by Diane Capri
“True. Okay, look at the logic.” He took a deep breath. “Bramall had at least one helper. He simply couldn’t have pulled everything off in the time allotted on his own.”
“How’d they do it?”
Gaspar said, “They moved the bodies into the SUV, and the helper drove it to another unit. Bramall followed in his sedan. The helper opened the door and pulled the vehicle inside. Then he closed the door and locked it. He got into Bramall’s sedan, and they drove back to D-6.”
She nodded. His scenario was the same as she’d assumed. “After that?”
“They put the drugs and the shoeboxes into Bramall’s sedan and drove them out of the lot,” he replied.
“Not enough time.” She shook her head. “That sedan didn’t have enough cargo space to hold everything. They’d have had to make two trips. Or picked up a rented truck somewhere.”
He clacked a few keys. “Sunrise in St. Louis on Friday was…6:56 a.m. But daybreak was about ninety minutes earlier. The workday had started for a lot of folks. People would have been coming and going. And the auctions started early, too.”
She nodded, thinking. “Which means it’s more likely that Bramall stashed the drugs in a third storage unit, intending to collect them later.”
“He had more time before you saw him again, though. The drugs could have been on that Gulfstream 100. There’s room for a fair amount of cargo on that jet if memory serves.” He pulled up the specs with another few keystrokes. “Yep. It’s got sixty-four cubic feet of baggage space. Depends on the configuration, but the drugs and money should have easily fit.”
“One of them drove Bramall’s sedan to the airport and left it there, don’t forget.” She turned her attention to something else. “Have we traced the serial numbers on those opioids to the manufacturer yet?”
“Still working on it. And before you ask, still working on the cash as well. We know it came from the Chicago Federal Reserve Bank. But we don’t know the identity of the person who received it.”
She nodded. “So, after all that logic, Chico, who was Bramall’s accomplice?”
“My logic says it’s gotta be Rex Mackenzie. I’ve got fifty bucks. I’m willing to bet,” he replied.
“My gut says the same thing. Which makes me wonder why the Boss thinks it was Reacher.”
“If he believes Reacher was the guy.” Gaspar shook his head and tisked. “Come on, Suzie Wong. After everything he’s put us through, surely you’re over your Charles Cooper hero worship by now.”
She shrugged. Gaspar was partially right. She had worshiped Cooper once. But more than that, she owed him. Her debt had not been repaid yet, and perhaps it never would be. Not that she’d be spilling her guts on that score to Gaspar. He had his secrets, and she had hers. She planned to keep it that way.
She stood up and stretched. Then she took off her jacket and her shoes to get comfortable. She drained her coffee and poured another cup.
She tapped the top of the whiteboard where she’d written the word Triggers????? She looked at the word as if it might identify the triggers by magic.
Which didn’t happen. Not exactly. But something Simpson had said teased her brain like a kitten peeking around the corner.
“Where did they put that road atlas I ordered,” she said, searching the room until she found it.
It was a weighty spiral bound book, eleven by fourteen inches, three hundred pages, containing roadmaps for every state in the union, along with portions of Canada and Mexico. She opened the book to the two center pages displaying the full map of North America.
She ripped the two pages out of the book. Then she affixed the map to the whiteboard and stood back to study it.
“What the hell are you looking for, exactly?” Gaspar asked, squinting to see the tiny lines on the map.
“You heard the Boss. We’re smart. We can figure this out,” she replied with a smirk. “Unless you want me to just ask Finlay. Which would be a lot faster.”
Gaspar scowled like he’d swallowed a whole lemon, which made her laugh. How could she possibly do this job without him? She didn’t want to think about it.
Her phone vibrated on the table. The caller ID said Noble.
She turned on the speaker so Gaspar could hear and picked up. “Otto and Gaspar here.”
Without wasting time, the Boy Detective said, “We found two dead bodies, a stash of opioids, and six hundred thousand dollars in cash at the U Store Stuff facility in St. Louis.”
