The Architect of Revenge: A September 11th Novel

by T. Ainsworth

  “Jane”—Merrimac engaged the ploy physicians often used—“There goes my beeper. They’re paging me to surgery. Sounds like it’s urgent.”

  “Oh, can’t you wait? There’s more. Only take a minute.”

  “Hurry, Jane.”

  “I didn’t get a call or letter—nothing! So I’ve been driving to Berwyn, past all those yellow brick bungalows, row after row, and sitting in the post office parking lot for hours with my Mercedes running, waiting for him to come, and he never has! So I don’t know where Wes is. I miss him. I miss Cay too. It’s all so terrible.”

  “We all miss them,” Merrimac interjected. “I don’t know what to do to find him.”

  “You know what I’m going to do?” Bonwitt declared.

  Uh-oh. Just when he thought he was getting rid of her.

  “I’m going to find him myself! I’ll hire a private investigator.”

  “Good idea. Let me know,” Merrimac said, realizing the only way to compete with her was to never stop talking. “Janie, I’ve really got an emergency and need to run. Bye.”

  He’d wait a moment.

  “Thank you for talking with me, Ross.”

  Merrimac hung up. “God almighty! Sweet savior come to me! Wes…maybe you should stay lost!”

  TWELVE

  May 2003

  “Come on, you jerks…” Fred Brosinski barked at the radio.

  The White Socks had struck out in the third inning. Well, they may be down on their luck, but finally he had the perfect job—getting paid since November to wait outside a post office for a black BMW, listening to sports and laying down bets on the ponies.

  What did he care? The big woman with the mushroom-cloud hair and toxic perfume never flinched when she wrote the check while sitting at her polished desk with a view of the lakefront. It was the largest retainer the private investigator had ever received.

  “I’m told you are the best,” Bonwitt said before the ink dried. “My friends—”

  “You heard right,” he agreed, quickly learning to interrupt.

  “Is this enough money to make Dr. Morgan your priority? Because cost is no object.”

  “When it’s somebody you care about”—he was amazed he didn’t laugh—“it shouldn’t be.” He tried not to look too long at the amount. “This should be enough…to get me started.”

  The first thing the Chicago-detective-turned-private-investigator did was swap a bottle of gin at the motor vehicle department for a favor. He learned the BMW was still registered to Morgan at the Lincoln Park address, with its city sticker renewed for two years.

  A quick hello to the new townhouse owners confirmed they’d never seen the BMW or met Morgan, so the car had to be parked somewhere else. Finding it at random would be impossible. Unless Morgan got a ticket—a mistake Brosinski thought improbable—the bureaucratic morass in Chicago would take forever to discover the car was no longer at that address.

  So Brosinski did what Bonwitt had, and idled outside the Berwyn post office waiting for Morgan to pick up his mail. With his expenses paid well beyond their true costs, Bonwitt’s money filled his pockets. He even paid his part-time secretary to stop by so he could run to the bathroom in a nearby bank or drive half a block to get gas. He paid her extra for that, of course—and for other, more personal accommodations—but today her child was sick and home from school, so he was stuck with an expanding bladder.

  A Sox pop fly ended the next inning.

  “Is this fuckin’ guy ever goin’ to get his fuckin’ mail?”

  Parked across the street from the Berwyn post office, he shifted his corpulent backside in the seat of the dingy green Laredo with threadbare tires and stuck his hairy hand out the window to ash his cigar.

  “I’m so fuckin’ sick of sitting my ass here, day and fuckin’ night.” It had been the same routine for months. “Thank the fuckin’ saints it ain’t hot yet.”

  Smoking the cigar down to a stump, he ate another doughnut. Every other day he bought a dozen and kept them next to him for the local police if they pulled up. With a flip of his badge and a Dunkin’ Donut, they’d talk sports and leave, reassuring him they’d call if they saw a black BMW. They never did.

  “Shit.” Brosinski had to take a leak. “Too much coffee.”

