“Fuck you.”
“He’s either going to sit down,” Jack said, “or I’m going to shoot him. One way or another we’re walking past him.”
Jimmy stood up on shaky legs, walked over to the door, and called through the door. “Back off, Bull.”
“Don’t tell him to go away,” I said. “Tell him to sit there.”
Bull seemed skeptical when he heard his orders, but he was also well trained. He went down to the bottom of the steps and sat, waiting eagerly for Jimmy to emerge.
“Jack, I think we should lock the dog in the house and take Jimmy with us as far as the car.”
Jack grabbed Jimmy’s ponytail, wrapped it twice around his hand, and pointed the gun to the back of his head. “I’m not with the Bureau anymore, asshole. I don’t have to play by their rules. And when I get enough to prove you killed McTavish, I’m coming back for you.”
“Here’s a bulletin for you, Dolan. I didn’t kill anyone. And I’m not a fucking snitch. Stop telling people that I am.”
“Alex, get behind me.” I did. “Open the door,” he said to Jimmy, “wait until we’re off the porch, then order the dog into the house. I’ve got no problem putting him down. It’s up to you.”
Jimmy let his hand rest on the knob. When he opened the door, he let in a blast of humidity that seemed to have been leaning against the door, eavesdropping. I stood behind Jack with my hand on his back as Jimmy moved out first, opening the screen door. All that was left was the frame.
Bull watched intently as the three of us moved in unison down the steps and past him. Jimmy talked to him all the way, trying to keep him calm. He looked like a torpedo in the tube as he trembled against every canine instinct in his body.
Once we were past, Jack told Jimmy to order him into the house. After he’d done it, I crept up the steps to close the door. Bull stared at me from inside with vicious intent. The most perilous moment was when I had to lean inside to reach the doorknob. Bull looked at me in the grim light of that house and I figured I had one chance. I took a deep breath, focused on the knob, thrust my arm forward and grabbed it. The instant the door was closed, he was there, scraping from the other side, and it wasn’t clear to me he wouldn’t try to come through one of the windows.
“Jack, let’s go.”
Jack had Jimmy lie flat on his stomach in the yard and put his hands behind his head. He took Jimmy’s gun from me, opened the chamber with a quick flick of his wrist, and emptied the bullets out in his hand. He threw them down the long driveway, then heaved the gun in the opposite direction.
It was my turn to have shaky hands, and I could barely fit the key into the ignition. Jack climbed in the passenger side and shut the door, sealing us in with the sour odor of sweat and fear.
“Go. Go!” he yelled, twisting around to see what I was seeing in the rearview mirror. Jimmy was up and heading for the front door of his house, and I wished I’d thought to lock it.
I finally got the key in, turned the engine over. I felt Jack’s reaction a split second before I heard the thud. As loud as a gunshot, it reverberated, filling the inside of the sweltering car and making me feel as though the big dog had leapt with full force and fury right into my arms. In fact, he had thrown himself against the passenger side door—Jack’s door—and stood there now, his big paws braced on the glass, his chain and his spike rattling, his big teeth banging on the glass as he tried to chew through it.
Jack had pulled away from the window to my side of the car; his shoulder bumped my elbow as I put the car in gear. As I hit the gas and pulled away, I caught a glimpse of Jimmy, watching from the doorway, lounging casually, shirtless. He was laughing. We left him exactly where we’d found him.
“Pull over.” Jack’s tone left no room to question.
I checked my mirrors and started to pull to the shoulder. Before we rolled to a stop, his door was open. He leaned out as far as he could, straining against the seat belt, and threw up.
I stared at my hands on the steering wheel and listened to him gasping and choking and spilling his guts out all over the side of the road.
When he was done, he pulled inside the car and fell back against the headrest. He left the door open.
I looked at his face, damp and pale in the midday heat. He raised his arm to wipe it with the sleeve of his shirt. This time his hand was clearly trembling.
“What happened back there?”
He turned his eyes toward me and did not appear to have the energy to respond. But he did. “You were there. You saw the whole thing. I did what I went to do.”
“Put us both in the most absurdly risky position you could think of?”
His head rolled back to center and he closed his eyes.
“Did you know going in that he might pull a gun on us?”
The mention of a gun reminded him that his was still stuck in the waistband of his pants. He pulled it out and leaned down to re-holster it at his ankle.
“I asked you a question, Jack. Did you plan that?”
“It was a calculated risk, but you were safe.”
I wanted to lay into him like a pile driver, but my tongue was thick with the fear that had started in that shithole house and, now that we were safe, was turning more to rage with every word he stammered. There was only one thing I could get out. “Fuck you, Jack. Fuck you.”
The smell of sweat and vomit, the humidity, the reheated adrenaline—it was all beginning to get to me, and my own stomach felt ready to blow. I opened the window on my side and took in a few deep breaths. The air was tinged with smoke. “What’s between the two of you?”
“I told you what’s between us.”
“There’s more. There’s something you’re not telling me.”
“You said you wanted to tag along. This is how it goes sometimes.”
