by Neil Turner
“There’s the rub,” Jake mutters unhappily.
“No ideas?”
“Some. The feds are leery of poking around too closely for fear of showing their hand. That’s too risky for Brittany unless there’s a location to move on.”
“Yet the clock is ticking,” Max mutters.
Jake’s been pacing throughout the conversation, which makes me nervous. He’s usually a pretty calm guy under any circumstance, so the display of nerves is unsettling. He takes a deep breath and meets my gaze. “Me and Max have a bad feeling about where this is going and are worried as hell about Brittany. We think something is brewing.”
“Why?”
“The pattern of communication between the goombahs has changed,” Max answers. “New voices, more frequent chatter. Same code words but more urgency.”
“The usual signs that something is developing,” Jake adds.
“We’re wondering why,” Max mutters. “What triggered the new activity? Maybe word of what this Diamond chick told you got out somehow.”
“Sapphire,” I clarify.
Max shrugs impatiently. “Yeah, her. Did you send her to the NTSB? If not, how long can you hold off?”
My shoulders sag. “Penelope and I got our wires crossed. She already filed against AAA and Windy City. She’s chomping at the bit to get moving with Sapphire.”
Jake looks annoyed. “Maybe the court filings set Joe off.”
“This Sapphire shit can’t wait a few days?” Max asks tersely.
“Not long, if at all.” I explain Penelope’s fear that delaying may prove fatal to Sapphire and our case.
“That’s a good point,” Max says.
Jake tosses an unused paint-roller sleeve in the air and catches it. “Yeah, it is. The FBI was supposed to pick up Sapphire for safekeeping. Let’s hope they did. Anyway, what’s done is done. Maybe the court filings pissed off Joe, maybe it was something we don’t even know about. The important thing is that something is afoot.”
“What does the FBI think?” I ask.
Jake frowns while he continues tossing the roller sleeve. “We’re not all on the same page at the moment.”
“How so?” I ask in alarm.
“They don’t share our sense of urgency.”
“We’re pretty sure Joe and his people are gearing up to make a move,” Max says. “If we’re right, we need to act now. The FBI isn’t so sure.”
“But I think J.P. is moving our way,” Jake says.
“J.P.?” I ask.
“The FBI agent in charge,” he explains. “J.P. Duclos.”
We fall silent, with Jake and Max presumably thinking next steps and me worrying that they’re moving too quickly. Or the FBI is going too slowly. Hell, I don’t know what I think. I only know that I’m worried sick.
Jake misses catching the paint roller, which rolls under a ladder. He leaves it there. “Let me call J.P. to get the FBI take on things. If something’s going to happen, it’s probably going to happen soon.”
“Like tonight,” Max grumbles.
Tonight? “Then what?”
“We’ll let you know,” Jake replies.
“When?” I ask anxiously. “Not after the fact, Jake. Please.”
He gives me a long look and answers with a noncommittal, “We’ll see. In the meantime, speak to your partner. No more new motions that might set Joe off. Keep this Sapphire news under wraps if you can.”
“I’ll talk to her.” Whether it will make any difference, I don’t know.
Max slaps his hands on his thighs and pushes himself up off the paint bucket. “Probably won’t matter, anyway. Dollars to doughnuts, something is going down tonight. We need to get our asses in gear,” he tells Jake as he heads for the door.
“We’ll be in touch,” Jake assures me as he turns to follow.
“Wait!” I exclaim. “Don’t I leave first?”
Jake nods. “Jesus. I’ve gotta get my head out of my ass.”
I touch his arm as I pass by on my way out. “No harm done.”
As much as the days of uncertainty have been eating me alive, the idea of everything coming to a head as soon as tonight is even more frightening. The finality of that stirs up every fear in my being. I break into a cold sweat. If Brittany is still alive somewhere out there, she may not be by morning.
