Leone patted his jacket pocket and came out with his pack of cigarettes. He put one in his lips but never lit it. In Clinton’s view, it served as a soother does to a baby.
“I’ve seen it before.” The cigarette bobbed up and down as he spoke. “Tsk tsk.”
“And you’re telling us now?” Wingham scrunched up the emptied bag of chips.
“I tried to tell you before but you guys didn’t want to listen to me. It’s like I have nothing to offer.”
Clinton improvised sniffles at the end of Leone’s statement. Suck back on the soother a little harder.
Leone took the cigarette out of his mouth and held it in his fingers as if it were lit. “There was a family in Detroit. Fifteen years ago, give or take. Dad worked at a law firm, nothing luxurious, just a clerk working his way up, but he had a betting habit. He owed the wrong people.”
“The Mafia,” Wingham filled in.
Leone disregarded Wingham and glanced to Clinton. “No one survived. Two kids, ten and sixteen. The kids were shot; the wife was raped and then shot. The father was found in an apartment he kept just for entertaining other women, with knife wounds like the ones on the man in that motel room. The words TSK TSK were carved into his flesh. He was then fed a bullet for good measure.”
“They never caught the guy?” Wingham was determined to stay involved regardless of whether Leone gave her any merit. Clinton respected her attitude.
“The guy who did it was the Don’s son, think The Godfather.” Leone kept his eyes on Clinton who got his point, the Don, or Mob Boss. “You don’t find proof when it’s someone like that. Of course, we went as far as the investigation would allow us, but the roadblocks were sky high.”
“He got away with four murders.” Wingham’s voice was low.
Leone’s head snapped to her. “I assure you the body count is much higher than that.”
Wingham rebutted, “It still doesn’t make much sense. The Mafia typically leaves dignitaries alone. Aren’t they more likely to buy them off than kill them?”
“It’s not unheard of. But, Christian Russo, that’s the Don’s son, has been wanting his father’s power for a long time. Rumor is the Don, Pietro is his name, has no intention of passing his power on anytime soon. And when he does go, he already has a successor chosen.”
“Not his son,” Clinton said.
Leone shook his head.
“Sounds like motive if we could figure out exactly how Behler fits in.”
“Uh huh. But I didn’t think you cared about the why.” Leone slapped Clinton with his words from earlier in the day.
“You know a lot about the Russo family,” Clinton said.
“Yes, and The Detroit Partnership. There are a few Italian families in the Michigan area. They all work together.” Leone’s eyes matched with Clinton’s. “Yes, I know this assassin crosses state borders. But so does the Italian Mafia. They adhere to what they term The Commission. They help each other out when needed.”
Clinton did his best to read the agent’s eyes, yet they were deep and withheld more than he was willing to grant access to. As Clinton studied him, Leone did likewise.
If Leone knew the crime crossed state borders, what made him hold back from going up the power ladder? And why did Governor Talbot want the investigation to remain on a local level? If Clinton was the state Governor where the assassination happened, and the murder was of a colleague, he would stop at nothing to get the killer found. Yet Governor Talbot had been brief and direct with his comments.
Clinton thought back to their first meeting at the hospital. He was even possibly a little scared. But scared of what? While some answers were filling in with pencil, even more remained as blank underscores. There would be no more putting it off. They needed to speak with Talbot.
OUTSKIRTS OF DETROIT, MICHIGAN
6 HOURS UNTIL THE DEADLINE
BRENDA AND I HAD ALWAYS told the kids that there’s no such thing as the bogeyman. While Brenda was convinced she told our kids the truth, my life history had taught me otherwise. There was such a thing. In fact, he was even worse than the monster from the closet or under the bed.
The recent screams from Brenda and the proof of life video blurred together. My steps quickened as I made large strides through the uneven rows of dirt, pushing aside fledgling stalks of corn. The night air clung and hung over the field like a suffocating blanket. The humidity kept the fog at chest level. I was thankful for the added cover.
The approach I had chosen was from the side of the hangar. I hoped there would be less security and vigilance if I came in from the side opposite the house and driveway. I anticipated there would be men guarding the front of the hangar at night, especially with Christian on the premises. I expected they would conduct occasional sweeps to the sides. And thanks to Google Earth, I saw cameras mounted on the front of the building.
My flashlight danced on the cornstalks. Looking back, I could no longer see where I had parked. Faint lights ahead indicated I was getting closer to the hangar. The time had come to get my family back.
I crouched low and traveled the remaining distance like a marine carrying out a special ops mission. In a sense, this was mine. While I was no marine, I had an objective, and I would carry it out. And to do so would require intellect and patience.
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Chapter 56
NIAGARA FALLS, NEW YORK
SUNDAY, JUNE 13TH, 11:15 PM
“YOU BELIEVE THE SON OF a mob boss carried out the assassination?” Clinton directed the question to Leone.
“Directly, or indirectly—moot point. You can bet he was involved.” Leone flipped a lighter out of his pocket. Wingham placed a hand over the agent’s to stop him from raising his arm.
“Not here you don’t.” She locked her hazel eyes with Leone, who dropped his arm.