“No.” I turned in my seat to face him. “He knows things about you. He knows things I don’t know, which puts me at a disadvantage if I choose to stand next to you, especially, Jack, if you might murder him one of these days when I’m with you.”
He turned and looked at me with that same dead calm I’d seen in his eyes back at the house, only now it just looked dead.
“Take me back to the Beach. Or anywhere close. I’ll find my way home.”
I turned and faced forward, hands on the wheel. “Would you have killed him?”
“Every time I see him I want to put a bullet through his head. I haven’t done it yet.”
“He’s not afraid of you, Jack.”
“I need to get out of this car, Alex. If you don’t want to drop me somewhere, I’ll get out and walk.”
I completely forgot that his door was still open. But that was all right because I pulled out so fast it slammed shut all by itself.
Chapter Thirty-six
I lay on the bed in my hotel room staring at my favorite sprinkler head in the ceiling. I’d been watching it for a few hours and it hadn’t moved, so I could have broken off surveillance, if only I could have closed my eyes. The sun was going down. I could tell by the way the shadows played across the wall. I’d been trying to sleep ever since I’d dropped Jack off and driven, in a complete trance, back to the hotel. I was thinking of going up to the track on the roof for a short run. That would have been stupid. My ankle was basically healed, but I hadn’t slept in thirty-six hours. It was early evening, not too hot, clouds had moved in and turned the sky gray, and it felt like months since I’d been out. I thought if I didn’t get up and move around, I might just fall into a permanent stupor from which I’d never return. Yep, running was a dumb idea, and I was lacing up my shoes when the phone rang. I answered, hoping it was Jack.
“Do you know who this is?”
It would have been hard not to recognize that blend of youthful arrogance and smug vitality. “Yes, Damon, I know it’s you.”
“We need to talk. Tonight.”
I walked the long line of batting cages at the Miami Tides recreation center, peering into each one as I passed. Special Agen
t Damon Hollander was taking his swings in the very last cage. He was decked out in gray cotton jersey shorts, clean white socks, and cleats. His shirtsleeves were three-quarter length, the kind baseball players wear under their uniforms. He looked as professional and crisp as anyone I’d ever seen in sweat clothes.
As I approached, he adjusted the shiny batting helmet on his head, assumed his stance, and waited for the next ball to come out of the chute and hurtle toward him.
“I’m here,” I said. “What do you want?”
He hit the ball foul. He didn’t look at me, just pushed up his sleeves, as if it was the extra weight on his forearms that had thrown off his swing. He then proceeded to pound four straight against the back netting—every one on the nose—leaving the perfect aluminum ping vibrating in the air. He turned and looked past me, back the way I had come.
“Is Dolan with you?”
“You told me to come by myself. Why is that, Damon?”
He dropped in the last of the quarters he had sitting on the machine and swapped his aluminum bat for a wooden one.
“Because Jack Dolan is a drunk”—Thwack. A low liner in the direction of left field—“and I don’t trust him.”
Crack. A hard opposite field arc that would have surely cleared the wall at Jacob’s Field, or at least the short porch at Yankee Stadium. I envied his swing—so graceful, fluid, and consistent.
“You trust me?”
“I trust you not to be stupid and emotional.”
“You might be giving me too much credit, Damon.”
He hit the rest of the pitches, fastballs every one, right on the nose, and I was willing to bet anything he couldn’t hit a curve. I wanted to see him try, but I was also willing to bet that Damon never did anything unless it was a sure thing. He came out of the cage and we walked over to a wooden bench where he had his gear. A light sheen of moisture had appeared on his forehead, which made him seem to glisten. He pulled a towel from his gym bag and wiped his face.
“What do you want, Damon?”
“I asked you to come so I could deliver a message. The message is for you. You can give it to him, too, if you want. Or not. I don’t care.”
“What’s the message?”
“Go home.”
He dug around in the gear bag until he came up with a water bottle. He tipped his head back and squeezed a long, slow stream into his mouth.
“You delivered that message already.”
“And you’re still here.”
I sat down next to him. I was tired. “I might consider going home if I had some assurance the FBI was looking into my friend’s murder.”
“I’ll do that. I’ll see that your friend’s murder is properly and thoroughly investigated.”
The sound of ball bashing was all around us—tight pings as balls hit aluminum, the sharp cracks of wooden bats on horsehide. I looked up into the sky, black behind the high lights. I knew what was out there. Dark clouds heavy with rain, ready to open up and pour down, and not a moment too soon if you were a firefighter. I couldn’t figure Damon’s angle. There were lots of options. Easier to just ask. “Why would you do that?”
“It’s my job.”
“And…?”
“People are always telling me I’m young to be in the position I’m in, to have achieved all that I’ve achieved.”
“You must be very proud.”
“My success comes from a simple approach. I anticipate all possibilities and eliminate the ones that don’t get me what I want.”
“And I’m one of those rogue possibilities.”
“If it takes making that commitment to you, that John McTavish’s death—”
“His murder.”
“That his murder is investigated, if that’s what it takes to get you to leave Florida, then I’m willing to do it.”
“And if the investigation leads to Jimmy Zacharias?”