Thoughts of her pour through my mind as I walk back to the office. Brittany the toothless baby gumming my fingers and then smiling up at me with her little pink tongue lolling about in her mouth. The precocious toddler toddling all about. My little girl, doting on Daddy before it became unfashionable to do so. The self-assured teen she grew into. The damaged teen she became after Michelle abandoned us. The memory of losing her to Michelle and Europe last year still bites hard, as does the fear of losing her again if Michelle and her father get their way.
Those thoughts take me back to Gadsby’s—was it really only a little more than a week ago?—and the happy memory of Brittany going toe to toe with her mother and grandfather on my behalf. Not to mention Pat’s revelation about Brittany wanting to stay in Cedar Heights. The notion of another human being wanting to be with me is almost foreign. Thoughts of my brother’s assessment of me surface but don’t quite take hold, pushed aside by thoughts of Brittany’s support and Trish’s seeming approval. The years of being conditioned—or conditioning myself?—to feel inadequate are proving tough to overcome, but Brittany needs me to be strong for however long she has… be it hours, days, weeks, or hopefully decades to come. I feel so damned powerless. I don’t know what, but there has to be something I can do to help.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
After a restless afternoon at the office during which I failed to distract myself with work, I’ve dropped by Pat’s to feed Deano and take him for a trek around the block. He’s still slower than hell as he hobbles along in the rain, but at least he’s up and around and doesn’t seem as tender when I towel him off. He’s making progress. Physically, anyway, but the poor old guy seems to be down in the dumps. Deano’s probably wondering if he has a family anymore. He’s lapping up water from his bowl when my cell phone rings. I connect the call.
Without preamble, Jake asks, “Where are you?”
“Pat O’Toole’s house,” I reply as I rip a handful of paper towels off a roll mounted on a counter spike. Deano has left muddy paw prints on the floor.
After a pause during which I hear muffled conversation on the other end of the line, Jake says, “We’ll be along in a few minutes.”
“Sure.”
“Is there parking in back?”
“Yeah.”
“Good. We’ll come to the back door.”
I stuff the phone back in my pocket and stare aimlessly out the window as my head spins out possible explanations for the impending visit. None of the scenarios I imagine ends happily. Jake’s going to give me a heart attack one of these days with his calls about needing to see me right away.
“What’s going on, Tony? Has something happened to Brittany?”
I look up to find Pat studying me with concern from the bottom of the stairs. She’s wearing faded jeans, a gray, long-sleeve T-shirt, and fuzzy Dumbo slippers that were a gift from her niece.
“I’m not sure,” I reply. “Jake and Max are on their way here.”
“You look scared.”
I shrug and squat down to clean Deano’s paws, and then start in on a tummy rub. “Maybe a little. I’m a little frazzled in general.”
She frowns and changes the subject. “I had a chat with Ben Larose today. The NTSB people were drafting their final report when they received some sort of bombshell information that put things on hold.”
I think I can guess what that is. Penelope sent Sapphire Larkin to the NTSB with her Megan Walton story, but it’s not for public consumption. Not yet, anyway, so I can’t tell Pat about it.
“Does Ben have any insight into the FBI’s plans regarding Billy and Rick?” I ask.
“He thinks that can still go either wa
y.”
I guess there’s still room for hope on that score. Temporarily distracted, my hand has gone still on Deano’s tummy. His wet nose nudges my derelict fingers back into action.
“Ben’s sources suggest the investigation is leaning toward a finding of pilot error, although they’re considering other contributing factors,” Pat continues. “Whatever new information they received supports the pilot-error theory.”
Damned right it does.
“Anyway,” Pat says, “the report will be delayed for another couple of weeks.”
After I discussed Sapphire’s situation and our fears with Jake and Max, they spoke to their FBI contacts. The Feds agreed that the information should be held closely and have taken Sapphire into protective custody until Joe is rounded up. I hope they can keep her safe.
Two car doors slam out back. Pat glances out the window while she stirs cream into a cup of tea. “Here they come.”
