“Seriously?” By this time, I was an award-winning author with three young adult novels under my belt, and I was much better at thinking on my feet. “Have you actually seen Mr. Lawson? The man is in his seventies. If he wanted to murder Tristan Dunlop, doesn’t that strike you as a very risky way to do it? He could have been the one who fell down those steps.”
“Miss, I’m just trying to dot all my i’s and cross all my t’s. The Dunlop family attorney is already reaching out to the governor for an independent investigation.”
“You have got to be freaking kidding me!” I was mad. If ever a man went out of his way to avoid a fight, it was Mr. Lawson. “This is crazy.”
“I agree. By the same token, this case is being treated as sensitive. Mr. Dunlop’s fiancé claims that you’ve been the one doing the stalking.”
“Huh?” I was so taken aback, I had nothing intelligent to say.
“She says you’ve been threatening her as well.”
“But...I...don’t even...have any interest in....” I stumbled over my words, feeling like I had been repeatedly clubbed over the head.
“Are you aware of the fact that Tristan Dunlop planned to marry Lindsay Porter?”
“Why would I be? I had no contact with the man. I wasn’t interested in him. I just wanted him to leave me the hell alone.”
“Anyone who can vouch for that?”
“Sure, any number of the people who saw me tell him to get stuffed.”
“Good,” said Grabowski. “Here’s some positive news that should make you feel better. Dunlop broke into your place -- of that we’re certain. He had a key to your apartment door, but he didn’t have a key to that back entrance, so he jimmied the lock. That gives us signs of a break-in. Once in your apartment, he was there for some amount of time, long enough to plant a couple of concealed cameras and a few microphones, voice-activated. That was enough to allow us to get a search warrant for his place. I suspect that his fiancé is less a woman in love and more of an employee at Dunlop Threat Tech.”
“What’s going to happen to poor Mr. Lawson,” I wondered. “Surely he’s not really a suspect in this case. I mean, if Tristan broke in, Mr. Lawson was just trying to protect me, to protect his property.”
“That’s the thing about having died at the scene, Ms. Horner. Mr. Dunlop left his tools and his surveillance equipment in your apartment. There’s no real excuse for that, is there?”
“No, I guess not. Not a logical one anyway.”
“The state police will review the case with the coroner. I expect there to be a finding of no criminal mischief in the death, especially if we find evidence during the search that Tristan Dunlop was stalking you.”
That’s exactly how the case went, three weeks later, when it was formally presented to a judge, who cleared Mr. Lawson of any wrongdoing after reviewing the physical evidence. By that time, my elderly friend was so horrified, he wanted to sell his business and move to Florida. Dix made my landlord an offer he couldn’t refuse. He wanted to buy the business, lock, stock, and barrel, so the man who loved books gave up the Book Atelier.
I think the whole process was all made easier by the fact that Mr. Lawson bought a condo in Boynton Beach and started making his annual four-month-trek in January of 2005. Being absent from the store for so long meant he needed an assistant manager, which is how Dix got the job, much to Terry’s surprise. Dix found a way to soothe over Terry’s ruffled feathers by covertly arranging him find more work as a musician, and eventually Terry began getting so many jobs, he actually had to ask Dix to cut his hours back.
Mr. Lawson found a soul mate in his new tropical neighborhood, someone who loved books almost as much as he did and had a fondness for little Mindy. By the time Tristan did his dastardly deed, Mr. Lawson found out just how much Doyle Jennings cared about him, because his companion rushed to be at his side in Walden General. Once Mr. Lawson was cleared of any wrongdoing, we helped the pair arrange for medical transport to Miami for the ailing man. With a fond farewell, we entered a new chapter in our lives together.
