Cut and Run

by Ridley Pearson

  The cop called him back twenty minutes later after Larson finished the takeout and was working on a second cup of coffee. A patrol had spotted Salvo’s ride outside Guneros’s Pizzeria, a joint that Larson knew because it served the best tapas in town.

  The salsa music seemed in direct conflict with the aroma of Bolognese sauce. Larson chatted up the hostess, slipped her a twenty along with the disposable camera, and gave her specific instructions. He then worked his way through the cluster of overly tall cocktail tables and chairs toward the back. The music changed to percussive Moroccan. He recognized Salvo from the simple description supplied him by Frank Cunetto.

  Salvo wore his arrogance in the form of an overly starched, oversized yellow collar poking out of a black leather jacket unzipped to below the table. A thick gold chain showed through a forest of chest hair. His watch had to weigh a couple of pounds. He had the lazy eyes of some killers Larson had interviewed and the broken nose of someone who liked to use his fists, but something about him said more bark than bite. Dino also looked younger than he’d hoped. He wore his black hair slicked back with too much mousse. It shined in the overhead lights.

  One small plate contained rolled dolmas, another, some kind of dumpling, and a third, shish kebab. The dipping bowl’s pool of black ink might have been responsible for the smell of cinnamon.

  Without invitation, Larson sat down across from Salvo. He placed his identification wallet down next to the man’s wineglass and left it there long enough for Salvo to read it. He then slipped it back into his pocket, making sure that in the process Salvo would see he was packing.

  “You like dolmas?” Salvo asked, without so much as a flinch. “Best dolmas in the city, right here.”

  “Pass,” Larson said, “Dino.”

  Dino remained impassive.

  “We both know you made a phone call from Cunetto’s, and we both know who it was to, and that it came at the request of someone else like you: someone not worth my time.”

  “If you don’t like tapas, they do a pretty fair toasted ravioli as well.”

  “There are jobs worth taking, and there are jobs that aren’t worth taking, and this one falls into the latter category. You want to stay as far away from this one as possible. And all your friends do, too. You were put up to this because you’re expendable, Dino. Plain and simple. What you want to do is play this smart and let the Romeros do their own business.”

  Dino wanted to think he was good at this, but with mention of the Romeros his eyes fluttered. Larson decided he hadn’t known who was behind the job he’d carried out. Just good money for placing a phone call.

  “They told you what to say,” Larson said. “And chances are a man of limited intelligence, such as yourself, probably was dumb enough to write it down. And that means you threw a scrap of paper away, doesn’t it, Dino? You want to think about that. Are we going to find it in a car, in a trash can at Cunetto’s, tossed out on the street between here and there? It’s not still in your pocket, is it? ’Cause that could be really embarrassing.”

  The man’s blinking and the tongue working told Larson he’d struck a nerve.

  “The best thing you can do right now is get the word out that there’s federal heat on jobs coming from out of town. Even these small ones, like making a phone call. Big heat. Do yourself a favor, and take the money you made on that call and take a long vacation. Anyone found cooperating with these people will be looking at accessory charges-child kidnapping. Federal charges, federal courts, federal prison. It took us less than ninety minutes to find you, Dino. You need to do a lot better next time.”

  All this served a simple strategy. If Larson could force the Romeros to negotiate directly with Hope, he had a chance of locating the child. But it was highly unlikely his talking tough would have much effect-there were plenty of Dinos waiting in line.

  He lowered his voice, leaned in across the table, and stole a dolma. He ate it as he talked, the food blurring his words. “Whoever’s the first to provide information that connects to the Romeros is going to win a free Get Out of Jail pass as well as the daily number.” Larson wasn’t being facetious. State lotteries had been used for years to pay off informants. Ten thousand here, five thousand there-a low-level winning ticket in hand for all to see so there were no questions asked about where the money came from.

  “You like the dolmas?” he repeated.

  Larson’s BlackBerry rang. He finished chewing, swallowed, and as he took the call, he signaled the young hostess who carried his twenty.

