The plastic red block letters of its sign were dark, the edge-lighting turned off as if to discourage anyone from driving up. Most of the redbrick front building was dark, too, except for the reception area.
As I turned into the lot, I shut off my headlights, slowed way down, and stayed all the way to the right side of the parking lot, where I hoped I wouldn’t be seen from inside. A few feet beyond the front building the asphalt pavement ended, giving way to hard-packed dirt.
The rear building was about a half story taller than the front one. It had corrugated steel walls, painted some light color, and it looked like an ice-skating rink. There were no lights on back here. The only illumination came from the almost-full moon. I killed the engine and coasted to a stop next to a Dumpster between the two buildings.
I waited in the car and just listened for a few minutes. No noise back here either. No one was working. So probably the only employee working was whoever was on the night shift.
I took my gym bag from the front seat and got out of the car quietly. Pushed the door shut.
Then I just stood there and listened a little more. No footsteps. No one approaching. No sounds except, every ten seconds or so, a car driving past. If the guy on the night shift, sitting in the front building, had heard me drive up, he probably assumed it was just road traffic and ignored it.
As my eyes adjusted to the dim light, I could see a Mercedes S-class parked out back on the blacktop, in a marked space. It gleamed like polished obsidian. Probably a just-completed job. Next to it was a sixties-vintage Pontiac Firebird with custom flame-painting all over its body. I could never understand why anyone would want to do that to a perfectly good sports car.
Now I walked slowly to the rear building. There were no windows, just some flat steel doors, each one marked with a sign—PARTS and PAINT MIXING. A cluster of gas tanks, which I assumed were empty, or else they’d be inside. A loading dock around to the side, marked RECEIVING. I walked up close to it. A concrete pier about four feet off the ground, a rusted iron stepladder. On a wooden pallet to one side was a haphazard pile of discarded, long cardboard cartons.
Graham Runkel, an expert in breaking and entering until he got caught, had told me that loading docks were always a point of vulnerability. During business hours especially, when no one knew who was coming or going, in most places. But even at night, he’d said. Loading docks are built for easy access, quick deliveries. The loading-dock door was an overhead, folding-type door, probably steel. Around it was a black seal that looked like rubber. I doubted there were any serious security measures in this building, since all the valuable stuff—the cars—was in the work bays in the front building. It wasn’t like people were going to break in and steal an unpainted quarter panel or something.
But the question still remained: How was I going to get inside?
I went back to the front and tried one of the steel doors, just so I wouldn’t feel like an idiot when I found out later it was unlocked. It was locked. I tried each of the others, and they were all locked too. Okay, no surprise.
The overhead door was padlocked. I climbed the rusty stepladder to the concrete pier and unzipped my gym bag.
Inside were some basic tools I’d picked up at Home Depot on the way over, including a MagLite flashlight and a fourteen-inch pair of tungsten-carbide bolt cutters, which Graham had assured me would cut through just about any padlock like butter. I bent over to take a closer look at the padlock, and suddenly I was blinded by a bright light.
I looked up.
A high-powered flashlight was pointing at me from about twenty feet away. I felt a jolt of fear, a shot of adrenaline.
I was dead meat.
Shielding my eyes with a hand, I got to my feet. Something had kicked in, some hindbrain survival instinct. “Hey, where the hell were you?” I shouted.
“Who are you?” A man’s voice, a Middle Eastern accent. The voice sounded familiar.
“Didn’t you guys hear me?” I went on. “Didn’t you get the message?”
“What’s your name?” the Middle Easterner demanded.
“Oh, for Christ’s sake,” I said. “Are you Abdul or something?”
“Yes. Who are you?”
I sauntered down the stepladder, the gym bag on my shoulder. “Kurt didn’t tell you I was coming by? He didn’t tell you Kenny was stopping by tonight to get stuff from his storage locker?”
I thought quickly, tried to remember Willkie’s first name. It came to me immediately—how could I forget “Jeremiah”?
