The Guilty: (P.I. Jack Marconi No. 3) Read online

  The Adam’s apple bobbing up and down in his throat told me he was swallowing something dry and bitter. What he was swallowing was the truth about his past and from what I’m told, those skeletons don’t go down too easy.

  He glanced down at his desk, flung open his drawer, pulled out a snub-nosed Saturday night special. His speed took me by surprise. Raising up the 9mm, I swung and slapped the revolver from his hand, and then swiped his forehead on the back swing. He dropped back down into the chair like a hole in one.

  “You still with me, Slater?” I said.

  He nodded, a large black and purple lump now rising on his forehead.

  “Who paid you off to kill the security system while Sarah was being kidnaped?”

  His eyes were glassy. It was possible that if I hit him again, he’d pass out. I didn’t have the time to wait around for him to come to. Someone from his support staff could come in at any moment. I raised the pistol up anyway and made like I was going to hit him again.

  “Okay, okay,” he mumbled. “Enough.”

  “How we doing, Blood?” I asked.

  “All right so far. But tell preppy man to hurry up with what we already know.”

  Turning back to Lewis: “It was Robert David Sr. wasn’t it?” I said.

  He shook his head.

  “No,” he said. “It was the kid. He paid me a couple of grand to shut things down for ten minutes. That’s all it took to get her out.”

  “Where’d he take her?”

  He shook his head again.

  “I don’t know that,” he said, his eyes peering down at his hands in his lap.

  I reared back and hit him again. This time across the jaw. I figured if I hit him there with the tip of the barrel, it wouldn’t knock him out so much as knock some sense into him.

  “Where’d he fucking take the girl?”

  Fresh blood was dripping from his mouth onto his Nantucket sweatshirt. He’d have to buy a new one.

  “He didn’t tell me.”

  “Did he give you a clue?”

  He paused for a moment, wiping the blood from his mouth with the back of his hand.

  “The girl with him. A big blonde girl. Kind of hot. She said something about a bar. Their bar. The basement. A wine cellar. I don’t know, maybe you’ll fucking find her there.”

  It made sense to me. Hiding Sarah in the wine cellar of Manny’s was as good a place as any to store her. A wine cellar in a century old building like Manny’s would be deep, wide, and dark. I also knew now that Daphne had still been alive at the time of the kidnapping. Junior must have killed her very soon after. It must have all been a part of some master plan.

  “Thanks for your time, Mr. Slater,” I said, turning back to Blood.

  “Coast still clear, Keeper,” he said.

  “Door,” I said.

  He opened it and stepped on out. I stepped out right behind him. We double-timed it back down the corridor and out the sliding glass doors. We hadn’t yet made it to the 4Runner before the Valley View campus alarm sounded.

  57

  WE JUMPED BACK IN the 4Runner.

  Blood behind the wheel. Me in the shotgun seat.

  The sirens were blaring not only from the alarm speaker system attached to the building behind us, but also from the campus security vehicles that were closing in on us. Blood hit the gas and made for the exit which meant we’d have to speed directly past the guard shack. It was the only way in and out of the otherwise fenced-in facility. The guard assigned to the shack was standing in our way, at the end of the drive, just beyond the now lowered, horizontally-positioned yellow and black gate. Standing four-square, sidearm gripped in hand, combat position, the burly guard planted a bead directly at our heads.

  “You don’t think he’d actually pull the trigger, do you, Blood?” I asked as we began running out of the parking lot.

  “Never mess with a flunky cop,” Blood said.

  The pistol barrel stared us down like a tiny black eternity. For a brief instant, I thought Blood was going to run the guard over. But that’s when a yellow and white four-door Jeep pulled out in front of us and stopped on a dime. Blood slammed on the breaks while the two uniformed men who occupied the driver and shotgun seats jumped out. The one closest to us hid behind his open door for protection, his piece planted on us. The tall driver pointed his gun at us over the roof of the vehicle.

