by Dani Amore
Loreli grabbed Liam’s hand and raced through the living room.
Dexter and Tommy were struggling for control of the gun. Ted was moaning softly on the floor.
Loreli turned to Liam.
“Go through the kitchen into the garage. Get in my car and wait for me. Do it. Now!”
“Mommy!”
“Go, Liam. I’ll be there in a second.”
Loreli’s heart was racing. Her hands were shaking as she grabbed a kitchen towel and ran back into the living room. She went to Ted and looked at his bloody chest. Ted’s face was pale. His lips were turning purple.
“Oh my God,” Loreli said.
She ripped Ted’s shirt open and saw the ugly little hole in the center of his chest.
As she watched, a small bubble escaped from the wound. Loreli thought that meant a lung had been hit.
She knew that the hole in front was small, but that the one in back was probably a lot bigger and a lot messier. She also knew that if she turned him over, it would do more harm than good.
Loreli thought of calling 911, but knew that her neighbor, Mrs. Olson, the world’s snoopiest woman, had no doubt already done so.
Tommy and Dexter had rolled to the far side of the living room. Loreli watched as Tommy drove an elbow into Dexter’s face. He toppled backwards, still holding onto Tommy, and they both crashed into the entertainment center. The whole thing came down with a crash.
Loreli turned and stopped. The money was there. Her first thought was to leave it.
Her second thought was stronger.
She slammed the top of the suitcase shut, zipped it up, yanked it off the coffee table and ran through the kitchen.
From the other room, she heard multiple gunshots and a horrible, wailing scream.
Loreli got Liam into the car.
She threw the suitcase into the trunk.
It was time to go.
***
Tommy and Dexter stood motionless in a final embrace. Dexter had three gunshot wounds sprayed across his chest, Tommy had a knife driven directly into his heart.
They both sank to their knees then toppled over, dying within seconds of each other.
And neither one of them lived long enough to hear the sound from the garage of the car leaving.
43.
Loreli clenched the steering wheel as tightly as she could; it was the only way she could keep her hands from shaking. Her stomach was in knots.
She had to go to the cops. It was that simple. She had to. If she didn’t, she’d be in even more trouble than she already was. Loreli gunned the Camry down 13 Mile Road. She glanced in the rearview mirror.
“Is your seatbelt on?”
A tiny voice, “Yeah, Mom.”
And then, “Mom?”
“I know you’ve got a lot of questions right now,” Loreli said, her eyes bouncing back and forth between the road ahead and the rearview mirror’s depiction of the traffic behind her. “But Mommy can’t answer them. I’m sorry, honey. I’m so sorry.” She felt tears start to well up and she fought them back.
Loreli ran a yellow light and caromed onto Van Dyke Avenue, heading south toward 696. She zoomed ahead, and on her left, she saw the exit for the Warren City Hall, Warren Chamber of Commerce and last but not least, the Warren Police Department.
Her foot moved from the accelerator to the brake. She swerved into the middle lane and made a fast turn. Loreli’s heart was thudding like a bass drum during a Homecoming parade.
What am I doing, she thought. Another voice responded, you’re doing what’s right. Just go in, give the money back, and let the law figure it out. You were an innocent bystander. You heard someone being murdered, and ran, unwittingly taking a suitcase full of money with you.
She shuddered at the idiocy of that thought.
Then again, you work for one of the best law firms in Detroit, for God’s sake. They’ll get you off with nothing more than a wrist slap.
Loreli pulled into the parking lot just beyond a row of white police cruisers. She saw the entrance up ahead. Two glass doors. Beyond, she could see a desk. She also noted the video cameras covering the entrance.
A wrist slap, sure, she thought. Immediately followed by a pink slip from her boss.
She sat up straighter in her seat and used the rearview mirror to look at Liam. He was looking out the window, no doubt checking out the cop cars close up. He had a little matchbox cop car that he liked to play with. Loreli hoped he wouldn’t actually get to ride in one- or see his mother hauled away in one.
