There.
I was done with Hollis for now.
Time for the real fun to begin.
Since I’d had such good luck the last time, I went back to the Northshore Mall and found a nice empty spot away from folks and such. I checked my cell phone. Earlier it had been on mute, and my eyes widened as I saw how many phone calls had come in during the day. Sixteen.
Sixteen!
Lots of months go by without my receiving ten calls over the entire period, so this was definitely a red-banner day. I scrolled through the missed calls and saw fifteen belonged to the same number, while one other number came in flagged as UNIDENTIFIED.
I decided to call that one first.
When Special Agent Alan Krueger answered, I said, “I’m impressed. You’re working on a Saturday, Agent Krueger. Glad to see our nation’s finest are out and about this fine weekend.”
“You know you have a shitty sense of humor?” he said.
“Perhaps, but at least I do have one. How can I help you?”
“The state rested its case yesterday against Felix Tinios. That means the defense will open its case on Monday.”
“And you’re worried that between now and then, Felix is going to roll on his back like a good little doggie and give up something that will get him off.”
“It’s a thought.”
“It’s a stupid thought,” I said. “Felix isn’t going to roll the day after tomorrow, or any other day.”
“So glad you’re confident,” he said. “But other folks up the management chain aren’t as confident.”
“Meaning?”
“You know what that means.”
“Oh,” I said. “All right, if that’s the case, let me toss out what I think you’re talking about. If Felix isn’t sprung by this time Monday, then the window’s closing on when he can make a deal. So what’s the plan? Poison his meatloaf? Pay somebody to throttle him in the shower? A sniper shot to the head while he’s going from the jail to the sheriff’s van?”
“All interesting theories, Cole. You do your job and everything will be all right, and your friend will be hale and hearty come Tuesday morning.”
I could feel the interior of the Pilot get warmer. “Hell of a job you’re doing there, Special Agent Krueger. So let’s look at another theory. I can’t get Felix out of jail. He’s still there Monday morning. Something untoward happens to him. You know what happens next? I contact friends of mine in the news media, present your business card and the publishing contract to Law Enforcement Bulletin, and let it all hang out. How’s your Saturday looking now?”
“Still looking fine,” he said. “And along your vein, I’ll tell you what happens next. You get your day or so of fame, and then you’re arrested for theft of FBI materials, including my business card and that contract in question. Then some more information gets released about your personal background, your previous encounters with law enforcement. Oh, and to make it perfect, a history of your time with the Department of Defense gets revealed.”
I said, “You release what I did in the Department of Defense and what happened to me, you’ll be opening a can of worms that could fit in an oil barrel. That would be a career-ending event, Agent Krueger, for you.”
“It just might,” he said. “But it all depends on what gets released, right? Perhaps the records your friendly federal government releases depict a troubled individual who was under a doctor’s care for mental health issues. Who was treated some weeks because he had a psychotic episode or two, and not for something connected to a biowarfare exposure accident. What do you think about that?”
I held my voice. He said, “It all depends who sets the narrative, Cole. So do your part. Get Felix out before his defense starts his case, and he lives. And you won’t be bothered, either.”
I think it was a race to see who hung up first.
I spent a few minutes just breathing, staring out the windshield at the parked cars and the low buildings of the mall. Relax, relax, relax, for the next few phone calls were going to be quite important, and I didn’t want to screw it up.
Overhead the parking lot lights started flickering on.
I called back the persistent cuss who had been calling me all day, and he answered right away.
“Angelo!” I called out. “Angelo Ricci. I see you’ve called me a number of times today. What’s going on? How can I help you?”
The next couple of minutes dragged by with various obscenities, threats, and curses, and when there was a pause in the action, I said, “Angelo?”
I could hear his heavy and disturbed breathing. “Yeah?”
“I take it you don’t like me bothering your old neighborhood friend Hollis Spinelli. Right?”
“Cole, you better—”
“Alfie,” I said. “Come along. You can do better than that. You see, the thing is, you told me to stay away from Hollis and not bother him. Well, ever since last night, I’ve been bothering the crap out of him. I’ve practically been camping out on his front lawn. So. Brave man with the big voice, what are you going to do about it?”
“Just you wait and see.”
I said, “Why wait? Let’s get together now.”
“You wish.”
“No, not a wish. An offer. Come on, Allie, show me how tough you are. You want to defend your friend? Then do something about it.”
“Fuck you.”
“Thanks, I’m fine. C’mon, Opie, you want to come show me how tough you are? Or is it just words?”
“Huh?”
“Okay, sport, let’s see if I can explain this better,” I said. “I bet you got this rep in your neighborhood about being a tough guy, someone who won’t be pushed around, who’ll stand by his word. Well, is that the truth? Or is it just blah blah blah?”
“You better—”
“Alfie, c’mon, are you going to man up? Or should I tell your friends, tell your buds, tell Hollis, I’ve just made you my bitch? Mmm?”
His voice thickened. “Name the time and place.”