“Jesus Christ,” I said, “I thought Kurt and Jeremiah had this all worked out.”
“Had what worked out?” The flashlight was no longer in my eyes, but down on the ground. He came closer.
“Shit, let me use your phone. And your john, if you don’t mind. I got way too many beers in me tonight.”
“Bathroom’s out front,” Abdul said. “Did Kurt talk to Jeremiah?”
“Yeah, yeah,” I said. “Show me to the john first, or my bladder’s going to burst.”
He led the way over to the front building, took out a big ring of keys, and unlocked the back door. “Straight down the hall, on your right.”
I used the urinal, then took out a pen and Kurt’s business card from my wallet. On the back of Kurt’s card I wrote, in Kurt’s precise handwriting, all capital letters, “WILLKIE AUTO BODY” and the address. Then, “Abdul will meet you out back.” And: “If they give you a hard time, call me. Thanks!”
I put the card in my pocket, flushed the urinal, and came out.
“Aaah,” I said. “Thanks. Okay, now I can think straight. I forgot I have my cell on me—I don’t need your phone. Hold on.” I pulled out my cell phone, switched it back on, then called my office number.
“I’m here,” I said to my outgoing message. “Okay, so when are you going to get out?…But you left a message here, right? All right. All right. Later.” And I disconnected the call, then turned off the phone.
I reached into my pocket, took out Kurt’s business card, and handed it to Abdul. “Is this you?” I asked. “On the back?”
He flipped it over. Read the handwriting. “You should have just gone to the front office,” he said.
Along the back wall of the warehouse was a row of storage units, ten feet wide and high and twenty feet deep. Some of them were open and vacant, and a few of them were locked with old steel chain snaked through iron hasps and then through big old chrome padlocks. Abdul took out his key ring again and unlocked one of the padlocks.
“If you need anything, come get me,” he said, and he left me alone.
I pulled the iron door open and saw everything there, in neat stacks, in cartons and crates.
Much more, even, than I’d seen that day in his apartment. More than just his antique rifles and replica handguns. An entire pilfered armory.
Colorful spools labeled PRIMACORD DETONATING CORD, in festive orange and yellow, the color of kids’ soft drink mix. A box of M60 Fuse Igniters. A box marked CAP, BLASTING ELECTRIC M6.
A pile of blocks about ten inches long by two inches wide and an inch and a half thick, wrapped in olive drab Mylar film. Each one had printing on the top that said, CHARGE DEMOLITION M112 (1.25 LBS COMP C4).
I knew what that was. C-4 plastic explosive.
Kurt’s auto tools were there, too, in two tool chests, but I ignored them.
I found a tray containing several small tubes labeled LIQUID METAL EMBRITTLEMENT AGENT (LME)—MERCURY/INDIUM AMALGAM.
I took one of the tubes. My evidence.
Then I stopped and looked over the whole stash and realized there were some other things I could take.
59
When I was more than halfway to Boston, I pulled over to the shoulder of the highway and called Sergeant Kenyon on his cell.
“I have all the evidence you need to arrest him,” I said after filling him in briefly. “Enough to tie him to the murders of Allard and Gleason.”
“Maybe,” he said.
“Maybe? You’re the one who told me if I got the tube of LME that would do it.”
“I did. And maybe it will. And maybe not.”
“For Christ’s sake,” I said. “You’re the cop. Not me. Why don’t you send some guys over to Willkie Auto Body right now? There’s a storage locker out back where Kurt’s got enough explosives and munitions to take down the John Hancock Building.”
“Your hearsay isn’t enough.”
“Oh, really?” I shot back. “Think of it this way, Kenyon. If you don’t do anything about this little tip from me, you’re going to be in a world of shit. It’ll be a career-ending mistake. Maybe you’d prefer me to just call the FBI, tell them the Massachusetts State Police weren’t interested in following up on my report of stolen army munitions? After 9/11, I have a feeling they’re not going to get too hung up on procedure.”
Kenyon paused. I heard a rush of static on the line. “I can send some guys over there,” he said.