  He looked in the back then felt under the driver’s seat.

  “Shit.”

  No bottles. He shook his thermos. It was almost empty. He unscrewed the lid, gulped the last few ounces of coffee, and spread the newspaper over his lap. After unzipping his pants, he held the thermos low between his legs and with a relaxed smug looked out the window.

  “Oh, fuck!”

  The bottle dropped to the floor, the urine spilling on the front mat.

  “Shit!”

  A black BMW turned from a side street and parked in a diagonal space in front of the post office.

  “Fuckin’ A!”

  The license plate belonged to Morgan. He waited for his mark to get out of the car and go inside.

  With the newspaper still covering his fly, Brosinski jammed the Laredo into drive and backed into the street ahead of three moving cars, forcing himself over to the left turn lane. Forcing a U-turn into oncoming traffic, he parked on the passenger’s side of the BMW and zipped up his pants.

  Brosinski kept looking around as he turned on a billfold-sized GPS tracking device and opened his car door.

  He crouched down so his left hand could stick the magnetized little box to the BMW’s undercarriage.

  He pulled himself inside, closed the door, and backed out. As he slowly drove away, he used his rearview mirror to track a dark-haired, bearded man carrying several white envelopes to the car.

  Brosinski laughed. “We are fucking Siamese twins now!”

  Morgan did a fast scan of the periphery, noting vehicle movement and pedestrians. His attention was directed to a green SUV with tinted windows, which seemed to be moving more slowly than the accelerated pace of traffic. He watched the vehicle until it was out of sight.

  He drove to the storage locker and bicycled home in his usual random pattern so he couldn’t be followed.

  That afternoon, the GPS led Brosinski to the storage facility, but neither Morgan nor the BMW was anywhere to be seen. The PI went into the office to talk to the agent.

  “Did you see if my buddy parked his BMW? He was gonna lend that baby to me tonight. My lady friend says I’ll get lucky if she can have a ride.”

  “Not supposed to talk about clients,” was the reply.

  “Oh, come on, friend!” Ten dollars appeared. “Just tell me where my buddy parked it. He ain’t answering his phone and forgot to tell me. See?” Brosinski said, dangling his keys with the Jeep logo hidden. “Got his keys.”

  The man took the money. “Locked up. Can only bust in if the owner says it’s okay, like if they lose a key.”

  “Can you tell me when he left here?”

  “Don’t know. Been working inside all day,” the agent said. “Give me your number and I’ll give it to the manager. That work for you?”

  “Right-o,” said Brosinski. He wrote down a fictitious name and, after the area code, seven random numbers. “Thanks,” he said, glad he only lost ten dollars.

  “Son of a bitch!” Brosinski shouted, looking over his secretary’s shoulder at his computer.

  He had missed the GPS alert that the BMW had moved, and was now parked on the Midway of the University of Chicago.

  “I need to go,” he said as his secretary began wrestling with her halter top. She had come into the office with her hair a different color, wearing tight shorts and her tits falling out. It was all the advertisement he needed. His desk was the most immediate firm surface available.

  Scrambling through the pouring rain without an umbrella, Brosinski raced to the spot where he had illegally parked, turned over the engine, and sped toward the campus.

  “Well, Morgan,” he said, listening to the wipers chafe back and forth, “guess the threat of a little bad weather put
your pampered candy ass back in the seat of that fancy car.”

  This was the break Brosinski needed. Bonwitt insisted on proof he was getting closer to discovering where Morgan was living. More important to Brosinski—he wanted the easy money to keep coming.

  The closer he got to campus, the harder it rained.

  “Hope this fuckin’ shit stops. I need a clear shot of your mug without sticking my camera up your nose.”

  He spotted the BMW parked near the crosswalk that led to the library. He drove past, came around on the opposing street, and stopped the Laredo across the open field about three hundred feet away. The telephoto lens would reach that far without a problem and provide the pictures he needed to clearly identify Morgan.