  He was told Salvo’s cell phone had received a call two hours earlier from a pay phone in Plano, Texas. Another evidentiary dead end, no doubt, but Salvo didn’t need to know that. He hung up and faced Salvo.

  “So now I hear that the call that was made to you-the one giving you this job-came from Plano, Texas.” This much was the truth; the next part Larson invented. “We picked up your boy about a half hour ago.”

  As the hostess arrived, Larson scooted his chair around right next to Salvo, who was mid-bite. He threw his arm around the man’s shoulders and then tossed his head back and said, “Cheese.”

  She clicked off two flash shots before Dino Salvo had the good sense to break the embrace. Larson stood and took the camera before Salvo was to his feet. Twenty dollars well spent.

  “How long will it take LL to identify me in that shot?” Larson asked Salvo. “How about the Romeros? How long to figure you’re hanging with federal heat?”

  Concern creased Salvo’s brow. Larson knew he’d hit a nerve.

  The hostess moved off, sensing the trouble she’d caused. Several nearby patrons stopped eating and watched.

  “How much of a scene you want to make, Dino? How deep do you want to wade into this?”

  “LL has nothing to do with this.”

  “Then you’ll have no problem explaining to him a wave of new charges filed against him and the five thousand dollars-a cash deposit-that moved through your bank account the day after this picture was taken.”

  “What five grand?” Dino Salvo wasn’t the fastest on the uptake.

  Loyalty was the only currency for guys like him. No matter what excuses he might make for the photograph, its very existence would plant seeds of doubt. Larson might not be able to pull off the money stunt, but Dino couldn’t be sure of that.

  Salvo told the waitress to leave his food as he followed Larson out of the restaurant. For a moment Larson believed the man stupid enough to start a fight. But as it turned out, he’d only sought to distance himself from the ears inside. Amid thick humidity and the distant hum of traffic, Salvo lowered his voice and warned, “You don’t want to fuck with me.”

  “I’m already fucking with you, Dino. Gimme a break. You get the word out, and you get lost, and I’ll stop fucking with you. Make another phone call for whoever paid you to make that phone call, and you’ll regret it for twelve to twenty.” Larson pointed at the man’s yellow shirt. “You got a little spot there. Looks like sauce, maybe.”

  He turned his back on the man and walked away, but used a parked car’s outside mirror to see Salvo already scratching frantically at the stain.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  “This is not an official review,” Scott Rotem began. He faced Deputy Marshal Gilla Geldwig, an unusually attractive woman with dark, brooding features and haunting green eyes. Her body, a bit big and clunky by femme fatale standards, was nonetheless full at the top and lean in the leg, giving her an imbalanced look that would not have photographed well, but worked fine when she was sitting down, as she was now. It was her face, though, her eyes, that grabbed you, so Rotem tried his best not to look directly into her eyes, not to cave in to the compelling pull. He needed this interview-this interrogation-to be successful. For the sake of Markowitz, Laena, and his own career. Five protected witnesses had been executed in the past twenty-four hours. The bloodbath appeared to have started. Thousands of others were at stake. He hated her for what she represented.

  It was dark outsid
e now. Traffic on Pennsylvania Avenue slowed to a crawl, seen as two long streams of red and white lights from the one-window conference room.

  They shared the oval table, Rotem sitting across from Geldwig, and to his left, Assistant United States Attorney Tina Wank, who possessed a mannequin’s complexion and body type that complemented her somewhat nervous disposition.

  “Do I need my representative present?” Geldwig asked.

  “It’s certainly your right to make such a request. You tell me: Do you need a rep present?”

  “Not if there’s a deal to be made beforehand.”

  “You’ve been carrying on an affair with Assistant Marshal Bob Mosley,” Rotem said.

  “Sue me.” She contained her body language well but could not prevent the scarlet blush that moved up from her fashionable suit’s shirt collar to its hiding place behind her ears.

  “Mosley came clean earlier this morning, and we’ve had the day to review your own activities, assignments, and your overall participation within the Service. You’re a hard worker. You moved around a lot within WITSEC. Now you’re here. You’ve moved through the ranks surprisingly quickly.”