“That would be a wise move.”
“Is it provably Semko’s storage locker?”
“Talk to Abdul,” I said. “Squeeze his nuts. Ask for his green card. Maybe ask him about his cell of Arab terrorists. You might be surprised at how cooperative he gets.”
My cell phone beeped. Call-waiting. I glanced at the readout, saw it wasn’t Graham; it said KURT.
“Let me call you back,” I said.
I clicked over to Kurt’s call, said, “Yeah?”
Raucous bar noise in the background. Loud voices and laughter.
“Hey there, bro. I just got a call from Abdul. You know Abdul.”
My stomach seized up. I didn’t reply.
“And I thought you were starting to get with the program.”
“Kurt,” I began.
“And the funniest thing happened tonight during the game. Some guy broke into my apartment.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Friend of yours.”
“Not that I know.”
“Hmm. Graham something. Runkel?” Casual, almost airy. “Had your phone number programmed into his cell. Gotta be a friend.”
I felt a chill. He knew Graham’s name, knew about the connection. Knew what was on his cell phone.
“Last number he called on his cell was yours. That who you were talking to at the game?”
“News to me,” I said.
“Nosy bastard. Made the mistake of looking in my footlocker. Hundred and ten volts wired to the lock on that baby, my little security measure. Knocked him right out.”
Tears sprang to my eyes.
I bit my lip. “Where is he?”
“You shouldn’t have done that. You just crossed the line one too many times.”
“Where is he, Kurt?”
“He’s resting comfortably, Jason, ole buddy. Tied up and locked inside a big old trunk I had lying around, until I make further arrangements. Well, maybe not so comfortably. Not a lot of air in there. Fact, he’s probably gone through most of the air by now—you know how panic makes you breathe harder, right?”
“In your house.”
“No. Somewhere else. Call it an undisclosed location.”
“I’ve got something you want,” I said abruptly.
“Oh yeah?”
“A piece of evidence. A damaged steering shaft from a Porsche Carrera.”
He laughed. “And now you want to play Let’s Make a Deal, that it? Do you want what’s inside my box, or what’s behind the curtain?”
“Let Graham go, and I’ll give you the part.”
“You’ll give me the shaft, Jason?” Kurt said, laughing again.
“An even trade,” I said. “My friend for a guarantee you won’t be going to prison for life. Sounds like a pretty good deal to me.”
He hesitated for a second, considering. I knew his mind was spinning like a compact disk. He was naturally suspicious, far more than I’d ever be. Everything, anything might be a ruse, a trick. And I needed to sell him on the fact that I really wanted to make a deal. That it wasn’t a snare.
I needed to sell him on the fact that I was trying to sell him. This was a mirror reflecting a mirror.
“Sure,” he finally said. “I got no problem with that.”
I thrust back. “Sure, you’ve got no problem with that. I hand it over, you hand over Graham, and then you head over to Hilliard Street and kill my wife and then me.”
“Now, why in the world would I do that, Jason? After you’ve given me such a nice gift?”
If Kurt knew Kate had left the house, he’d have mentioned it. I wondered whether he had any idea she was gone.
“See, here’s the thing, Kurt. I don’t take anything for granted anymore. This piece I’ve got—this steering shaft—that’s kind of like my power. My weapon. Like I’m one of those primitive Amazonian warriors, and this is my club, you know? Without my club, I feel powerless. I don’t like that feeling.”
He paused again. Now he was really baffled. I was going back and forth, whipping between suspicion and what seemed like gullibility. He didn’t know which was the real me.
“You saying my word’s not good enough for you?”
I laughed. “It was, once. Not anymore. This steering shaft, it’s a key piece of physical evidence. Without it, the police have no probable cause for arrest. No evidence, no arrest warrant. You’re good to go. But what about me?”
“Well, think about it,” he said. “Without your club, you’re powerless. Means you’re no longer a threat.”
