by Trace Conger
I couldn’t see his screen, but the look on Bishop’s face told me the application launched. He ripped the drive out of the port and frantically hit his keyboard, trying to turn off whatever program was running. When that didn’t work, he tried to turn off the power, but whatever the FBI installed on the drive had disabled the laptop’s power button. He turned the laptop over, looking for the battery cover, and then realized the battery was internal and he couldn’t get to it without a micro screwdriver. Defeated, he looked up at me, emptied the water bottle onto the laptop’s keyboard and closed the screen.
“Who gave it to you?” he said.
“The FBI.”
Bishop slammed his fist onto the closed laptop, shattering the screen and sending shards of plastic out onto the table.
“You go to them?” he said, standing up.
“No. They picked me up for Banks’ murder. Turns out he was a CI. Investigating you.” I loosened the coffee-cup lid in case Bishop lunged for me. “Did you know he was working you?”
“No,” said Bishop. “But it makes sense. Playing me and the Feds. He had more balls than I thought. You cut a deal with the Feds? Take Banks’ place?”
“Had to,” I said.
“Thought you’d be more loyal than that.” His hands balled into a fist.
“Don’t preach to me about loyalty. What about throwing me to Dunbar?”
Bishop took a step backward. “He found you and you’re still here?”
“Blame Rollo,” I said. “Rollo wasn’t sending Dunbar’s third to Detroit. He kept it for himself. Dunbar didn’t even know anything about your operation. I traded the info for two extra days on the street. Now he wants his backpay. And a hole in your head.”
Bishop took another step back. “He send you to pull the trigger?”
“Yes.”
Bishop eyeballed me, looking for a weapon. “Not the best place to do it,” he said.
“Not here. Not now.”
Bishop ran a finger through the puddle of water that pooled from underneath his laptop. “I guess things just got complicated. We’ll have to see who’s left standing.” He picked up the laptop and dropped it into the trash can a few feet from our table and then turned toward the door. “Assuming they could track this.”
I looked at the can. “Probably.”
Bishop turned to leave.
“Why’d you set me up?” I said.
He looked at his watch and then back at me. “Just business. I knew Dunbar would come looking for the trigger-man, so I gave him you. He gets to do whatever he does to people like you, and I leave town. Slip through the cracks. Didn’t count on you rolling on me to the FBI, though.”
“They’re the least of your problems,” I said. “Dunbar’s going to move a lot faster than the FBI.”
Bishop looked at his watch again. His fists were still clenched. “I’d worry more about yourself.”
I gripped the coffee cup tighter. “I never wanted all this to happen, Bishop. But you backed me into a corner and I didn’t have any other play. I just wanted to make some cash to get back on my feet. Find a few people for you—”
“Find people?” Bishop interrupted. “For fuck sake, you put two bodies in the ground. You’re just as dirty as the rest of us.”
“I needed the money. Thought I could …” I stopped myself before I tipped my hand about my family.
“It doesn’t matter what you thought,” said Bishop. “If Dunbar isn’t going to slit your throat, then I will.”
I squeezed the cup even harder, sending steaming coffee over the rim and onto my thumb and forefinger. “You don’t even know who I am.”
“I’ll know everything about you in twenty-four hours,” said Bishop. “And you’ll be dead in forty-eight.”
“You might want to cut your losses now, Bishop. You start digging into me, and this is only going to get worse for you.”
“After what you just pulled,” said Bishop, pointing to the garbage can, “you expect me to just back off? No fucking way. You’re a dead man. I’ll finish what Dunbar didn’t. Count on it.” He turned and walked out onto Vine Street.
I SET THE COFFEE CUP back onto the table. My hands struggled to snap the lid back onto the rim. I took a few sips and then tossed the cup and lid into the trash bin on top of Bishop’s laptop. The restaurant had cleared out, and for the first time I realized I was the only customer there. The woman behind the lunch counter waved as I left the shop. I walked a little quicker than when I came in.
