T WASN’T QUITE AN EMPTY SHELL, rather, it was more an animal carcass, from which the callous hunter had stripped the best cuts of meat and left the remains to the vultures–or to the health and building departments, to be exact. And now the building was slowly but surely being plucked clean to the bone by a loose band of dishonest guards who weren’t sure if a job would still exist once the smoke cleared. Two squirming maggots wearing Three Queens name badges on their shirts shuffled on the bone-white carpet of the 13th floor, listening to the obscenities of a crazed tyrant–and ready to take orders from that very same tyrant. It was their hope to feast on the left-over scraps.
Three Queens had been sold for the value of the land only. The bank saw the crumbling building more as an encumbrance. Just like its prior owners had insulated themselves from the responsibility of the massive repairs needed to bring it up to code, Vinnie had opted to do the same. Over the previous two years Vinnie had neglected even the most basic maintenance, concentrating instead on his own greedy agenda. Finally, threatened with a million dollars’ worth of repair work, he chose to shut it down.
Several of the casino’s patrons were already posturing to sue. A broken ankle here, a fractured wrist there, some jewelry missing from the front desk, three purses stolen–all tort claims for mental anguish and spoiled vacations. A second round of larger, hungrier vultures had also gathered to feed on the hysteria of a possible settlement that might be gained before a class-action suit swung into full gear.
Vinnie stormed back and forth across the carpet, hovering about like a waiting raven hoping to filch his own a small morsel before being ripped to shreds by the real bird of prey–an impetuous uncle yet unaware of the building’s present status. The second option, one in which there at least existed the possibility of coming off victorious, was to clash with the hunter without a gun, whose name the gangster now took in vain, along with other choice expletives.
“One lousy kid, screwin’up my life. . . . Walked right in under our noses and stole my car . . . leaves a message sayin’ my ‘number’s up’ . . . takes Frankie’s car out with five cents worth a’ potato, then knocks me across the parking lot on my . . .” Clint took a gulp of his drink as he listened to the tyrant’s vulgarities continue, “and I end up with an FBI agent’s gun pointed at me . . . and the kid’s still got twenty-grand a’my cash.” He brandished a fist in the faces of his two lackeys as a demonstration of his authority. “You find him,” he growled, “or I’ll finish the both of you with a bullet between your eyes!” A potent kick sent a nude figurine crashing to the floor. He stared down one of his loyal employees. “And bring Gino and the boys in from Jersey!”
Unnerved by the fixed glare, Clint flicked the gelled hair from his eyes and turned away. Frankie, slouched at attention at Clint’s side, swiped his thumb across his nose and asked, “Don’t Bino know where t’ find this Mitch guy?”
Vinnie’s lower lip quivered imperceptibly. “Maybe, maybe not,” he finally said. “But if you find his daughter, we’ll make sure he does. . . .” The wise guy glanced around. “And where’d that runt of an Englishman go?”
The Feds were asking themselves the same question. Ritter had disappeared. The one, shaky connection to the whereabouts of Mike’s body, a homeless, pennyless vagrant, had managed to get himself bailed out, land a new job, obtain a new wardrobe, and vanish–all in less than 24 hours. And all for the price of a measly pinky.
Barnes had come into the SAC’s office to deliver the news. “The car’s got to be stashed someplace in his grandpa’s wrecking yard. The old man’s anti-government all the way. Took on the transportation department thirty years ago and won. He won’t be of any help.”
Field brushed off the speculation. “To me that’s a moot point,” he replied. “I’m not as concerned about the car as I am Mike’s body. Did you get the tap on Mrs. Champion’s phone?”
“We did, but we were too late with the hospital tap. Our nurse did report that Mr. Wilson got a call a little after noon. She was sure it was Mitch by the way the old man talked. Then when Stephanie stopped by to visit, he confirmed it. We found Mr. Wilson’s truck on the old Pecos highway 25 miles north of town. It was out of fuel, with Mitch’s prints all over it.”
“You think the boy killed Mike?” Field asked.“I doubt it. I’d have to see his prints on the weapon. Even then we might have some burden of guilt to prove.”
“What do you mean?”
