by David Grace
“I–” Virgil began, then blinked and shook his head.
“I’m not going away that easily,” Janet said, then laughed. “Relax, Virgil, I’m just all those chemicals you inhaled giving you a way that you can talk to you.” Janet took a step back, rippled slightly then settled onto the couch without dimpling the cushions. “See.”
“If I talk to you as if you’re there does that mean I’m crazy?” Virgil asked, not sure if he was talking to her or to himself.
“No crazier than if you close your eyes and pretend that you don’t see and hear me. Come on, Virgil, think. Why am I here? Why is your brain imagining me?”
“This doesn’t make any sense,” Virgil whispered, afraid that his neighbors might hear him talking to himself and have the men in white coats come and take him away.
“Sure it does. Some part of you wants you to know something that another part of you doesn’t want to hear, so it created me. I bet there are a million shrinks who wish there was a pill that would do for their patients what those chemicals did for you. Imagine what therapy would be like if everyone’s inner selves could stand up and give them a good talking to.”
Virgil stared hard at Janet as if expecting her to shimmer into transparency and then fade away.
“Sorry, Virg, but you can’t get rid of me that easily. I’m sticking around until you’re ready to hear what I’ve got to say.” Janet gave him a twisted smile and leaned back against the couch.
“All right,” Virgil said a moment later. “What is it?”
“That didn’t sound very sincere.”
“I–”
“I’m just pulling your chain. OK, you ready? Here it is: You’ve got to forget this Limping Man thing and get back to work on our case. The Mad Dog Gang isn’t going to stop unless we stop them. Lieutenant Paperpusher is going to drag his feet until Rogers can send the case back to Major Crimes. I may be gone but you’ve still got juice with the Mayor. If you push him hard enough you can get him to put you in charge of the squad, but you’ve got to act fast before it all turns to shit.”
“How am I going to run the squad when I can barely walk to the end of the block and I’m seeing ghosts?”
“I’m not a ghost. I’m an hallucination, and no one will know you saw me if you don’t tell them. . . Come on, Virgil, you’ve got to get these guys before they kill again. If not for the victims then to avenge my death.” Janet gave him an impassioned stare then broke into a laugh. “Sorry, I couldn’t resist.”
“How am I supposed to do that? Stan tells me they’ve hit a dead end,” Virgil said as if it was actually Janet sitting there instead of a figment of his imagination.
“Latwan Monroe is still out there. You find him and he’ll lead you to the rest of the gang. And you were right about there being something else behind these attacks. There’s more to these robberies than just robberies. Something bigger’s going on.”
“Like what?”
Janet shrugged. “I don’t know any more than you do. I’m just your subconscious talking to you, cutting out the middleman. By now Stan and Carl should have started talking to the victims’ relatives, asking if anything unusual happened after the killings, unless Parker’s got them locked in the squad room typing reports. Seriously, you’ve got to take over the squad before it’s too late.”
“I–”
“OK, my work here is done,” Janet said standing and taking a step forward. “Get some sleep and then go see the Mayor. Call Peter Fineman. Tell him it’s an emergency. Use my name if you have to, you know, avenging my death. He sort of had a thing for me.”
“You’re not you. How would I know if Fineman had the hots for you, for Janet, if you’re me and not you?”
Janet froze for an instant like a DVD encountering a scratch, then smiled and said, “I always loved you, Virgil. It’s not your fault that you never loved me back.” Then she shimmered once and was gone.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Kyle threw away the packaging and snapped a charged battery into his new CVS junk-phone.
“Where are you?” Kyle asked as soon as Cathcart picked up.
“I’m with a client, Mr. Johnson,” Cathcart said in his smarmy, ‘Go away, I’m doing something important’ voice. “I’ll call you back as soon as I can.”
“You tell your client that you have to take my call because you do.”
“Business,” Kyle heard Cathcart say. “Sorry, Sherry. I’ll be right back.” Fifteen seconds passed then Danny C came back on the line. “Couldn’t this wait?” he whispered. “I was this close to getting her pants off.”
