The Castle Doctrine (Daniel Faust Book 6)

by Schaefer,Craig

“I’m going to need that back,” she told me.

  I turned the pistol over in my hand, the metal cool and light as a feather. “Wait, why do you carry a piece? I figured you could do more damage without one.”

  “Dahling.” She rolled her eyes. “There’s a time to use a scalpel, and a time to use a sledgehammer. There is also, every now and then, a time to use a gun. Variety is the spice of life.”

  Next we needed a limo.

  We cruised the north-side suburbs in a rental car, getting the lay of the land. We were in Winnetka, a patch of prime real estate lined with shady trees and brick mansions, and I pulled into the driveway of a shuttered house with a For Sale sign on the neatly trimmed lawn. I pulled the sign up by its steel roots, walked around back, and tossed it into the yard. A fat black plastic key box dangled from the front doorknob, sealed with a combination lock. While Caitlin played lookout and shielded me from the road, I swiveled all four combination wheels to zero.

  “Time me,” I said.

  A thin lockpick slid between the edge of the box and the first wheel, nestling like it belonged there. I thumbed the wheel slowly, one digit at a time, waiting until I felt the inner reel drop. Then I jimmied my pick between the next two wheels and repeated the process. Once all four wheels had been set, I bumped them three numbers ahead, gave the lock a hard pull, and the box popped open to reveal the house key nestled inside.

  “Two minutes and forty-eight seconds,” Caitlin said. “You can do better than that.”

  “Next time,” I told her, and we let ourselves inside. The house had been detailed, every inch swept clean and the polished furniture posed for photographs in the crisp afternoon light. It was antiseptic in a way no lived-in house could manage. Nice place, but we weren’t staying. I used my burner phone and called for livery service. Half an hour later, a white stretch limo rolled up to the curb.

  I walked to the car as the driver stepped out. His initial smile wavered as he looked me up and down, taking in my cheap chauffeur costume. He wasn’t sure what to make of me. Even less when I pulled the .22 and jabbed it into his gut.

  “Don’t do anything stupid, and I don’t have to use this,” I told him. “C’mon, let’s talk inside.”

  I marched him into the unfinished basement, zip-tied his hands and ankles, and sat him down on the cold concrete floor with his back to the drywall. I patted him down and took his phone and his car keys.

  “Sorry, pal, but I need your wheels. Just for a couple of hours, then I’ll call nine-one-one and let them know where to find you. Tell me something: you get paid hourly, or are you on salary?”

  “Salary,” he stammered, looking shell-shocked. “Plus…plus tips.”

  “How much is an average tip? Twenty bucks?”

  His head bobbed. “U-usually. About that.”

  “I’ve got a great idea,” I said. “When the cops show up, how about you tell ’em you didn’t get a good look at us? See, that serves two purposes. First, if you don’t talk, I don’t have to come back and shut you up the hard way.”

  I unfurled a rumpled hundred-dollar bill and held it up in front of him. Then I stuffed it into his shirt pocket.

  “Second,” I said, “if you don’t talk, you don’t have to mention the Benjamin I just gave you. Sound good? A hundred bucks for sitting around and doing nothing for a couple of hours?”

  He nodded, fast. I patted him on the shoulder and headed upstairs, leaving his phone on the kitchen counter.

  “All set?” Caitlin asked.

  “All set. Let’s go pick up Mr. and Mrs. Townsend.”

  13.

  I’d never been behind the wheel of a stretch limousine before. It handled like a beached whale, swaying and oversteering as I pulled away from the curb and tried to keep it steady.

  “Everything all right up there?” Caitlin asked. She sat in the back, looking regal, talking to me through the open partition.

  “No problem. After driving a prison bus, this is a piece of cake.”

  “Didn’t you crash the prison bus?”

  I met her eyes in the rearview mirror and wrinkled my nose.

  “In my defense,” I said, “people were shooting at me.”

  She flicked her fingers at me, lifting her chin in mock disdain.

  “Eyes on the road, driver.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” I said and set the dashboard GPS. Right about then, a second limousine from another service would be on its way to pick up the Townsends and ferry them to the party. I had to get there first.