“Mike was adamant the kid’s a good man. Put it in his reports.” Barnes’s head gave a slight shake. “I’m afraid I screwed this one up, sir. Mike was right, we should’ve brought Mitch in. The armed robbery thing may have taken place while Mitch was trying to prevent a suicide. We’ve located the driver’s wife. It took some doing because the old car had been sitting in the backyard of a friend of a friend. The fellow’s name is Greg Hart.”
“The name sounds familiar.”
“You remember the two-hundred-thousand-dollar credit card case a few months back? Guy claimed he was a victim? The story was in all the news.”
“I remember. The hotel came up with a tape of him with a hooker.” Field slid his glasses up his nose.
“Greg Hart.”
“Poor jerk.”
Barnes held up his pages of notes. “Lost everything. Job, house, wife, home; his second mortgage was sold on the courthouse steps. We’ve talked to his father. Seems his gun is missing. We found Hart’s wallet in the kid’s Camaro; no gun, though. And one interesting fact: the hooker works for Vincent Domenico.”
“You find her?”
“Not yet.”
“You told me Mitch, in both cases, had left the guns behind?”
“He did,” confirmed Barnes. “But there’s more. His dad killed himself when the kid was seven years old. Mitch is the one who found him. Ugly scene. Mother couldn’t take it and broke down. His grandpa was awarded custody. Turns out the kid’s luck isn’t so good. As a high-school senior the Vegas police arrested him on an armed felon charge. He cooperated and got a year. I’ve looked over all the statements–Mitch was innocent. Drove the get-away car and didn’t even know what was happening until it was too late. Far as I’m concerned, he shouldn’t have been busted at all. A Sterling scholar, captain of the basketball team . . . he could have had a full ride anyplace in the country. The arrest squashed all that.”
Field gripped the corners of his spectacles and drew them up on his forehead. Then he massaged the outside corners of his eyes. A migraine’s aftermath, the remnants of which often lingered on for hours, wasn’t that much better than the actual thing. “But he can’t be the perfectly innocent kid you think he is. He stole a car the other night, we’ve got tapes of him setting off the fire alarm in Three Queens, he kidnapped a guard, and so on and so forth. . . .”
“Word on the street is,” Barnes said, referring once more to his notes, “Vinnie’s been running a credit card scam in the basement of Eddie’s Gym. A bunch of homeless people dug Eddie out of a wall in the laundry chute a few days ago. The old boxer’s as tight lipped as Mr. Wilson.”
Horne stuck his head in the doorway, a smirk across his face. “We got him.”
“Who?” Barnes and Field exclaimed in unison.
“Mike’s contact. . . .” Horne paused. Finally they’d gotten a break. “Bino Daniels. He was a rookie cop in L.A. Graduated from the same academy, same year, as Mike.”
“What are you waiting for? Bring him in. He know’s a far sight more than he’s telling us.” Field brought his glasses back down onto the bridge of his nose and waved the agents out the door.
An hour of arguing hadn’t changed the old woman’s mind. Nurse was not about to go around reciting The rain in Spain falls mainly on the plain, no matter what anyone said. She was perfectly happy with the way she spoke and there was nothing wrong with her southern accent. If the team didn’t like it, they were just “hog-tied naked to a hornet’s nest and drippin’ with molasses”–end of discussion.
Sound had taken the time to hook up the television to the antenna, and now he and Smitty sat watching the late night news. Cap’n was unshakably asleep in the corner, snoring like a Bradley tank. Milling about the apartment, Greg and Nurse were trying to avoid speaking to each other after their petty spat about the need for speech lessons. In time, both wandered into the little kitchen to whip up a bite to eat.
“Hey, come see this,” Sound yelled. “Congressman MacArthur had his identity stolen and was arrested today on drug charges.”
Greg vaulted from the kitchen and concentrated on the screen. Nurse waddled behind, still blinking furiously from the irritation to her eyes. A news reporter thrust her microphone–among many others–in front of a man standing on the front walk of the county jail.
“This is an outrage!” the man scoffed, his voice resonating over the TV. “I was treated like a common criminal.” The man was well dressed, though disheveled. His jacket hung over one arm, his presumed wife hung on the other, her face a bleak mask. A distinguished attorney lurked in the shadows, practically hanging onto his client’s shirt tails.
“Congressman MacArthur,” one of the reporters shouted, “are you saying the charges are false?”
“I’m not only stating unequivocally that the charges are false but that the arrest should never have happened. My office will get to the bottom of this. And when it does, heads are going to roll.”
