by David Levien
Shug rubbed his hands together in anticipation of his breakfast skillet, and getting back to her. He reached for a newspaper resting on the edge of the counter that a departing customer had left behind. It was folded back to the business section, so he flipped it over to start from the front page and felt his throat go thick.
Ex-Fed Slain in Thorntown, bannered the article, with an old FBI class photo of Teague twenty-five years and fifty pounds ago. Shug read on in organ-gripping dismay:
In what appears to be a home invasion robbery gone awry, Patrick Teague, a former FBI agent and current security specialist, and his wife, Margaret, were found dead in their Thorntown home …
It went on from there, reporting too many mundane details and leaving out the most important ones, like who did it and where was he? Shug felt his eyeballs might roll out of his head onto the table beneath him. He began waving at the waitress—trying to short-circuit his breakfast order, to ask for the check, to announce he was leaving. His flapping lips and gasping breath were no help. Finally, he rose, gathered his feet under him, and pulled some cash from his wallet. He staggered out the door, both hands on the glass, and out into the parking lot, raising his face toward a cover of chunky gray cloud belly hanging low in the sky. The air felt close, and he throttled the air conditioner the minute he climbed into his Acura and drove away toward Lori’s.
69
“Lookit that,” Ruthless said when the lone man crossed from his car to the diner, “that’s fucking Saunders, ain’t it? The bloke who’s supposed to be in D.C.”
It was. Waddy Dwyer and Rickie Powell were sitting at the far end of the Steer-In parking lot, as they had been for over an hour, waiting for Teague’s meeting partner to show up. They figured they’d be able to spot the likely candidate, but now they were beyond sure. They knew Saunders’s face from photos on the Internet, and considering they thought he’d slipped away, it was unbelievably good fortune.
“Stand in the right place and the ball falls right on yer fucking foot sometimes …” Dwyer said.
After a brief wait the restaurant door swung open and Shug moved toward his car. Dwyer turned over his engine and put it in gear. As Shug’s car jutted erratically into sparse traffic on 10th Street headed west, Dwyer and Rickie Powell dropped in, smooth and unnoticed as a creeping shadow behind him.
“I imagine he’s heading back to his flat,” Dwyer began. “When we get there, there’s a way in through the—” But Saunders turned in a different direction. “Belay that,” he said.
They veered toward a more commercial area than Saunders’s, before he parked near a brick factory building that looked like it had been converted to residential space.
“Come on, then,” Dwyer said to Rickie. “Gear up. You’ve got to follow him in and find out what floor he goes to.”
“Copy,” Rickie said, opening the door.
70
“Where are we headed?” Decker had asked as soon as they’d gotten in his car.
“Up to Franklin, take it to East Wash toward town,” Behr said, hoping to keep the information in small, digestible pellets that would prevent Decker from getting too wound up or ahead of himself.
“I mean who?” he practically snarled.
“Shugie Saunders, Kolodnik’s political adviser,” Behr acquiesced, and gave him the address.
“How’s he in this?” Decker asked, driving to the location at a speed usually reserved for a pursuit with siren.
“Like the center of a Tootsie Pop,” Behr said.
“Motherfucker,” Decker breathed, picking up the pace.
When they arrived at Saunders’s building, Decker shut the car engine off and pulled his Glock .40-caliber duty weapon.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Behr said. “You’re waiting in the car. I’m talking to him first—”
“Come on—”
“I need information on all the players before you go and put a round in him and end up in jail yourself.”
“Not in the head for this bullshit—”
“You’re waiting in the car,” Behr said, a hard edge to his voice, disturbed that Decker didn’t bother denying what he’d just suggested.
In response, Decker released the Glock’s magazine onto his lap, popped the chambered round, and worked the slide once, five, ten times and kept going and going, snapping it back and forth with rhythmic, unnerving repetition.
“Don’t go anywhere, don’t do anything,” Behr said.
“Yeah, I won’t—” Decker said, but Behr cut him off by closing the car door.
Behr crossed the sidewalk and entered the building. He took the elevator six floors up, went to Shugie’s door, and began knocking. Before long he was pounding in frustration because there was no answer.
He was trying the knob, which was locked, and considered making entry when an across-the-hall neighbor’s door opened. A middle-aged woman in a business suit stepped out holding a cup of coffee in one hand and a tube of mascara in the other. Jumping and yapping around her feet was a tiny white dog, a Maltese, he believed.
“What the heck?” she demanded. “I thought someone was trying to break my door down.”
“Sorry,” Behr said, “but I really need to locate Mr. Saunders.” At a moment like this, Behr wished he were wearing his blue Caro business suit for respectability’s sake.
“Yeah, well, if you find him, tell him I’m holding these for him.” She opened her door a bit and pointed to three rolled up newspapers.
“So you don’t know where he is?” Behr asked.
“No. I’m just glad he decided to take his … nightlife activities elsewhere. Cops were here earlier, scaring the poop out of Chessie,” she said, pointing at the dog. “But, like I said, you find Shug, tell him in another day or two his papers are gonna be Chessie’s wee-wee pads.”
“Sure thing,” Behr said, stalking away down the hall.