WALLACE PULLED INTO THE SECURE RV Park and Storage lot fifteen miles north of Cincinnati. He stopped at the iron gates and punched in the keypad code that Bishop gave him. The gate opened with a buzz and a mechanical jerk. Wallace followed Bishop’s directions to Lot 26 and the thirty-six-foot black-and-silver Winnebago motorhome parked there.
Fat Sam met Wallace in front of the luxury motorhome and waved him inside. Wallace walked up the four rubber-coated steps, past the driver and passenger swivel chairs, the walnut cabinets with brass hardware, the two sofas and found Bishop sitting at a round dinette table next to a full kitchen, typing on a desktop computer. Behind the kitchen were a bathroom and a bedroom.
“Nice digs,” said Wallace.
“Dunbar’s got the house covered,” said Bishop. “This is the new office for now.”
Wallace explored the motorhome’s interior. He made it to the bedroom and back, before Little Freddie stepped aboard, followed by Fat Sam.
“Take a seat,” said Bishop. “We got a problem. Mr. Finn went to the Feds. They got to one of my laptops, but I’m not exactly sure what information they pulled from it.”
“Wait a minute,” said Little Freddie. “Why did he go to the Feds? That don’t sound right.”
“We don’t know anything about him,” said Bishop.
Little Freddie’s face tensed. “You brought him in,” he said. “You had to know something about him.”
“My mistake,” said Bishop. “I brought him in to locate Justin Banks and it snowballed. But that doesn’t matter now. What matters is we find him and get rid of him before he has a chance to fuck anything else up. Right now, I need to know everything there is to know about him. His real name. Where he lives. His family. Everything.”
Little Freddie closed his eyes, as if searching his brain. “Mr. Finn got a call from some retirement community on our way back from Columbus,” he said. “His father lives there. Or just left there.”
“Do you remember his name?” said Fat Sam.
“Albert. Didn’t get the last name, but from the call, they said something about him getting kicked out of the place for fighting with a nurse or something. I couldn’t hear the whole conversation.”
“What about the name of the retirement community?” said Fat Sam.
Little Freddie thought for a moment. “Some type of lodge. Or lodge something.”
“The Spring Lodge?” said Bishop, looking up from his computer monitor. “I found a Spring Lodge on Montgomery Road. That it?”
“Maybe. Sounds right.”
Bishop pointed to Wallace and Little Freddie. “Check it out. See if you can ID his father. And get me Mr. Finn’s real name.”
Little Freddie and Wallace squeezed past Fat Sam and traded the motorhome for Little Freddie’s Volvo.
LITTLE FREDDIE PULLED INTO THE Spring Lodge’s parking lot. Four three-story buildings, each with tan siding and white trim, flanked the lot. The buildings, which looked like resident apartments, had wooden decks and white plastic chairs. He parked the car and hid his 9mm under the seat, leaving enough of the handle exposed so he could see it from outside the car.
“Stay here,” said Little Freddie. “I’ll take care of this.”
“What do you mean stay here?”
“Look, it’s easier if I do this on my own.” He pointed to the tattoo on Wallace’s neck. “You’re all tatted up and scary-looking. Make these old people shit themselves more than they already have.”
“Fine, but if you can’t
get the info, I get the next shot.”
“I’ll get it.” Little Freddie got out of the car, walked across the parking lot, passed the designated smoking hut and into the Spring Lodge.
In the middle of the lobby stood a two-story aviary stuffed with finches and parakeets. Small pine boxes stuck to the sides, and seed covered the ground. An old man and woman sat next to a fireplace, paying more attention to the birds than each other. The reception desk was on the left side of the lobby. A three-ring binder was on the desk and next to a sign that read “PLEASE SIGN IN.”
Little Freddie approached the desk, gave the admin a smile and scribbled something into the guest book. He walked down the hall, past a dining room, until he saw an elevator. He called the elevator, and a moment later the door crept open and stayed open for a good twenty seconds. A perfect speed for someone using a walker or a wheelchair, but too slow for someone looking to find information and get the hell out of Heaven’s Waiting Room.