  “All legitimate promotions.”

  “I’m sure.”

  Tina, the attorney, took notes, her pen working furiously so that it looked as if she were a stenographer.

  “What’s your point?”

  “Ms. Geldwig, this may have started out as some kind of game to you. I’m not sure. Maybe it was for the money, because God knows we’d all like more in this job. Maybe it was the secrecy or the joy of feeling so damn important to someone. Or maybe they-and in this case I’m specifically talking about the Romero syndicate-had collected some piece of information that they could use against you. Hold over you. Your sex life, your vices, your spending habits, your family. I mention these only because they are the most commonly seen in cases like this.”

  “Cases like what?” She fumbled in her clutch purse and came out with a delicate handkerchief that she used to dab at her nose, more nervous habit than necessity.

  “Bob Mosley remembers everything he told you. Everything you asked.”

  For Rotem, the inconceivable thing in this case was that a guy like Mosley would ever believe a woman such as this could fall for him in the first place. He’d now have twenty to thirty years to think about it, and so would Ms. Geldwig, thanks to his testimony. “What you seem to be missing in this, Deputy Marshal Geldwig, is that Mosley’s told us everything. The longer you play the naïf, the less time you have to get on the other side of this and help yourself.”

  Finally Wank joined the discussion. “You’ve been with Fugitive Apprehension for a little over three months, Ms. Geldwig. Perhaps you can explain what was behind your decision to transfer.”

  When she failed to answer, Rotem did it for her. “WITSEC might be considered the more prestigious, more interesting employment. And yet you transferred over to the FATF.”

  “I wanted away from Mosley. Besides, I think you’re wrong, sir. This is where the action is.”

  “We know for a fact that Mosley told you everything there is to know about Leopold Markowitz and what came to be known as Laena,” Rotem said. “Do you know what Laena means, Deputy Geldwig? Where the term came from?”

  She cleared her throat. “It’s Latin or Greek for ‘cloak,’ as I recall.”

  Rotem now forced himself to lock eyes with her. “And you’ve removed that cloak, haven’t you?” He avoided mention of the recent executions-she’d lawyer up given that information. “Exposed several thousand lives to possible execution. And all for what, Ms. Geldwig? The seven hundred thousand dollars in commercial real estate? The time-share in Paris? We know about those, Ms. Geldwig, and we’ll find out more. We’ve seized all your property, all your assets-or rather, Ms. Wank has. As of this moment you don’t have two nickels to rub together. Are you sure you don’t want to talk?”

  “RICO,” the attorney said.

  “We own you. And you’ve run out of time to explain yourself.”

  A knock on the door was followed by an aide poking his head inside. It had to be important.

  Rotem stood, walked around the table, and passed close to Geldwig. She smelled darkly sweet and earthy, a perfume designed to engorge a man. The effect lingered as Rotem reached his aide, who apologized for the interruption.

  The aide, a young man in his late twenties, handed him a sheaf of papers. “Her movement through the network, sir. What files she accessed. I highlighted the few of interest.”

  Rotem scanned down the list of computer network addresses, all directories and files that Geldwig had accessed in the past week.

  The aide said, “We can go back further as time allows.”

  Rotem flipped pages, waiting for the yellow highlight. On page four his thumb found the line and his eyes carried over.

  “What the hell? What is this, utilities for what?”

  “She’d been surfing the utility records-the billing records, sir-for our various safe houses. A change in utility consumption.”

  “Indicates activity at a particular safe house.” Rotem jumped ahead to what this meant, but restrained himself, needing to confirm his suspicions before sounding the alarm. “And these particular billing records?” he asked.

  “Are for the Orchard House, sir. But I checked with WITSEC and they don’t have anyone assigned to the Orchard House at present.” The young man noticed Rotem’s sudden pallor. “Or do they?”

  Rotem swallowed dryly. “Get Larson on the phone. Now. Right now! You don’t send him an e-mail, you don’t leave him a message, you get him on the phone. I need to speak to him right now.”