The rain had started falling in fat, greasy splotches as Behr slid back into Decker’s car, where he found him still working the slide on the Glock like a maniacal puppet.
“Anything?” Decker said.
“Not home, hasn’t been for a few days.”
“Shit,” Decker barked, punching the dash. “What else do you got?”
“Let’s try Kolodnik’s company,” Behr said. “Maybe the asshole went to work.”
Decker put the loose round back into the magazine, which he fitted back into the gun, then worked the slide a last time, charging the weapon, which he stowed in his Kydex hip holster. Behr clicked his phone for the street address as Decker put the car in gear.
His nightlife activities … Shug’s neighbor’s words rang in his head.
“Make a left,” Behr said. “New destination. McCrea Street.”
Behr suddenly knew where Shugie Saunders would be.
71
Decker wheeled his car to a hard stop in front of the loft building that was home to Saunders’s escort-lover Lori, and they saw the lobby door had been jimmied open. The metal frame was bent and now it wasn’t closing properly.
“Come on,” Behr said, his pulse rate shooting skyward. He didn’t have to ask twice, Decker was out and heading toward the building through the spattering rain, his gun drawn.
“You take the elevator to four, I’ll take the stairs. Apartment F.”
“Who am I looking for?” Decker asked.
“Buddy, I have no idea,” Behr said, and charged up the fire stairwell.
Behr beat the elevator and was breathing hard when Decker stepped out. He gave a low whistle and a head signal that Decker should follow him. He had his Bulldog .44 out because he could see by the light in the hallway that Lori’s door had been rolled slightly ajar. They proceeded toward it in a staggered formation, each with a distinct field of fire should anyone emerge. Behr lunged past the doorframe and put his back to the wall, and Decker did the same on his side.
With a finger tapped against his chest and then pointed toward the door, Behr let Decker know he was going in first. Decker
nodded and Behr spun and led with his shoulder, rolling the door all the way open. He entered in a crouch, gun sweeping an arc in front of him, and saw right away they were too late. Bile came to the back of his throat at the sight of Shug, on the ground, facedown in a pool of blood, the back of his skull collapsed and a pair of entry wounds in his upper back. A chewed-up foam pillow apparently used for sound suppression was singed black with muzzle burn and thrown to the side. Decker followed Behr into the apartment and took one glance at the body.
“We have to clear this place,” he said low.
Behr nodded, and they went for the kitchen, moving around a wall that divided it from the main living area. The space was empty, although a butcher block full of sharp knives had been knocked over and a few implements were missing. They checked a walk-in hall closet before moving toward the back bedroom, each using his weapon to cover the zones the other couldn’t.
They entered the bedroom and discovered an awful sight. The kitchen knives and more had been put to use. The young woman, Lori, was dead, her blood spread all over and soaking into the white duvet on her bed. Decker continued into the bathroom, which was empty.
“Clear,” he said.
“Clear,” Behr echoed. “Good Christ.” He was disgusted by the scene and sick with himself for being a step slow all the way around.
“Motherfucker,” Decker said, staring at the girl’s blood-soaked form. Behr recognized a look of deep distress on the young cop’s face. Despite all he’d witnessed in his life, this was too much on the heels of what had happened to his wife.
“Come on, Decker,” Behr said, putting a hand on his back. “Let’s get you out of here.”
That’s when they heard a moan from the front room. They sprinted out to find Shug’s head lifting off the floor somehow, his face drizzled in streamers of blood. His mouth moved in a disorganized fashion, faint, unintelligible sounds issuing from it. Behr crouched next to him, not willing to turn him over, afraid he would inadvertently finish the man off.
“Who was here, Shug?” Behr said.
There was a long moment of silence, a whispered breath, and a gurgle from him.
“Saunders, who did this?” Behr demanded, hoping to jar the man into lucidity. “How many were there?”
“Dwyer,” Shug breathed. Behr lay down, practically in the pooled blood, putting an ear next to Saunders’s mouth.
“Dwyer? Give me a full name?”
“Another Brit … big …” Shug croaked.
“Two of them? Are they both Brits? Give me a full name,” Behr said. “What’s with the pen—did they make you sign something?” he asked, noticing a blue ballpoint a foot away from Shug’s right hand.
“Lori …” Shug gasped. There was as much pain in the word as Behr had ever heard spoken. He knew what the dying man was asking.
“She’s okay,” Behr said, and looked to Decker, who nodded slightly. “She got away.”
Shug’s face relaxed and a bit of serenity came to his eyes before they closed.
“Shug … Shugie … Saunders!” Behr shouted. But the man was gone.
Behr climbed to his feet. He was stunned, becoming overwhelmed by the violence, and he fought to keep his mind clear. Behr wasn’t a chess player, but he had overheard some talk when a chess club was at Cici’s Pizza at the same time he was. They were discussing endgame, when very few pieces remained on the board with limited moves left to be made. That’s where they were now.
“You know we just missed ’em,” Decker said.
“I do,” Behr nodded, moving for the door.
