C T Ferguson Box Set

by Tom Fowler

  “It’s been an interesting few days,” I said.

  Gloria ordered Japanese. A tray of sushi sat between two steaming entrees. “I got you shrimp and chicken,” she said. “Whenever we go to these places, it’s what you order.”

  I smiled. She remembered. Gloria and I went out for Japanese a few times, always sitting at the tables surrounding the cook for the full experience. I couldn’t begin to say what she ordered. Filet mignon peeked out from her takeout box, surrounded by fried rice, vegetables, and lo mein noodles. True to form, Gloria transferred her food to a proper plate once we sat down. I kept mine in the box. She used a knife and fork. I opted for chopsticks.

  “Did you ever find the older brother?” she said after a few minutes of eating.

  I nodded. “It took a while. His girlfriend didn’t make it, though.”

  “They killed her?”

  “Yes.”

  Gloria’s eyes widened. “That’s terrible,” she said. “Couldn’t they just let her go?”

  “Apparently not,” I said.

  “Did you catch the man in charge . . . what’s his name? Esposito?”

  “Good memory,” I said with a grin.

  “I listen when you talk.”

  I could tell from the food spread, though the sushi turned out to be California roll. Not bad but disappointing. I remembered Gloria liked it. “He’s run away,” I said. “We’ve rounded up some of his crew.”

  “What about the rest of them?” said Gloria.

  “They’re hanging out at his house. It’s kind of weird. I think they’re waiting for him to come back, or at least to contact them.”

  “You think he will?”

  “I’m counting on it,” I said. Then I talked about my cell phone hacks.

  “What are you going to do if he does call his men?” Gloria said.

  “Attempt to find him,” I said. “I tried tracking his former phone number. No activity. He probably got rid of it when he disappeared.”

  “Be careful, C.T.” Gloria frowned in what I hoped was concern. “This man is scared and running. He could be dangerous.”

  “Don’t want to have to learn someone else’s Japanese order?” I said with a sly smile.

  “I’m serious,” Gloria said. “I know you say your job isn’t dangerous very often, but there are times it is.” She grabbed my hand from across the table and squeezed. I squeezed back. Then we both looked at our clenched hands, realized what we were doing, and pulled back. Neither of us tried to cover it by talking. I didn’t know if denial made the moment more awkward or less. Gloria resumed eating her steak. I ate one more piece of California roll, which would be my last, before diving back into my entrée.

  When we finished eating, I cleared away the plates, containers, and utensils. A very nice stainless steel sink sat amid Gloria’s granite countertops. She also owned a flat-top stove I might have knifed someone to own, as well as a fridge at least double the size of mine. If this kitchen were mine, I would cook at least two meals in it every day. I wondered if Gloria cooked in it twice a month. The rare times she tried to cook or help cook in my kitchen ended with the smoke alarm going off, or the contents of the blender painting my wall and countertop.

  Gloria said she wanted to find a series to stream. We settled in on her very comfortable couch and agreed on Justified. I already viewed the first season but didn’t mind watching it again. After a couple episodes, Gloria changed out of her normal clothes into sweatpants and a tank top. Both hugged her in just the right places. Everything Gloria owned seemed to be made just for her, even if she bought it off the rack. As I admired the way the tank top clung to her braless breasts, I wondered how she pulled her fashion achievement off.

  We got a few more episodes in before Gloria got tired. Tired of watching TV, at least. Despite her yawns, I barely got in her bed before she climbed atop me. Not like I intended to complain. She said it had been a while, and it was true, and the interlude must have made it even better than usual. As we lay together afterwards, I thought about the last few weeks. Bobbi Lane entered my life, and it was fun, but our involvement would never resume. Gabriella showed up at my door, and I spurned her after wanting her for fourteen years.

  When it came down to it, none of them were Gloria. She and I did not have a conventional relationship, but we cared about each other on some level. She worried about me when my cases went pear-shaped. I supported her recent interest in fundraising. For now, I felt happy the way things were with Gloria. I wondered if the nature of our association would ever change.

