Way Off Plan

by Alexa Land

  “I thought you weren’t down with the jail idea,” I told him. “I thought you were worried your uncle would still send his men after us.”

  Dmitri said quietly, “If my uncle goes to jail for the murder of Vince Pasteretti, he’s as good as dead.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Because Jamie,” Dmitri said, “Vince wasn’t just some shmuck that owned a deli. He was a retired Dombruso officer, trying to live the quiet life after years in the business. And if my uncle goes to jail for his murder, the Dombruso clan would waste no time eliminating the man that killed their beloved capo.”

  “What’s a Dombruso?” my mother asked, the Tupperware containers in her hands long forgotten as she followed the conversation intently.

  “A powerful branch of the Sicilian mafia,” my father said. “They make the whole Teplov operation look like mafia Kindergarten. Uh, no offense,” he said to Dmitri. Then he added, “We never found any link between Pasteretti and the Dombrusos. You sure about that, kid?”

  “I’m sure. If there’s one thing I know, it’s all the family trees,” Dmitri told him.

  “So, basically,” I said, “you’d be sending your uncle off to die in prison if we found a link between him and Pasteretti’s murder.”

  Dmitri didn’t say anything, holding my gaze steadily.

  I absorbed that for a beat, then said, “So let’s say your uncle did slaughter this guy in his Packard. Afterwards, he probably would have set fire to the vehicle. Or sent it to the bottom of the bay. He would have destroyed it to hide the evidence, to hide all that blood. There’s not going to be anything to find now.”

  “But maybe he didn’t destroy it,” Dmitri said. “I’m telling you, he loved this car. It was totally irreplaceable, absolutely one of a kind. Maybe he couldn’t make himself get rid of it.”

  “Ok. But even if he kept it, he would have cleaned it up, of course.”

  Dmitri said, “Of course. He’d have gotten the blood cleaned out of it, that sort of thing. But what if there was some evidence left behind that couldn’t be eradicated? What if the car itself is somehow linked to the crime? All the knives in it were custom-made for the vehicle, for example, so maybe the murder weapon can be traced right back to the car. I mean, who knows? I’m grasping at straws here.”

  “I still don’t think he’d keep a smoking gun lying around,” I said. “If that car really was a crime scene, then it’s probably been destroyed. Your uncle wouldn’t be that careless.”

  “But Jamie, he still has the key,” Dmitri said.

  “So maybe he’s hung on to it out of a sense of nostalgia,” I guessed. “Or maybe it’s not even the same key.”

  Dmitri shook his head. “My uncle doesn’t do nostalgia. And if Catherine says it’s the key to the Packard, then that’s exactly what it is. When we were kids, it was her job to steal the key so we could play in the car, and she knew exactly how to recognize it among the thirty some-odd keys on her father’s key ring.”

  “How did she even know to look for it? Why would it even have stood out to her today in the office?” I asked.

  Dmitri smiled at that. “Catherine and I talk about that car all the time. Like I said, we were both in love with it. We joke that we’ll track it down some day, and then we’ll arm wrestle for who gets to be the Green Hornet and who gets to be Kato. She would definitely notice that key. And if there’s still a key, maybe there’s still a car.”

  I looked at my dad. “Do you remember anything about a Packard in the Pasteretti case?”

  “Yeah. We searched all Sokolov’s vehicles, everything that was registered in his name. We had anecdotal evidence from his neighbors that he owned a ’29 Packard, but there wasn’t one registered to him. From what I’m hearing, it probably wasn’t registered because the car was far from street-legal with all those weapons. Anyway,” my father said, shifting his weight in his chair, “When we brought up the Packard to Sokolov, he said it was at the mechanic’s and he’d get it for us. But what he produced was an ordinary black Packard. It didn’t have all these bells and whistles like Dmitri is talking about. Still though,” my father said, “that car was one hell of a sweet ride. That’s why I remember it.”

  “So it wasn’t really his car,” my mother exclaimed. “He produced a phony to cover his tracks!” This whole thing had my mom totally excited, her eyes bright with the prospect of busting this case wide open. Clearly there was one more Nolan that should have gone into law enforcement.

  I said, “If the car does still exist, and even if we somehow found out its location, we couldn’t get a warrant without tipping off Sokolov. It would give him time to move or destroy it.”

  “Oh, we can get a warrant,” my father told me. “I know how to go through secure channels, don’t you worry about that.” He shot a look at Dmitri. “But I still want the names of those crooked cops, kid.”

  “Yes, sir,” Dmitri said. “I’ll make it my personal mission to get them for you.” He was sucking up big time. I couldn’t help but grin. And then he was grinning too. “Actually, I just thought of a way to get those names for you tonight. Jamie, can I use your phone again?”

  “Absolutely.” I handed the phone over, and he concentrated on typing a text message. I wondered what that was about.

  After a few texts back and forth he turned to me, chewing his lip. And he said, “So, Jamie…maybe you want to stay at your parents’ house tonight,” as he handed my phone back to me.

  “Why? What’s up?”

