by Tom Secret
“And I presume none of you has found anyone with surplus stock?”
“We’ve been trying, but—”
Randall raised his hand. “What about the Westside gang? Can they help?”
Snyderman shook his head. “I called Piest this morning. He said they’re flat out from filling a container of their own, but they can assist with the Christmas order if need be.”
“You told him about it?”
“I thought it best to ensure their preparedness.” Snyderman moved, casting Randall into shadow.
Randall felt his nostrils flare. “And Walton’s certain there isn’t another buyer for the twelve?”
“Not a chance.”
“How long before the little bleeders die, Oswald?”
Oswald stopped pulling threads off his white socks and looked up. “Michaels estimates within three to four days, but why not just snatch the two we need, say, from the school?”
“We’re dealers, not stealers, Castro!” Snyderman said. “Even if you succeed, since Stark’s little mishap all hell would erupt.”
“Little mishap!” Oswald uncrossed his legs and sat forward. “The guy was a prize idiot and don’t act like we never used local stock to make up the numbers, Charles.”
Randall slammed the desk with his palm. “Enough! Antwan, get me the file on Bradley Fairweather.”
“Who?”
“Fairweather! The one Patel went to screw over.”
“How’s that going to help us, boss?”
“Because Fairweather’s got two brats. Oh, and, Castro, scare up a file on that cop Donatello. I want bank accounts, property records, credit cards, air miles, loyalty points, phone calls, emails, social media. Get into his TV camera, laptop, cell phone. I want to know where he eats, sleeps, shits, and plays with his ding-dong. I want a tax investigation launched, and a nuclear silo of demands sent to him today. Then I want you to pay the pig an early morning visit to throw him off balance. Fucker thinks he can arrest me and get away with it, he’s got another thing coming.”
24. ANTWAN’S DOUBT
Monday, 1:50 p.m.
“Boss, are you sure we should do this when the cops only released you a few hours ago?”
“Antwan.”
“Yes, boss?”
“Please shut up and keep driving.”
“It’s just that me and the boys are worried, what with Rohn in a coma and the cops, well you know.”
“You guys haven’t got a working brain cell among you. Michaels has got a warehouse full of drugged vermin that should be on their way to a sex den in Europe. But instead, the little shits are about to die, and we haven’t been paid. So thanks to that cop, we have five hours to complete the order, or else Michaels will stuff a dozen garbage bags with our hard work. And if Stark wakes up and squeals, chances are the cops will catch him in the act, so you got an alternative?”
“Ahem, well…”
“It was a rhetorical question, Antwan—meaning I didn’t expect an answer. We’re out of options, so who better to donate his spawn than my old buddy Bradley Fairweather?”
“Oh! You know the guy, then?”
Randall ignored him. “That’s his house at the end. Pull over here on the left. Looks like we may be in luck, Patel said he had a blue pickup, and I don’t see one.”
“It looks derelict.”
“That’s for show.”
Antwan pulled on the handbrake. “What are we gonna do if we get seen? I mean, it’s broad daylight.”
“Don’t be an imbecile. The street’s deserted. When we get to the door, we ask for Mr. Fairweather, make sure he’s not home and tell the wife we’ve come for the money that Patel was meant to collect on Friday. That should get us in the house, then we grab the little turds, and we’re done.”
“What if he’s home?”
“We wing it.”
“But what if they give us real trouble?”
“Stick them with your kitchen knife. You have it, right?”
“Course, boss.” Antwan patted the black briefcase on his lap. “Never go anywhere without it.”
“Good! Make sure you use the pointy end.”
“But say something goes wrong, and they give our descriptions to the police.”
“Sorry, Antwan, was I not clear? We make sure the wife’s alone with the kids, get inside, grab them, and leave.”
“What do we do with the wife?”
“That’s when you use the pointy end.”
“You mean…”
“Yes, Antwan, I do mean.”
“I… I can’t, boss.”
“Not the time to get squeamish, given what’s in the warehouse.”