Otto shot a warning look toward Gaspar. Noble didn’t know Otto had been there, and she wanted to keep it that way. The Boss would make sure Noble found out everything he needed to know.
“Congratulations,” he said as if he didn’t know anything about the cash or the drugs or the dead bodies.
Otto nodded.
Noble said, “The bodies were in one unit, while the drugs and cash were in another unit.”
“And you think they’re related somehow?” Otto asked.
“Possibly. We’re looking at the ownership of this place. It could be tied to the mob. If it is, we’ll apply for warrants. We may find more evidence of criminal activity in these units,” Noble explained.
“Sounds like a long project,” Gaspar replied. “We had a case like that in Miami a few years ago. Once we got into those storage units, we found all kinds of contraband.”
Otto shot him a quizzical look, and he shrugged.
Noble said, “The dead woman in the Mackenzie mansion has been identified. Her name was Brooke Malone. The name has been released to the press.”
“I see,” Otto replied. “Was that the real estate agent?”
“Yes. But she used her maiden name only for professional reasons. She was married,” he said.
Gaspar shrugged. “Who isn’t?”
“Yeah, well, her husband has been notified. Turns out he’s a local mobster named Big Mike Bavolsky. He’ll be in custody by the end of the month, assuming we can find him.”
“What do you mean?” Otto asked, widening her eyes.
“We’ve had Bavolsky and his crew under surveillance since his brother was arrested last year. Right at the moment, we can’t find him.” Noble said wearily. “Here’s the punch line. Bavolsky’s wife had been having a hot and heavy affair with Rex Mackenzie for the past couple of years.”
Gaspar’s eyes widened.
Otto drew a quick breath, pointed to her whiteboard where she’d written Triggers????? and said, “What do you make of that? You think Mackenzie killed her?”
“Hard to say. We didn’t have a warrant for her business phones, so we had to get the recordings from the phone companies. We’re checking them for more intel now.” He muted the phone and talked briefly to someone else before he came back with a final sign off and then hung up.
After he hung up, Otto found the burner cell she’d been using with Finlay and pressed the redial.
“Can you run some passport checks for me?” she asked.
He replied, “Should I?”
“I’ve got twelve names. We need to know whether any of them have left the country in the past twelve months,” she paused. “And if they’ve crossed a border, where and when. Got a pen?”
She read the names off the whiteboard, giving him time to write them down.
“Got it,” Finlay said. “Anything else?”
“Any kind of video of the U Store Stuff lot in St. Louis. Forty-eight hours before and forty-eight after I intercepted Bramall at Unit D-6 should be enough to start. Can you send us that?”
“Yep,” Finlay said. “I’ll call you back within the hour.”
After she disconnected, Gaspar said, “How about you fill me in.”
“This whole thing is looking less and less random, isn’t it? We know now that our twelve missing persons are all connected. What we don’t know is why they shot out in all directions,” she replied.
“Agreed.”
She nodded, paced, sipped, and stared at the whiteboard. “Something happened. Something set this whole thing
in motion about two weeks ago. Why did the sisters bug out? That has to be the key to all this.”
She turned to the laptop and pulled up the surveillance video of the Mackenzie mansion and the dry cleaners. She pointed to the two men.
“One big hulking guy. One scrawny dude barely able to navigate with a cane,” she said. “Who are they? They’ve got to have something to do with all this.”
Gaspar said, “Our assignment is to find Reacher. You figure the Boss is right? You think that big guy is Reacher? That he’s somehow the trigger in all this?”
“I suppose it’s possible.” She shrugged.
“But you don’t like it,” Gaspar replied.
She said, “I don’t know. It feels like something is missing here. I’m not sure what it is.”
CHAPTER 35
Saturday, February 12
2:25 p.m.
San Antonio, Texas
Scorpio was exhausted, but he remained alert. He couldn’t afford mistakes. Not now. Not when he was so close to Mexico. So close to success.