  “If it just stops fuckin’ raining,” he said, lighting a cigar.

  Brosinski waited all day. Disappointed there were few coeds he could take pictures of, he thought he’d go to Oak Street Beach on Memorial Day to get some shots of the season’s first bikinis.

  “If it doesn’t fuckin’ rain,” he added.

  Morgan’s watch chirped.

  He’d had enough studying for a while. The rest of the material could wait until later.

  When he finished, he put his laptop and folders in the black backpack, took a drink of water from the fountain, and headed down the stairs to the main entrance.

  Morgan paused on the steps. The rain had stopped, making visibility sharper.

  “Know your world…” Tony’s words echoed in his head. “Separate the unusual from the normal chaos.”

  In the periphery of his vision, his attention covertly appraised a distant green contour.

  “Remember,” Tony had said again and again, “coincidences don’t happen…”

  With his backpack in hand, he walked down the steps and continued on the path that ran through the gardens toward his car.

  Through the camera Brosinski watched his progress.

  “Thank you for finally getting your fuckin’ ass out here.” He started taking pictures. “You look like an Arab fuck.” The lens kept clicking. “The fat woman will love these,” he chortled. “How ‘bout a big smile for her?”

  Morgan opened the trunk with his key and took out his bicycle. Brosinski watched him pull out the front tire and lock it into the forks.

  “Now you’re fuckin’ going bike riding?” he said.

  Morgan placed the backpack in the trunk and closed it. He mounted the bicycle and rode away.

  “Shit…” Even though he knew he’d have to wait, Brosinski smiled. “I know you ain’t leaving that hottie car here overnight.”

  Fifteen minutes later, he saw Morgan return and dismount, leaving the bike on the grass while he opened his car trunk. The camera clicked away.

  Morgan saw them walk from the garden to the sidewalk. One man was wearing a red baseball cap over a clump of long dreadlocks that covered broad shoulders, which ascended from a narrow waist and thicker legs. The second man, shorter and more squarely built, held a knife along the closer thigh. Both their strides lurched in synchronized rhythm.

  Morgan stepped on the wet grass to get his bike, keeping them in sight.

  The man with the baseball cap stopped just on the other side of the bicycle.

  “What the hell?” Brosinski said while looking through the lens.

  “Cool ride, motherfucker.”

  The dreadlocks fell forward as the man bent down and peered through the passenger window.

  “Thank you,” said Morgan calmly.

  “Bet you get some finger-licking good pussy with that!”

  The man stood up and put his hand on the bicycle seat.

  “Not recently,” Morgan laughed, placing his left foot on the derailleur.

  “Sweet bike too, asshole.”

  “It’s a good one,” nodded Morgan. His left hand slowly rose to the level of the seat and turned palm up while directing a smile at the man with the knife.

  “You’re like Santa Claus, motherfucker,” he said displaying his gold teeth, “bringing us such good shit, for an early Christm-ass…” The blade flashed. “Give my bro da’ keys to that shit.”

  Brosinski continued taking pictures.

  Morgan kept looking at the second man, but his head tipped away. “Your brother here’s got some cool dreads.”

  The man in the baseball cap leaned over the bike to stare closer at Morgan. The dreadlocks followed.

  “We taken all this shit,” he announced.

  Morgan grinned broadly at the man with the knife.

  Through the camera lens, Brosinski saw the smile—a peculiar facial expression during an armed robbery, and one he hadn’t expected. The automatic shutter kept cycling.

  “By all means, have it,” Morgan said, reaching for the keys with his right hand.

  His foot pushed the bike forward. Grabbing the dreadlocks with his left hand, Morgan yanked the man’s head down and drove his knee into his nose. The man fell backward to the ground.

  Startled, the second man slipped on the wet grass. Before he could regain his balance, Morgan slammed the bicycle on him. The knife metal pinged on the sidewalk as Morgan rammed the BMW key protruding through his fist into the man’s throat. The assailant crumpled.

