“I’m not expecting any flowers.”
“Lots of people what get flowers ain’t expecting ’em,” I answered. “I’m just the delivery man, boss.”
“Who are they from?”
I had anticipated that question and looked up a local flower shop on the internet. “Apollo Blossom Shop in Winnetka,” I said.
“I mean, who sent them to me?”
I hadn’t counted on Victor being so suspicious, paranoid almost. I’d used the phony flower delivery gig lots of times; it had always worked. Until now. I thought fast. I held the flowers up and pretended to read the card. “Looks like they’re from a Virginia McAllister.” I figured he’d be intrigued by getting flowers from his partner’s wife.
“Leave them on the porch.”
Cheapskate doesn’t want to tip me, I thought. “I can’t. Youse gotta sign for ’em.”
“Wait there. I’ll be down shortly.” He must be upstairs. Please, God, let his wife stay upstairs.
Two minutes passed and I started to get nervous. Finally, the door clicked open a couple of inches, secured by an industrial-strength safety chain that looked strong enough to tow a car. His right eye appeared in the slot. “I’m Nelson Victor.”
I set the flowers on the porch to one side. “Sign here, please.” I held up a clipboard and pen. Victor’s gaze swung from left to right as he scrutinized the wedge of his front lawn he could see behind me. Oh, crap. What if he thinks this is a trap? I hadn’t anticipated this level of paranoia.
The door closed and I heard the safety chain slide off with a heavy clunk. I transferred the clipboard to my left hand and turned away from the camera. I drew the Browning and held it by my right leg while I waited for him to open the door. I intended to hand him the clipboard. While he looked down to sign for the flowers, I would force my way inside and make him lead me to the evidence Cabela had told me to get.
The doorknob clicked and the door on the right swung open about two feet. Victor must have been standing behind it, because I didn’t see anyone. “Bring the flowers inside,” a disembodied, raspy voice said. This is not good. I had the clipboard in my left hand and the Browning in my right, hidden in the folds of my overcoat.
“Sure thing, boss,” I said. I turned my back and stuck the Browning in my pants pocket. My overcoat draped over it. He wouldn’t see it, but I couldn’t get to it either. I picked up the vase in my right hand and stepped through the open door. The door opened wider; I still couldn’t see him.
“Put the flowers on that table in front of you.” Across the round foyer stood an antique peer mirror above an ornate marble-topped table. As I carried the flowers across the matching marble floor, I looked in the mirror and saw Victor standing behind the door with a revolver pointed at my back.
Chapter 64
If he intended to kill me, I was already dead. There was no way I could drop the flowers and the clipboard, pull my coat open, turn, and draw the Browning before he could shoot. At this range, he wouldn’t miss. Therefore, he didn’t intend to kill me; he was just paranoid. Maybe he was this way with every stranger who showed up at his door; the whole door-opening routine he had followed seemed well-rehearsed.
I had no choice but to play it out. I pretended not to notice him standing behind me and kept walking. I set the flowers on the table and turned around. “Whoa, what the hell?” I held up the clipboard in my left hand and raised my right hand. “What youse doing, man? You nuts or somethin’?” I stood like a statue, eyes wide, knees shaking. “What you want, boss? I just wanna get outta here; you don’t have to tip me or nothin’.” I let my voice break. “You don’t even have to sign for nothing’. Just let me go, boss. Oh god, don’t shoot!” I fell to the floor on my knees, the clipboard skittering across the marble.
“Get up, young man. I’m not going to shoot. I just wanted to make sure you were who you said you were. Of course, you’ll get your tip. A big one, if you’ll just stop crying.” He lowered the gun a little. It was a Smith & Wesson Model 686 .38 Special. He had pulled the hammer back, which wasn’t necessary to cock the double-action revolver, but it made more of a hair trigger.
I climbed to my feet and walked toward the clipboard lying on the floor in front of the open door. It was about three feet to his left, right where I’d aimed when I tossed it.
“Stop right there.” He raised the gun again. “Don’t come any closer.”
