Scar Tissue (Mr. Finn Book 2)

by Trace Conger

  I stared at Connor, and he stared back. I was hesitant to bring him in on the Banker but I needed the help, and he was all I had at the moment. I was also eager to get started, and since his past didn’t have a direct impact on the Banker’s whereabouts, it could wait.

  “Before this is over, I want the whole story,” I said.

  “And you’ll get it. You’ve got my word.”

  I grabbed my messenger bag and set on the kitchen chair. “Let’s go over what we know,” I said. “Holbrook told me that he and the Banker had three guidelines. The money was in cash, the Banker moved the cash at least once per day, and the cash had to be accessible within thirty minutes.” I pulled a 1983 State Farm road atlas, which was the size of a dining room placemat, from my bag and plunked it onto the table. Connor’s wide eyes told me it had been awhile since he’d seen one.

  “Looks like the one dad used to keep in the back of that light blue station wagon,” he said. “The one we always took on vacations as kids.”

  “Where do you think I got this one?” I thumbed through the pages. “I’ve had it stashed in the back of my closet for years. Assuming the cities haven’t moved since ’83.”

  I opened the atlas to the Indiana section. The first page showed the entire Hoosier State with its network of red and blue highways and interstates that resembled the human circulatory system. The second page was divided into two sections. The top half of the page was a map of Indianapolis and the surrounding area. The bottom of the page was divided between similar maps of Fort Wayne and Evansville.

  I grabbed a pen and marked the location of Greenwood, Indiana, the location of Holbrook’s farm, which was about 15 miles south of Indianapolis. Then I swiped a five-dollar bill from my wallet, laid it on the map’s bar scale, and ticked off the 30-mile mark. I placed the corner of the bill on the black dot indicating the city of Greenwood, and used the mark I’d made to transfer a 30-mile radius around the city.

  “There’s our target area,” I said. “If the Banker can deliver Holbrook’s cash within 30 minutes, he has to be operating somewhere within the circle.”

  “If he hasn’t fled,” said Connor. “If he’s on the run, the radius isn’t going to mean much.”

  “It’s been a week, so if he’s still alive, you’re right, he’s probably long gone.” I tapped the pen inside the circle. “But his identity is still somewhere in this circle. Once we can identify him, we can start to track him.”

  Connor and I had been so focused on the map in front of us that we hadn’t seen Albert emerge from his bedroom. It wasn’t until he clanked the coffee pot against a ceramic mug that I realized he’d joined us.

  “Look at you two,” said Albert. “Back together again.” He took a seat, stared at the map as if he recognized it, and took a sip. “So, what-a-we got?”

  “So far, we got a circle on a shitty atlas,” said Connor.

  “And a phone number,” I said. “But it’s not going to give us much.”

  Usually a phone number was gold. I could toss it into a reverse lookup database and find a name or go through the phone company and get a billing address, but Holbrook said the number changed every few weeks, which meant the Banker was using a burner phone. Burner phones are a bitch to track, because they’re cheap, disposable, pre-paid phones with dedicated numbers. I can still run the number through a reverse look-up system, but the best I could do is get a carrier, not an individual name, and even then, the carrier name might not be accurate.

  “Is he using a burner?” said Connor.

  I nodded. “According to Holbrook, the Banker was buying and tossing phones every few weeks to stay hidden.”

  “Thanks to crappy TV crime dramas, everyone thinks burners are untraceable,” said Connor. “But that’s not true.”

  I nodded again. “Of course without a subpoena or a contact at the NSA, we’re not going to get far.”

  “You could canvas the local phone stores and see if they recognize anyone who’s buying a new phone every few weeks. Pretty odd behavior.” Connor thought for a moment. “But there’s got to be more than a hundred mobile phone retailers in Indy and he’s probably going out of town to buy them. Or he’s getting them online.”

  “What else you got?” said Albert.

  I pulled the four postcards that Holbrook gave me from my bag and tossed them onto the kitchen table. “After the Banker switches phone numbers, he passes the new number to Holbrook using postcards.”