  The Townsend house was ten minutes away, a two-story colonial at the end of a short private drive. They must have been waiting—they emerged from the house as I pulled up out front, both of them dressed to the nines. She wore an ocean’s worth of pearls, and he made sure to flash his Versace chronograph watch as he straightened his bow tie, a calculated move he must have been practicing in the mirror. I got out, all smiles, and opened the limo’s back door for them.

  “You’re not our usual driver,” she said, more conversational than worried.

  “He’s got the night off,” I told her. “Don’t worry, I’ll take good care of you.”

  They slid into the backseat only to find Caitlin sitting across from them, the borrowed .22 nestled in her hand. She crossed her legs and aimed the gun with casual grace.

  “We’re going to need your invitations,” she said. “Also your clothes.”

  I shut the door and got back behind the wheel.

  They protested halfway to the party. Finally, exasperated, Caitlin turned to talk to me through the partition.

  “Your plan isn’t working. Shall I just murder them both?”

  “Sure,” I said, “go for it.”

  Now they cooperated. Caitlin snatched the invitations—elegant calligraphy on thick stock, and embossed with a gold-leaf seal depicting Columbus’s ships—and waited patiently while they undressed. She rolled down the window just long enough to toss their clothes, evening finery billowing out along a quiet suburban street. She kept the pearls and the watch. I focused on the road, feeling the limo wobble while she zip-tied their hands and ankles.

  “Comfy?” Caitlin asked them.

  “Why?” he blurted. “Why are you doing this?”

  “Because while I have no qualms about bloodshed, my lover is a bit soft when it comes to the execution of ‘innocent’ bystanders. I’m sure you’re guilty of something—in fact, I know you are, both of your souls are tarnished as old brass—but apparently that’s just not good enough. So you’re only suffering a bit of indignity instead. Be thankful. You know, some people enjoy this sort of thing.”

  The end of the line was in Willow Springs, about twenty miles southwest of downtown. The ballroom resembled an old-world hunting lodge, sturdy brick and dun-shingled roof topped with an iron weather vane, ringed by flowerbeds and lampposts. The marquee out front looked like a throwback to the fifties, a vintage font spelling out the ballroom’s original name, “willow-brook,” on an oblong rust-red sign.

  The party was already jumping. A line of limos and town cars inched their way up the front drive in a serpentine conga, under the watchful eye of suburban cops who had been enlisted to guide traffic. I rolled slowly past a hard-eyed officer, the brim of my cap pulled down, our hostages out of sight behind the smoked-glass windows. When it was finally our turn at bat, I put the car in park and jumped out, keeping my head low as I hustled around to open the back door for Caitlin. She favored me with a feline smile, holding Mrs. Townsend’s invitation between her scarlet fingernails.

  “Be back promptly at ten,” she told me, “and don’t dawdle. I won’t tolerate dawdling, driver.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” I said, trying not to roll my eyes. She was enjoying this too much. I hopped back behind the wheel, and a bored cop’s windmilling light sticks guided me across the parking lot. I slid between two parked limousines, sleek black walls pinning us in, and killed the engine. I tossed my cap onto the passenger-side floor, tugged off my jacket, and reached for the d
ry-cleaning bag folded neatly on the leather seat at my side.

  “Here’s how this works,” I told the couple on the other side of the partition, “even if I gagged you, it wouldn’t be hard for you to thump around and make enough noise to get somebody’s attention. Another driver, a parking-lot attendant, somebody would come and rescue you. On the other hand…well, if you’re embarrassed now, just think of all the things that might happen if the wrong person found you two like this.”

  In the middle of changing into my rented tux, French cuffs billowing, I paused. I held up my phone, stuck it through the partition, and snapped a few quick photographs.

  “Not to mention these photos getting leaked onto the Internet. You wouldn’t want that. Especially since the angles I shot look less like ‘hostage’ and more like ‘sex game gone wrong.’ People do tend to misinterpret things in the worst way, don’t they? Now, rich folks like yourselves, I’m guessing you’ve got a helper monkey on the payroll—somebody you trust to handle untidy business.”

  “My lawyer,” he snapped, glaring at me.

  “Good. Give me his number.”

