“You can,” said his mother.
“Go ahead, Sean,” said Scrbacek. “Pretend it’s the playground and you’re on top of the jungle gym, and Connor has already made it to the other side.”
“I’m a gooder climber than Connor.”
“Better, Sean,” said Jenny. “You’re better than Connor.”
“He repeats my sentences, too,” said Sean to his mother, motioning toward Scrbacek with his chin.
Jenny gave Scrbacek a stare. He shrugged back.
“I’m a better climber than Connor,” said the boy.
“That’s the ticket,” said Scrbacek. “If you’re better than Connor, you’ve got it licked. Go on ahead.”
The boy hesitated, looked at his mother, hesitated, and then, arms shaking, began to make his way across. It was slow, his trek across the ladder, careful, rung by painstaking rung, until, finally, he made it to the end, jumping into his mother’s arms and laughing loudly as Scrbacek scurried across.
The Nightingale pulled the ladder over, left it on the other side of the gap, and led them to an area behind a double chimney where they could stay hidden even as they were able to see the street in front of Jenny Ling’s house.
It was lousy with police cars, sirens off but lights flashing, sending arcs of red across the entire neighborhood. The cars formed a semicircle with officers behind, some in yellow rain gear, rifles out as if expecting a shoot-out with Ma Barker and the gang. On the edges of roofs around Jenny’s house, they could now see more officers, prone in their dark ponchos, their rifles trained on the front and rear entrances.
Jenny, hugging her son close, sighed in relief. “It’s just the police,” she said, but Scrbacek quickly quieted her.
“How’d they know about me?” whispered Scrbacek.
“Did you tell anyone about my visitor?” Jenny asked Sean.
The boy shook his head.
“Who else knew?”
“No one but . . .” said Jenny, and then she stopped, shaking her head. “Dan. That fool.”
“What are they waiting for?” whispered the Nightingale.
“I suppose we’ll find out,” said Scrbacek.
The four huddled behind the chimney in the rain and watched as the police held their ground until an unmarked brown sedan pulled onto the scene and the doors on either side opened.
Scrbacek could just make out the figure coming out of the driver’s side—blocky, with a yellow slicker and a rifle in her hand—and he let out a breath in relief.
“It’s okay,” said Scrbacek softly. “I know her. She’s an agent of the State Bureau of Investigation named Dyer, and I think she’s pretty straight with—”
Scrbacek stopped speaking as the passenger door opened and a tall man with unruly red hair, a full-length leather coat, and a shotgun in his hand stepped out of the car.
“Son of a bitch,” he whispered.
29
PALSGRAF
“He looks familiar,” said the Nightingale.
She reached into the side pocket of her pants, pulled out her small set of binoculars, and trained them on the man as he loaded his shotgun. Then both the man and Dyer started, side by side, through the rain toward Jenny Ling’s front door.
“He was at Donnie’s,” said the Nightingale. “The one shouting orders into the phone.”
“Goddamn son of a bitch,” said Scrbacek.
“What?” said Jenny. “Who is it?”
“Remi Bozant.”
“My God,” said Jenny, who had been with Scrbacek through the whole of the Amber Grace case.
The Nightingale handed the binoculars to Scrbacek. He wiped them dry, put them to his eyes, moved them about until Bozant came into view. He watched as Bozant kicked in Jenny Ling’s front door. Scrbacek could hear the wild barking of the dog as Bozant waited at the doorway, crouched, now holding the shotgun by its double barrel. Then suddenly he took a step forward and swung his gun like a baseball bat. The barking turned into a squeal, stopped for a moment, and then started again. Stephanie Dyer followed Bozant into the house.
“Call your house, Jen,” said Scrbacek, “and then give me the phone.”
He listened to it ring—once, twice, three times—and then a voice answered, a woman’s voice feigning unconcern even as a dog growled and barked hysterically in the background. “Hello. Who is this, please?”
“Stephanie, it’s me,” said Scrbacek.
“Scrbacek. Where are you? We’re looking for you everywhere. Tell me where you are.”
“I don’t think so.”