I froze like a statue, hands raised to waist level. There was a video monitor built into the wall to the right of the door. I could see my rent car in high definition on it. “I was just gonna get the clipboard, boss.”
He backed away a couple of feet, pulling the door wider with his left hand. “Okay, you can pick it up now.” He lowered the gun.
The crisp April wind blew through the door, flaring my overcoat. As I started to move, I let my coat swirl a bit to get him used to its movement when I walked. “Oops,” I said. I turned to my left. “That’s my pen there in the middle of the floor.” I whirled again and walked back to the middle of the foyer. I picked up the pen in my right hand and extended it toward Victor. “Here, youse need this to sign.”
He backed another foot. “You do it; forge my signature.” The gun dropped a fraction more.
I shook my head and spread my hands in an exaggerated shrug. “Whatever you say, boss.” I swirled my overcoat and turned toward the open door. I picked up the clipboard with my left hand. “You said somethin’ about a tip, boss.” I sidestepped once toward the center of the foyer as I turned to face him with an expectant smile on my face. I was only three feet from him now. If I could get the drop on him, I could force him to lead me to the evidence I needed.
“Of course, young man.” He stuck his left hand in his pocket and pulled out a twenty-dollar bill. “Here.” As he extended the bill, the revolver drooped a little more.
I grinned as wide as I could. “Hey, boss, thanks.” As I reached for the bill, I dropped both my pen and clipboard. His eyes cut toward the falling clipboard, and I shot my left hand out and reached for the revolver. I had hoped to stick my thumb in the space between the hammer and cartridge and keep it from firing. No such luck.
He jumped to one side and raised the revolver as he staggered backward out of reach. The back of his legs slammed against the marble table in front of the peer mirror, disrupting his aim.
I whipped my overcoat aside and grabbed for the Browning with my right hand as Victor pulled the trigger. The bullet ripped through my overcoat sleeve as I raised the Browning, jerking my arm with it. My ears ringing, I dived to the right, following the motion of the overcoat and raised the Browning as I slid across the marble floor. “Drop the gun, Victor.”
Victor took another shot. He overcompensated for his first bullet and missed wide to my left. Chips of marble shattered off the foyer floor.
I rolled onto my back and swung my gun around. “Drop it. I don’t want to kill you.”
“Fuck you.” Victor took his revolver in a two-hand grip and tried to aim at me.
I shot him twice in the head. The twenty-dollar bill fluttered to the marble floor.
Chapter 65
A woman screamed upstairs.
I didn’t need to check Victor’s pulse; his brains were splattered on the ornate peer mirror and the wall behind him. I closed the door behind me. I dropped the Browning on the welcome mat, walked back to the car, and drove away at two miles per hour under the speed limit.
Four minutes later a fireworks display of flashing red and blue emergency lights lit the sky low in the west. A parade of emergency vehicles rounded a corner and screamed into view, sirens wailing, coming right toward me.
My gut twisted into a knot. I had heard a woman scream, probably Victor’s wife. The first thing she would have done was call 9-1-1, probably even before she came downstairs. In fact, the 9-1-1 operator would have told her to stay on the phone and hide in a closet upstairs until the cops arrived. Victor’s address would have flashed on the emergency response center’
s screen before the wife said a word. When she reported hearing gunshots, the center would dispatch an ambulance, a fire truck, and at least one squad car—on a slow night, maybe even two or three. That must be the source of the dazzling light display heading my way.
I pulled to the curb like a good citizen and said a silent prayer that the squad cars weren’t looking for me—yet. Sweat rolled down my temples. I held my breath until three Kenilworth patrol cars, a fire truck, and an ambulance screamed past, sirens dopplering to a lower pitch as they faded behind me. I waited a few seconds for my heart to stop hammering in my chest before pulling away from the curb.