  Connor flipped through the postcards. “They’re all postmarked in Indy, so your radius fits.” He studied the postcards again. “I’ve got contacts at a few wireless carriers, so I might be able to get someone to triangulate the numbers. It’s not a slam dunk, but it’s a start.”

  My father stood up and slapped me and Connor on our shoulders.

  “Glad to see the Bandit and the Snowman back together again,” he said, and then walked toward his bedroom.

  “How quickly do you need this done?” said Connor.

  “The quicker, the better,” I said.

  “Let me see what I can dig up through my network. Give me twenty-four hours and I’ll let you know what I find.”

  Connor stood up to leave.

  “Where you going? Thought we were in this together?”

  “We are,” said Connor slipping on his jacket. “But let’s not waste our time until we’ve got a clear trail to walk down. Twenty-four hours isn’t going to kill you.” He opened the door and stepped out, but then turned back, the crisp morning air blowing into the living room from the breezeway. “Why are you looking for this guy anyway?”

  I explained the details.

  “Why doesn’t this Daryl gent find your banker himself? It’s his mess.”

  “Daryl couldn’t find his dick in the shower with a GPS and a magnifying glass. I’m doing this more for Brooke and Becca than anything else. I don’t like Daryl, but I can’t let him go down like this.”

  “You’re a bigger man than me. I’m not sure I could bring myself to help someone who’s banging my wife.”

  “Ex-wife.”

  He started to close the door.

  “These aren’t small time stick-up kids,” I said. “They’re dangerous people, Connor.”

  “I’d hope so. Wouldn’t want to drive all the way from Beantown for something you could handle yourself.” He winked and closed the door behind him.

  I didn’t like sitting around and doing nothing, but Connor was right; there was no reason to spin our wheels until we had something definite on the burner phone. It’s like being lost in the woods. Better to orient yourself and find your bearings before starting your hike out. Otherwise, you start off in the wrong direction and end up deeper in the woods, worse off than when you started. The Banker’s phone numbers were the only lead I had, so if it meant waiting twenty-four hours for my next breadcrumb, so be it.

  Twenty Two

  THE BLACK PICKUP TRUCK EASED into the parking lot of Palmer’s Restaurant and Grocery on Route 191 in Meddybemps, Maine. The gravel popped under the truck’s weight. William parked the truck in front of the store. Peter had jumped out of the bed and opened the restaurant’s front door before William killed the engine. Ollie stepped out of the passenger side and all three men walked into the building.

  “How do you know he’ll be here?” said Peter.

  “Old shit is always here,” said Ollie tucking the revolver into his waistband under his shirt.

  Meddybemps, Maine had two watering holes. One was the 6,700-acre lake, and the other was Palmer’s Restaurant and Grocery. Part sundry and part bar, Palmer’s was the place to find townies trading tales of fishing, logging, and anything else that passed the time, all under the watchful eye of Jack Palmer, the owner, cook, bartender, waiter, and grocery clerk.

  Ollie and his boys dismissed the grocery side of the building and stepped into the restaurant side. They walked past the several booths, past the long pine bar, and approached the man playing pool in the red-and-black flannel shirt and worn
jeans.

  “Thought I’d find you here,” said Ollie.

  “Hello Ollie,” said Mitch Skinner wrapping both hands around his pool cue. “Figure you ain’t here to play pool.”

  “Got that right. You and me got some things to work out, Mitch.” Ollie scanned the room. “I don’t guess Albert Harding’s with you?”

  “Nope. Long gone. Hasn’t been back this way in three years or so.”

  “I should ‘a guessed that piece ‘a shit would have turned tail and run. Course, now you’re probably wishin’ you’d done the same.”

  “I’m not much for running,” said Mitch. “Too old for that shit.”

  Peter and William flanked Mitch from the side, trapping him between two pool tables.

  Jack Palmer, a lanky man in his late fifties, emerged from a side storage room carrying a box of hamburger buns. He stopped, arched his head forward and looked at Ollie through crooked glasses.