  He glanced back at the closed door to the conference room, thinking a gun to the head would serve the taxpayers far better where Geldwig was concerned.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Paolo drove past the farmhouse and kept right on going. At first glance, his guess was that the info they’d been given was bad. From what he’d seen of the house, pushed back off the road and in a cluster of barren trees, it was decrepit and hardly the kind of place the government would use as a safe house. The feds leaned more toward motels and hotels, military facilities and public housing, not a neglected farmhouse, isolated and out in the middle of nowhere. Defending such a place would require a minimum of two, probably more like four to six, which again struck him as far too rich for federal law enforcement.

  He also couldn’t be sure it would be the same mark as he was after, but the assignment had been handed to him, passed along to Philippe by a supposedly reliable source, and he had to stick with it. How many witnesses in and around St. Louis could they be protecting on a given day? He followed the map, making a full circle of the area, driving close to five miles before pulling around and back up the steep hill again, and passing the same rock outcropping that looked this time like some sort of face: part human, part devil.

  He’d left Penny behind in the motel, her hands taped behind her back, her ankles, knees, and thighs taped around her pants to keep her legs straight, the gag in place. He’d left her on a towel in the bottom of the dry bathtub with the sink water running, and the television in the other room left fairly loud. With the removal of four screws he’d reversed the bathroom door’s knobs and lock, so that it now locked from the outside. Even if the kid got free-impossible, he thought, though he didn’t put much past a child-she was imprisoned.

  He slowed and studied the surrounding property, held in the evening dusk as if sprinkled with fireplace ash. He turned the car up a muddy, rut-covered track, stopped at a rusted metal gate, climbed out, and swung it open. The air smelled different here, the way really cold water from a bottle tasted more like melted snow than tap water. Once through the gate, he backed up and parked, tucking the car in alongside a hedgerow of overgrown, weedy trees and shrubs. From here, the track rose into the spines of gnarly, barren apple trees that cast a chill in the air, forewarning winter’s approach. The hill rose up to a rocky queen’s crown
, the swells of the orchard below rolling, once up and then back down, before slipping left toward a crumbling fence line in disrepair, and just beyond, leveling to nearly flat ground and the fading farmhouse, now only a suggestion in the dwindling light. Paolo charted a course through the orchard to the house, committing it to memory so that he could return to the car by one of two different routes.

  He spotted one tree among all the trees that would serve well as his lookout. The apple trees had been trimmed and cut back for many years, keeping them full and at a height convenient to harvest. He couldn’t tell if they were alive or dead-they looked as inert as gravestones-but they’d lost that look of being tended to.

  He crept carefully through the separating rows, the trees as regimented as soldiers, starting and stopping, alert for the slightest sound, change of color, shift of light or shape. Once into the tree, he climbed to the small branches, from where he could see the gray geometry of the farmhouse. Farther to his right and slightly down a hill, a large milking shed with a metal roof bisected a free-stacked stone wall, jutting into a fallow field thick with grass. The hint of an approaching moon warmed the horizon with a yellowish glow, seen through the gray haze of ground fog, just lifting out of the ground as if sucked by the retreating light.

  Paolo waited, as was his way. Worked alone, as he and the Romeros preferred it. If he’d been trained in anything, it was patience. He could sit immobile for hours, never bothered by stiff joints or the urge to do something. Ten minutes passed before he detected the red pulsing light. In another season, another color, he might have mistaken it for a lightning bug, but well into October, the evening air chill, its perfectly timed flashing meant electronics, more than likely a cell phone or radio. It was clipped at a height that made sense for a belt. A waist. A guard.

  He warmed with anticipation, the falling temperature meaning nothing to him. The information had been good: The dilapidated farmhouse might indeed be a safe house, given that he’d now spotted a patrol. But police and federal agents were like termites-for every one you saw there could be many more in the nest. Overcoming them one at a time presented the kind of challenge Paolo lived for. Subterfuge, stealth, baiting, razor work-all his skills would be required here.