“How about right now? And how about the Northshore Mall, up in Peabody? I’ll be right outside the Sears store—we can have a nice get-together.”
Another burst of obscenities. “You stay right there.”
“I’ll stay right here. Hey, and to make it more interesting, bring along a buddy or two. That is, if you have a buddy or two.”
“I’ll be there before you know it.”
“Yeah, I’ll believe it when I see you roll in.”
“You better be there.”
“I’ll be here.”
“Otherwise I’ll go to your house and fuck it up.”
“Promises, promises,” I said, and I hung up on him.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
I maneuvered the Pilot around so I had a good view of the Sears, and I waited, engine running. My Beretta and my recent Home Depot purchase were on the passenger’s seat. Parked cars were all around me, long, peaceful rows. It was a nice Saturday night in a nice North Shore town, and I had just stirred up a nice pot of trouble, coming right up here from the Boston area.
How much time?
Maybe a half hour or so, if I was lucky.
I was hoping for some luck.
I waited.
A Peabody police cruiser slowly made its way down one of the near lanes.
Well.
That sort of complicated things. First, I hoped the officer driving the cruiser wasn’t the same one who had given me a break last night and had allowed me to stay in the mall’s parking lot. That was gracious of him and I was sure running into him again in the same mall parking lot would empty the graciousness reservoir. Second, I also hoped that Angelo Ricci and his crew were having a slow time coming up here to the mysterious outlands known to him and others as the North Shore. I didn’t want them rolling in just as a cop was present.
I waited.
The cruiser slipped out and I remembered to breathe.
I remembered other things as well, as I waited.
In my days with the Department of Defense, there was lots of waiting going on. Many a time some sort of mission or operation would be suggested, planning and training would commence, and weeks, months, and even years of training would go for naught. I was pretty sure the saying “hurry up and wait” originated in the military, and nothing I saw during my service disabused me of that notion. It was amazing how many times missions or operations got to the stage of heavily armed aviators waiting in aircraft with the engines running, only to be canceled at the very last minute. Or sometimes circumstances would just change and all that work would go for nothing. I once knew an F-14 pilot who flew off aircraft carriers, and during the First Gulf War, he was one of the personnel developing “strike packages” for their aircraft, meaning they were selecting targets for their aircraft and others to attack once hostilities commenced. They had planned, trained, and planned again, until . . .
Until their aircraft carrier task force was ordered home from the Persian Gulf and was replaced by another task force, meaning all of their hard work and practice would be taken over by another group of aviators. My pilot friend was so upset at what had happened, he wouldn’t watch one minute of the news coverage once the war began to evict Iraq from Kuwait.
I swiveled my head, made sure the Peabody cruiser was gone.
It was.
Then again, there were the good stories associated with not fulfilling one’s training. I once had lunch back in the day with a retired Air Force officer who had been part of a missile squadron responsible for launching a nuclear-armed Minuteman-III missile in case of a nuclear attack. His smile and eyes were laughing and cheery, like he was so thrilled to have gone through his career without once having to put his training into real action.
Nice job, that.
On the other end of the parking lot a vehicle raced in, at just a higher speed than it should have. I kept my headlights off. The car was a black four-door Honda Accord, with Massachusetts license plates. I could make out four heads, of the driver and his passengers.
Four against one. Didn’t seem like a particularly fair fight, but I was going to have to make do with what I had. The car stopped in front of the Sears entrance. Not bad. The driver’s door opened up.
Angelo Ricci.
He scanned the parking lot, face twisted in anger, and I could see his lips move as he chattered back at his buds. No doubt he was complaining that despite my threats and naughty words, I was nowhere around to face his righteous wrath.
Guess I shouldn’t continue disappointing him.
I drove out of my parking space, headed down the lane to Sears, and switched on the headlights just as I rammed the corner of his Honda.
The thump was jarring but satisfactory, and I knew this was going to play havoc with my insurance rates and coverage, but since my insurance company was no longer speaking to me, it was a deal I could live with. Plus I just did enough damage to get Angelo’s attention, which I certainly did. I quickly backed up, rolled down the window, drove up next to a stunned Angelo, and said, “Hey, Mrs. Ricci, can Angelo come out and play?”
Then I quickly drove away.
But I didn’t go far. I stopped at an intersection to a parking lot lane that would allow me to exit the mall, and I kept an eye on the rearview mirror. Angelo dove back into the Accord and made a sloppy U-turn that nearly sideswiped a light pole and an elderly couple walking into the entrance to Sears, and then I made a quick right turn, and the chase was on.
It was a long, grueling, and jittery chase. I drove out to Route 128 and then zipped my way southwest, to the upcoming intersection that brought us to Interstate 95. I flipped my way northbound, with the Accord right behind me. I was juggling about a half dozen things as I drove. I wanted to drive fast enough that I was ahead of Angelo and his crew, but I also didn’t want to drive too fast so that they lost track of me. I also wanted to keep some distance between us so either he or one of his friends didn’t get the urge to lean out and take a potshot or two at my Pilot. It was now damaged up forward, but I didn’t want to add a couple of bullet holes to the mix.