Hours ago, Thorn had pulled into a hotel parking lot near Rolla, Missouri, and they’d changed drivers. Scorpio had climbed into the SUV’s driver’s seat. He had full use of his right side. He could drive short distances when he needed to.
Thorn put the Oklahoma license plate he’d removed from a dirty truck at a fast food joint on an older white panel van and drove it out of the lot while its owner was sleeping.
The theft consumed less than five minutes on the clock.
Scorpio drove a dozen miles along the expressway and pulled off at the rest stop. Instead of following the turn into the comfort station parking lot, he took the entrance down an incline to a deserted maintenance building.
He pulled around to the back of the building and turned off the lights. Thorn arrived with the panel van and pulled up alongside.
Thorn transferred the drugs from the SUV to the panel van while Scorpio held Mackenzie’s pistol ready and watched for approaching vehicles.
He hadn’t expected any security or maintenance workers to arrive at that time of the morning, but he could have taken care of the problem if they had. Mackenzie’s pistol would’ve done the job.
When Thorn removed all the SUV’s cargo, including their personal possessions, Scorpio drove the SUV along a deserted side road to the high bridge. Thorn pulled in behind him.
Scorpio put the SUV’s transmission in park, moved to the panel van, and climbed into the driver’s seat while Thorn lowered the SUV’s windows, revved its engine, and sent the SUV into the water below.
From his vantage point inside the panel van, Scorpio watched the black SUV until it sank below the water line.
Someone would find the SUV eventually. Scorpio would be long gone by the time it happened.
With Thorn behind the wheel again, they returned to the expressway and continued South.
The panel van had tight suspension and rode like a wild bronco. Long before they’d passed through Austin, Texas, Scorpio felt like the bronco had danced its hooves all over his body. He squirmed in the seat, attempting to find a comfortable position.
Thorn said, “We’re about forty miles from the Universal Self Storage lot. How do you want to do this?”
The question was more important than it seemed.
He had chosen San Antonio because it was close enough to Mexico but not too close to be obvious. The population of San Antonio was greater than the population of Dallas. Scorpio figured it would be much easier to remain anonymous and undetected among San Antonio’s one point five million people.
San Antonio was also a military town, which meant soldiers and their families were regularly moving in and out. Many lived off base and used storage facilities for their belongings.
A sizable Latino population lived in San Antonio, and about half of them were of Mexican descent. Which meant that travel between the US and Mexico was common and expected. The last thing Scorpio wanted was to stand out as he traveled across the border.
He chose Universal Self Storage because it was one of the largest of three dozen options and the online reviews complained about terrible customer service from the staff. Perfect.
He hoped to blend in, not stand out. To that end, he preferred chaos to calm, crowds to solitude, and untrained minimum wage workers to sophisticated high-tech surveillance.
Scorpio replied, “Let’s go directly there. It’s in a well-populated area. We’ll have options.”
“Let me pull over and change out this license plate.” Thorn pulled into a busy shopping center. He backed the panel van into an empty parking space and left the van running with the weak air conditioner full blast.
Thorn had stolen several plates along the way. Each time they’d stopped, he’d located another white panel van and switched plates. They had picked up the last one in Dallas. An old van with a Texas plate pulling into the storage facility should draw less attention.
After he installed the plate, he returned to the driver’s seat, fastened his seat belt, and pulled into the early afternoon traffic.
Universal Self Storage had a line of vehicles headed in and out. The gate was open, and the employee seated in the guard shack was talking on the phone as trucks, vans, and SUVs moved past at a steady pace.
Scorpio rented the unit online. He had completed the application and paid the rent for three years.
“Turn right when we get through the gate and turn left down to row twenty-two,” Scorpio said.
“Ten-four, boss,” Thorn replied.
He turned left as instructed and traveled almost a city block before Scorpio said, “This is it. 2213. Let me get out here because there’ll be no room to open the passenger door inside.”