  I gripped the 9mm in my left hand while my right shoulder throbbed and my heart beat against my ribs.

  “Options,” I barked.

  “Only one option,” Blood said.

  “Not sure I want to know what it is.”

  He shifted the 4Runner in reverse and gunned it. The tires spun out on the pavement beneath us until they caught and lurched us backward. He hit the brakes and then shifted the 4Runner transmission into neutral.

  “Stop right there!” screamed the armed guard closest to us. “Stop or we will fire on you!”

  Blood revved the 8-cylinder. As the engine roared, you could see the jagged purple veins popping out on the both of the guard’s foreheads. Or maybe I was just seeing things. But I knew they hadn’t seen this kind of action in a long time. Probably more true that they’d never seen this kind of action. Ever.

  “I’ll be a dumb son of a bitch, Blood,” I said. “You’re gonna do this, aren’t you?”

  “They’re not the cops,” he said. “Cops would be a different story. But they people like you and me.”

  “Or not,” I said.

  “Or not,” he repeated, revving the engine once more. Then he added, “Duck your head and hang on, Warden.”

  Shifting the tranny into drive, my former inmate punched the gas.

  58

  THE 4RUNNER SHOT FORWARD like a big, red projectile.

  The face of the guard closest to us went wide-eyed, mouth ajar. He dropped his pistol and leaped out from behind the open Jeep door. Just as we slammed into the Jeep’s front grill, careening the 4-wheel drive vehicle sideways.

  Propelled by the Jeep, the guard on the driver’s side was thrust onto his back on the pavement. Somehow he managed to secure his service weapon in his shooting hand. Turning, I watched him plant a bead for the 4Runner. I saw the flashes of the spent rounds as they blew out the tailgate glass and made three nickel-sized holes in my brand new windshield.

  “Go!” I screamed at Blood, as he tapped the brakes before entering the exit road that would take us past the guard shack.

  “Man up ahead ain’t moving,” he said, bringing the vehicle to a full stop.

  “He’ll move,” I barked. “Trust me.”

  “Your call, boss,” he said.

  “Just go!” I repeated.

  I heard his right foot stomp down on the gas as the 4Runner headed straight for the third guard.

  59

  THE GUARD FIRED AT us.

  Pointblank.

  The new windshield exploded just as we heard the shots.

  The guard turned out to be a brave soul. He stood his ground directly behind the lowered gate as if it were somehow going to protect him from two tons of speeding SUV.

  I felt Blood’s free hand grip my blazer collar while he pulled me down onto the center console as he braved the gunfire. Then I felt a slight jolt as we rammed the gate. I waited for the dreaded thud that would occur when we made road-kill of the stubborn guard. But he must have jumped out of the way at the last possible second. Maybe cops and soldiers sometimes feel it their duty to die in the line of fire, but no rent-a-cop was ever called a martyr. Bravery or no bravery.

  Blood pulled out onto the street, hooked a right onto the road that would lead us back to the highway. He let go of me, and I gradually straightened myself up. Now that the gunplay was over, I was back to feeling the throbbing pain in my right shoulder. I was getting too old for this shit.

  “You hit?” Blood said. “Excuse me . . . You hit again?”

  “Just about to ask you the same thing.”

  “That’s what I like about you. Y
ou one caring white bread man.”

  “I voted for Obama.”

  “You think anything tailing us?”

  “Not a question of if,” I said, “but when.”

  “We got to ditch this bright red elephant, Keep. They know it’s yours, and they know you arrested for a murder.”

  “Think we can make it back to Sherman Street without being spotted?”

  He laughed.

  “Yeah,” I added. “Thought you were going to say something like that.”

  Up ahead was a church parking lot. The lot was filled with cars. Parked in the very front of the church, a black funeral hearse and two black stretch limousines lined up behind it.

  “Pull in there,” I said. “Park in back.”

  Blood did it.

  “You still good at hacking cars?” I asked him, as he parked the 4Runner in one of the empty spaces.