  “I don’t like the idea of you alone in your apartment, now that we know you’re on my uncle’s radar. And I’m going to be using my house to obtain the names of Sokolov’s crooked cops tonight. Obviously, I don’t want you mixed up in anything illegal, so I think you should stay here.” He was again chewing his lip as he watched my reaction closely.

  “Explain to me exactly what you’re planning,” I said.

  Dmitri glanced nervously at my mother and said, “Forgive me, Mrs. Nolan, if this gets kind of vulgar.” He turned his attention back to me and said, “I asked Catherine to bring Joe Rudin home with her tonight and tie him to her bed. Undoubtedly, he’ll go along with it. I mean, Catherine’s a beautiful girl, and, you know, he’ll be thinking he’s about to get lucky.” Dmitri cleared his throat and said, “So, once he’s a captive audience, Catherine and I are going to get the information out of him.”

  “And how are you going to get him to talk?” I asked.

  “We’re going to threaten him,” Dmitri said simply.

  “What? How?”

  “I shouldn’t be hearing this,” my father said, getting up from his chair. “I’m gonna go check on the kids. But keep talking.” He left the kitchen then. But keep talking? Ok, so that was kind of a go-ahead. Wasn’t it?

  “Like many of my uncle’s employees, Joe Rudin is scared to death of Gregor Sokolov. Maybe even more so than most, actually, because Joe’s actually a nice kid that’s gotten in way over his head in my uncle’s business,” Dmitri said. “So we’ll tell him that Catherine’s going to her father. We’ll say she’s going to tell him Joe got rough with her on their date, unless Joe gives us the names of those cops. Joe knows that if Catherine goes to her father with a story like that, he’s a dead man. So I’m guessing he’s going to start talking. It’s a total bluff, of course – we’re not telling her father anything. But Joe’s going to be so scared that we probably won’t be able to get him to shut up again.”

  “And if he doesn’t fold like a house of cards? Then what? Are you going to smack him around until he talks?” I wanted to know. He didn’t say anything, just holding my gaze steadily. “And Catherine’s ok with this idea? I thought she liked this guy.”

  Dmitri looked embarrassed. “She, um, she’s looking forward to it, actually. She says she’ll make it up to Joe, you know, as long as she has him tied – well, you get the picture.”

  “I don’t think you should do this.”

  “Do you want the names of the crooked cops
or not?” he asked. “Because I guarantee you, every other way I can think of to get those names is also illegal and underhanded, probably far more so than this.”

  “Yeah, but – ”

  “Stop arguing with your boyfriend, James,” my father called. Ok, it was official: the mafia threat tactic had my father the cop’s seal of approval. I didn’t know what to think about that. I could never have imagined my law-and-order dad condoning this kind of thing.

  I went and stuck my head in the living room. Both my nephews were asleep on the rug, Dmitri’s cell phone clutched between them. My dad had draped a blanket over them, and Tippy had curled up on the blanket and was asleep, too. I crossed the room to the sleeping kids and carefully pried the phone from their fingers, then slid it into one of the pockets of my cargo shorts before turning to face my dad. “How are you ok with this?” I asked him, keeping my voice down.

  He was in his recliner, the Chronicle in his hands and his reading glasses on, and he looked at me over the top of his glasses and said, “Look Jamie, I need the names of those cops. You know what the force means to me. I can’t let this corruption fester. And if that means looking the other way while some mafia dipstick gets tied up by a pretty girl, well, big fucking deal.”

  I stared at him for a long moment. It felt like everything I knew about my father was shifting, realigning somehow. Ok, maybe as far as crimes went, threatening Joe Rudin for information wasn’t so terrible. It wasn’t like Dmitri was talking about blowing someone’s head off. But still, this was my dad. He was all about justice, totally by the book. How could someone like my father even think about turning his head while a crime was committed?

  I didn’t say anything. I just went back to the kitchen.

  Dmitri was sitting at the table in front of a big plate of macaroni and cheese, green beans and garlic bread. He watched me closely as I crossed the room and sat beside him, and then he reached up and squeezed my shoulder, compassion in his blue eyes. He somehow got what I was going through right now. My mom put a plate of food in front of me, and I ate automatically.

  And when it was time to leave, we went back into the living room and Dmitri said, “I’ll be in touch as soon as possible, Mr. Nolan, with those names.”

  My father studied Dmitri for a long moment. And then he said, “You know, I wasn’t too thrilled about my son going out with you. To be honest, I’m still not. But I see you’re trying to do the right thing here. And I see you really care about Jamie.”

  “I do, sir. I’d do anything to keep him safe,” Dmitri said.

  “Look,” my father said, “if you’re sincere about trying to put your uncle away and getting yourself free of the mob, then I’ll help you in any way I can. If this idea with the Packard doesn’t pan out, and frankly I doubt it will, then we’ll pursue other avenues. I’ve been wanting to see Gregor Sokolov behind bars for most of my career. There has to be some way to make that happen.”

  We drove back to Dmitri’s house after leaving my parents (I’d flat-out refused to be babysat by my family tonight). Dmitri had been quiet on the ride home, and now he went ahead of me into the foyer and switched off the alarm. Catherine wasn’t due home with Joe for at least another hour. She was going through with the date in its entirely before bringing this guy home, tying him up and threatening him. Which I thought was kind of an interesting choice.