“Sorry, boss, but I thought you made us carry a knife for protection. I just can’t…”
“Then I will.” Randall snatched the briefcase from Antwan’s lap.
“Boss, you’re talking about murder—”
“Antwan! We’re connected to Stark, his fiasco with the nanny, and the barbecue in his trunk. We’re past the point of no return, so we need to follow through. You understand that, don’t you?”
“But…”
“There’s no way back.”
“Ahem, how many years I worked for you, boss?”
Randall cracked open his window and checked the rearview mirrors. “I give in.”
“Over seven years.”
“So? You going to propose now?
Antwan managed a half smile. “No, boss. But in all that time, I’ve always done what you asked, haven’t I?”
“Spit it out, will you?”
“Well, I don’t think we should do this. I’ve got a horrible feeling.”
“That will be gas, so keep it to yourself.” Randall opened the window farther as a precaution.
“It’s not funny, boss. Anyway, you know I don’t trust Snyderman.”
“So?”
“Well, we all know you don’t like him, so why’s he on the team?”
Randall shuffled around in his seat so he could face Antwan. “Because he’s the only one of you with any common sense.”
“That’s not nice.”
“I wasn’t trying to be nice. Why the questions about Snyderman?”
“Well…” Antwan huddled deeper into his arctic parka. “Whenever a shipment is due in, Snyderman makes us prepare. He clucks at us like an old hen, so we do—prepare, I mean—and it might explain why we’ve never been caught.”
“Where is this going, Antwan?”
“This is seat of the pants, boss, and it feels all wrong.”
Randall gave a flick of his hand. “We’ll be finished before you know it.”
“You don’t believe that. I saw it in your eyes. And it’s not about the children dying. You need that order. I’m right, aren’t I?”
Randall fell silent. Should he tell him? Does the eagle tell the sparrow what he’s thinking? “Antwan, if you tell the others what I’m about to tell you, I’ll slit your throat, do you understand?”
Antwan held up his hand. “Mum’s the word.”
“I’m committed.”
“What do you mean, committed?”
Randall let out a heavy sigh. “I’ve spent the money, all right.”
“You’ve spent… sorry, Boss, I don’t understand. What have you spent?”
“I bid on an auction.” Randall felt the tightness in his body ease. “It was for something I’ve dreamed of since I was a boy… except I got carried away.
“What was the auction for?”
Randall shook his head. He wasn’t about to admit that killing was an addiction.
“How much did you bid? Boss… how much do you need?”
Randall faced him. “I can’t lose this order, all right, Antwan. We have to make the delivery tonight. And… and I need the Christmas order.”
“Boss, please, just tell me the figure.”
“I need all of it.”
25. THE DEVILS REJECTS
Monday, 1:56 p.m.
“Hey, Ronnie.” Do
natello gave a faint nod as half a dozen customers passed him and left the bar. He settled onto his usual stool and grabbed two coasters, one featuring a pink elephant, the other a shamrock.
“Was-sup, Don? You’re early.” Ronnie continued stacking the dead lunch plates from the bar.
“I got suspended. Just came from my union rep.”
“Hah. You’re having me on. You were at that crash a few hours ago.” Ronnie studied him. “Mary Mother, you’re serious! What happened?”
“Colby.” Donatello laid his hands flat on either side of the coasters. “I followed a hunch this morning and arrested a prize scumbag. Turned out he was Colby’s buddy, so he went nuclear.”
“That captain’s a wrong-un, I'm telling you. You want a beer?”
“Large espresso would be better.” Donatello cast his eyes around the room, absorbing details as Ronnie prepared the beverage. The man in his mid-sixties sitting in the corner was engrossed in the local newspaper, fingers resting on the stem of a wine glass beside an almost empty bottle of red. No wedding band. The young couple in their early twenties at the table by the window, were oblivious to the world as they held hands, and bared their souls across the little round table. The guy had a tapestry of colorful tattoos on his arms that disappeared beneath the sleeves of his T-shirt and re-emerged to decorate his neck and ears, as though he’d rolled on a wet comic book, save that his face was clear. The girl was skinny and pale, with multiple piercings in her ears, nose, and eyebrows. Her hair looked brittle, which could have been from too much hair dye, or too many drugs, but for all of that, her eyes blazed with light as she looked at her man. Donatello felt a pang of envy in his heart.