He shrugged. “I can’t predict the outcome. The investigation will lead where it leads. All I can tell you is we’ll do a thorough and professional job.”
A few cages away, a dad was showing his son how to hold a bat. It was a big bat and a little boy, but they were having fun. It made me think of John’s sons, Matthew and Sean. Sean would never know his father. “He must have wandered into something really big.”
“McTavish? He did. And he paid a price. If you continue to pursue this matter, you could easily be killed, which would be a shame. I assume Dolan has at least tried to impress that on you. If he hasn’t, shame on him. There’s no question if you stay here, you will compromise my operation.”
“And you’re unwilling to tell me what that is.”
“It’s better for you if you don’t know.”
He tipped his head back again and took in a long stream of refreshment. He was making me realize how dry my mouth was. All the time. I’d been dehydrated ever since I’d set foot in Florida. The rain was going to feel good. “I won’t leave because you tell me to go. You’re going to have to give me something.”
“What would you need to be convinced?”
“Give me information so I can understand. Is Jimmy your informant?”
“I won’t tell you that.”
I stood to leave.
“What I will say”—he waited, and I decided not to walk away—“is I work with a number of confidential informants. I have one that is highly placed and in a highly sensitive position right now, and you doing what you’re doing can compromise that person’s safety.”
I sat back down on the bench. “This hypothetical informant, why would he be cooperating with you?”
“Informants cooperate for all different reasons. They don’t want to go to jail, they want revenge, they’re scared. Sometimes they want a competitor out of the way.”
“Would this informant give you access to multiple targets?”
“Why would you ask that?”
“Because I have more information now. I know, for instance, that you’ve been over to see George Speath. I suspect it was to clean up after Jimmy and pick up the dirty parts he loosed upon the town. I give you credit for at least that much.”
“I can’t discuss the details of my investigation with you.”
I pushed out farther on the bench and angled so that I could watch his eyes. “I know that George Speath is using his station to launder dirty money.” If Damon had a reaction, he didn’t show it to me. He seemed marvelously calm and unconcerned. “And I know that Ottavio uses a bunch of Jimmy’s stations to launder his drug proceeds, which might give you what you need to nail the drug lord and get the big bust.”
One nostril twitched negligibly, but he could have been sniffing for rain. And I could have been quoting Dr. Seuss to him for all the tension in his face. He retained a pleasant, unbothered expression. “Let’s just say it’s a big investigation and leave it at that.”
“Does Vanessa know that Jimmy is a snitch?”
“Who’s Vanessa?”
“That’s what I thought. So she would be very interested if I told her about Jimmy. That if Jimmy brings down Ottavio, she goes down right beside him.”
“Why would you even think of doing something like that?”
“I’m checking to see how much my chips are worth.”
“Your chips aren’t worth anything if you’re dead. The stakes in this game are too high for you.” He had such a patronizing way of speaking to me, I knew I was in danger of doing something stupid just because he’d told me not to.
“Let me ask you something else, Damon. How does a confidential informant, a guy working for the government, end up with the wreckage of a Triple Seven in his garage?”
“Again, I don’t know what you’re referring to, but as a rule, you can’t control a CI all the time, and sometimes they do stupid things. They are criminals.”
“Would Jimmy have been stupid enough to kill John? If John were going to screw up whatever deal you made with Jimmy and it looked as though he were going to jail, would he have killed John?”
<
br /> “I don’t know who killed him. That’s why we investigate. To find out.”
I sat on the wooden bench and listened to the subtle rumbling in the distance. The thunder sounded far away, but the air was starting to feel electric with the coming storm.
“There’s one thing I don’t know, Damon, and I don’t know how to find out except to just ask you. If Jimmy did kill John, would you let him get away with it to bust Ottavio? Is it that important to you?”
Another rumble in the sky, this one louder and closer, drove the father and his son out of the cage and toward the exit. The little kid wanted to stay.
“I’ll tell you this much,” Damon said. “I would never risk blowing my informant’s cover for stolen aircraft parts.”
“That much is clear, and it’s not what I asked you.”
He pulled a windbreaker out of his bag and pulled it on. “This operation you’re threatening to screw up, I’ve been working on it for almost two years. A number of people have been working on it for a long time, and we’re that close. I believe as much as I believe anything that taking down my target is the most important thing I’ll ever do. He’s that bad. What he does reaches farther and does more damage than a single murder.”
He tossed the plastic bottle into the bag and stood up. “And this is not a perfect world. But you know that.”
He zipped his bag with a loud rip and slung it over his shoulder. The aluminum bat jangled against the wooden one as he propped one foot on the bench next to me. “If you go away now, Dolan disappears back into his stupor or the woodwork or wherever it is he lives. If you stay here and keep pressing, there will be consequences—for both of you. It’s up to you. That’s the real message. It’s your call.”
Chapter Thirty-seven
When I got out to the dirt parking lot the air was thick with the twin menaces of smoke and the impending thunderstorm. The wind had shifted and picked up, but it felt as if the night was getting hotter. I almost wondered if the fires were coming closer and raising the temperature.
The Alex Shanahan Series Page 67