“I don’t care. What’s the time line on the next transaction?”
“I’m working on it.”
“Details. Now,” Kyle ordered in the flat, menacing voice he used when he was deciding whether or not to shoot someone.
“Give me a minute.” Kyle heard footsteps and then the click of a closing door. “All right, I can talk now,” he continued, still whispering. “Prospect number one will be back from his vacation tomorrow night. I sent your guy the package. It’ll take him at least two days to get me a list of contact opportunities. Another day or two for me to submit our proposal. Assuming he rejects it you should expect to proceed to phase two about a week from today, more or less. You’ve already scouted the delivery locations, right?”
Kyle understood the need to keep their phone conversations neutral in case someone was listening but even if they’d been talking face-to-face he knew Danny would have stuck with the bullshit euphemisms. “Contact opportunities” – locations where Danny could meet with the target without being observed. “Proposal” – blackmail demand. “Phase Two” – the murder of some family member close to the target. Kyle thought Cathcart was a fucking empty suit, happy to see people killed for money but who didn’t have the balls to pull the trigger himself.
“I’m meeting with my team tonight. I’ll tell them that we’ll be going to work by the end of next week. You make sure you hold up your end.”
“I’ll–” Danny began but Kyle had already hung up. “That’s excellent, Mr. Johnson,” Cathcart said into the dead phone as he emerged from the bathroom. “We’ll start with six million and then ramp up from there. Great. Bye . . . . Sorry, Sherry. A new client. Where were we?”
* * *
Kyle loved Airbnb. He didn’t want his crew to know where he lived, leastwise visit his home. Hotel rooms could be booked with a fake credit card but they had video cameras recording every check-in. That left booking a back room in a low-life bar and hoping that some snitch wasn’t watching, and Airbnb.
Months ago he’d thrown some loser a few bucks to sign up for a new credit card and then turn it over to him. Now, whenever Kyle needed to get the crew together to plan a job he’d use it to book an apartment for a day. They’d have their meeting with no one watching and would never return. Tonight he’d rented a tiny house on a quiet street in the burbs and told everyone to show up at eight when it would be too dark for any of the neighbors to get a good look at them. With the loss of Paulie Sturdevant they were down to three men, plus himself.
When each arrived Kyle waved them to the dining room table which held a couple of pizzas and a bucket of fried chicken.
“Beer’s in the fridge,” he told them.
Ralph Anderson was the last to appear.
“Where’s the booze?”
“This isn’t a party,” Kyle told him.
“And it’s not a fucking prayer meeting either.”
“We can’t afford to have anyone picked up on a drunk driving bust,” Kyle told him.
Anderson grabbed a beer and guzzled it down, barely pausing to take a breath.
“You’re not my mother.”
“Your mother’s a cokehead doing three to five in Huron Valley,” Dion Jenkins called out, laughing.
Anderson swivelled around and reached for his knife.
“Put it away,” Kyle ordered. Anderson glared at Dion for a heartbeat then turned back to the box of
pizza. “We’ve got a new job coming up,” Kyle told them and pulled one of the dining room chairs into the center of the room. We’re going to do a drive-by a week from today. Figure the job will go down a week from Friday unless something changes.”
“What’s the score?” Anderson asked.
“Rich bitch. Husband’s heavy into real estate. There should be cash, jewelry, paintings – a good haul.”
“How good?” Anderson asked with an edge to his voice that Kyle didn’t like.
“You got a problem, Ralphie?”
“Yeah, I got a problem. We’re hitting all these places and all I’m seeing is nickels and dimes. When are we going to get some real money?”
“I told you that we had to hold off fencing the stuff until the heat dies down.”
“Yeah, well, I’m tired of waiting. We could be knocking over banks or armored cars and making some real money instead of a couple of thousand here and there.”
“You want to quit the crew, Ralphie?”