  I tapped it in, saving it on my phone, then went back to changing my clothes. Five minutes of awkward fumbling around in the driver’s seat, bumping my elbow on the steering wheel, before I arched my back to shimmy into the pleated dress pants. My new outfit was the color of fresh-churned cream, matching Caitlin’s gown. The bow tie was the last part, and the hardest. My hands might as well have been meat hooks as I struggled to get the knot just right.

  “Seriously,” I said, “how do people wear these things? Okay, here’s the deal: you two stay nice and quiet, and in a couple of hours, I call your lawyer buddy. He swoops in to save the day, and nobody has to know that any of this ever happened. Sound good?”

  I interpreted their sullen silence as a yes. I held up my invitation and gave them a farewell salute, stepping out of the limo.

  I caught a glimpse of myself in the tinted windows. Transformation complete, from a hapless driver in a cheap suit to a hard-charging businessman in an expensive tux. I reached up to adjust my tie, imitating Townsend’s move from memory and flashing my stolen watch.

  Stepping in front of a rolling limo, projecting equal measures of arrogance and irritation, I ignored the driver’s horn and kept walking. All the way to the front steps, where a pair of big-shouldered guys in black suits were checking invites. I offered mine up and held my breath. This was the moment of truth. If they actually knew what Connor Townsend looked like, I was about to be caught red-handed. If not…

  “Thank you, sir.” He handed the invitation back with an empty smile. “Please enjoy your evening.”

  A small brass band played in the grand ballroom under Spanish glass chandeliers with swirling filigrees. The light shone off the polished parquet floor, the oaken slats shifting from light to dark and reminding me of a vintage bowling alley. The jazz played strong—an old Charlie Parker tune, if I remembered my education from Bentley’s vinyl collection—but not many couples were dancing. This was one-quarter party, three-quarters networking opportunity, and Chicago’s business luminaries rubbed shoulders with aldermen and political fixers over dirty martinis. Some milled about in small groups, talking in low voices, while others camped at the white-draped tables ringing the dance floor. I found Caitlin over by the open bar, sipping a glass of pale rose wine as she eavesdropped on a nearby conversation.

  “This has been fun,” she murmured as I sidled close. “You should pose as my servant more often. So, today we’ve committed three kidnappings and grand theft auto. What’s next?”

  “Hopefully a reasonable, polite conversation followed by a clean getaway.” I craned my neck, looking for the man in charge.

  “That doesn’t sound terribly entertaining.”

  “No, but it’s the option that gets Detective Kemper off my back, at least long enough to buy me some breathing room. All I have to do is convince Chicago to call off their goons. Dominic Mancuso’s no dummy, not like his kid. He’ll listen to reason.”

  I spotted the elder Mancuso, looking just like the photo on his charity website, in a knot of conversation with the mayor and a few hangers-on. Even if I didn’t recognize him, I’d know he was the top dog in a heartbeat. He might have been pushing seventy, but his steel-gray eyes hadn’t lost one ounce of fire. Every movement, every slow sweep of his hand as he spoke, every reserved nod of his head and cutting glance projected purpose and control. Control of himself, control of the room, the center of the conversation even when he did nothing but listen. This was a man who had spent a lifetime learning to get exactly what he wanted, when he wanted it, and “no” wasn’t in his vocabulary.

  Might have to teach him a new word tonight, I thought and weighed my options. This wasn’t a conversation to have in public, and Dominic wasn’t traveling alone. I spotted a pair of silent bruisers keeping watch at a respectful distance, wearing neatly tailored jackets over their shoulder holsters, and another pair standing guard by the ballroom doors. Then I saw my shot: Dominic broke from the pack and headed up a short hallway, under a sign marked Restrooms. Two of his boys followed him. I took one last look, counted to ten under my breath, and then I followed him too.

  One of his bodyguards waited right outside the men’s room door, hands folded before him, standing at parade rest. I kept it casual, playing my role, and stepped past him as he gave me the once-over. Inside, Dominic’s second escort stood his post in the corner, next to a row of closed toilet stalls and a trio of urinals. I strolled to the opposite side of the narrow room and pretended to check my hair in the mirror.