72
They’d given him the night, but when morning came, they’d pulled out. Every last one of the six of them, armed and capable, hale and comforting, were gone, and now Lowell Gantcher was alone. He still saw the newspapers and magazines scattered around and the cups and plates used by his executive protection team. He didn’t blame them. They were professionals. When he’d hired them, he’d managed to talk his way around the wiring of the customary $10,000 retainer they required; after all, he seemed like such a big wheel. The minor scuffle in the casino gave him legitimate reason to act distracted and delay the payment even further. And when the two guys got busted up at his house, the company was apologetic and pissed off and agreed to stay on and beef up the team. But when another few days had elapsed, a manager type from the security company had called and given him the drop-dead to transfer funds, so Gantcher had written a check for the full amount. And last night the same manager had called again.
“That check was a Super Ball, sir,” he’d said. “I’m pulling my guys.”
“You can’t do that,” Gantcher pleaded.
“It’s done. First thing in morning. Pay your obligations, sir,” the manager had said, hanging up.
The last words rang in Lowell Gantcher’s ears. He had no more funds, but he was surely going to pay. He thought back to a time not two years ago when he used to spend and allocate money in hundred-thousand-dollar blocks. If his wife bought a couch for fifteen thousand dollars it wouldn’t even get on his radar. He had dreamed of, and saw close at hand, a time when he wouldn’t pay personal attention to anything less than big rocks—seven-figure transactions. But things had reversed course. The accounts had shrunk, and the liquidity vanished. There was nothing left now. Thousands would be a dream to have in hand at the moment. His wife was living on their last few hundred dollars cash up in lake country, though she didn’t know it. As for him, he was down to a few twenties in his wallet and a couple of traveler’s checks in the basement safe.
In the wake of the security team’s departure was a dread as pervasive as water rising inside a sinking submarine. Everything that constituted life had dwindled and was being squeezed out with that dread taking its place. Gantcher opened a rectangular metal case on the coffee table in front of him, revealing the sporting weapon broken down into two parts. He was suddenly glad he hadn’t been able to find a buyer for his Orvis over/under. He picked up the barrel piece and snapped it into the stock. He fished around in a shell bag and loaded both barrels, sorry that the gun was only a 28 gauge and the ammunition number six birdshot, good enough for fragmenting clay pigeons but woefully light to deal with the monster coming for him. Still, he thought, gripping it, raising it to his shoulder, it might do the trick.
He thought about what to do next. It was time to get in the car and run. The tank was full. The only question was: where? Nancy was up north with the kids. He’d give anything—not that there was anything left—to see them, but he couldn’t risk leading Dwyer in their direction. So he could go south, but the country would run out too quickly, and he hated the thought of being cut down in some Louisiana swamp. The west seemed to hold more possibility. If he could make California, he might be able to get lost in the endless overpopulated sprawl. Maybe he could catch on with a construction crew and get paid in cash. He’d be packed and out of the house in five minutes. It was time to go.
He felt a draft, a slight breeze that spread through the family room when the kitchen door was open. He didn’t hear anything over the rain, though …
73
Behr took the keys from Decker and drove hard north, the direction of both Gantcher’s office and home. They’d called 911 on their way out of the loft, but hadn’t even considered waiting for the response to come. There was no point.
“Scroll my contact list and dial Lowell Gantcher Work,” Behr instructed Decker, handing over his cell phone.
Decker did so, waiting with the phone to his ear.
“Lowell Gantcher,” he said. Then he covered the mouthpiece with a hand and told Behr, “She’s saying he’s not available.”
“It’s urgent, if he’s there, you have to put him on …” Decker continued. “You can’t? All right … Message? You tell him he better watch his ass.” Decker hung up. “She said she couldn’t reach him. Not that he couldn’t come to the phone. Tells me he’s not there,” Decker said.
Most people would probably just take Meridian to
get up to Crows Nest. It was a straight shot and the main thoroughfare, but because of that it could be slightly slow going. The car had muscle to burn and Behr flew along N. Michigan, which though it angled slightly away from the center of town was free of traffic. He cut right on West 56th, and only hoped he was making up some time.
“You might want to take her easy,” Decker said over rain that sounded like marbles bouncing off the roof, “she’s American so she runs good straight, but she’s not much on the corners.”
Behr’s response was to gun it. He kept his hands on the wheel, his eyes on the road, and did his best to rope down his thoughts, which were jumping around inside his head. Trying the home address first was a gamble, but if they chose not to believe the secretary and went to the office first and he was at home, they’d be too late once again and it’d be over. Of course the reverse was true, too. Decker, for his part, was twisted around backward, reaching into the backseat and coming around forward with a multipocketed tactical vest, which he put on. Behr fought to empty his mind and drive. This was his last chance to get the bastards who’d nearly killed him and his family and who had destroyed Decker’s.
Behr took his phone back and dialed Breslau, who answered on the first ring.
“It’s Behr. Don’t know if you caught the nine-one-one, but Shug Saunders is down.”
Behr wheeled onto Sunset Lane, blazing past the homes of the rich and locally famous. Gantcher’s place was up ahead on the left.
“Fuck, I know it,” Breslau spat. “Where are you headed now?”
“To Lowell—”