  I chided myself for thinking such serious things as I drifted off to sleep.

  Even at Gloria’s house, I woke up before she did. I went downstairs into her palatial kitchen and nosed around to see what lurked for breakfast. It looked a lot like my pantry and fridge when I neglected to go shopping for a few days. I resolved if I ever had a kitchen like this, I would keep it well-stocked. Or more accurately, pay someone else to do it. If I could afford a place like this, I could afford to have someone do my grocery shopping.

  The highlights of Gloria's refrigerator and pantry included eggs of indeterminate freshness, very soft sourdough bread, and an unopened pack of provolone cheese. And coffee. She did get the beans right. I started a pot brewing while I cracked the eggs and hoped for the best. They turned out to be fresh. I fried four, added cheese toward the end, and toasted four pieces of sourdough. At the end, I produced two egg sandwiches to shame any McMuffin or diner product.

  Gloria came into the kitchen as I finished. She wore small sleeping shorts and a clingy tank top almost causing me to overpour a mug of coffee. I set everything on the table. Gloria smiled as I sat. "Thanks for cooking," she said. "I was just going to pick something up."

  "I was concerned you wouldn't have enough in the kitchen," I said. I ate a bite of the sandwich. The sourdough toasted perfectly: crunchy on the outside but retaining softness away from the crust.

  Gloria nodded. "I know. I cook so little I don't keep much on hand." She paused. "The stuff I have, I usually get in case you stay over. I know you like to make breakfast in the morning."

  I didn't have an answer, so I took another bite of my sandwich and drank coffee. Gloria kept a key to my house. I didn't have a key to hers, but she stayed the night at my place far more often than I did at hers. Still, buying things for the rare times I slept over struck me as venturing past the bounds of our relationship of convenience.

  Was it changing? Did either of us want it to? I didn’t push for it, and neither did Gloria, but things have a way of evolving over time. I wondered how this would evolve and how we would deal with it if it did. Gloria ate her egg sandwich and drank her coffee, too. Maybe similar thoughts ran through her head. I liked her. I knew she felt the same about me. Worse things happened.

  "Anything from your phone?" She broke the silence a minute later.

  "Nothing yet," I said. "Some texts between the lackeys but nothing indicating they know where Esposito is. And nothing from him."

  "What are you going to do if he doesn't text?"

  It seemed an eventuality he would. "I don't know. If it comes to it, I think I'll let the police handle it. They can devote more people to finding him."

  "Wow," Gloria said with a smile. "Turning something over to the police. You're getting soft."

  "I did what I was hired to do," I said. "Brian wanted his older brother located and returned. Mission accomplished."

  "So why are you keeping at this?"

  "Because Esposito is an asshole," I said. "He killed a woman for spite and convenience. He needs to pay for it."

  "I'm sure you'll make him pay," said Gloria.

  "I'll do my damnedest," I said.

  I left Gloria's house close to lunchtime. All remained quiet on the Esposito front through the afternoon. I went back and checked his router. My added route no longer existed. It lasted longer than I expected, and the one good piece of info I got from it justified the work. I passed the time by running, having lun
ch, and reacquainting myself with some video games. Afternoon yielded to evening. I made a turkey burger and a Caesar salad for dinner. I almost finished eating it when my phone went crazy.

  Esposito reached out. I'm going crazy out here.

  A reply came in from one of the goons. Good 2 hear from u boss

  I'm going to need more supplies soon. Don't want to go out and get them and don't want to be left here alone. The message meant someone stayed with him. Made sense. Esposito was a wanted man with some degree of paranoia. Expecting him to be in hiding by himself would be unreasonable.

  Dont know where u r. how do we find u??

  Talk to Danny tomorrow. He'll tell you.

  ok

  I waited a few more minutes but nothing else came across.

  Finally, Esposito made contact. And his asshole brother knew where he was.

  I grabbed the keys to Matty's BMW. I needed to visit Danny Esposito.