  Dominic finished his business and stood at the sink beside me, pumping a trickle of soap and scrubbing his liver-spotted hands under the tap. I swallowed, my throat suddenly dry as desert sand. I had one shot to get this right, one chance to make the sale and stop a bloodbath. More important, one chance to keep Gary Kemper from blowing my cover and tossing me right back in prison, this time for good.

  I took a deep breath and turned to face him.

  14.

  “Mr. Mancuso, sir,” I said. “May I have a moment of your time?”

  He barely glanced my way, grunting out a “Hmm?”

  “My name is Daniel Faust. I was hoping to talk to you about a sensitive matter—”

  “I know who you are,” he said, still washing his hands. “Clocked you the second you walked in. I was wondering when you were gonna grow the balls to come over and say something.”

  I blinked. “I…assumed you wouldn’t want anyone to overhear anything about your business. Your real business, I mean.”

  Dominic snorted. He turned off the tap and flicked his wet hands at the sink, droplets of water spattering the bottom of the mirror. He finally turned my way, looking me up and down. In the mirror, I saw his bodyguard tense up. Not reaching for his piece, not yet, but getting ready for it.

  I was ready, too. My deck of cards grew warm against my hip, tingling with nervous electricity.

  “Son,” Dominic said, “one way or another, I own every man in that room. If they’re not indebted to my family, or my family business, they’re indebted to someone who is. And they might play dumb because it makes ’em feel better, but each and every one of them knows exactly who I am and what I do. I could walk out there, pick some schmuck at random, and blow his brains all over the dance floor. Know what they’d do about it? Nothing. I wouldn’t even have to tell anybody to clean it up. It would just happen. Welcome to Chicago.”

  He walked past me, turning his back like I wasn’t even there, and grabbed a couple of paper towels from the dispenser.

  “Okay,” I said, “well, if we’re going to be blunt, let’s try this: I’m here about your son. Angelo is starting a war between your organization and the Las Vegas underworld.”

  Dominic rubbed his hands dry, tossing away the wadded-up towels and tugging down a couple more.

  “And? I’m aware.”

  “You…sanctioned this?”

&
nbsp; “Back in the seventies, our family had a gripe with the Detroit Combination. My old man put me in charge of the beatdown. It was a test to see if I could handle myself, handle my men on the street. We got the job done. Fought ’em until they cried uncle, at least.” Dominic looked my way. “Just between you and me, Angelo’s a pansy, but I’m hoping this toughens him up like it did me. Every father wants to see his son outshine him. Or in Angelo’s case, at least not be a goddamn embarrassment.”

  “Look, you might think we’re easy pickings with Nicky Agnelli gone, but that’s not the case. You don’t want this fight.”

  “Right.” Dominic’s lips curled in a sneer. “Your ‘New Commission,’ with some pothead split-tail in charge. Think you’re powerful? Let me teach you something about power, right here and now.”

  He looked to his bodyguard and nodded to the door.

  “You. Hit the bricks. I need the room.”

  Without a word, his only protection walked out through the bathroom door, leaving us alone together. Dominic spread his hands, taking in the room around us.

  “Look at that. Here we are. Me with no guys, no gun, no nothing. Now tell me something, Faust. Do I look scared to you?”

  He didn’t. If anything, the old man looked more confident than ever. He met my eyes, his steel gaze utterly defiant.

  “Maybe you should be,” I told him.

  “Because you could cast a curse on me? Like I said, I know who you are. I know you’re a freak. Why even bother? I’m seventy-six years old. I’ve got emphysema and diabetes and god knows what else. You could just strangle me with your bare hands. I couldn’t stop you. And yet I’m not scared. Why is that, Faust? Can you tell me? You got any clue?”

  I shook my head, suddenly mute. He took a step forward, closing the distance between us as his voice dropped to a growl.

  “Because I am a man of power. A man of power fears nothing, because he’s already accounted for every possibility, every angle, every outcome. I could end your life with a whisper, or just burn everyone you love and leave you alive to suffer. You think you’re something special, with your ‘magic’ and your little deck of cards, and your tricks. But that’s not real power. You’ve never even seen real power. Not until now. Here you are, holding the advantage, armed, every opportunity to kill me…but I’m the one in control. And you know it.”