“My God, let me help you. Let me bring you in. It’s your only chance. I can guarantee your safety.”
“You and Bozant?”
Pause. “I’m the only one keeping him under control. He wants to rip out your heart. I can control him, but barely. Let me bring you in. Where are you?”
“Someplace safe. Who’s behind all this, Stephanie?”
“We don’t know yet. Come in and we can figure it out together.”
“Let’s figure it out now. Let’s start with who paid you off. Who bought your soul?”
“It’s not like that at all. You have to trust me. I’m trying to help.”
“Like you were trying to help when you falsified the Bureau phone logs to make it seem like Ethan tried to call you. Like you were trying to help when you stayed outside my house to make sure I didn’t leave while Bozant set about turning me into a cinder. You’ve been dirty from the start.”
Pause. “Not from the start.”
“Then why?”
“It may pay to be honest, but it’s a long time collecting.”
“I have a message for whoever it is who bought you. Tell him to watch his back.”
“What are you going to do, Scrbacek?”
“I’m going to find out who’s behind all this and crush him beneath my shoe like a cockroach.”
“You don’t know what you’re up against, Tenderfoot.”
“Not yet, but I will. Someone’s going to pay for Ethan Brummel.”
“You don’t have the stones for it,” she said. And then, over the phone he heard a gunshot from inside the house, which echoed outside it. The wild barking of the dog suddenly died.
Scrbacek’s teeth ground together at the sound. Sean shouted out a “Mommy” before Jenny hugged him close to her chest and quieted his cry.
“I could hear the report over the phone,” said Dyer. “You’re somewhere close. Buckle up, Tenderfoot. Here we come.”
On the street, Dyer, still in her yellow slicker, rushed out of the house and began looking around, raising her sights to examine the rooftops nearby.
“Who was inside?” said the Nightingale quietly.
“Just the dog,” said Scrbacek.
Jenny hugged her son more tightly.
The Nightingale shook her head as she unslung her rifle. “Bitch wants to play nasty.”
“Don’t even think it,” said Scrbacek, disconnecting the call.
“I have the suppressor,” said the Nightingale. “They won’t hear it through the rain, and the yellow lady will be dead before she hits the asphalt.”
Scrbacek looked at the Nightingale and then at the boy, whose mouth was crushed into his mother’s shoulder but whose eyes were open wide and staring at him. “Put it away.”
The Nightingale shrugged and slung the rifle back upon her shoulder.
Dyer continued her examination of the rooftops until her gaze fell on the double chimney. The four on the roof pressed themselves against the brick, but Dyer kept staring and then she began to lift her arm to point. At that instant a car appeared, a small blue economy piece-of-garbage kind of car, and as soon as Dyer saw it she retreated back inside the house. A moment later, out of the back of the house darted Remi Bozant. His long leather coat flapped as he jumped a fence, water spraying when he landed, and disappeared through a gap between two houses.
The blue car stopped behind the semicircle of cops. Out of the driver’s side doorway climbed a
man in a pale-tan raincoat with a pinched face and flattop haircut. Scrbacek aimed the binoculars at the man.
“Son of a bitch,” said Scrbacek.
“Who is it?” said Jenny.
“Surwin.”
“I don’t believe it.”
“Look.”
Jenny Ling took the glasses and focused on the man. “You’re right.”
“Son of a bitch,” said Sean.
“Sean,” Jenny whispered too loudly before staring angrily at Scrbacek.
Scrbacek took back the glasses, wiped them dry once again, and watched as the police, at Surwin’s urging, suddenly rushed, one after the other, guns drawn, into the house. A moment later, out the front, her rifle pointing down, came Special Agent Dyer.
Surwin stormed up to his special agent. From Scrbacek’s viewpoint, it was as if he were in the bleachers watching as an irate baseball manager let an umpire have it for a blown call.
“What just happened?” said Jenny.
Scrbacek waited a moment, thinking it through. Finally, he said, “You and Sean can go back to the house now.”
“I don’t understand what just happened.”
“And when you go back, I want you to talk only to Surwin.”