Thorn waited until Scorpio had landed upright on the pavement. He maneuvered the panel van and reversed into the long, narrow garage. He removed the rear license plate from the van and parked within inches of the back wall.
Scorpio stood on the concrete enjoying the sunshine while Thorn hid the plate inside the van where it could not be seen through the windows.
He snugged the tarp they’d bought in Oklahoma to cover the drugs. He grabbed the bags, the heavy-duty padlock, and locked the doors.
Outside, he said, “What shall I do with the keys to the van?”
Scorpio held out his right hand. “I’ll hold on to those. Secure the padlock and bring me that key as well.”
“Will do,” Thorn replied as he completed the tasks.
Scorpio stood back and examined everything. When he was satisfied that the situation was as secure as possible under the circumstances, he turned to walk toward the exit.
Thorn lumbered alongside, carrying the bags. Cars continued in and out. Other pedestrians were walking between the storage units. The place resembled a bustling airport.
They made slow progress but eventually reached the front gate and walked through to the sidewalk. A bus stop bench was located about half a block down. Scorpio walked toward it, and Thorn followed.
As they approached the bench, a bus headed to a hotel on San Antonio’s Riverwalk arrived. They climbed aboard. Thorn paid the fair from change in his pockets, and they found a seat near the front.
They had not spoken to a soul, which was exactly what Scorpio had hoped for when he’d chosen USS to hold his property. So far, so good.
The ride into downtown was slow but uneventful. When the bus stopped in front of the hotel, Scorpio and Thorn disembarked with the other passengers. Thorn manned the bags.
“Let’s get a room. Grab some sleep. Figure out how we’ll get to Mexico,” Thorn suggested.
Scorpio nodded, but his attention was focused on a small knot of tourists. They were gathered around a woman holding a sign above her head. The sign was printed with the words Latino Tours – Mexico in six-inch black letters. A motor coach pulled up to the curb, and she led a crowd of fifty or so to board.
“Problem solved,” he muttered under his breath.
CHAPTER 36
&
nbsp; Saturday, February 12
4:45 p.m.
San Antonio, Texas
While Thorn slept in the other room, Scorpio checked the Chicago area news sites. He didn’t have to search long. The murder at Mackenzie’s mansion in Lake Forest was the lead story on all stations.
He cocked his head and narrowed his eyes. Something wasn’t right. The volume of media coverage for one murder seemed extreme, particularly in a city where the homicide rate was among the highest in the country.
He zeroed in on one particular broadcast and turned up the audio.
Three head shots were displayed on the screen over the anchor’s left shoulder. Two men and one woman. All three photos were publicity shots from a professional photographer. Scorpio recognized two of the three.
Rex Mackenzie and Babbling Brooke Malone.
The third photo was a beefy, balding Slavic man, identified as her husband, Michael Bavolsky. Like many women, Babbling Brooke didn’t use her husband’s name professionally. But even if she had, Bavolsky’s name meant nothing to Scorpio.
Next was a short video clip of Babbling Brooke walking by her husband’s side, leaving a courthouse in downtown Chicago. Watching her on the screen was different from meeting her back at the mansion. For one thing, she wasn’t talking, which was the good news. The way she carried herself was totally different, too.
Everything that followed was bad news. Sweat broke out on Scorpio’s forehead. He wiped it away with his sleeve.
The anchorman read his prepared text from the prompter. Big Mike Bavolsky was a businessman, rumored to be the head of a local crime family and the subject of multiple police investigations.
Mrs. Bavolsky had been an actress before they married. She’d become a successful real estate agent two years ago.
An actress? Scorpio’s heart began to pound harder in his chest. She wasn’t an actress. She was a porn star. He rewound the video and watched again to be sure. No doubt. None at all.
He’d watched her performance in The Senator, The Waitress, and Her Friends. She was the senator’s dinner date. The only woman in the film who had survived.