She felt her hands slacken on the steering wheel. Sweat was pooling between her fingers, in the creases of her palms. Shit, she thought. Either way, I’m screwed.
A cop came through the swinging doors and walked to the cruiser parked next to Loreli. In the sunlight, his badge twinkled. The gun on his belt looked huge. He had a crewcut, massive shoulders and a barrel chest. He walked to his car and Loreli stared straight ahead.
Suddenly, she felt a tightening around her neck. Her breath caught in her throat. She knew, instinctively, that he was looking at her.
She froze, torn between throwing the car into gear or throwing open the door and begging him to help. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the blue uniform resume walking and then she heard the car door open and close. A moment later, the cruiser pulled out in front of her, the cop with the crewcut staring straight ahead.
Loreli ran her hand along her forehead. It came away damp with sweat.
Once the cop pulled out of the parking lot, Loreli raised her right hand to the ignition. Her hand was shaking uncontrollably. She turned the key and lifted her right leg, though it took awhile for the muscles in her leg to respond. The engine revved and Loreli slipped the Camry into gear.
She had no idea where she was going.
There were only two things she was sure of. One, she wasn’t going to the cops.
And two.
She needed a lawyer.
44.
“Oh, God, I’m sorry, Carl.”
The light was dim in Carl Ryson’s Birmingham home. The great room had a fire going in the fireplace. Shadows flickered over the textured plaster walls. Somewhere in another part of the house, Loreli could hear soft classical music playing. Was it the sound system or was someone playing the piano?
On the walls hung oil paintings. They were contemporary, and each one probably cost the equivalent of her annual salary.
“Don’t worry,” Carl said. He was dressed casually in khakis and a white cotton shirt. “And don’t be sorry. I think we could all use a drink.”
Carl tousled Liam’s head. Loreli said, “Sure, anything you’ve got I’ll take. Do you want some milk, big guy?”
Liam shook his head, was already laying his head on Loreli’s lap. She knew he’d be asleep in a few minutes.
The decision to come to Carl’s hadn’t been easy, but it had been quick. She hadn’t the time to deliberate and weigh all the factors carefully. All she knew was that she was in deep shit and Carl Ryson specialized in getting people out of deep shit. Only difference was, most of his clients had deep pockets to go along with it.
Carl returned with her drink. It was Scotch. Normally, she didn’t drink it, but she took a sip and was glad she did. It was smooth as silk.
“So why don’t you start at the beginning?” Carl said, as he sat across from her in a big leather easy chair. Loreli felt small and insignificant, the complete apotheosis of the size of her crisis.
Loreli set down her drink and poured out her story to Carl. How Dexter had taken Liam. Her decision to hook part-time to come up with the money. Then Dexter’s arrival at her place, the shoot-out and her decision not to go to the cops.
“Tell me more about why you couldn’t go to the police,” Carl said. Loreli looked at his strong, clean face. She trusted him. It was that simple.
“I don’t know,” she said. “I was being followed, and I guess I’m just scared.” She hated how that sounded, but it was the truth.
Carl didn’t answer.
Loreli took a sip of the Scotch. Liam was snoring gently on her lap. The amber drink was warming her stomach. A soft fuzziness was sprinkling its way across her forehead. “And I can’t risk getting into trouble. The courts wouldn’t be kind to me- they might take him away.” She stroked Liam’s hair and a tear ran down her cheek.
The Scotch warmed her body and she felt a gentle pressure on her bladder. “Excuse me, the restroom?”
Carl gestured toward the hallway. “Down the hall, first door on the left.”
Loreli made it to the bathroom, opened the door and turned on the light. The tile was white, with a border of flowers with blue leaves. The bathroom itself was huge, with an interesting sink that had a floral pattern painted right onto the sink itself.
Loreli sat on the toilet, tried to relax. When she was finished, she washed her hands and wondered what the view was like out the small window above the radiator on the far wall of the bathroom.