  Morgan turned to the first man. Blinded by tears and coughing blood, he tried to stand up. Morgan spun, smashing his foot into the side of the man’s face. He dropped cold.

  “Happy holidays, gentlemen,” he said, not even winded.

  Morgan removed the front wheel, put the bike in the car trunk, and drove off.

  “Jesus H. Christ!” shouted Brosinski. An additional thirty-two pictures were all he had taken. He grimaced as he scanned the frames several times. “Only twelve seconds?”

  He looked up and saw that the BMW was gone.

  “How did you know how to do that, Doc?”

  THIRTEEN

  Early June 2003

  Morgan did several quick turns, slipping through side streets, then double parked. Leaving the motor running, he got out and crawled around the car, using his hand to examine the underside of the chassis.

  He touched a small box beneath the passenger door. With a yank, the GPS dropped into his hand.

  As he left the library, he had seen the Laredo. There was nothing extraordinary about it except that it was old, green, dirty—and had tinted windows. A quick circuitous bike ride confirmed that the last number on the rear license plate was the same as the one that day in Berwyn.

  That meant he was tagged at the post office, and whoever was driving the Laredo already knew about the storage garage. The BMW could never go back there again.

  Morgan shut off the little box and drove deeper into the South side, finally backing into a shallow dead-end alley. He cracked the window and turned off the motor to wait until rush-hour traffic was thicker.

  “Thanks, guys for your help today,” Morgan said in a taciturn whisper, as if the window might broadcast his secrets. Tony and Isaac were good teachers.

  His hand toyed with the GPS.

  “Who’s doing this?” he wondered.

  The list was short, and Morgan suspected Janie was at the top. Tenacious in her quests, it would be just like her to hire someone to find him. Once discovered, Janie would come knocking.

  “You’re in for disappointment,” he said.

  The BMW’s engine came to life. He drove to a public garage several miles from his home, left his car, and biked back.

  That evening, a local TV station reported the special-interest story about two men who were seriously injured on the University of Chicago campus. Although their tattoos suggested they were gang members, the only man who could speak told the female reporter that he and his friend had just left church and were walking home when they were confronted by a large group of students who, without reason, mugged them.

  Brosinski roared with laughter. “You have no idea, your moronic bitch!” he said at the television. He looked at the pictures again on his computer.

  “Fuck, Morga
n!” he said. “That’s what I call taking out the trash.”

  His demeanor changed as he opened another beer. There hadn’t been a GPS signal the rest of the day.

  “Damn batteries must have slipped off the contacts,” he said. “Irregardless, I’ll still find your ass.”

  Morgan rode his bike to a large parking garage just off Michigan Avenue, locked it in a rack and then walked up to the building’s top floor. He turned on the GPS. After jiggling it for several minutes, he shut it off and went back to the street to wait.

  “Why did that damn GPS just start working? Try missing those fuckin’ potholes, Morgan!” Brosinski groaned as the email message came through in his office. “And what the fuck are you shopping for there?”

  He grabbed the keys to the Laredo.

  “I’ll catch your ass if it kills me.”

  Brosinski sped to the parking garage, snagged the ticket, and slowly drove behind the rows of automobiles. Morgan’s black BMW wasn’t there. A torrent of profanity escaped through his open window and was heard by two women walking to their car. Thinking the comment was meant for them, they turned and in unison gave him the finger.

  “You’d be so lucky,” he yelled, accelerating toward the exit ramp.

  Frustrated, Brosinski started driving the Rogers Park neighborhoods and waiting in delivery zones near intersections. If Morgan had garaged the car here, it made sense he lived somewhere nearby. His instincts were confirmed when one afternoon Morgan stopped beside the Laredo, leaned his bicycle against a wall and walked into a convenience store as the detective tried to slide down in his seat. When Morgan emerged, he stood a few feet from the front bumper drinking a pint of milk.

  “Got you,” Brosinski whispered.