Oh, and I also didn’t want to drive so crazy that it attracted the attention of law enforcement, and I also didn’t want to endanger the lives of any of my fellow drivers, and plus, I was also running through the possible options and outcomes of what would happen when this little chase ended.
Yeah, so at this moment in time, I was what would be called a distracted driver.
Now onto Interstate 95, I headed north, passing a host of gas stations, chain restaurants, and near the very end of this length of highway, a strip club named for a yellow fruit that was still in business. I had the feeling Angelo and his buddies were probably familiar with its interior.
The highway dipped down, moved softly to the right, and then slipped under an overpass. The road widened into four lanes, and I checked my rearview mirror once again. The boys were close by, on the hunt, and they were hunting for me.
I was so very proud and pleased for them.
The chase on Interstate 95 didn’t last long, as I put more distance between us, and then took Exit 52 and headed west, on Topsfield Road. While the Accord was still behind me, I sensed the barest hesitation from my pursuers, like they weren’t certain where I was going, since my home base was in Tyler Beach, and this was definitely not Tyler Beach.
But I was counting on Angelo and his anger to keep the chase on, and he wasn’t disappointing me.
I took a quick right, and a quick left. So far, so good; we weren’t coming across any local cops, but I was sure they’d be right here soon enough. The streets were narrow and winding, and I counted on that to slow Angelo down some. I knew this neighborhood, and he didn’t, and that was going to prove the difference in about sixty seconds.
There.
On the left.
Twelve Sunrise Road.
I braked hard, skidded into the driveway, and roared up, blaring my horn, flashing my high beams. I skidded once more, swiveled the Pilot so it was facing down the driveway.
Lights were coming fast down the road.
I grabbed my pistol and my Home Depot purchase, got out. Pistol in holster, other item in my left hand.
The headlights from the Accord lit me right up.
I gave a cheerful wave and then sprinted around the garage, to the rear of the house.
I thought I heard shouts from inside the home.
I certainly hoped so.
At the rear I took one of the heavy pool chairs and tossed it against the sliding glass door.
It bounced off.
Damn!
I used both hands this time, hammered at it twice, and then the glass finally shattered.
Voices from outside this time, quickly following my path.
I reached in, unlocked the sliding glass door, slid it open.
Then I grabbed what I had, dove back, flat against the foundation.
Forms scurried past, one holding a flashlight, the light bobbing up and down.
“There!” Angelo yelled. “There’s the open door!”
He raced in, followed by his three chums.
I got up, stood by the open door.
More voices.
Shouts.
Loud yells.
I flinched when I heard the first gunshot, and the second. Light flared from the first-floor windows.
Time to move.
I went into the kitchen. Low lights were on. Round table in front, stainless steel refrigerator, stove, gas range. A pile of magazines and envelopes on the kitchen counter. I moved past a dining room large enough to serve as a dining hall for a prep school dormitory, went past a study, headed to the stairs. The times I had been here, Raymond Drake always gave house tours because he was so proud of his home and furnishings.
Another gunshot. More yells.
Up ahead was a hallway. Bathroom and spa room to the left, and a wide staircase going up to the right.
Somebody was running right at me.
I didn’t hesitate.<
br />
I left my Beretta in my shoulder holster, lifted up my Home Depot purchase, turned my head, and switched it on.
The hallway interior lit up like Raymond Drake’s home was at a Nevada atom bomb test site. The light was so intense that even with my head turned, it made my eyes water.
For the armed man coming at me, it dropped him to the floor, screaming, his hands covering his eyes.
I switched the handheld spotlight off, went up the stairs, taking them two at a time.
Another gunshot down below. Things were certainly quite active.
I got to the top of the stairs and a sudden blam from a near gunshot nearly parted my hair, and I flared out the light again. A higher-pitched yell, and in the dazzling light of the spotlight, I saw it was the young woman I had encountered the other day when I was playing floral delivery guy. She was on the floor, moaning, hands to her face. A pistol was on the carpeted floor. I picked it up and tossed it down the hallway.
She was in front of the master bedroom door. I opened it and said, “Raymond Drake, you in there?”
“Felix, is that you?” came a muffled voice.
I admit, I swore some. Did it always have to be Felix?
I got into the bedroom, about the size of the first floor of my house. Raymond was on his bed, legs chained. “Yvonne,” he said. “She has keys on her belt.”
“Got it.”
I went back to Yvonne, still crying, hands still over her light-shocked eyes.
There.
Keys dangling from a thin leather belt. I tugged them free, went back into the bedroom. Raymond was sitting up. He looked disheveled, hair a mess, his face now bearing a gray-black beard. He had on a T-shirt and sweatpants and his hands shook.
He said, “What the hell are you carrying?”
“Handheld spotlight,” I said. “Pumps out three thousand lumens. Enough light to signal the space station if I wanted to.”
Storm Cell Page 21