Once Dix took over the bookstore, he changed the name to Dixon’s and the set-up. He added a coffee bar by expanding into the empty space next-door. This allowed him to bring in more people and, in doing so, more eyes and ears for the investigation. I continued to live upstairs, which was extremely convenient, considering Dix and I had graduated to lovers after the first three months. We had talked about all the possibilities of a conventional life, but the truth was that we were stuck between the covers, he as a man with a love of books and me as an aspiring author. By the time we saw Mr. Lawson off to Florida in 2008, we had been married for three years.
That was the result of the kindness of the elderly man and his neighbor. Doyle was a big romantic, believing that love makes the world go round, so Mr. Lawson and Doyle arranged for us to be married at sunset on a beautiful beach. They handled all the details. We had twenty-four hours before we needed to be back in Hambleport and we made the most of the time we had. We all went out to dinner afterwards, to celebrate.
Ostensibly, Dix was down there in February of 2005 to discuss business with the Book Atelier’s owner. Mr. Lawson hired him before he left as a part-time helper in the bookstore on nights and weekends. I was down there visiting friends in the Keys while on school break. At least that’s what I told my friends and family. Once we had that marriage license signed and filed, we took separate flights back to Boston and resumed our lives in Hambleport.
Mr. Lawson returned two months later, only to pine for his friend, so Doyle began making his own trek to the seaport every June, staying until the middle of September. With the extra help in the shop, I was able to spend my summers writing, and by 2008, I was a fairly well-respected young adult author.
Because I had triggered Tristan’s interest when I began to delve into the Underground Railroad tales, and some of the more prominent families in town began to feel their livelihoods as drug traffickers threatened by possible exposure, I made sure I crafted my book to deflect interest away from the reality of the freed slaves myth. With the help of the FBI, I was able to slip in a few pieces of new material on the Underground Railroad into the genealogy department of the Hambleport Public Library. It was all done very carefully, with every document carefully prepared under the auspices of the task force, not to mislead the citizens of Hambleport for nefarious purposes, but to allow us to continue to run the investigation for as long as we could. Our goal was to eventually bring the drug business down, piece by piece. There would be no big takedown on High Street. There would be no guns blazing as the bad guys took on the feds. We wanted it all to groan to a halt in a very controlled environment. We wanted the Hambleport cartel to go out with a whimper, not a bang. It was better that way, safer for everyone. At least that was the plan.
What we didn’t count on was that bad FBI agent. And he turned up when I went in to Boston, to monitor the drug caravans after they left their distributors. Once North Shore Technologies took the raw cocaine and heroin and processed it into the LCD displays, which they then sent to the “recycling” plants for handling, the product was once again on the road. Because I had been used to gather intelligence on the Hambleport operations, folks thought that my training and experience would come in handy in Boston. I began to drive in nightly, ostensibly to do research at the Public Library, but it was really just an excuse to be eyes and ears on the street scene. I knew the patterns of activities to look for, so I could recognize when the drugs were coming through. You get a tow truck and another truck in the middle of the caravan, it’s a big deal. You get a patrol car taking a few laps around the city racetrack, it’s an even bigger deal. It means that there are genuine cops offering very real protection for the drug shipments and the weapons shipments. And when you plan to take down an organization with this much power, you need to know who you are dealing with -- in this case, it was more than one officer in the Intelligence Unit of the Boston Police Department who was corrupted. And not just in
a small way.
The Intelligence Unit handled some very sensitive cases, often collaborating with federal and state agencies. But those cops got planted in that section because of political connections to the police department. You see, it wasn’t just the Hambleport Police Department we had to worry about during the investigation. The Hambleport drug cartel utilized all those dollars to run a very efficient drug trafficking business, and that means finding cooperative cops who have kids in need of college tuition, braces, or vacations. You get a cop on his second or third marriage and you’ve got a guy who needs cash for all the things his depleted take-home pay no longer covers.