  Chapter 22

  Earlier in the case, I looked into Danny Esposito's information and found his home address. I didn't know if I would need it, but data is always good to have. He lived in Perry Hall in the county about ten minutes from Alberto’s house. I considered Danny might be housing his brother, but the police would have visited him and searched the house. Unless his house hid a secret room somewhere—a paranoia indulgence I respect with the hidden closet in my second bedroom—his brother was probably somewhere else.

  I pulled onto Danny's street. Medium-sized single-family homes, each made from one of four different cookie cutters, lined both sides of the road. Individuality in these communities was always in short supply and manifested itself in unusual shutter colors or a tacky boat in the driveway. As I drove down the street, I felt glad I didn't live in the suburbs.

  Danny Esposito's house, like all the smaller models, boasted of a one-car garage and a short driveway. The larger residences had two-car garages and sat back about ten feet farther from the road. I parked in front of the house past Danny's. No car sat in his driveway, yet there was the garage. Two lights shone from the first floor. I would take my chances he was home.

  I couldn't be as reckless as usual here. It was early enough for people to be awake and nosy, and there were enough houses on the street for the odds of a nosy neighbor to approach one hundred percent. I walked up to Danny's porch, used the knocker to bang on the door, and covered the peephole with my thumb. A few seconds later I heard footsteps move toward the door, then stop. Danny would be looking through the peephole, seeing nothing, and getting curious.

  Sure enough, two locks disengaged, and the door opened about a foot. Danny's head appeared. "Hello, Danny," I said. He frowned. I surged forward as he tried to close the door.

  I slammed into the door shoulder-first. The force of it staggered Danny back into the living room. The door flew open. I walked in and closed it behind me. By then, Danny recovered. Instead of doing anything useful, he stood there and glared at me. "What are you doing here?" he said.

  "Danny, you're so rude to your guests," I said.

  "You're no guest. Why shouldn't I call the cops?"

  "Because I know you know where your brother is," I said. His glare softened for an instant, confirming it. "If you call the cops, I'll make sure they know, too."

  Danny kept glaring at me. At least he was consistent. "I guess you came here to find out where he is," he said.

  "I did," I said.

  "I'm not telling you."

  "Why not?"

  "You're gonna kill him," Danny said.

  "Actually," I said, "I think I'm the only person looking for your brother who doesn't want to kill him."

  My reasonable response softened his glare again. "Really?"

  "Really."

  With the glare gone, Danny just stood there looking at me. The whole thing was kind of pathetic. "We should probably talk," I suggested.

  "Right," said Danny. "Yes. In here."

  He led me into his living room. Tan laminate flooring covered every room in view. A few rugs were spread out in the living room, mostly under things like his boxy black coffee table. It didn't go with anything else in the room. The furniture was about two shades darker than the flooring. Danny's plain entertainment center was white. The coffee table stood out for the wrong reasons. Danny noticed me looking at it. "You like the coffee table?" he said.

  "It's, um . . . very modern," I said. I tried to play it down the middle. If I insulted Danny's ugly coffee table, he could refuse to help me in a fit of pique. If I sounded like I liked it, he might offer me the hideous thing.

  Danny nodded, then said, "Yeah, I like it." Bullet dodged.

  "Where's your brother, Danny?" I said.

  "You promise you're not going to kill him?"

  "I can't promise."

  "You said you didn't want to," Danny said, frowning.

  "I don't," I said. "But if he pulls a gun on me, I'm not going to stand there and be a handsome target."

  Danny pondered my words a moment. "OK," he said, "I guess that's fair."

  "It's a lot more fair than he'll get from Tony Rizzo's men."

  "A house our mother owned," Danny said, "is where he is."

  "I'm surprised the police haven't found him," I said.

  "It's not in her name. Her grandmother left her the house. I don't think our mom did much with it. Before she died, she set up a trust. It's not named after her or any of us, but the trust owns the house. Alberto's always had a key."

  "Where do I find it?" I said.

  "I'll write the address down," Danny said.

