by Jordan Cole
She shook her head.
“No. It never went that far between us. And he moved around a lot, remember.”
“But he must have had an apartment in DC. If he was going into work regularly.”
“I’m sure he did. But I don’t know where it is.”
“It’s okay. I’ll take care of that. I know a guy who can get us that info with one phone call.”
“Then what?”
“We check it out. Then we hole up for a while. We’re too exposed now to be running around everywhere. Need to get you someplace safe and wait for things to come into focus.”
Agatha blew hair out of her face.
“What possible place could be safe now?”
He was about to answer, when her phone rang. An upbeat tone, a digital Spanish-flavored samba. She studied the screen.
“Not Pete,” she said. “But a local number. 202 area code.”
“Answer it.”
She did. Listened.
“It’s Ramirez,” she whispered to him. “The detective.”
“Give it to me.”
She handed him the phone. He put it on speaker and set it down between the two of them.
“Clay Riley,” he said.
Ramirez’s voice came through, scratchy and distorted, but audible.
“Riley? Listen, I’ve made a few phone calls about your case. We found the Lexus.”
Agatha’s eyes widened. Riley put up a hand.
“You did? Where is it?”
“It was right where you guys said. Parked on the shoulder of route 23 in Charlemagne county. Unlocked, keys inside. We tried the engine. It’s working fine. No problems at all. Gas in the tank, air in all four tires.”
Riley paused a beat.
“They must have fixed it. Removed the tampering device.”
“Maybe. Or maybe there was nothing wrong with it in the first place. It’s in perfect working order.”
“What about the pickup truck?”
“A couple officers from the sheriff’s department went by the diner. Pat’s Cafe, right? No sign of the pickup. No one remembers seeing it there.”
Great, Riley thought. They’re in complete damage control mode.
“Where’s the Lexus now?” Riley asked.
“Towed to the police impound. We’ll take another look at it, but that’s all. The rental company is getting antsy. They want it back. Another day, I guess, before they claim it.”
“That’s evidence,” Riley said. “You can’t just let them have it.”
“Evidence of what? Right now, there’s no reason to believe the Lexus will help us figure out who tried to take Ms. Dumont.”
Riley breathed out. Tried to stay reasonable, despite his growing anger.
“There was an attempted abduction here,” he said. “And you’re treating it like it was nothing.”
“We’re treating it seriously, believe me. But until we get something more to go on, there’s not a lot I can do.”
Riley thought of Agatha’s trashed apartment. That would change Ramirez’s tune, right quick. But he couldn’t send the cops over there now. Not when there were two bodies starting to decompose on the floor. Explaining that, at this juncture, would turn things hairy, real fast.
“All right,” Riley said. “Thanks for the update. Keep us posted.”
“Anything else I should know about?”
“No,” Riley said. “If there is, you’ll be the first to hear.”
He hung up.
“You sure it’s wise to be lying to the police? They find those bodies, we could be in a lot of trouble.”
“That’s what I’m trying to avoid,” Riley said. “Not much of a choice at this point. Come on. We’ve been sitting here long enough.”
“You don’t waste time, do you?”
“Whoever’s after you won’t. We need to rent a car. Can’t keep taking cabs everywhere.”
“I probably won’t get my deposit back on that Lexus,” Agatha said, half-joking. Riley gave her a smile, one that said we’ve got bigger things to worry about.
***
They took one final cab ride to a Hertz dealership located on a busy thoroughfare, just outside the Mall. The summer sun had lingered in the sky as long as it could, but night would be here soon. Riley preferred to be off the streets when that happened.
While Agatha finished the rental process, he kept a roaming eye for any white vans or cars parked where they didn’t belong. Didn’t find anything. He wasn’t altogether surprised. The backup team was probably coordinating the cleanup, working frantically to make sure they got to the bodies before the cops. Leaving the corpses was a gamble, but it seemed like it had paid off. It gave Riley some time to work unmolested.