By this time, Dix and I had settled into a very comfortable relationship. Having decided not to risk having kids, at least until we were both safely extricated from the tenuous situation in Hambleport, we had a very comfortable life together. Dix took over Mr. Lawson’s apartment above the shop, while I maintained the top floor apartment as my own. Mostly, I used it as my office, spending time writing my novels. I was often traveling, under the guise of doing book tours. I had enough income from my writing and my job as Wexler school librarian to afford much more luxurious digs, but that would mean leaving Dix. For anyone who asked, I insisted that until I could afford to buy one of the mansions on High Street for my own, I would stay where I was.
It was when I was on the streets of Boston, sitting in my car, that I realized how the tunnels of Hambleport were used. I even figured out the signals the runners and middle managers used. Once I thought I had a pattern, I tested it. And sure enough, it didn’t take a genius to see how it all fit together.
The first clue was a power truck from Boston Ed, parked on the corner. Three workmen put cones up in the road, diverting the traffic from the area. And yet, the constant cavalcade of cars continued to circle the block, with the same license plates. Round and round they went, until it was clear that they were traveling together for a reason. Sure, there were the occasional strays, slipping in between the rotating drivers, but it was clear this was the drug cartel’s turf. And that meant the Boston Ed workers were there for a reason.
It turned out that one of the big bosses had convened a meeting at an office skyscraper. This was a very big meeting indeed. So big, in fact, that the streets were lined by the junior players doing security work. They walked by me constantly, enough times that I had their faces memorized. And then there was that one face, that unexpected face who should not have been there. The one man who should have been as far away from the criminal activities as he could be. It was the sight of Agent Cook that chilled me to the bone.
After all the years, he still looked the same. He even greeted me with that same hostility when he walked up to my car on that fateful night and knocked on my window.
“Ms. Horner, what are you doing in this part of town?” He tried to keep his tone light, but for a man with that much darkness in his soul, it was an impossible task. He was bad and we both knew it. But he didn’t know I was FBI. That was an advantage I worked as hard as I could.
“I’m doing research for a new book,” I told him. I dug through my cup holder and pulled out a business card. It listed my books in chronological order, along with all the awards I had won.
“Very impressive,” he said, without really meaning it. “Still, you do realize this really isn’t a safe part of town.”
“It’s not?” I kept my tone friendly. “I’m just trying to take some notes before I lose the muse. You know how it is. When the spirit moves you, write.”
“Still, you’re out of your element here. Why don’t you move along? You have a long drive ahead of you.”
“Well, I actually come to the city frequently,” I told him, “so I’m quite comfortable here. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to roll up my window now, so I can finish what I am doing.”
“And what exactly would that be?”
“Excuse me?”
“What are you really doing here in Boston? And please don’t insult my intelligence by claiming it’s for a book.”
Chapter Seven --
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Agent Cook, but I do know I don’t like your tone. I suggest you moderate your comments accordingly, or I shall take it up with the proper authorities.”
There it was, the look of fear. Cook didn’t want his bosses to know he was down here. That said it all.
“You do what you think best, Ms. Horner,” he said affably, but there was no warmth in his eyes. Even as I sat there on that September night, my notes in my lap, I could see he was already making plans to come after me.
You might have wondered why I would continue to sit there after receiving such a veiled threat from a federal agent. Don’t forget that I work for that federal task force. We knew this was a powerful organization we were investigating. We knew it was only a matter of time before the next piece of the puzzle slipped into place. That meant not giving up. I steeled myself and continued to observe the traffic patterns on the street. But more than that, I began to understand there was something here that Agent Cook did not want me to see.