Ronnie set the espresso on the bar.
“Thanks.” Donatello took a sip. “Wow!”
“It’s okay?”
“Better than. It’s the rocket fuel of the gods!”
“What’ll happen now—with Colby, I mean?”
Donatello rested his forearms on the gleaming bar. “Maybe I’ll transfer to traffic like you said.”
“Oh, come on.”
“Your question the other night, about whether Colby knows Jonah was Allegra’s half-brother. He doesn’t, so far as I know. But you were right that Jonah’s extracurricular activities were a problem, although not in the way you may have thought.”
“I don’t follow.”
“Whatever Jonah got mixed up in, got him killed.”
“Did you figure he was bent?”
“No, at least not until he started wearing clothes and a watch you’d never afford on a cop’s wage. He said they were gifts, and I should have called him on it, but Allegra was having chemo, and my mom was… well, anyway, my mind was elsewhere.”
“And Colby?”
“When Jonah died, the truth came out, but Colby wanted them buried together. Said it would damage everyone if his crimes became public. Closed cases re-opened, criminals released, press scrutiny, the usual.”
“Didn’t he have a point?”
Donatello rotated the tiny cup in its saucer. “Ronnie, it takes more than a badge to make a great cop. They're truth seekers, with an unshakeable sense of justice. I might not be one of them, but I strive to be.”
“You make them sound like those Knights Templar dudes that protected the pilgrims.”
“I don’t know about that, but someone killed a cop, and he was my partner. You don't sweep that under the carpet. You find who and why, regardless of any fallout, so, I went to the commissioner, and Colby blew a fuse.”
“But that’s six years ago. Makes no sense why he’s still gunning for you.”
Donatello smiled. “He’s jealous of my classic good looks.”
“Yeah, right, so what’s next?”
“Not much choice. I’ve seen my rep; next call is my mom’s old lawyer.”
“Another devil’s reject.”
“Sometimes, it takes one to fight one.”
“I think you should use some of your investigative superpowers on Colby.”
“Pfft! Gimme a break.” Donatello gulped the tepid remains of his espresso and pushed the cup and saucer away.
“I’m serious! He’s an evil git, and you’ve time on your hands, so why not do a little digging? It’s what great cops do, isn’t it?”
Donatello smiled. “You see, Ronnie, that’s why I keep coming back here.”
26. HELLO, BRADLEY
Monday, 2:08 p.m.
“It’s icy as all hell!” Antwan said as he skidded on the sidewalk. “Isn’t it illegal not to salt outside your house?”
“It's criminal, but what do you expect from the peasant public.” Randall stopped to let him go first through the broken front gate.
“I’ve still got a bad feeling about this, boss.”
“Noted. Now, shut up and knock on the door.” Randall shivered as the cold seeped through his gray polyester-blend suit.
Antwan stepped onto the porch, eyeing the faded strip of masking tape covering the buzzer. “Ahem, it’s out of order.”
“That’s why I told you to knock, Einstein.”
Antwan banged the door three times, then inspected his reddened knuckles.
“Knock again.”
“I hear footsteps,” Antwan whispered.
Randall yanked him off the porch and stepped forward as the woman appeared in the doorway. “Mrs. Lola Fairweather? Wife of Mr. Bradley Fairweather?”
“Who wants her?” The woman crossed her arms.
The little girl’s face peeked out from behind the door “Who is it, Mommy?”
“I don’t know, baby. Run and get your daddy, please, hurry!” She looked at Randall. “Sorry, who did you say you were?”
“We’re from the IRS.”