Within three miles, I was on I-94. The pulse in my forehead pounded as the adrenaline continued coursing through my veins. After action physiological effects. Traffic was thin and as I drove, I peeled off the bushy mustache glued to my upper lip. I took off the Chicago Cubs watch cap and the skull cap I wore beneath it. At the second exit, I found an all-night McDonalds. Parking in the rear of the lot, I sat there for a moment with the shakes as I continued to recover from the effects of the shooting. I removed the blue contact lenses and peeled off the clear vinyl gloves from both hands. I stuffed everything but the watch into a large freezer bag. They barely fit.
I sat in the car and let my heart rate slow. I skinned off the Chicago Cubs sweatshirt I had worn up to Victor’s door. After a while, I locked the car and dropped the freezer bag into a dumpster in the back. I stuffed the sweatshirt into a trash container in front of the door. I ordered a coffee inside and left the Cubs watch cap on a bench. Within the hour, someone else’s DNA would be on it.
The coffee rebelled in my stomach. I rushed to the men’s room and threw up. Thank God there was no one in the restroom.
I drove back to O’Hare Airport’s long-term parking and switched back the license plates from my rental car to the Hyundai.
I was in bed in my hotel room by three a.m. I didn’t sleep well.
Chapter 66
Hank Hickham raised his glass. “To the successful conclusion of a hair-raising few weeks.” Hank’s wife Lorene and I raised ours in salute. Michelle just stared at her Eggs Benedict, her champagne flute untouched on the table.
When I had informed the family that Katherine Shamanski and Steven Wallace and the rest of Adam Wolenski’s gunmen had been arrested, Hank had insisted on a celebratory brunch at the Mango Island Caribbean Club before I took Michelle back to her home and her parents. Children played on the nearby beach and splashed in the gentle waves. A Bimini Blue umbrella shaded our waterside table. Flags waved in the gentle breeze, the sun shined between the occasional fluffy clouds, sea birds soared and dived after fish, and boats sailed on Seeti Bay. In this little bubble, at this particular instant, all was right with the world. But not with Michelle apparently.
The three of us clinked glasses and sipped champagne. “What happens now, Chuck?” asked Lorene.
“After brunch, I’ll take Michelle home. She’ll appear in court next week to plead guilty to some minor offense. Then she reports to a parole officer periodically for the next five years. After that, she’s home free.”
Michelle focused on eating her Eggs Benedict, studiously avoiding eye contact with anyone. She must have been embarrassed by being the focus of so much scrutiny for so long.
Lorene glanced at her granddaughter. “What about the drug testing?”
“She’ll take a drug test every week to begin with, then every month.”
Lorene placed her hand on Michelle’s forearm. “That’s not so bad, honey.”
Michelle fiddled with her Eggs Benedict.
“The best thing, Lorene,” I said, “is that the U.S. Attorney and the District Attorney both agreed to have the judge withhold the adjudication of guilt.”
Hank asked, “What the heck does that mean?”
“Technically, the court will agree not to convict Michelle of the crime to which she pleads guilty. She won’t lose her civil rights. She can vote, hold office, even own a gun once her parole is over.”
Hank turned to Michelle. “Well, that’s just fine, honey. If you keep your nose clean for five years, you won’t have a criminal record.”
Michelle stared at her plate and chased a bite of Eggs Benedict around with her fork.
I said, “Having the adjudication of guilt withheld also means that Michelle can eventually have her criminal record expunged. Abe Weisman negotiated that.”
Michelle dropped her fork on her plate with a clatter, jumped up from the table, and hurried back inside the clubhouse, holding her napkin in front of her face.
Chapter 67
John Babcock met us at his front door, beaming like a new father, which, in some respects, he was. His daughter Michelle was out of danger—at least from the law and from Redwood. She still had life to contend with and a possible drug addiction. He hugged Michelle and kissed her forehead. “Mickie, we’ve been so worried. I can’t tell you how happy we are that this is over.”
I stood behind her holding her suitcase.
John grabbed the suitcase. “Come in, come in, Chuck. Come say hello to Penny. I’ll take Mickie’s suitcase to her room.”
We sat at the dining room table. Penny had baked cupcakes which she insisted I sample. “We’ve decided to send Michelle to rehab,” Penny said. “We hope to get her back in school this summer or fall.”