“The man in the photograph, is he this Christian you mentioned?” Clinton asked.
Leone’s eyes ignited with a flame of intense heat. “When you’re the Don’s son, you don’t have to do anything yourself. You have people to take care of things for you. If Christian does something, it’s simply for his pleasure. He’s more into torture than snuffing life. He has a means of overpowering people. Making them see his way, if you know what I mean. Manipulation may be the better word.”
“Bribery.” The word came off Wingham’s tongue.
“Possible. The promise of harm to a family member, or to the killer himself. He also has an unlimited means of money at his disposal. If we go to him, we’ll get the answers,” Leone said.
“And you expect to waltz in and be granted free access?” Clinton scoffed. “This is ludicrous. You’re rushing an investigation in one direction when all the facts haven’t even been gathered. Crime Scene hasn’t even fully processed the forensic evidence from the motel. And there’s still Gamer’s apartment—”
“If you wish to spend a lifetime on this, then that is your choice. However, I can’t see your boss being really happy about it.” Leone flicked the lighter and headed in the direction of the doors.
“Oh, that man infuriates me. He thinks he knows everything,” Wingham said.
“Maybe he knows more than we’re giving him credit for.”
“What do you mean?”
“What I mean is.” Clinton took a pause. “Why hasn’t he gone up the ladder, got the case reassigned to the FBI? At first he seemed eager to make that happen. Now, well, he’s back in the deep end of the pool with both feet and his swimming trunks.”
Wingham’s eyelashes fluttered, and Clinton noticed her sigh.
“It’s just a word picture.”
“Well, don’t give up your day job.” She smiled. “Continue.”
“I realize there’s new evidence in the case with Carson being mutilated, which may have been the cause of this—” Clinton rolled his hand while he searched for the right word
. It escaped him. “This change of direction with Leone. But he’s been different since he left us at the apartment and came back.”
“You don’t trust him? He’s FBI.”
“Yes, I know what he is, but I don’t know who he is. Get me?”
“Not exactly. No.” Wingham gave him the face she would when she was lost for what to say, or when she wanted to understand but couldn’t. Her eyebrows sagged like a tired hound and her mouth turned slightly downward.
Clinton exhaled a rushed breath. “Never mind then. We still have a case to solve.” He took a look around at people as they waited for their bus to come. Most of them appeared exhausted.
A mother with a young child sat on a nearby bench. She couldn’t get him to sit beside her. When she reached for him, he let out a wail.
Observations like this made Clinton satisfied with his decision not to have any children. Some would view the choice as selfish. To him, he felt it representative of the opposite. To bring a child into the world where they wouldn’t be adequately cared for was a greater sin.
“Before Captain America—”
“Would you stop that? He could hear you.” Wingham glanced to where Leone stood outside sucking on the cancer stick like it would save his life, not end it prematurely.
“And how could he hear me?”
Wingham shrugged.
“As I was saying. We know our guy didn’t board a bus or buy a ticket, so why take a taxi to a bus station. It doesn’t make any sense.”
“He could have done it to throw the investigation off his tail. Say if he assumed we’d get this far, it wouldn’t make sense for him to take the taxi from The Oasis straight to the hospital, or the apartment where he did the shooting.”
“Slight detour.”
“Exactly.” Wingham smiled as if she solved the case. “He likely took another cab from here and good luck tracking that down.”
“Taxi.” Clinton let the one word sit there and marinate. “The taxi driver mentioned the fare had baggage. He wouldn’t want to go hauling that all over—”
The child screamed again, sending instant irritation through Clinton’s bloodstream. The mother yanked on the child’s arm and placed him on the bench. A wildly pointed finger wagged in front of his face. As Clinton watched the mother discipline the boy, his attention on them blurred when he noticed what was behind them.
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Chapter 57
OUTSKIRTS OF DETROIT, MICHIGAN
SUNDAY, JUNE 13TH, 11:15 PM
JUST UNDER 6 HOURS UNTIL THE DEADLINE
DARKNESS CHANGED PERCEPTION. In the day, the hangar appeared large yet somehow more vulnerable. At night, lights from the building cast an eerie glow as it mingled with the haze that covered the fields around it. It made me think of horror movies where teenagers rent a cabin on a lake and a fog hovers over the water. It was all about surroundings and setting to make the scene just right. The fact that my present circumstances made me think of hack-em-and-sack-em movies wasn’t reassuring. I would do my best not to have any of that come to fruition.
I remembered my foolish assumption that Brenda would never find out and that neither she nor the kids be affected. How wrong I had been.
They were in that building. Not only had Brenda’s scream disclosed that, but I could feel they were close in the depth of my being. They say that it’s possible to feel the pain of a loved one, how those really connected can feel when their loved one has passed. In my soul, I felt they were all alive. Yet with that came the intense pain in my chest that told me they were suffering. My wife both physically and mentally—she likely wondered who her husband was.
I believed the screams were a ploy for me, a manipulation tactic to help realign me, and remind me that Christian was in charge. I was simply a pawn on his chessboard. The video that showed my daughter and wife being ogled by a man was also a tactic to weaken me and to keep me in line. I had never been one to play by the rules.