  I hung back by the front door. He turned when he reached the foot of the staircase, seeing that I hadn’t followed him. And he asked me, “Are you going to forgive me if I go through with this plan?”

  “It’s not my place to forgive you.”

  He was quiet for a minute. And then he said, “I’m trying to do the right thing here. Ok, so my methods might not earn the Jamie Seal of Approval. But I’m still trying.”

  “I know you are.” I leaned back against the door.

  And he said, “I keep trying to tell you I’m a criminal, Jamie. But it seems like you keep being surprised when I act like one.”

  “Look, who cares what I think? You’re doing what you think you should. And hell, even my dad, a decorated police officer, is down with it. So who am I to argue?” My emotions were in turmoil. I really didn’t know what to think, what to feel about any of this. What I really needed was some time alone to sort through all of it.

  “You really don’t want to be here right now, do you?” he asked.

  “I really don’t.”

  He controlled most of his response to that statement, only flinching minutely. “Ok, so you should go,” he said. His voice was perfectly level. “But please, go somewhere other than your apartment. I meant what I said before about not being alone now that my uncle has shown his hand.”

  I crossed the room to him and kissed his cheek, and said, “I’ll be fine. And I’ll talk to you tomorrow.” And then I turned and left the house.

  I felt guilty as I walked down the stairs and across the driveway. I knew he had to be feeling rejected right now. But I just really needed a little time to clear my head, to get a handle on all of this.

  I sat in my van for a couple minutes, my fingers laced on top of my head. This was all so incredibly fucked up. He was doing this thing tonight for me, to get my family to like him, to get my father the information he wanted. I was being an asshole leaving like this. Sure, I was thrown by the thing with my dad, still trying to come to grips with his willingness to bend the law to suit his needs. And ok, I was upset that Dmitri was so willing to commit a crime. But running away was not the answer.

  I swung the van door open again to go back and talk to my boyfriend, and stopped short as a .44 Magnum was shoved in my face. A bald guy with a thick beard and a thicker neck grinned at me and said, “Well hey there, Jamie. Slide on over to the passenger seat like a good boy. And try not to do anything stupid.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  I couldn’t take my eyes off the gun. It was freaking huge, of course. The whole point of a .44 Magnum was the total intimidation factor. I kept my eyes glued to it as I gingerly climbed over the gearshift and sat in the passenger seat, keeping my movements slow and deliberate, trying not to give this guy any reason to blow my head off. In my brief career in law enforcement, I’d had guns pointed at me exactly twice. And let me tell you, it fucking sucked.

  The panel door on the side of the van was wrenched open with its usual shriek of rusty metal-on-metal, and a second guy climbed in the van behind me. He had a gun pointed at my head, too. He smiled at me just like his partner had – such cheerful gangsters – and said, “Hand me your cell phone, lover boy.” I pulled it out of the pocket of my t-shirt and handed it over, and he shut it off and pitched it into a thick hedge at the edge of Dmitri’s property. Then he said, “Put your hands behind the seat.”

  I hesitated for a moment, knowing that once my hands were tied I had pretty much zero chance of escape. That hesitation earned me the butt of a gun driven hard into the side of my forehead. I drew in my breath as pain shot through my skull, then did as I was told, pressing my eyes shut and waiting for the pain to ebb as my wrists were bound behind the seat. The blow must have broken the skin, because I felt a warm trickle down the side of my face. Well, fuck. Head wounds always bled like crazy, and losing a lot of blood right now wasn’t going to do me any favors.

  Thing Two wrenched the panel door shut as Thing One fired up the engine. I mentally ran through everything I’d been taught about hostage negotiation, but couldn’t think of anything that would help me. It was probably best to keep my mouth shut for now anyway.

  Thing One wound his way out of the city and got on the 101 freeway southbound. I thought it was a really bad sign that they were letting me see where we were going. It suggested I’d be dead soon, so it didn’t matter if I knew our destination.

  Eventually we took an exit for the airport and I wondered if maybe we were going to SFO, if I was being shipped off somewhere. But then we headed into an industrial area south of the airport, full of large warehouses and heavy industry. Thing Two pulled ou
t a phone and dialed, then told whoever answered, “We’re here with the special delivery.”

  The bay door of a big, nondescript warehouse was rolled open directly in front of us. And Thing One pulled Lucy up beside a shiny black (I’m guessing 1929) Packard. Ok, definitely another very bad sign. The bay door was shut behind us, and my heartbeat accelerated. Possibilities for escape where looking worse by the minute.

  Panic welled in me as I tried to think, tried to formulate some kind of plan. But I came up empty. I wondered about my chances of being rescued, but that seemed impossible. No one even knew I was missing. And even when they figured out I was gone, no one would know where to look. The fact that the Packard was in this warehouse told me this location was totally off the grid, probably not registered under Sokolov’s name, someplace Dmitri had never heard of. No one was going to look for me here, because I was pretty sure very few people even knew that ‘here’ existed.