan took a couple of steps back from the doorway. “Bruno?”
“You asked me to trust you. Now you need to trust me on this.”
Dan nodded. The two agents let me go. I took a deep breath, pivoted my hips, and slammed the ram into the wall. Clay yelled and leaped at me.
“Restrain him,” said Dan.
The two agents jumped Clay with relish and took him to the ground harder than he needed. Dan came over and looked me in the eyes.
In a low tone, I said, “They moved the wall.”
Clay continued to yell.
“Shut him up.”
The two agents sat on him. Clay grunted. Now he could only focus on breathing.
Dan nodded, took hold of the ram with me, and we swung it, throwing our backs into it. We hit a two-by-four stringer supporting the drywall and caved it inward. We swung again and again until we were out of breath and we had a large enough hole. We dropped the ram. Drywall dust hung in the air and stuck to the sweat on our faces. Dan took a small, powerful flashlight from his belt. He carefully stuck in his arm with the flashlight. He looked back at me one last time and then stuck his head in the hole.
He moved his feet and tried to force more of himself inside. I held my breath. From inside came a muffled “Holy shit.”
In the short time I’d known Special Agent Dan Chulack, he’d never used unprofessional language.
