The Bernie Factor
Page 42
Chapter 31
To say Chief Inspector Christos Gionelli held reservations about meeting a psychopathic killer who did not like him in the middle of the night in an unfamiliar area without any backup was a major understatement. Surey Whiteside had received the best training possible, and Gionelli’s limited knowledge of his employment history after departing the Witness Protection Program remained mostly a mystery. Surey Whiteside personified classified files that would never be open for full disclosure and public scrutiny. Hell, no files probably existed. If there’s no paper trail, there’s no path to follow and secrets stay just that, secrets. Gionelli understood this all too well.
But word around the proverbial water cooler painted a picture of Surey Whiteside as more than just good at his trade. He had evolved into one of the best. His prowess attained so high a level, he received something that most people in his position never get awarded. He was allowed out. Sure, the government placed all kinds of caveats upon his retirement, such as not retaining employment from countries whose political and religious factions pivoted on destroying the United States and its foreign interests. Understandably, the National Security Agency kept tabs on Surey Whiteside for years after his retirement. As long as Whiteside’s business interests did not harm the U.S. or benefit its enemies, everyone turned a blind eye to his actions. Within the USA’s borders, Surey Whiteside operated with virtual immunity.
However, Gionelli received no intelligence data regarding this information, which often caused him to wonder just how freely Whiteside operated. Gionelli performed his due diligence with every known and unknown agency, digging into Whiteside’s world. Nobody on record reported anything significant, but more importantly, nothing popped up on the radar from Gionelli’s cultivated sources who were willing to trade secrets behind the scenes. It was amazing how often some people with top-level clearances got themselves into a pickle. Thank God for sexual impurity and immorality, Gionelli often thought. People will go to great lengths to keep certain personal things under wraps, and Gionelli possessed the ability and position to make charges and arrests disappear, not to mention witnesses. For a man in his position, that was the irony of all ironies.
As he raced down I-25, well in excess of the posted speed limit, Gionelli blew past the first of three Pine Valley exit signs. He adjusted the windshield mounted GPS unit to ascertain which exit to take after missing the primary off ramp. The unit advised that the next exit not only provided the shortest route into downtown Pine Valley, but also the best choice for reaching Nick O’Fallon’s house. He programmed the unit, but Gionelli decided to first conduct a little surveillance prior to rolling up to the meet and avoid walking into something unexpected. As much as Whiteside disliked surprises, Gionelli shared a similar tendency. He enjoyed taking charge of situations and calling the shots. Some likened him to a control freak, a designation which he wore with a certain degree of pride. If you don’t have control, he argued, what do you really have?
As he approached the second exit, he scanned the surrounding businesses. He smirked to himself as he saw the unmistakable Wal-Mart sign on the east side of the highway. Even this little, sleepy city had lost its small town charm with the invasion of the corporate retail chain that edged out the local competition with lower prices the smaller guys could never match. His eyes gazed uphill to the ballparks and into residential properties, continuing past that to the rocky slopes of the ridges which butted up against the city limits.
The GPS’s automated voice droned, “In one mile take exit 164 to Fox Burrough Lane and turn left.”
“Thank you, bitch,” Gionelli replied. This was the moniker he fondly bestowed upon his navigation device and its female voice. Gionelli hit the turn signal and followed the directions. In a few short minutes he was driving down O’Fallon’s street and reading house numbers until he sat in front of the residence. He saw Andy O’Fallon’s black 1965 Cadillac parked askew at the end of the gravel driveway. Being somewhat of a car guy, he experienced a few pangs of jealousy seeing that car in its mint condition. Nicholas O’Fallon’s white pickup truck sat next to the Caddie, partially parked in the grass.
He slowed the rental car to a stop in front of the house. Nothing seemed out the ordinary. The house appeared dark, not unusual considering the late hour. Gionelli assumed if Nick O’Fallon’s truck sat parked in front of his house, it stood to reason that Nick O’Fallon was inside, tucked in bed for the night. He knew Schwartz could verbally handle people as well as anybody. He probably gained the kid’s trust regarding the parents and wisely chose an alternate spot, free of any other parties for their impending, brief meeting. Gionelli assumed this assessment as fact.
He pulled the car away from the curb and continued to the coordinates Schwartz had given him. He backtracked through town and headed north toward the Wal-Mart he’d passed on the highway. After a couple miles he saw the Wal-Mart in the distance and the baseball fields to the store’s right. He glanced down at the GPS and confirmed his path. A sign loomed in the distance under the lights. Gionelli couldn’t make it out at first, but as he closed the distance, his heart sank as he read Fairview County Baseball Park. The coordinates Schwartz gave him also matched the location Whiteside chose to meet him.
“No, no, fucking no!” He shouted as he banged the steering wheel with both hands. He pulled the car to an abrupt halt in the middle of the street and stared at the sign again to reconfirm his worst thoughts. His mind raced as he calculated whether he had enough time to dispatch Schwartz and O’Neil before Whiteside rolled into the parking lot and saw his old handler. He decided he had no choice, floored the accelerator, and headed up the hill toward the baseball field parking lots.