  “Depends on the year and make.”

  I took a quick look around and spotted a Volkswagen Rabbit from the mid-1980s. It was still in very good shape. No rust.

  “How about that?” I said, pointing to it.

  “Give it a whirl. You be the lookout. Those rent-a-cops ain’t about to chase us out here, but the Schenectady cops are already on their way.”

  He pulled a switch blade from the interior pocket on his leather jacket and got out. He popped the blade as he approached the Rabbit. He immediately began working the blade in the narrow crack-like opening between the hood and the engine block compartment. Within a minute, he was able to pop the hood. Less than a second minute later, he had the engine purring.

  “Let’s go,” he barked, closing the hood. It took him a few seconds to jimmy the driver’s side door with the blade, but he did it without breaking a sweat or breaking the blade.

  I got out, jogged over to the passenger-side of the compact car. He flipped the manual lock for me and I got in, closing the door behind me. It felt strange being so low to the ground as opposed to the 4Runner where we were high up.

  He shifted the manual transmission in reverse and backed out. That’s when I began to make out sirens.

  “Here they come,” I said.

  Blood gave it the gas, sped around the cars in the lot, and made it past the church just as two large young men wearing dark suits came barreling out of the front wood doors, shouting at us to stop. Blood didn’t slow for even a second. He pulled out into the road as if we owned it and the old Volkswagen Rabbit.

  In a big way, we did.

  60

  WE DIDN’T HAVE AN E-ZPass on us.

  Neither did the kid who owned the relic we just ripped off.

  We couldn’t just zip through the toll booth without stopping.

  Knowing we’d have to face another human toll collector who might very well I.D. us, we avoided the highway and took the back roads all the way into the town of Colonie, past the airport, and into West Albany. From there we made our way down the busy four-lane Wolf Road to Central Avenue where we hooked a left. Central Avenue was the main east/west artery for the city, and it would lead us directly to Lark Street and Manny’s Restaurant.

  I asked Blood for his cell.

  He handed it to me without asking me what I wanted it for.

  “Your caller ID appears on the receiver’s extension?”

  He looked at me while he drove.

  “Got that shit blocked,” he said with a smile.

  I dialed the memorized number for David Enterprises. When his assistant, Victoria, answered, I asked to speak with David Sr. Listening to my gut, I took a shot, told her my name was Bill and that I was calling from Harold Sanders office, and that I needed some direction on one of the projects we were working on together.

  She said, “Hi there, Bill,” in a sing-song, glad-to-hear-from-you voice. Then she told me Mr. David Sr. was unavailable since he was in a meeting with David Jr. Big mistake on the sexy lady’s part, but exactly what I suspected I’d hear. It was also exactly what I wanted to hear.

  “Can I take a message, Bill?” she said.

  “Tell them both to have a nice day,” I said, hanging up. Then, turning to Blood. “I got the Davids in the same place, same time. I also got some pretty clear confirmation that Sanders’s suit is a fraud. A way for them both to split a big pot at the expense of Sarah’s injuries.”

  “David Enterprises and Harold Sanders Architects acting in cahoots?”

  “Yup.”

  “Shall we blow the place up like they do in the movies?”

  “Nope. That would be too good for them. Prison would be better.”

  Blood smiled.

  “Nefarious man, you are. You must have worked in a prison.”

  We drove toward Albany. I knew it was only a matter of time before the Albany cops caught up to us since the owner of the Rabbit had no doubt already called the stolen vehicle in. But I wasn’t the least bit concerned about it as I dialed Detective Nick Miller’s cell phone.

  When he answered, I told him where I was now and where I was going to be in a matter of a few very long minutes. Then I told him about James Slater and what he revealed about Sarah’s possible location. I also told him about the Davids both being present and accounted for at David Enterprises. I let him in on my suspicion being all but confirmed. That the Davids and Harold Sanders were going to split a $40 million pot once I did my job by uncovering evidence that made Junior liable, but not legally responsible.