She walked to the window and looked out. She could see the branches from the big maple tree in the front yard.The street was empty at this time of night. Loreli could see a few lights on in the house across the street. That was a big house, too, not as big as Ryson’s but big. It was a huge Tudor with an imposing front door and a substantial sun room off the eastern end of the house. It was a corner lot, and the sunroom, made up almost entirely of windows, threw light onto the space on the street just around the corner.
Where the Taurus sat.
The breath caught in Loreli’s throat when she saw the car. She could just make out the shape of a head and shoulders sitting behind the wheel. Was it the same man who had followed her in Ann Arbor? How could it be? How had he found her? She panicked. Threw the door open to the bathroom, tripped over the threshold and landed face down on the carpet of the hallway. Her knee landed wrong and a buzzing pain shot up her lower back.
She staggered to her feet. Ryson and Liam were playing checkers. They both looked up at her in shock.
“They’re here,” she said.
45.
Jack debated about whether or not to have the television on. Was it too obvious? Would the Spook see it for what it was? An actor overplaying his part? Jack considered it. He left it on. Something instinctively told him that Spook was arrogant. That his pursuit of a local Detroit mob hitman engendered disdain in the former CIA operative. Jack figured that the man had worked in London and Paris, probably even the former Soviet Union. He’d probably dined at the Savoy, sipped coffee at a Parisian sidewalk café with a glorious female agent after the two of them had had fantastic morning sex.
Jack figured the Spook would be contemptuous of a local hitter. The way he’d whacked Betty had screamed it to Jack. A complete disregard for respect. The Spook had killed Betty with pleasure. Jack sensed the man’s professional arrogance a mile away.
So he left on the television.
Jack shrugged on his Kevlar vest. He figured the Spook would go for a head shot under normal circumstances, but in a gunfight in a darkened apartment, he would probably go for center mass. Which might give Jack the edge he needed.
It was a modest apartment, one of several he maintained in the area. But of the few times he’d needed to meet someone for “business,” this was the apartment he used. His actual home was thirty miles from Detroit. But the Spook wouldn’t know about that one. No one in the business did.
The apartment was a one bedroom one bathroom deal with a small but adequate kitchen, living room and dining room. There was a foyer with a few pegs on the wall for coats and hats. The rear of the apartment looked out over an alley where there was a fire escape. The windows were double hung, with thick glass and a few extra security precautions Jack had installed long ago. Now, Jack carefully unhooked the casement locks. He left the windows locked, for while the television wasn’t going to be a giveaway, unlocked windows would be. And the Spook was probably very good. He’d fine a way to get past the locked windows.
Jack put on his shoulder holster, and checked the 9mm Smith & Wesson. The magazine was full, hollow-tips. He put on his other shoulder holster, this one with the same kind of S & W 9. He went into the bedroom and slid the shotgun case out from beneath the bed. It was a 12 gauge Remington Defender. From a separate compartment of the shotgun case, Jack extracted a handful of double ought buckshot shells. He thumbed them into the gun’s magazine until it was full.
Jack walked through the apartment, running through the scenarios in his mind. It was a slight gamble. But Jack was relatively confident. He knew that Romano had assumed either he or Betty had stolen the money. Being the kind of man he was, Romano figured Betty had stolen it. So the Spook had started there. After shooting off her toes, the Spook had no doubt reported back to Romano that Betty hadn’t taken the money.
In which case, Romano had no doubt ordered him to take out Jack.
Jack went down the hallway and paused, listening. He had primed his ears for any movement on the fire escape. In his own mind, Jack went through how he would handle this hit. And the answer was obvious. Enter from the fire escape.
If he were doing it, Jack thought, he’d start with a diversion.
At that exact moment, there was a knock at the door.
Jack knew two things. One, the Spook was a professional. He’d be listening in on Jack’s response to the knock at the door. He’d hired a lackey to pose as, say, a Fed Ex guy. When Jack sent the man away, the Spook would be through the window. Or, the Spook may have planted listening devices in Jack’s apartment. Or, most likely, the Spook was waiting right now on the fire escape under the window. Jack could throw the window open and fire at him, but that would entail some dicey shooting, and he wanted to take him out now.