“You thought he was in on it.”
“Not anymore. Dyer and Bozant went in to wipe me out—and, I assume, any witnesses, which would have meant you and Sean. But Surwin got the call, too, and showed up in enough of a hurry to ruin everything.”
“Are you sure?”
“As sure as I can be of anything anymore. Take Sean back to your house now. The cops there will take care of you. Speak to no one but Surwin, and do it in private. Can I keep your phone?”
Jenny nodded. “Just don’t call France.”
Scrbacek turned the phone off and stuffed it in his pocket. “There’s a pay phone in Crapstown by the mural of the seaside. Surwin will know it. Tell Surwin to show up there at midnight and I’ll contact him. Tell him to come alone.”
“The mural of the seaside,” said Jenny. “Alone.”
“Tell him everything. You did nothing wrong.”
“What should I say if he asks where you are?”
Scrbacek looked at the boy who was wet and shivering and taking in every word. “Tell him everything and tell him the truth. Only the truth. The truth matters. And then you should get out of here. Is your mother still in Philadelphia?”
“Yes.”
“Take Sean and visit for a few days. You’re linked to me now, and that’s a dangerous thing to be.”
“What about you?”
“Go on. You need to get there before Surwin leaves. The Nightingale will help you off the roof. Be careful climbing down.”
“J.D. . . .”
“Thanks for taking me in,” said Scrbacek.
“J.D. . . .” She came over and gave him a tight hug.
“I’ll be all right. We’ll talk when this is over.”
She nodded and backed away.
Scrbacek went down on a knee and faced Sean. “Take care of your mother, all right, Sean?”
“Okay.”
“And be a good boy.”
“I am.”
“I know.” Scrbacek reached out his arms. “You want to give me a hug, too?”
The boy shrank away and gripped his mother’s leg.
“That’s all right,” said Scrbacek with a smile.
“What happened to Palsgraf?” said the boy. “Will he be all right?”
“I don’t think so,” said Scrbacek. “But you’ll be all right, Sean. And your mother.”
“Come on,” said the Nightingale as she started toward the edge of the roof and the ladder.
“Be careful, J.D.,” said Jenny Ling. Her lips pressed together, and rainwater dripped down her pretty cheeks. She took Sean’s hand and headed after the Nightingale. Then she stopped and turned to face Scrbacek one last time. “And when this is over, can you do me a favor. One favor? Please?”
“Anything.”
“Stay the hell out of our lives.”
The boy, pulled along by his mother, took a final glance at Scrbacek before turning away.
Later, with the Nightingale behind him, Scrbacek stooped in the rain behind the double chimney and watched as Jenny and Sean Ling made their careful way down the street to the front of the house. Sean’s head kept moving back and forth, taking in all the sights, every now and then looking back at Scrbacek’s position behind the chimneys, but Jenny made a beeline for Surwin. When she reached him, she took hold of his arm and pulled him out and away so she could talk with him in private. Scrbacek couldn’t read their lips, but he could tell by her body language, and by Surwin’s, that the message had gotten through.
And then Surwin asked a question.
And Sean Ling pointed up to the very roof where Scrbacek and the Nightingale stooped.
Surwin barked out orders. A group of cops tore down the street toward the house Sean had pointed to. The snipers, contacted through their radios, started running across the roofs, bent at the waist like soldiers, toward the double chimney.
It was only fractions of a minute before one of the snipers had leaped across the gap, but by then the space behind the double chimney was deserted and Scrbacek was gone.
30
TRENT FALLOW, PI, CONT’D.
The investigative work on the Caleb Breest murder case had been a solid gig for Trent Fallow, PI, despite the usual kickbacks he had to slip to Torresdale on the side. The retainer was higher than his normal three hundred, he could puff up his time sheets without anyone giving him shit, and the tasks themselves were a nice diversion from the usual husband-with-a-whore routines. And he actually liked working with Scrbacek. The man was smart and funny and treated him with more respect than his usual clientele. Sure, before Fallow did anything that Scrbacek asked or turned over anything that he found, he had to pass it first through Joey Torresdale, but still, he developed a sort of relationship with Scrbacek. They had some laughs. They bantered. So it was only natural that after Fallow put that little Mexican creep Mendoza in the hospital because he wouldn’t leave the building after Fallow had asked three times, and Mendoza talked to the cops, and the cops laid that assault rap on Fallow, it was only natural that he decided on J.D. Scrbacek to represent him.