  “Insurance would make the forty mil payout,” Miller said. “Junior gets nailed for liability but he doesn’t get put away for anything. Brilliant when you think about it.”

  “Risky,” I said, “but yeah, I got to hand it to them.”

  “You sure Slater can be trusted?” Miller said. “Sure it’s not a trap? Slater is one shady motherfucker no doubt on the David payroll. I’m sending over a squad car. One of the ones the Davids paid for.”

  “No,” I spat. “No cops. Not now. I don’t want to scare away the pigeons while they still got their feathers on. Leave it up to Blood and me.”

  “Have it your way.”

  “You get any word from Harold Sanders or Levy?”

  “Levy occupies my office as I speak. He’s going nowhere until we find Sarah. As for Sanders, he seems to be nowhere, further confirming your suspicion of plaintiff/defendant collusion. We’ve been trying to find him since his daughter disappeared.”

  An imaginary red flag went up before my eyes.

  “Something’s been telling me from the beginning Sanders isn’t exactly the loving, all-concerned, arsty-fartsy dad he’s making himself out to be. Kindler’s gonna have a shit when he hears he’s been takin’ for a ride.”

  “Couldn’t agree more,” he said. “Before I go searching for Sanders’ skinny ass, I need to get some more face time with Junior and his father.”

  “You know what to do,” I said.

  “You’re thinking I make a real raid on David Enterprises? This time, a raid they don’t see coming?”

  “I’m not telling you how to do your job, Nick, but I think that would provide enough of a diversion for Blood and me to safely grab up Sarah from the wine cellar. That is if she’s there in the first place. You need to get the Davids in custody now while you have the chance. Don’t wait. They’re both trying to figure a way out of this inside their Broadway offices. Don’t give them a chance to flee the state. Or flee the damn country. Lord knows they have the money and the resources.”

  He then told me about a report that came in about a stolen car. That my shot up 4Runner had been abandoned at the scene of the carjacking.

  “Tell your people to back off.”

  “Technically speaking, you’re still the number one suspect in the murder of Daphne Williams,” he said. “I’ll continue to do what I can to keep you on the hunt for Sarah without getting busted by my people. In the meantime, stay out of sight until I can organize a raid on David Enterprises without giving our number one benefactor an excuse to scream police brutality and harassment while he cancels his c
hecks.”

  “That’s the idea,” I said. “But hustle it. Who knows what condition Sarah is in.”

  “Give me a half hour.”

  “Done,” I said.

  “I’ll be in touch,” he said.

  61

  BLOOD DROVE THE RABBIT down State Street and parked it on the south-eastern edge of Washington Park. He left the keys inside it with the window open. The cops would come upon it soon, seize it and hold it as evidence against me. Until a time when I was proven innocent of having anything to do with Daphne’s murder.

  We moved together on foot toward Manny’s.

  The corner of State and Lark was always congested with cars, trucks, taxis, and people crowding its concrete sidewalks and today was no exception. I caught a glimpse of the big exterior windows embedded into Manny’s big brick wall and could see right away that the lights in the place weren’t on. It was close to happy hour. Manny’s traditionally opened up for the lunch crowd and stayed open through the day and night. But not today. Something definitely wasn’t right. But then, I already knew that.

  Blood and I sifted through the crowd until we found ourselves outside the building’s front door. I tried pulling on it.

  “Locked,” I said, tugging on the closer.

  “They know we coming,” observed Blood.

  I took a look around, searching for another way in.

  “There’s got to be a service entrance,” I said. “Where they take their deliveries and bring out the trash.”

  “That there is,” said Blood. “Around back.”

  We walked State Street for a short distance until we came to an alley that led directly to a small back lot behind Manny’s. Problem was, there was a chain link fence blocking off access to it. I shot Blood a look and he shot me one back.

  “You ain’t gonna let a fence stop you,” he said like a question.

  “Been a while,” I said. “Bum shoulder.”