Even as an only child in a religious family, I couldn’t bring myself to bring my parents joy. My ideals in life didn’t align with theirs, despite my attempts to see things from their angle. I had a hard time accepting that prayer and a Greater Being could be the answer to our problems. Yet at a time like this, I almost considered a small prayer—not that I would know where to start. I realized the hypocrisy of it. How could I pray for the safe return of my family and myself when I wouldn’t hesitate to take life? I would kill everyone if it were necessary.
I lowered to the ground and since the fog hovered above it about two to three feet, it afforded me a clear view between it and the top of the stalks. Two figures were outlined against the front of the building. I recognized the larger stature of the one. He had been outside Christian’s house the night I had let myself inside. If I remembered correctly, the one from the front had called him Carlos. I was surprised he was still on this side of the ground. He must have been a tremendous asset to Christian—gullible and malleable.
The other man paced around. He said something to Carlos; I heard the voice but couldn’t discern what was said.
I closed the distance another ten yards. Neither man looked in my direction. The lights were bright on the building and cast a glare over the fields. The men were little more than silhouettes. But I could make out that both of them were carrying. Based on shadows only, they were AK-47s.
“I just got to go. Nothing’s happening.” His words carried across the field this time.
“We’re not to move. That’s the rules,” Carlos said.
He was definitely an asset to Christian. He always valued those who bent at the knee and followed every command.
“I just have to fuckin’ pee!”
“Piss your pants! I don’t care! You don’t move!” An arm jabbed downward.
“Fuck you.” The guy walked away.
“Get back here now!”
The smaller silhouette kept moving and went around the other side of the hangar.
My attention went to the back end of the building. My hope was that with so much attention being paid to the front side, the back would lay exposed. The plan was to sweep out far enough in the field and then work my way down the side.
A pain bit in my lower back, seizing me motionless. I had to straighten out or risk becoming locked in this position. If I stood up, I risked something worse—being spotted. But I didn’t have much of an option. The body wasn’t what it used to be. Years had taxed the joints and bones, only reaffirming the fact I was no longer in my twenties.
Carlos’s back was to me. I placed two hands on my lower back and talked myself through the process of straightening up.
With a sharp spasm threatening to stop me, I discounted it and headed toward the hangar. I had to close the rest of the distance. My family was in there; I could feel it even more so the nearer I got.
My breath heaved when I reached the side of the building. A plane was on the tarmac and I could hear voices. I couldn’t see anyone. That was a dangerous combination. I pressed flat against the aluminum exterior of the building; the metal was cool through my light jacket yet soothing to the ache in my back.
The conversation continued among a few men. The words that made it through to me were, he, Niagara Falls, and he just got back. I couldn’t be certain as I received the discussion piecemeal, but the inflection in their voices made me assume the he they referred to was Christian. But the rest of it didn’t make a lot of sense. Why would he have gone to Niagara Falls?
A wave of a relief blanketed over me. I knew it was a premature, irrational response to an emotional journey I had been subjected to, but maybe he went to determine that the Governor was, in fact, dead. Or was there more to it? Why not just call a contact there?
Maybe he wanted to restore my family to me. The elation crashed with the recollection of his words, there’s one more thing you must do for me.
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Chapter 58
NIAGARA FALLS, NEW YORK
SUNDAY, JUNE 13TH, 11:30 PM
“BINGO!” CLINTON CLAPPED HIS HANDS TOGETHER.
Wingham followed his gaze to the row of lockers.
“Think about it for a moment. Tux had baggage, he couldn’t take it with him. It makes perfect sense.” Clinton felt the burning start at the base of his stomach and work its way through him.
“We need in those lockers,” she said.
Clinton’s back was already to her, his large strides stopping in front of a customer service counter.
“We can’t let you in the lockers. That’s a violation of human rights.” The night manager locked his arms in front of his chest. An average-sized man with small lips whom Clinton guessed was normally mild natured. “If you can get a warrant, some sort of court order—”
“There’s no time for one,” Clinton said.
“Then, I’m sorry, but I can’t help you. It’s not rational, or ethical, for us to go along breaking off the locks.” He stopped talking, his eyes saying, how do I even know you’re real cops.
They didn’t have time for this. The longer the killer walked, the colder the trail. The real news about the Governor would be hitting the news tomorrow night. Clinton received the call earlier in the evening from the Police Chief. It was a reminder of the deadline and that if he didn’t have a solid lead or the case solved by then, he might as well hand in his gun for a desk job.
Leone walked up to them. “What’s going on?”
The manager looked at him as if to say, now who is this?
Clinton introduced him to speed things along.
“As I was telling him,” the manager started.
Clinton picked up on the underlying degradation. Now that the manager had an official FBI agent in front of him, a major crimes detective wasn’t near as exciting.
“We can’t start opening lockers.”
“Detective Clinton, can we talk a minute?” Leone came close to placing a hand on Clinton’s shoulder but obviously thought better of it. The smell of cigarette smoke clung to his clothing as a saturated stick of incense.
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