I smiled. That was just what I wanted him to say, precisely the conclusion I wanted him to reach. But I wanted it to be his idea. Like Freddy Naseem; like Gordy. Let the other guy take credit, and he owns it.
“But I know things,” I said. “Facts about you. In my head. How do you know I’m not going to go to the cops again?”
“How do you know I’m not going to head over to Hilliard Street? Pay the wifey and little baby a visit? So we’ve got ourselves a little situation here. It’s called mutual assured destruction. Military doctrine throughout the entire Cold War.”
I smiled again. Exactly.
“You have a point,” I said. “All right. So?”
“So we meet.”
“Where? It has to be someplace neutral. Someplace safe. Not public. Not your house. Not my house.”
I knew what he’d say. The old sharp-angle close. The Mark Simkins College of Advanced Closing. Maneuver the customer into making a demand you can meet.
“Work,” he said. “The Entronics building.”
Where he felt comfortable. Where he controlled the situation.
“One hour,” I said. “With Graham.”
“Two. And you’re not exactly in a position to negotiate. You give me the scrap of metal, and I’ll tell you where he is. So that’s the deal. You don’t like the terms, find another vendor.”
“All right.”
“Think it over. Take your time. I’ve got all the time in the world. Oh—that’s right. Your friend doesn’t. He has three or four hours’ worth of air. If he calms down and breathes normal. Which is hard to do when you’re tied up and locked in a box in an undisclosed location, huh?”
60
I called Kenyon back.
“I’ve just made a deal with Kurt Semko,” I said, and I explained.
“Are you out of your goddamned mind?” he said.
“You have a better idea?”
“Hell, yeah. I’ll send a unit over to this auto body shop. Once they find the explosives, we’ll easily have enough to arrest Semko.”
“Between getting the unit together and equipped, out there and back, then preparing the arrest warrant, how long are we talking?”
“Six hours, I’d say, if we get a judge out of bed.”
“No,” I said. “Unsat. My friend won’t make it. So I’m meeting Kurt whether you like it or not, and I want you to wire me up. Put a concealed recording device on me. I’ll get him to talk.”
“Stop right there,” Kenyon said. “Number one, our Special
Services staff don’t work at midnight. There’s no one around to do a professional hookup until tomorrow.”
“You telling me you don’t have a tape recorder and a concealable mike?”
“Well, sure. But we’re talking quick-and-dirty.”
“That’ll do.”
“Number two, if you think you’re going to get Semko to hand you one of those confessions out of the movies—the old ‘Now that I’m about to kill you, let me tell you all about my evil plans so I can cackle wickedly’—well, you got to start watching better movies.”
“Of course not. He won’t ‘confess’ a thing. But all we need is an exchange. A back-and-forth. Enough to indicate he did it. And if anyone can provoke him to talk, I can.”
More static. A long silence. “I don’t know about this. I’d be putting you in serious danger. It’s extremely irregular.”
“Serious danger? You want to talk serious danger? A friend of mine is slowly suffocating in a trunk somewhere. I’m going to meet with Kurt. If I have to use my own crappy tape recorder and tape a microphone to my chest, I’ll do it.”
“No,” Kenyon interrupted. “I’ll see what I can scrape together.”
“Good.”
“But are you certain you can get him to talk?”
“I’m a salesman,” I said. “This is what I do.”
61
I stopped at a Starbucks and did some quick Internet research just as they were closing. Then I met Kenyon about a half-hour later at an all-night Dunkin’ Donuts near the Entronics building. It was shortly after eleven. There were a couple of drunk young guys in Red Sox caps and low-hanging shorts with their boxer shorts showing. A tense-looking couple having a quiet fight at a table. A bum who’d surrounded his table with shopping bags full of junk. Nothing like a Dunks late at night.
Kenyon was wearing a navy sweatshirt and chinos and looked tired. We both got large coffees, and then he took me out back to a new-looking white van. He opened the rear doors and we climbed inside. He put on the dome light.
“This is the best I can do on short notice,” he said, handing me a coil of wire.
Killer Instinct Page 33