Little Freddie scanned the bulletin board in the elevator. Thick thumbtacks stuck through a menu that featured the week’s meals and notices about senior aerobics programs, church services and flu shots. Another bulletin, this one surrounded by a rainbow-colored balloon border, read “PLEASE WISH MOLLY TINDOM A HAPPY 92ND BIRTHDAY AND ELIZABETH WISE A HAPPY 101ST BIRTHDAY. WAY TO GO LADIES!” Not what Little Freddie was looking for. He exited the elevator on the third floor and found another bulletin board next to a vending machine. This board had another bulletin with a laminated sheet of paper labeled “RESIDENT DIRECTORY.”
“Bingo,” said Little Freddie. He scanned the directory and found two Alberts: Albert Harding, room 207, and Albert Johnson, room 311. He walked down the hall to room 311. A pale-orange star on the closed door announced “ALBERT JOHNSON, MILFORD, OH.” Little Freddie placed his ear against the door. A man coughed over the loud voice of a talk-show host. Little Freddie shook his head, found the stairs at the end of the hall and walked down to the second floor.
He passed orange stars with hometowns indicated on every door along the hall until he arrived at room 207. No orange star. No Albert Harding. Vacant. He tried the door and it opened. Little Freddie slipped inside and found a furnished apartment. Sofa, television, telephone, desk and dining table in one room and a bed and dresser in the other. He opened the dresser drawers. All empty. And the closet. Also empty.
Little Freddie left the room, took the stairs back to the main level and exited through a side door. He’d been in the building for only fifteen minutes. He’d have been out in ten had it not been for the geriatric elevator doors.
He approached the Volvo from the rear and peered through the driver’s window, eyeballing the exposed handle of his 9mm on the floor mat. Still there. He opened the door and Wallace, who had fallen asleep in the passenger seat, jumped, slamming his head into the Volvo’s headliner.
“Morning, Sunshine. His name is Albert Harding.”
“So what does that get us?” said Wallace. “We still don’t know who Mr. Finn is.”
“We will in a few minutes,” said Little Freddie, pulling out his phone.
“Bishop said you didn’t carry one of those,” said Wallace.
“Just got it.” He opened an app on the phone that enabled him to change the outgoing cell phone number. Little Freddie set the outbound area code to 202 and dialed the Spring Lodge’s main number. Two rings later, a woman answered.
“Hello, ma’am. My name is Jonathan Hentz, and I’m calling from the Centers of Medicare and Medicaid Services here in D.C. I’m trying to get in touch with an Albert Harding regarding a Medicare reimbursement claim he submitted. The number I have for him isn’t going through. Do you know how I might get hold of him?”
“One moment, please.”
Little Freddie held the line until another woman clicked through.
“Mr. Hentz? Hello, this is Diane Foster. I’m the director of the Spring Lodge. You’re trying to contact Albert Harding?”
“That’s correct, Ms. Foster. I’m a new caseworker and recently took over Albert’s file, and I need to follow up on a Medicare claim he made about two months ago. Can you tell me how I can get hold of him?”
“Albert is no longer a resident of the Spring Lodge. He moved out a week and a half ago.”
“I see. Do you happen to have a forwarding address or telephone number for him? It’s important that I get this claim straightened out.”
“If you can hold on for a moment, I’ll check his file and let you know what I’ve got.”
“That would be very helpful,” said Little Freddie.
Diane Foster returned to the line. “I checked his file, but we don’t have a forwarding address for him. I do have a phone number for his son, Finn Harding. We released Albert to his son’s care when he moved out. You might try to contact him. He should be able to help.”
“That would be perfect. Can you give me his son’s number?”
Little Freddie jotted down the number on a piece of paper and hung up the phone. He called Bishop a minute later. “His name is Finn Harding,” he said. “Father is Albert Harding.”
Bishop’s voice cackled though the phone’s speaker. “Nice work. Come on back. I’ll see what I can find.”
LITTLE FREDDIE AND WALLACE CLIMBED into the motorhome to find Fat Sam slurping a giant drink and Bishop hanging up a phone call. Bishop handed Wallace a small black notepad and a photograph.
“Here’s everything you need on our friend, Finn Harding,” he said. “Turns out he’s got a kid and a wife.”