So, Jack answered the door. It was a young kid with a pale face and short blonde hair. He mumbled something about donating to the Sacred Heart Foundation. Jack told him through the chained door no thanks. When he closed the door, he heard a slight creak in the bedroom next to the fire escape. Jack trotted down the carpeted hallway and silently eased off the safety on the Remington.
He paused just outside the doorway to the bedroom. Pictured the layout inside. His heart was racing but his hands were steady. He briefly thought of Betty, of what this bastard had done to her and he felt the battle lust rise inside him.
He shoved away from the wall and leveled the shotgun.
46.
In an ideal world, the Spook would have silhouetted himself against the window, stood tall and proud and given Jack the best of all worlds: a clearly defined target ready to be blasted into oblivion by the shotgun. But Jack knew it wasn’t an ideal world, and he knew that his target in this case had been through the drill many times and would never do something so stupid.
So Jack wouldn’t even look at the window. He would look at the corner of the room, where he knew the Spook would already be crouched. Jack, too, was a pro, although that point would be hotly debated by a man like the Spook. So Jack knew enough not to silhouette himself in the doorway.
Instead, he dove and rolled past the doorway. The Spook was in the corner. The only problem was, he was in the wrong corner. Jack had chosen the right corner, thinking it provided the best angle for the Spook to shoot. But the Spook was in the other corner. In the split second it took Jack to swing his shotgun in the other direction, the Spook fired.
Jack was still moving, though, so the slug glanced off the Kevlar vest near the edge of Jack’s abdomen. It twisted him slightly and the blast from his shotgun blew a hole in the wallboard directly next to the Spook’s head.
The Spook moved.
He bounded across the room, one step ahead of Jack’s shotgun. Jack fired once, twice, three times, and a fourth, before the Spook dove through the window. Jack saw the figure move across and over the fire escape with surprising speed. One last blast from the shotgun pierced the air where the Spook had just been.
Jack cursed. The acrid smell of gunpowder hung in the air. Jack’s ears buzzed from the
deafening sounds of the shotgun.
The Spook wouldn’t try again. Not anytime soon. And Jack didn’t want to wait.
He hadn’t beaten the Spook, but the Spook hadn’t beaten him. He doubted he’d earned the man’s respect, probably just his caution.
Which meant that the Spook would be on guard from here on out.
Which was fine with Jack.
Because next time, Jack would take it to the Spook.
He’d show him how it was done in the Motor City.
47.
Nick Falcone was thinking about redemption. The concept, not the word. Nick’s vocabulary wasn’t exactly expansive. But he knew about the importance of making good after a giant screwup.
Romano had torn him a new one for letting Tommy tell him to go pick up some scones at Great Harvest in Birmingham. Nick felt like the move on his part was warranted. After all, Tommy was his boss, and he’d set it up so that if he’d disobeyed Tommy, he would have been disobeying Gloria. And that you simply did not do.
He kept the excuse to himself, rightfully figuring that it wouldn’t buy him anything with the Boss.
Nick walked into the study, noticed that Romano had built a huge fire in the fireplace. The logs were crackling and popping. The boss was sitting in a big leather chair, his feet on an ottoman near the fire.
Falcone walked closer.
“Nick.”
Falcone stopped in his tracks, noticed the cell phone resting on the arm of the big leather chair. Another log popped in the fireplace and Falcone jumped slightly. He was nervous. Had every right to be nervous. The meeting he’d initiated between himself and Jack Cleveland was still fresh in his mind. If the boss knew about that, well, Falcone figured he could think of something to say, some reason, but he didn’t even want to think about it.
“Sit.”
Falcone moved to a similar chair across from Romano. Nick was digging this. With Tommy gone, maybe there was room for him to move up. The glass ceiling now had spiderwebbed enough maybe for him to squeeze his sweet ass in alongside the Boss. The larvae-like thoughts of ascension made Nick warm with power.