Soon all the forms had been filed, and they were driving south in a dark Hyundai Elantra. A piney smell inside, like it had been sprayed with air freshener a few seconds too long. Probably five thousand cars exactly like it in DC. As close to anonymous as possible, which was good. No need to be cruising around town in a BMW or an Escalade.
Agatha drove, because Riley needed to make a phone call. He hadn’t retained many friends from his days as a contractor, but there were still a few--loyal guys who had gotten out of the business around the same time as Riley. Guys who were still hooked into information networks he was no longer privy to. Guys who didn’t mind having people owe them favors, somewhere down the line. Riley was fine with owing favors. He’d always been eager to help. Some saw it as a flaw. Never volunteer for anything was the number one rule in the military. But then, he’d never been a military man, not exactly.
“Where am I headed?” Agatha asked, pulling down the visor to shield her face from the sun, drifting west like an angry pulsar.
“Southeast side,” Riley said. “From what you’ve told me, Peter doesn’t sound like a man concerned with finer things. Feel like he’d want a crash pad to store his stuff and occasionally sleep. Nothing fancy. I’d bet he’s got a small studio where rents are cheap.”
She nodded. Made a few turns and soon they were in a part of town where the buildings were not quite as nice, where the frequency of check cashing businesses and liquor stores had risen exponentially, where stiff suits and slacks were replaced by wife-beaters and low-rise jeans. Riley dug up the number he was looking for from his mental address book and dialed, using Agatha’s phone.
Five rings, and then a voice answered.
“Who’s this?”
The voice was high-pitched and reedy, just as Riley remembered it. A voice that belied the dangerous, resourceful man it came from, that in no way matched his bulky linebacker’s frame. A voice that was immediately half-suspicious and half-curious that a strange number was calling on his personal line.
“Dallas? It’s Clay Riley.”
“Riley. What kind of trouble are you in?”
No hesitation in the response, which Riley appreciated. Dallas’s mind worked quickly. His real name was Herm Henderson from Queens, New York, but he’d somehow gotten everyone convinced he was a native Texan. He’d been one of the few men Riley worked with who’d managed to parlay his war skills into a profitable enterprise, making big bucks in the private security racket. Impressive, considering most of his former co-workers were either dead or in the slow process of drinking themselves to it.
“I need a favor. An address. Should be somewhere in DC.”
From what Riley could remember Dallas wasn’t far away, his outfit based in Arlington or nearby. Many of them had stayed in a tight orbit around the Pentagon, probably out of some strange deep-seated loyalty. Nestled in the bosom of their former employer and moneymaker Uncle Sam. Maybe a psychoanalyst could explain it.
“You after somebody?” A lilting tone in Dallas’s voice, a sardonic through line that Riley remembered well. “I got a business here, Riley. Can’t be giving out information because you’re not keen on the guy dating your ex-wife.”
He couldn’t ever remember talking to Dallas about his divorce. Maybe it was pub
lic knowledge now, among the few friends he had left.
“Wish it were that simple,” Riley said. Agatha swung a slow right, circling a block of rowhouses for the second time, cruising aimlessly past weedy yards strewn with bicycles and car parts and residents smoking and drinking on porches and stoops. None of them paid any mind to the dark Hyundai. Obviously just some idiot who was lost, waiting for the GPS to get itself together and point them in the right direction.
“I’ve got a client here who’s in some trouble,” Riley continued. He wasn’t sure where the word client came from, but it felt appropriate. “Looking for a person of interest. Peter Saccarelli. He’s likely…”
Riley paused. Glanced at Agatha, navigating the streets stoically. Pete Saccarelli was likely dead, but he didn’t want to use that word, not yet.
“Likely in the wind, but I want to check it out all the same. He’s a reporter. A friendly. Just need to talk to him.”
“Didn’t know you were back in the business,” Dallas said.
“Not exactly in the business,” Riley said. “More like I fell into something I need to take care of.”
“Sounds serious. Maybe you could use my help.”