I wait with my heart pounding against my ribs. I know something momentous is coming. Jake sounded on edge over the phone, and he and Max are stone-faced when they step inside. I give Deano’s tummy a final rub and get to my feet. The dog sighs in disgust, then turns his head away and rolls onto his side.
“Tony,” Jake says curtly as he peels off his dripping jacket. Max merely nods a greeting.
My flagging spirits revive a little when I recognize grim determination in their demeanors. They don’t look like a couple of guys resigned to delivering catastrophic news.
Jake grabs Deano’s damp towel off the floor and starts to wipe his face, wrinkles his nose in distaste, then holds it away and studies it with disgust. I stifle a chuckle. Ah, the smell of wet dog. There’s nothing quite like it.
“Can we speak with Tony alone?” Jake asks Pat after he drops the towel and reaches for the paper towels.
Pat’s a little surprised, maybe even a little miffed to be kicked out of her own kitchen, but she recovers quickly. After shooting me a look filled with fear, she collects her tea mug and trudges up the stairs as if she’s ascending a hangman’s gallows.
“Got any coffee?” Max asks.
I put on a pot of coffee and dig three mugs out of the cupboard while he and Jake settle in around Pat’s kitchen table.
“So?” I ask when I join them.
“The FBI is moving in tonight.”
My heart skips a beat. “They know where Brittany is?”
“Not exactly,” Jake mutters.
What in hell does that mean? “Is she okay?”
Jake waves me off and says, “Sorry. Let me back up a bit.”
“Okay,” I mutter impatiently while Max pulls a plate of cookies close and snags a few.
“The FBI has come around to our thinking that something is going down tonight,” Jake says. “A move, maybe something more.”
The words “something more” send a chill through me.
“J.P. is pretty confident that they’ve narrowed Brittany’s whereabouts down to two possible locations.”
“Where?” I ask.
“Both are more or less local,” Jake replies.
Whatever more or less local means. Probably not important. “They’ll hit both places at the same time?”
Jake shakes his head.
“What?” I ask in alarm. “Why the hell not? Those bastards will kill her the minute they know the FBI is after them!”
Jake frowns. “Have you been following the news this afternoon?”
“No.” As if I have time for that these days, or an inclination to watch some stranger kvetching about his or her fears for my daughter’s well-being—as if Brittany is something more than a vehicle to boost viewer ratings. “What did I miss?”
“There’s a celebrity kidnapping and hostage situation in California.”
I get up to pour three mugs of coffee and carry them back while Jake fills me in on the irrelevant details of events in California. As if I care. There are already sugar, sweetener, and creamers nestled in a basket in the center of the table. I peel two sweeteners open and empty them into my mug, dump in a couple of creamers, and wait while Jake fixes his coffee.
“What does the BS in California have to do with us?” I ask.
“J.P. was supposed to have two HRT teams on hand tonight,” Jake replies. “One is now on its way to Los Angeles.”
“HRT teams?” I ask.
“Hostage Rescue Teams,” Max explains.
“What does this mean to us?”
Jake eyes me steadily and says, “The FBI has only one team to hit two sites tonight.”
Now I’m totally confused. One team. Two raids. “So, they’re going to hold off, right?”
“J.P. is pretty confident that something’s going down tonight. You already know we agree with that. They aren’t going to wait.”
“How in hell does this make any kind of sense?” I ask. “What if they target the wrong place?”
“That would be a problem,” Max mutters. Jake nods in agreement.
I try to wrap my head around the FBI’s logic. “They’ll hit one and then move on to the other if Brittany isn’t at the first place?”
“It’s not quite that simple,” Jake replies. “Both locations are Luciano family safe houses. There appear to be people at both.”
After pondering this for a long moment, the implications of it scare the shit out of me. “If they target the wrong location, word will reach the other place before the FBI can get there, right?”
They nod soberly.
“The goal is to pick the right spot,” Jake says.
Why not just state the obvious?