“How did you get this?” said Little Freddie.
“Had an associate pull some information from Uncle Sam. He was able to get Finn’s ten-forty form from last year. His wife’s name is Brooke. His daughter is Rebecca. My guy also pulled some information from the DMV. Got a few addresses, but not sure which, if any, is current, but it should be everything you need to get started.”
“Get started on what?” said Wallace.
“Everything you need to put a gun to his head and pull the goddamn trigger. His family, too. Wife, daughter, father. I want ‘em all gone.”
Wallace stared at Little Freddie.
“There a problem?” said Fat Sam. “You said you could handle your shit.”
“No problem,” said Wallace. “Just processing.”
Bishop must have sensed hesitation. “It’s your asses on the line, too,” he said. “I don’t know what Finn gave the Feds, but I guarantee you, if he’s talking, your names came up. Take him out before this gets any worse.”
Wallace and Little Freddie looked at each other again and stepped off the motorhome into the parking lot. Wallace stuffed the photograph in his pocket, flipped through the notepad again, ripped off a page and handed it to Little Freddie. “Here’s Finn’s address from the DMV,” he said. “Why don’t you start there?”
“Where are you going?” said Little Freddie.
“There’s another address here, too. One is probably a previous address. Let’s each take one and see which is current. I’d rather not kick through the wrong door. We find the right one, and we’ll reconvene and take care of this together.”
Little Freddie took the slip of paper. “Agreed,” he said. “I need to head back to my place for a minute. I’ll meet up with you later.”
“You got something more important to do than this?” said Wallace.
“I do now.”
ALBERT TOOK MY SUV TO run errands in town. He planned on camping out at the library and doing some legwork on a new place to live. I told him I needed to take the boat out onto the river and run the engines, since it had been sitting for the last month. I figured the ploy would keep Albert away for most of the day. He wouldn’t want to return to an empty slip nor did he want to be cruising the river.
Bishop didn’t have enough intel to find me at the marina, but I still felt safer on the open water than in the slip. It was never about the engines. I hit the blower and cranked the key. It took a few tries to wake the two sleeping Me
rCruiser outboards, but eventually they turned. I pulled in the bowlines and eased the throttle forward, pushing me out of the slip and through the narrow inlet to the river. The twin engines gurgled under the green surface. When I hit the open river, I buried the throttle and put several miles of wake between my ass and the marina.
The Ohio was quiet for a Thursday morning. Two enormous barges pushed coal up river, and two jet skiers in red life jackets tried jumping nonexistent waves. As I passed by, they turned toward me, crisscrossing my wake to get some air before turning back to the other side of the river.
Next to a strong cup of coffee, the only thing that worked to fire up my brain was the fresh air. I pulled into a cove, dropped anchor and then sat back in my deck chair, sipped my coffee and contemplated how to defend against a three-pronged attack: Bishop, Dunbar and the FBI.
Bishop didn’t have the resources to find me. Little Freddie was a good triggerman, but locating people wasn’t in his skill set. Otherwise, he would have found Banks. If Bishop wanted to find me, he’d have to bring in a specialist, and that would take time. Time was good.
Dunbar’s deal expired today, and I wasn’t going to deliver Bishop or Dunbar’s money. Not yet. I’d be back on top of Dunbar’s to-do list. Not a good place to be. Dunbar said Turtleneck and the woman from the coffee shop would be tailing me, but on my way home I added ten miles in back roads and a tour through two underground parking garages to make sure I was clear to the marina. No tails.
The Feds were busy reviewing whatever they pulled from Bishop’s laptop, but they’d come calling again too. That was a lot of balls in the air, and eventually every ball falls.
One rule for not being found is to keep moving, and right now I moved as fast as a dead man in a parked car. I needed to get out of town, away from Bishop and Dunbar, and figure out how to bring this thing to an end. I’d fabricated enough layers of misinformation to stay hidden for a while, but given enough time, Bishop, Dunbar and the Feds would peel those layers away and find me, or worse, find Albert, Brooke or Becca. I had to get out of Cincinnati.