“Ain’t that why I called? I don’t have the money you charge for a full court press here. I just need an address.”
“All right. Let me see what I can dig up. Peter Saccarelli, you said?”
“That’s right.”
Riley heard typing, swift keystrokes. Pictured a computer database coming to life, sorting through its digital information. Looks like he’d caught Dallas at the office. Fortunately not out playing a round of golf.
Two minutes later, Dallas came back on the line.
“Got an address for a Peter Saccarelli in Anacostia. 360 Ten Eyck street, apartment D. That work for ya?”
Anacostia. In the right ballpark. He directed Agatha straight at the next intersection, and leaned back into the phone.
“Works great. I owe you one.”
“You owe me nothing. Just don’t be telling anyone about this conversation. And Riley…”
“Yeah?”
“If you’re into something dangerous, you let me know. I can help. No reason for you to be going at it alone.”
But Dallas knew as well as he did that doing things alone was a key part of Riley’s character. Maybe he could use Dallas’s help, if it came to that. But not right now.
“I’ll be in touch,” is all Riley said, and hung up. He turned back to Agatha.
“I’ve got the address. Let’s punch it.”
11.
Four men walked into the lobby of the Berkshires apartment building. Morton eyed them with little interest. His shift was nearly over, and people had been coming and going all day. Like a damn revolving door. He’d hardly had a minute to himself.
They were dressed in plain beige uniforms, each pair holding bulky, rolled up reams of fabric.
“Carpet installation,” said one of the men, shifting his weight to keep his balance. “Last job of the day. Roll ‘em up and lay ‘em down.”
Morton scanned his register. Sure enough, Mr. Colby in apartment 6F had called ahead earlier today to say they’d be coming by.
Morton buzzed them through without a second thought. The men nodded to him as they went, carrying the heavy carpets confidently on their shoulders.
***
“Here it is,” Riley said. “Find a place to park.”
They arrived on a modest looking side street, a row of two-and-three story homes converted into apartments. Not upscale but not dilapidated--plain, affordable living space for students and young professionals. A place Peter Saccarelli would have stayed, when he was around town. Agatha pulled into a space a few houses over and killed the engine.
360 Ten Eyck was an old building, but well kept. Swept brick stairs led up to the front door, atop a little alcove below connected to a basement apartment. The siding on the house was bright white, and looked like it had been freshly painted sometime in the last few months. Through a small window in the door Riley could see bicycles locked up in the front vestibule. He tried the knob, and it was locked firmly. No sign of forced entry, at least from the front.
“Apartment D,” Agatha said, studying the names against the buzzers. “Looks like Pete has the basement.”
She was right. Saccarelli was listed at the bottom, and when Riley descended the stairs and looped around, he saw a grated metal door with the letter D stamped beside it. Little oval windows peered out at street level, but when Riley stooped closer he saw they were blocked off with dark towels to keep the light coming in.
“No eviction notice,” Riley said. “He hasn’t been gone that long, if he’s been keeping up with rent.”
This time Agatha tried the door, but it too was locked tight.
“Let’s go around back,” she said. “Maybe we can get in that way.” Riley smiled. Barely a day had passed, and she was already eager for some breaking and entering. They went around the side, through a tight corridor shadowed by the neighboring house. Emerged into a weedy patio, water-stained deck chairs and a three-legged grill aligned in a vague semicircle. Cigarette butts rested in large ceramic flower pots. A few empty beer cans hid amidst wilting flowers.
A small green door promised entrance to the rear, a back exit to the basement. Less intimidating than the metal one in the front. The brass knob wouldn’t turn, but Riley could feel some give when he tried to open it. No deadbolt, just a tumbler lock.
“Watch out,” he said. Agatha retreated a few steps. Riley glanced around. No one in the neighboring yard, nothing but chirping birds and the smell of stale beer. He reared back and kicked at the door jamb. The door rippled on its hinges, shaking violently. He kicked again, and it came open, sagging on its frame. Riley eased it forward with his boot, and they went inside.