“The FBI has quite a bag of tricks in its arsenal,” Max says in a nakedly transparent attempt to soothe me.
“They’ll try to jam communications into or out of the properties to prevent them from contacting one another,” Jake says. “With any luck, nobody will be able to sound the alarm.”
With luck. Jesus. “And if they don’t get lucky?”
“That could be very bad,” Max admits glumly.
“The mob isn’t exactly in the Stone Age when it comes to technology, either,” Jake adds with downcast eyes. “Shutting down their communications isn’t a slam dunk.”
This all sounds much too risky to me. What the hell became of the movie and television cops who have all the right tricks and tools to consistently clobber the bad guys inside of an hour or two? “Use a local SWAT team for one site?” I suggest.
Max shakes his head. “The risk of a leak is too great.”
“Then maybe they should wait,” I argue.
“I don’t think so,” Jake says unhappily, underscoring the reality that they and the FBI feel compelled to play a hand they’d just as soon fold on.
“But,” I murmur while knowing full well that there’s really nowhere to go with the thought. What’s about to happen is out of my hands. These two and the FBI probably know best, but that just builds on my feelings of impotency in the matter of saving my daughter. My idle hands reach for a peanut butter cookie. I chew and wash one down with coffee while battling to steady my nerves.
Jake looks at me levelly. “Look, Tony, there’s no guarantee HRT can get her out safely even if they get the location right the first time.”
It’s a sobering realization. I plant my hands on the edge of the table and push my chair back a couple of feet so I can rest my elbows on my knees. “They’ll go in sometime after midnight?” I ask. That’s how it’s always done on TV and in the movies, hitting the bad guys hard while they sleep, doze, or otherwise go comatose at just the right moment.
“Normally, yes,” Jake replies. “Doctrine is to go during the wee hours.”
“But maybe not tonight,” Max interjects. “We’re not sure we have that kind of time on our hands.”
Jake nods. “That’s right. If the bastards have something planned for tonight, they won’t wait until the wee hours to do it.”
We sit in silence for a long minute while I study my shoelaces. I suspect we’re all consum
ed with the same thoughts and fears.
Jake and Max are studying me intently when I look up. A silent signal passes between them before they exchange a nod.
Jake slides his chair back, slaps his knees, and stands up. “So, against an explicit FBI directive, we’re thinking that we’ll quietly stake out the second target location.”
“Who’s we?” I ask.
“Me and Max.”
“Just the two of you?” Are they crazy? What the hell can two old cops accomplish alone against a nest of gangsters?
“Maybe with one or two of Ed’s fossils, if we can arrange it,” Jake replies.
“If we can find any of the candy-assed old bastards who haven’t already bugged out to Florida for the winter,” Max adds with the trace of a smile. Despite the direness of the situation, the old bugger is relishing the prospect of chasing after bad guys.
The more I think about them going in on their own, the more aghast I am at the risk they’ll be taking. “Why don’t you take some regular cops with you?”
Jake shrugs uncertainly. “Same security issue as involving a second SWAT team. I’m still smarting over that Giordano prick knowing where we stashed Francesco.”
“Can’t take a chance that Jake’s got a fuckin’ Mafia mole in his backyard,” Max mutters in quiet fury. “If I ever catch the fucker, he’ll get the same treatment the Mafia doles out to snitches. Throat slit and his balls stuffed down his throat.”
I cringe at the visual. The vehemence of the statement and the look of rage on Max’s face startle me. I don’t think it’s an idle threat.
“So, maybe just the two of us,” Jake says softly. The prospect doesn’t seem to sit well with him, yet he and Max are prepared to risk it all on behalf of my daughter.
“I’m coming,” I blurt.
“No!” they reply in unison.
“Yes,” I retort.
Jake settles his hands on the back of his chair and smiles grimly while he stares down at me. “What the hell would you do?”
“I don’t know. Drive? Be an extra set of eyes and ears? Something, damn it!”
They exchange another of their telepathic looks. Max nods. Jake nods back.