“I want the crew to hit a better target. There’s a nice little bank out near the airport that gets an armored car delivery the third Friday of every month. We take that down we’re looking at three, four hundred thousand in cash, maybe more. That’s close to a hundred thousand each which is a hell of a lot more than I’ve seen from all these home invasion jobs put together.”
“How did you hear about this nice little bank?” Kyle asked in a mild voice.
“A guy I know from the joint. His sister’s boyfriend worked there before he got laid off. The guy said security is a joke. They’re still using VCRs and the recorder is in the manager’s office. Two guys go into the bank while the driver waits in the truck. We use a girl to lure the driver out while the rest of us take down the people inside and pull the video tape. We take the money from the bank, put it into the truck, then we drive off in the truck and leave the guards and customers tied up inside. Dion, Latwan, what do you say?”
For an instant Kyle thought about pointing out all the ways that Anderson’s plan could go wrong. All they needed was one person, a passerby, a shopkeeper, a customer, to see them grabbing the truck driver and forcing him to open up the back door and they’d be screwed. Plus, the driver might not have the key. Then they’d have to keep the driver prisoner out on the sidewalk until they could get the key from one of the guards inside the bank.
Plus, if any of the bank employees managed to get to the panic button before they got control the cops would be there in three minutes or less. Then they’d be trapped in the bank or the truck like rats in a can. Even if they got away, those trucks were pigs and they wouldn’t make it four blocks before the cruisers caught up to them. And on top of that all armored cars had GPS locators that the guards couldn’t turn off. They’d all be locked up or dead less than half an hour after they started. But Kyle didn’t bother trying to explain why it was a stupid idea. Debating the merits of the plan was a loser move.
“Dion and Latwan don’t say anything because we don’t vote on shit.” Kyle pulled out his Sig and laid it on his lap. “Ralphie, here’s your choice. You’re either in or you’re out. Which is it?”
Anderson turned to Dion and Latwan but they quickly looked away.
“It was just a suggestion,” Anderson said, looking from the gun to Kyle’s dead eyes. He held his hands apart, palms up.
“So, in or out?”
“In,” Anderson said. “Definitely in.”
“Good.” Kyle slid his gun back into his pocket. “The next order of business is replacing Paulie.”
“You said he had to leave town,” Latwan broke in. “Where the hell is he?”
“He’s unavailable.”
“For how long? When’s he coming back?”
Anderson and Dion gave Latwan a “How stupid are you?” look but it bounced right off him.
“Paulie’s gone for the rest of the year,” Kyle said as if talking to a child who wanted to know what had happened to his dog. “Anybody know somebody who could take over for Paulie? Dion?”
Jenkins thought for a moment. “Nope.”
“Ralph?” Anderson paused, then began to open his mouth. “And not the guy who told you about the bank out by the airport.” Anderson closed his mouth and shook his head.
“Latwan? You know anybody who’s got the stones to do this job?”
“I might,” Monroe said after a moment’s thought. “I did time with a guy who never had a problem pulling the trigger. I’ve seen him around. I hear he’s done a couple of things but he’s probably looking for a score.”
“Go talk to him. If he’s interested we’ll set up a meet. Don’t tell him anything about the work, just that you know a crew that makes money and that wants to add another man who’s got what it takes.”
“OK,” Latwan said, then stood and grabbed another piece of pizza.
“Anything else?” Kyle asked, staring at Anderson. The only sound was Latwan snapping the cap off another bottle of beer. No one spoke.
“One last thing,” Kyle said a moment later, walking over to one of the kitchen drawers. “I found a guy out of state who said he could handle our stuff. I gave him a sample to see how he did. Here.” Kyle tossed a bundle of hundred dollar bills to each of the three men. “That’s five grand each. Watch how you spend it. The cops have got their snitches working overtime looking for us. We don’t need people wondering where you suddenly got a pile of money.”