The woman frowned. “Can I see some ID?”
Randall dug into his pocket and produced a laminated card; Antwan followed his lead.
She studied them, shaking her head. “Those aren’t real!”
“What’s going on?” Fairweather appeared behind his wife.
“They say they’re from the IRS, but you need to deal with them, I can’t handle this.” She shoved the IDs at him, slipped past, grabbed the little girl’s hand, and disappeared into the house.
Randall noted the deep grazes down Fairweather’s face and hands as the man inspected the IDs then looked from him to Antwan.
“This is a scam, isn’t it? First that woman last week, and now you two clowns.”
Randall sensed that his half-baked plan had entered a death spiral. He needed to retake the high ground and get inside the house. “‘That woman,’ you refer to, visited you regarding a substantial unpaid tax liability.”
“Well, I called the IRS this morning, and they had no record of anyone by that name working there. So get the hell off my property before I call the police!”
“You’re wrong.” Randall’s cold fingers fumbled with the latch of the briefcase. “And according to our records—”
“What the hell is it with you people?! I keep telling you, we owe nothing, so just leave us alone!”
Randall struggled to free the latch on the case. “Why… don’t… we come in from the cold and discuss this like gentlemen, Mr. Fairweather?”
“Because I have nothing more to say.” Fairweather began closing the door.
Randall jammed his foot into the gap. “You owe what we say you owe, maggot, so let us in, or I’ll take your shit pile of a house and put you and your pathetic family on the street again!”
“‘Maggot!’ She said you call everyone ‘maggot.’ You’re her boss, and you told her to target me… hold on, what do you mean, ‘again’? Who the hell are you? Get away from here, I’m calling the cops.”
“You can call the Pope, for all the good it’ll do you!” Randall shoved the case at Antwan. “Get this damn thing open!” The latch popped, Fairweather's face contorted, and Randall realized he must have seen the knife, but it was too late. Fairweather lunged at them, grabbing both him and Antwan by the throat. Randall t
hrashed against the iron grip, but his feet skidded as he was driven backwards along the icy path. Antwan lost his footing and went down hard, banging his head on the path as an enormous shove sent Randall crashing back into the broken gate. Before he could recover, Fairweather was above him, drawing his fist back for the coup de grâce. The fist swung downward, then froze as another hand grabbed his elbow from behind.
“That’s enough, Brad.” Randall heard a deep voice say. The other man stepped over the remains of the gate, hauled Randall up by his lapels, and shoved him onto the sidewalk.
Randall steadied himself and looked in vain for something to throw at them as Antwan crawled past, dripping blood from a scalp wound. “You’ll pay for this Fairweather!”
Fairweather lunged toward him, but the other man stepped into his path. “Not now, Brad. Not here.”
27. TOLD YOU SO!
Monday, 2:12 p.m.
“What… the … holy hell was that?” Brad gulped for air.
“You tell me! Friends of yours?” Marcus picked the broken gate off the floor and leaned it across the opening.
“They said they were IRS!”
Marcus grinned. “Don’t you think you overreacted just a touch?”
“He called me ‘maggot’!”
“Even so…”
“No, Dad, you don’t get it. He was the boss of the woman who came Friday.”
Marcus stood motionless as if deep in thought.
“Dad, he said he would put us on the street again!”
“What does that mean, ‘again’?”
“That’s what I asked.”
“And?”
Brad sighed. “I don’t know, that’s when I flipped.”
“Did you recognize them?”
“No.”
“Then maybe it’s a new collection tactic the IRS is using.” Marcus’s grin flashed again.
“Oh, you’re on fire!”
“Sorry, you’re right, it must feel terrible giving them a beating for a change.”
“Stop it! You’ll have me in stitches at this rate!” Brad tried to suppress the smile so the grazes on his face wouldn’t crack open. “Come on, let’s get inside. It’s freezing out here.”
“Want to discover the identity of those two?” Marcus pointed at the black briefcase lying in the snow.