Half an hour later, it came to me in an epiphany. One moment I was staring at the tall building in front of me and the next, I was staring at the phone numbers being used by the bad guys. Ten windows across. Seventeen stories high. And every fifteen minutes, the phone numbers would change. As I watched the different windows on the ten top floors change, I understood how they had evaded legitimate investigators for so long. On and on it went. Imagine the possibilities. An empty office building at night, filled with businesses that had telephones, computers, faxes, and just about any other equipment that bad guys could utilize temporarily as they moved their big shipments through the city. Rather than risk using cell phones that might be tapped, that could give them away as to location and time, they were communicating with distributors temporarily commandeering legitimate businesses to get their criminal activities done. As I sat there, I thought back to all the nights I had parked here, observing, taking notes, thinking. They changed phone numbers between businesses as easily as changing offices. These were landlines. Caller ID would identify them as insurance companies, financial advisers, non-profit charities -- you name it, they used it. And it was all verifiable as apparently legitimate. That was their biggest mistake. You see, those offices were locked up at night. No one was supposed to be using those phones. It was unauthorized use of telephone lines to facilitate criminal activities in support of a conspiracy. I knew that, just as surely as I knew that the Underground Railroad was never supported by Hambleport’s citizenry. But how to prove it? That was another matter.
So engrossed in thought was I that I didn’t see the dark sedan crawling up along side of my car. It paused before the passenger window rolled down. I ducked, but just before I buried my head, I caught sight of a flash. A half second later, my window shattered into a thousand pieces. Hands shaking, I started the car from my tucked position, even as the gunman approached on foot. He was dressed in dark clothing. That’s really all I know because I was too busy fleeing.
I didn’t bother to pull into the street because I was blocked in. Instead, I went right up over the sidewalk, traveled about a hundred yards until there was an opening, and I tore out of there as fast as I could. Ignoring the traffic lights, I drove like there was no tomorrow. The truth was I wasn’t sure I was going to survive this.
And I almost didn’t. By the time I reached Copley Square, the traffic lightened and I lost my cover. Driving down alleys and racing up one-way streets, doubling back when I could, I called the emergency contact number I was given.
“Velasquez Liquors,” said a rather bored voice. Not at all what I was expecting.
“Sorry, wrong number,” I cried, as I pulled a u-turn and headed across the Charles, hotly pursued by the dark sedan. I punched in the emergency number from my contact list again, knowing that Dix had personally added it just two months ago. It had to be right.
“Velasquez Liquors,” said the same vo
ice.
“Damn!” I screamed, tossing the utterly useless cell phone onto the passenger side. I was completely and totally up the river without a paddle. Had Dix deliberately added the wrong number? I had to face reality. I knew that even as the terror gripped me. It was only a matter of time before the determined driver on my tail would catch me. There would be no rescue. There never was an emergency contact number. I had been betrayed by the man I married. What other explanation was there?
As I ruminated over my bad fortune, a car came out of nowhere and put an end to the chase. One minute I was playing bumper cars with the crazy driver on my tail and the next, there was a big bang and a marriage of metal as two cars became one. I took advantage of the opportunity and set fire to my own tail, getting out of there in record time.
Two miles later, I pulled that car of mine into a parking space by the T stop in Cambridge. Taking only that cell phone, my purse, and my notes, I hurried to get in line. When the subway train rolled in, I made sure I was on it.
I got a phone call just outside of Boston. I didn’t recognize the phone number or the voice. It could have been a man or a woman. Hard to tell. But I understood the message.
“Run for your life, Riley Horner! Run as far as you can. It won’t make any difference. I’ll still find you.”
That was it, word for word. Doesn’t that sound like a threat to you? It’s how I perceived it. So I took a detour, hopping off the T and maxing out my credit card at the ATM in Faneuil Hall in the form of a cash advance. From there, I walked to Chinatown, where I hailed a cab to South Station. Forced to make a snap decision, I bought a ticket to DC with some of that cash. Don’t ask me why I headed for Washington on the overnighter. It seemed like a good idea at the time, especially because I got myself a tiny room for one, where I could stretch out without being seen. I wanted to keep the lowest profile possible. No doubt the bad guys would be looking for me to head for home to Hambleport. I wanted to keep my options open. I was afraid I’d somehow get trapped. Better to just go a little at a time. Better to play it by ear. If I got safely to DC, maybe I would continue on to Boynton Beach.
Run for Your Life, Riley Horton!: A Page 5