Dion and Latwan riffled the bills and smiled as they shoved them into their pockets. Anderson looked up from the money and caught Kyle’s stare. He gave Neddick a satisfied nod and stood, slipping the packet into his hip pocket.
“All right, we’re done. Latwan, you call me on my new burner after you’ve talked to your guy. Over the next couple of weeks my out-of-state guy should be able to turn over all our stuff for cash so we’ve got a good payday coming. Everybody stay sharp and keep a low profile. The next job will be the biggest one yet. It won’t be long before you see more money than you can spend.”
Kyle was careful not to tell them that the reason they wouldn’t be able to spend it was because they would all be dead.
Chapter Thirty-Three
The address Peter Fineman gave Virgil turned out to be a renovated thirty-plus story skyscraper that looked like a scaled-down Empire State Building made out of bricks instead of granite and steel. The entire fourteenth floor was occupied by something called Advanced Media Associates.
The receptionist raised her head at the sound of the opening elevator doors and Virgil figured that she could have made a second career modeling lipstick or diamonds and pearls on the pages of Cosmo.
“Virgil Quinn,” he told her. “I’m here to meet with Mayor Grantham.”
She looked at him as if he had said something inappropriate, then smoothed her features, told him to take a seat, and thereafter refused to look in his direction. Five minutes later, a casually but expensively dressed man strode into the lobby, all smiles and improvised congeniality.
“Marshal Quinn, I’m Jeremy Knowlton. So nice to meet you. I run things around here. I’ll take you back where we do all our magic.” He said it all in a rush and grabbed Quinn’s hand in the middle of his little speech. His accent was upper-class British but underneath the Colin Firth inflections Quinn thought he detected a hint of Michael Caine’s Harry Palmer.
Knowlton led Virgil past a field of cubicles where dozens of people, none of whom seemed to be over the age of thirty-five, scrolled, clicked, tapped and typed.
“The Mayor’s down there in Media Three.” Knowlton pointed to a door just beyond the cubicle farm. He tap-tapped twice on the pale blue panel then led the way in. The room was in gloom, its only illumination was the light spilling from an 84 inch flat screen that almost filled the far wall.
His back to them, Charlie Grantham stood silhouetted in front of it. Knowlton closed the door with a soft click, but Grantham appeared not to notice. After a moment he cocked his head to one side and seemed to focus on one of the p
eople on the screen, a black, heavy-set woman, about fifty, wearing a flower-print dress.
“Where are the jobs? That’s what I wanna know,” she said in a whiny voice. “My boy can’t find work. What’s the Mayor gonna do about that?”
“Democracy in action,” Grantham snorted without turning around. He stared at the image for another few seconds then pressed the remote and froze the screen. “Do you believe that nonsense?” Grantham asked Quinn when he finally turned around. Knowlton moved off to one side and turned the lights up to a low glow. Virgil decided that the question was rhetorical. He took a few steps forward but stopped when the Mayor made no move to shake his hand.
“Thank you for agreeing to see me, Mr. Mayor.” He figured that a little fawning never hurt when dealing with an egomaniac. “I know how busy you are.”
“You can’t cut somebody’s hair or fix their toilet without passing a test but we let any senile moron who can stagger into a polling booth cast a vote,” Grantham complained as if Virgil hadn’t spoken. “And because of that I have to run a campaign designed to win the approval of idiot-stuffed focus groups. These people barely know how to tie their own shoes and they’re supposed to tell me how to run a city?”
The words, “Democracy’s a bitch,” struggled to get past Quinn’s teeth but he refused to grant them passage.
“I’m glad I don’t have your job,” Virgil said instead, which seemed to be the right response, as Grantham gave him an approving nod.
“We’re at a crucial stage in the investigation and I wanted–”
“Let me ask you something, Quinn,” the Mayor broke in. “You’re an intelligent man and you’ve got no stake in this election. What do you think of this, I mean, if you were a Detroit voter, would this encourage you to vote for me?”