And why not? Scrbacek was representing Caleb Breest. He had to be safe. Who would have thought different?
“Why were you talking to this Mendoza in the first place?” said Scrbacek.
“I was trying to get him to move the hell out of the building.”
“Why?”
“I was doing the guy a favor. He could have gotten hurt staying there. The building had become unsafe.”
“Unsafe? How?”
“Hey, I don’t know. I’m no building inspector. All I know is I was told it was unsafe and to clear it. That was the job. Routine landlord-tenant stuff. The papers were in the file.”
“What file?”
“The one she gave me.”
“Who?”
“My client. I got clients other than you, you know. I’m running a successful business here.”
“I’m sure you are, Trent. Look, you’re going to have to get me the file and all the paperwork you have on that building and any other landlord-tenant work you did for the client.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m telling you that’s what I need. If you want me to represent you, get that stuff over to my office. I’ll look through it, and then we’ll talk. ¿Comprende?”
“Say what?”
“Okay?”
“Yeah, sure. Whatever you say. You’re the lawyer.”
Scrbacek was representing Caleb Breest. He had to be safe. Who would have thought different? Certainly not Trent Fallow, PI. Which is why Fallow’s face is a bruised mess and he now spends the whole of his day walking the streets of Crapstown, talking to whomever the hell he can talk to, passing out his coffee-stained cards, flashing the picture of J.D. Scrbacek in the pap
er. He stops in clammy corner taverns. He chats with the lunks huddled on stoops. Knowing of Scrbacek’s once-upon-a-time bad habit, he talks to drug dealers and waves down cars cruising for opportunity.
“If you see him, Luke, call me first, all right? There’ll be a bonus in it for you if you do.”
“Remember that thing I did for you, Sanford, with that girl from Texas? You owe me, right? You see him, you call me. Got it? Me. I’ll take care of it.”
“Take some extra cards for your girlfriends, Tina. Maybe earn yourself a referral fee.”
It is late afternoon when Trent Fallow, PI, breathing heavily now and sweating like a fat glass of lemonade, knocks on the door of Nomad’s nightclub. The neon sign advertising HOT AND COLD RUNNING STRIPPERS ALL THROUGH THE NIGHT is off, and the door is locked—Nomad’s doesn’t come alive until nightfall—but Fallow knows the place isn’t empty. He bangs hard on the door, waits a moment, bangs hard again. He waits a moment more and gives it a solid kick.
The door opens a crack. The insane Russian with the hairless head gapes out the narrow opening.
“We closed,” the Russian says.
“Hey, Sergei. It’s me. I need to talk to Aboud.”
“He’s sleeping.”
“I didn’t know lizards slept. I thought they rested on logs with one set of eyelids shut and waited for a fly to happen by.”
“He’s sleeping, and you no fly. We closed. What you want?”
“Open the door.”
“What you want, fat boy?”
Trent Fallow tries to peer past Sergei into the crack, tries to see if that little creep Aboud is standing there behind the Russian, but Sergei steps sideways until all Fallow can see are the Russian’s white shirt and plaid pants. Fallow shows the newspaper picture to Sergei.
“You seen this creep?”
Sergei shrugs. “We get lots creeps this place.”
“But this creep. I’m asking about this creep. Be a good little Russky and take a closer look. Two nights ago he blew up a car and burned down his own building in Casinoland. Last night he burned down a house on Ansonia Road and a few hours later got into a fight with some of Mickey’s boys behind Ed’s. He’s got a crazed girl assassin working for him. Together they killed one and sent two to the hospital. The guy’s a bad guy, the guy’s a killer. Take a look, Sergei. You seen this creep?”
The Four-Night Run Page 19