Michelle threw her cupcake across the room. “You’ve decided. You’ve decided. What about me? Don’t I have any say in my own life?” She jumped to her feet. “For weeks now, everybody tells me what to do. Go stay with your grandparents. Now, go to Mango Island. Now, go hide under another name. Don’t call your friends. Don’t go on Facebook. Keep your head down. Cooperate with the police. Listen to your attorney. Do this; don’t do that.” She stood and clenched her fists. “I’m an adult. When do I get my life back?”
Her parents stared at her for a long breath. John raised his hand an inch, and then stopped. Penny opened her mouth, but nothing came out.
“Michelle,” I said and waited until she looked at me. “Think back to how you felt that first time you called me at home in the middle of the night. Your whole world had just exploded, literally. You were panicked and didn’t know where to turn. You begged me to get you out of the worst trouble you’d ever been in. Do you remember that feeling?”
Her lip trembled. She nodded.
“With the help of your parents and grandparents, I got you out of that mess. You’re safe now.”
She sat down.
“You ask when you’ll get your life back. You’ll get your life back in five years when your parole is over. But at least you’ll have a life. Some dangerous friends of yours were trying to kill you; now they’re all dead or in jail. You could have gone to prison for life; now you won’t. All you have to do is pee in a cup once a week for five years and do what any other adult is expected to do—obey the law. Then you can live happily ever after any way you want. That sounds like a pretty good outcome to me.”
Michelle sighed. She looked at Penny. “I’m sorry. I guess I should be thanking you and Dad for standing by me. Instead I’ve been blaming you for trouble I caused myself.”
Penny grabbed Michelle’s hand. “Honey, we’ll always stand by you, no matter what you do.” She looked at her husband and smiled. “That’s what parents do.”
John grabbed Michelle’s other hand. “We’ll always be there, Mickie.”
Penny said, “Why don’t you go clean that cupcake off the wall now, Michelle?”
Michelle grabbed a couple of napkins and walked around the table.
Penny turned to me. “Let’s talk about something more pleasant. How do you like the cupcakes, Chuck?”
“Delicious. Raspberry, aren’t they? But I taste something else in there.”
She smiled. “Combination raspberry and strawberry. I’ve never tried that recipe before. I think I’ll bake them again. Do you want half-and-half with your coffee?”
“Yes, please.”
“
I’ll have milk with mine,” said John.
“So will I,” said Michelle from across the dining room.
Penny returned with a pint carton of half-and-half in one hand and a gallon jug of milk in the other. She set them on the table and smiled at me. “Now, Chuck, you know we think the world of you, and we can’t thank you enough for saving our Michelle. We’ll send you a check by return mail as soon as we get your bill.”
“Why do I feel like there’s a ‘but’ coming?” I asked.
Penny took my hand. “Don’t take this the wrong way. Let’s hope the only time we see you and Snoop again is at our Christmas party and Mom and Dad’s Super Bowl Parties.”
I lifted my coffee cup. “I’ll drink to that.”
Chapter 68
Miyo poured me a Margarita. She sat beside me on the balcony couch and we watched the sun descend once more behind the Port City skyline. “Welcome back. How was your trip out of town?”
“It was successful,” I answered.
“You didn’t tell me where you were going.”
“It was work related. That’s really all I can say.”
“I guess I should be used to that by now. Well, you’re home now, and I’m glad to see you. What shall we drink to, Chuck?”
“To Mother Earth, may her children survive the sins her defenders commit in her name.”
She looked at me and raised an eyebrow. “Say what?”
“Let’s just say to Mother Earth.”
We drank.
Miyo squeezed my hand. “I’ll bet there’s a story behind that toast, isn’t there?”
“You’re big on watching the news. Have you been following the arrest of Steven Wallace and Katherine Shamanski for conspiracy and murder in the train bombing a few weeks ago?”
Dangerous Friends (A Carlos McCrary novel Book 4) Page 27