  He jotted it and passed it to me. I looked at it. "Where the hell is this?" I said.

  "Southern Maryland."

  "At least I'll have a scenic drive."

  "You want me to call my brother?" Danny said. "Tell him you're coming?"

  "No," I said.

  "Why not?"

  "Because your brother is an asshole, Danny. You can grimace all you want. It's true, and you know it. He also doesn't like me and is likely to have me shot on sight."

  "Maybe I'll call him anyway," Danny said, crossing his arms under his chest.

  "You could," I said. "I could stop you, but I won't. I don't think you should make the call, though."

  "Yeah? Why's that?"

  "Because if your brother does have me shot on sight, I can't bring him in alive. But I promise you one thing: before I bleed out, I'll tell Tony Rizzo where he is."

  Danny uncrossed his arms and sat back on the couch. He stared at me, then recrossed his arms. Then uncrossed them again. "Fine," he said after his bout of posture indecision, "I won't call him."

  "Good," I said. "Thanks for the address."

  "Yeah."

  I left Danny sitting on the couch. He’d crossed his arms under his chest again.

  After I left Danny's house, I stopped at home to pick up the bullet-resistant vest to wear under my shirt. Just because Danny said he wouldn't call ahead didn't mean he would keep his word. He couldn't decide on where to keep his arms while he sat on the couch. I couldn't trust him to reach a decision on calling his brother. Even if he didn't call, the goon Esposito would have with him could be of the trigger-happy sort.

  From Federal Hill, there were several ways of getting to southern Maryland. I headed south, picked up the Baltimore Beltway briefly, then took I-97 to Route 3. Past the Route 50 interchange, Route 3 continued as Route 301. I stayed on 301 for what seemed like an interminable distance before it merged with Route 5. How people drove across the country, I would never know. Navigating halfway across my own state was enough for me. Around the city of Waldorf, Route 5 split off from 301, and I took it south. I stayed on Route 5 past its weird interchange with Route 235 and drove into Leonardtown. It was not a big town. Maybe Leonard was not an important man.

  Traffic thinned a lot as I got farther into the sticks. Not many other cars traversed the streets of Leonardtown. I found Washington Street and drove past some local businesses, including the county courthouse. The car behind
me turned off there as I found the long driveway leading to the residence I wanted. It was a plain white structure, set off from both the road and the houses nearby. I noticed a lot of space between them in general here, a hallmark of more remote areas like this.

  I cut the BMW's headlights as I turned into the driveway. It was paved and smooth. My approach wouldn't be silent but a lot quieter than driving over gravel would have been. I saw a couple of lights through the windows on both levels. Blinds were drawn upstairs but open on the first floor. I followed the driveway to the side, where it got twice as wide. Esposito's car, with his absurd MISTER E license plate—way to be inconspicuous—sat ahead of me and perpendicular to the driveway.

  I killed the engine. No signs of activity from inside. If someone had noticed me, I saw no indication of it. I presumed someone did, however, so I didn't want to make any sudden movements and goad a goon into shooting me. The vest wouldn't stop everything and didn't protect my head. I opened the door a few inches at a time and stepped out of the car. Then I closed it at the same rate. It made little noise. I patted my side. The gun was there, should I need it.

  I turned to make sure no one snuck up behind me. Score one for the good guy. Now I wanted to get to the front of the house unseen. Once there, I needed to figure out a way inside. Ringing the bell and picking the lock both struck me as poor plans. They gave anyone inside ample chances to shoot me. Picking the lock could make me seem like an assassin come to take out Esposito. Ditto going in through a window. If I had to, I would ring the bell. It was the least awful of my options.

  I took out my gun and padded a few steps along the driveway to the front. I walked over the grass. As I got closer, I saw my options for getting in drastically reduced. A man holding a pistol stood on the porch. A few steps closer, and I saw him well enough under the porch light to recognize him. He was a member of Esposito's crew but not one I knew by name. He wore a t-shirt tight across the chest, covered by a windbreaker zipped about a quarter of the way. "You're a long way from home," he said.