  “Been awhile since I seen you in here, Ollie,” said Jack.

  “Yep. Been about three years, Jack.” Ollie nodded at Mitch. “Thanks to this piece ‘a shit here.”

  “Can I get you and your boys something to eat?” Jack walked passed Ollie and set the cardboard box on the bar. “Got a fresh shipment of clams. Fry ‘em up real good for ya.”

  “No thanks. We’re not here to eat. Just came in to see Mitch about something.”

  “All right. Let me know if you change your mind.” Jack picked up the box and moved it to the floor behind the bar.

  Ollie leaned over the pool table, grabbed the white cue ball, and slammed it into the corner pocket. “Game’s over, Mitch. Time for you to come with us.”

  Peter and William each grabbed hold of Mitch’s arms and pulled him out from behind the pool table. Mitch reached for the table, but William slammed a fist into his side, then kicked his legs out from under him, while Peter dragged him toward the front of the restaurant.

  “Let’s go have a talk about a boat,” said Ollie. “And your house on Lombard.”

  “I got nothing to say to you, Ollie.” Mitch struggled against the four arms that pulled him across the floor. “And you’re not getting the house.”

  “What you did ain’t right, Mitch. Three fucking years. A guy my age can’t part with that kind of time.”

  “Maybe not,” said a voice. “But I can’t let you take him out of here like this.”

  Ollie turned to find Jack Palmer standing behind the bar, his right eye sighting down the barrel of a rifle.

  “This don’t concern you, Jack,” said Ollie.

  “You come in here and try to drag a man out of my bar? You’re damn right it concerns me.”

  “You need to think about what you’re doing here,” said Ollie. “You want to risk your neck for this asshole?”

  “Some men are worth standing up for,” said Jack. “I don’t know what score you got to settle, but he ain’t going out like this.”

  Ollie slipped his right hand behind his back.

  “Don’t do it, Ollie. I seen that piece stuffed in your pants. Now put those hands out front or I’ll put two in you.”

  “You think you can hit us with a rifle this close?” said William.

  “Seen him take out a black bear closer than this,” said Mitch finding his footing.

  “I ain’t foolin’, Ollie.” Jack nodded toward the wall behind them. “I need to replace that paneling anyway. Don’t matter to me if there’s blood on it.”

  “All right,” said Ollie raising his hands in front of him. “We’re goin’, Jack.”

  Mitch yanked his arms out of the brothers’ grip and stepped back toward the bar. He tucked his shirt back into his jeans as Ollie, William, and Peter stepped out into the parking lot.

  “Thanks my friend,” said Mitch. “I owe you one.”

  “You owe me a shit-ton more than that,” said Jack stepping to the window to watch the pickup pull out of the lot. He set the rifle back behind the bar. “You better handle your shit, Mitch. I can’t stand up to Ollie forever. And he’ll be back.”

  “I’d wager you’re right.” Mitch thought for a moment. “Can I borrow that phone of yours?”

  Jack ducked down, pulled a black rotary telephone from underneath the bar, and handed it to Mitch.

  Mitch snatched his wallet from his rear pocket, opened it, and searched through the contents. He slipped a torn piece of paper from behind a credit card, lifted the receiver, and dialed.

  TWELVE-HUNDRED MILES AWAY, ALBERT Harding answered the phone in his apartment.

  “Albert? This is Mitch Skinner. We need to talk.”

  “Goddammit.” Albert shook his head. “What part of don’t call me again didn’t you understand?”

  “Remember that thing we had a few years ago? Well, it’s back. And it’s really pissed off.” Mitch paused. “How quickly can you get your old ass up here?”

  Albert drew in a deep breath. “I’m going to need some time.”

  “Some time? Figured you might want to move a little faster than that.”

  “Trains only run up there about once or twice a week. Keep your head down and I’ll get there when I can.”

  “Fine,” said Mitch. “You might want to bring that son of yours. The younger one. We’re gonna need all the help we can get. Plus he owes me for gettin’ him outta some trouble.”