Peter Saccarelli’s apartment was scarcely furnished, to say the least. The entire space was the size of a hotel room, maybe smaller. A mattress covered in a poorly fitted sheet lay against the far wall, one sad pillow dangling off it. Nearby was a bookcase with a few paperbacks, mostly non-fiction: books about the Civil War, economics, the middle east. Old back issues of Accounting Magazine next to copies of Forbes and Fortune. A sink with a few cabinets closer to the front of the building, but no stove or oven. The refrigerator was small, topping off at around Riley’s chest. There was a metal bar bolted to the wall in a small alcove near the mattress, from which a few wrinkled shirts hung limply. Forget about bachelor pad--this was a place you slept to keep out of the rain, and not much more.
“Hello?” Agatha called tentatively, but it was clear the place was empty. Not many places to hide in a single, barren room.
“No wonder he never brought you back here,” Riley said. “It’s not exactly the Taj Mahal.”
“So he lives a spartan lifestyle,” Agatha said, fingering the sleeve of one of the hanging shirts. “What makes you think I care about how big a man’s apartment is?”
“Just making an observation.”
“Pete wasn’t here often. No reason to have a place all decked out when you’re gone half the time.”
Riley agreed. He himself certainly wasn’t hung on up fancy things, but this basement apartment gave him a sinking sense of dread he couldn’t quite place. He opened the fridge, found a half carton of milk, a few beers, and little else. He sniffed the milk. Took a sip, while Agatha made a face.
“Not spoiled,” he said, wiping his mouth. “He’s been here, recently.”
“Or someone else.”
“Someone who bought milk, drank half of it, and put it back in the fridge in case we came along? I don’t think so. If they did take Peter, it happened in the past two weeks.”
“You think they got to him here?”
“I can’t tell. There’s so little stuff, it’s hard to see what looks out of place.”
Agatha put her hand on a little TV dinner shelf doing double duty as a desk. A few notebooks and pencils atop it.
“Maybe there’s something they missed. Pete’s smart. If he was working on something that could have gotten him into trouble, he would have left some sort of clue. He was meticulous.”
“Not when it came to furnishing.”
“Well, okay,” Agatha said. “He was obsessive about his work. Didn’t have time to worry about decorating. But he had to have some sort of system.”
Riley went over to the mattress. Lifted it up. Nothing beneath. Went through the shirts and pants scattered haphazardly about, checking the pockets for receipts, scraps of information Peter might have written down. But they were empty. Nothing but lint and loose change.
“Your boss said Peter always carries his laptop with him,” Riley said. “It’s not here. That’s probably what the guys who are after you wanted. And they probably have it.”
Agatha shook her head. Searched through a small closet near the sink, full of plastic bags and stacked cardboard boxes.
“I just have this feeling he wouldn’t have put all his eggs in one basket. There must be something in here that can lead us in the right direction.”
Maybe. Maybe not. At this point, Riley wasn’t even sure if Peter Saccarelli was connected. Entirely possible he could show up back at Accounting Magazine in a few days, with a dark Bermuda tan, wondering what all the fuss was about.
Agatha went to the desk and flipped through the spiral notebooks. Riley checked the trash, rooting through the garbage for anything pertinent Peter might have thrown away. But the bag had been recently changed, and all he found were a few candy bar wrappers.
“Anything?” he called over.
She shook her head.
“Just quotes and details for old stories. I remember some of them. They’ve already been published. Nothing dangerous.”
Riley finished his tour of the trash and went back over to the bed. Checked the pillowcase and the sheets, without success. Took the books off the bookcase and shook them out, one by one. A couple bookmarks from a nearby public library fluttered out, as well as a receipt. It was a record of sale for a directional microphone, dated about a month ago and purchased at a Murray’s Electronics in downtown DC. Peter had paid $543 dollars for it. Riley had never heard of the store. He waved Agatha over.