  “I’ll be there, but my boy’s wrapped up in his own problems. We’re gonna have to settle this one ourselves. Be ready to pick me up at the train station in Portland. I’ll call you with the arrival information once I buy the ticket.”

  Twenty Three

  THE NEXT MORNING, I WAS two cups into my daily coffee regimen when Connor knocked on the door. He stepped in and handed me his jacket and a green file folder.

  “You’re going to owe me, little brother.”

  “How’s that?” I tossed the jacket onto the back of a chair and opened the folder. Inside were four sheets of paper stapled together. They showed a map of Indianapolis with various points plotted across it. Each point had a number, which corresponded with a chart at the bottom of the page that included a time in fifteen minute increments. Each page showed data for a different day.

  “Turns out your boy’s burner phone is registered with Verizon. I had them run all the numbers, but they only had data for the last one.” He tapped the stack with his finger. “That’s a triangulation report for the phone’s activity.”

  Most mobile devices have a GPS-enabled chip, which makes it easy for users to get location-specific information like weather and driving directions. These chips also mean mobile phone companies and law enforcement agencies can pinpoint a device’s exact location within a couple of feet. There are a ton of criminals rotting away in prison because they were too stupid to leave their cell phones at home when they murdered someone. It’s hard for a suspect to talk their way out of a long prison sentence when a technology expert can place their cell phone at the crime scene within the time-of-death window.

  Burner phones don’t have GPS capability. That’s one of the reasons why they’re so popular with people like the Banker. Determining the device’s exact location is impossible, which comes in handy when you don’t want to be found. But, while it’s impossible to locate the phone via GPS, it is possible to triangulate the device’s approximate location by identifying which towers it’s communicating with and then measuring the signal strength and time lag between the device and the towers.

  Triangulation is helpful, but far from exact. The accuracy of the location depends on how many cell towers are near the device. One cell tower and you don’t get much, but I got lucky with the Banker. The report Connor pulled triangulated his position off three towers to within three-quarters of a square mile. That’s still far from perfect, but by comparing his cell phone’s approximate location with the time of the triangulation, we could identify the general location where the Banker spent his time.

  “You wanna share how you got this?” I said flipping through the stapled pages.


  “I’ve got a few contacts in Boston who have ins with the carriers. Not that difficult to find someone making 30K a year who’s willing to run a report for a nice quarterly bonus. It’s not exact, but it’ll get us started.”

  “What do I owe you? For the quarterly bonus?”

  “Nothing,” said Connor. “Consider it reparations for the Bishop job.”

  “This is a huge help.” I went back to the atlas weighing down the kitchen table, flipped it open to the Indianapolis page, and compared it with the report. “Let’s find this bastard.”

  For the next several minutes I transferred the location markers from the triangulation map Connor provided to my atlas. I used the time stamps on the grid and the Banker’s approximate cell phone location to plot his route on my map of Indianapolis. It was like playing dot to dot, and when I finished, I had a snapshot of where the Banker was every fifteen minutes over a four-day period two weeks ago. After I was finished plotting, I slid the atlas over to Connor.

  “Well, look at that,” he said tracing my blue ink lines with his finger. “He’s circling Indianapolis on I-465.”

  I tapped the atlas. “He also spending time on I-65, I-74, and I-70, but it looks like most his day is on 465.”

  Connor reviewed the triangulation report and then turned back to the atlas. “It’s the same route, every day. Almost down to the minute.”

  Most people travel the same routes every day, usually around the same time. They go to an office and stay there, then they go home. Starts and stops. If someone could ping my cell phone they’d find me at my apartment, Winans Coffee, and a few points in between. Our routines don’t change that much, except for maybe on the weekends. The difference with the Banker is that he appeared to be in constant motion. And the only people who travel like that are long-haul truck drivers and marathon runners. Normal people have a destination, the Banker didn’t. The report showed him traveling aimlessly around the city in the same pattern.

  Connor traced the route again. “How much did you say the Banker was transporting?”