The news anchor appeared on the screen. “That was the scene earlier today at the county jail,” he said, a look of concern creasing his face. “We have since learned that the drug charges stemmed from a Florida warrant for this man, Roy Higgins, a resident of Porterville, California.” A photo flashed on the screen. “Allegedly, Higgins had been posing as Congressman Dalton MacArthur. From the information we have received, he has ties to Las Vegas and has left a trail of illegal credit card charges and speeding tickets in the congressman’s name from California to Florida. . . . We now take you live to Congressman MacArthur’s home.”
“Thank you, Phil,” said the dark-haired, on-the-scene reporter. “I’m standing here in front of the home of congressional freshman Dalton MacArthur. His attorney spoke with us a few minutes ago and said the Congressman is not ready to make a statement at this time. However, he assures us that his client will be completely and quickly cleared of any wrongdoing. This was not so simply put.” She peered down to read from her notes. “As he termed it, the charges are–and I quote–‘a massive mistake, indeed, a bureaucratic crime that carries with it a ripple effect of financial tentacles reaching into the very corners of the personal lives of innocent people’–unquote. This is Dee Dee Dickinson reporting live from Congressman MacArthur’s residence, Los Prados Estates. . . . Back to you, Phil.”
Greg gestured excitedly. “See, the same thing happened to me, except the guy never got caught!” He glanced once more at the television set. Seeing that the newscast had moved on to its next story, he continued, “The sucker didn’t even see it coming. He probably has credit cards he didn’t even know he had.”
Smitty sat deep in thought, his chin resting on his partially closed fist. “What you thinkin’, Smitty?” Nurse asked.
The mute sat up and blinked hard, staring at the wall. Then he opened his eyes wide, as if a light had come on, and pointed back and forth between his head and his eyes.
“You seen somethin’?” Nurse asked. Smitty nodded. By hook and by crook, soon the woman had deciphered that Smitty had seen the imposter congressman, Roy Higgins, going in and out of Eddie’s gym a few times.
In time the excitement wore off and the day’s flurry of events took their toll on the bleary-eyed team. As late-spring’s dusk faded to night, the Alley Team lolled about on the floor like a teenage slumber party, the television still blaring.
Mitch arrived to the late-night banter of Jay Leno. He flipped off the set and scrounged through the fridge for something to eat. He, too, would shortly be sleeping on the floor beside his fellow nomads, the days and nights overlapping from one unmarked point on the calendar onto the next. Like the paltry peanut spread he’d caked on his slice of bread, the days and nights wore on, tasteless and seemingly indeterminable.
It took Bino almost two minutes to answer the door. He’d dozed off in his easy chair, the television still flashing its sultry scenes, long since disregarded by the gambler. And tonight he didn’t feel so good, having just drawn a sour hand from Frankie–several sour hands, to be exact, mostly slaps across the face and a knee to the groin. “Not enough to kill him,” Vinnie had said. “Just enough to let you know I mean business.”
Barnes and Horne began their interrogation, one that would last well into the night. Bino knew the drill: they’d ask a question, he’d deny knowing anything, or refuse to answer. They’d ask again . . . and so it would go. Yes, Bino’s body hurt, but his soul suffered an agony much worse. Just a glimpse of his young daughter was all they’d given him. She was sobbing her eyes out, clamped in the filthy arms of a thug he’d never laid eyes on before. The car was driven by another of Vinnie’s old buddies from back home, probably flown in just for the occasion. The thug holding her had lifted her head just enough to be sure Bino would see the terrified look on her face. Snatched from her bed in the dead of night, her mother didn’t even know she was missing.
He’d convinced himself that even Vinnie wouldn’t stoop so low as to use the girl as a pawn. Still, taking precautions, he’d tried to persuade his ex-wife to let him take Angelina to Disneyland for a week. It being the last month of the school year–and considering his request most strange–she wouldn’t hear of it.
When the first streaks of dawn painted the Vegas sky a pale blue, a new set of interrogators were parked in Bino’s face, asking questions–the same questions he’d heard a hundred times over. He never bothered to lawyerup. Where he was going in the next few days, he wouldn’t need a lawyer– and neither would Vinnie.
A single, chilling, mind-numbing fact kept swimming around in Bino’s mind: His little Angelina wouldn’t be going home to her mother when the boys went back to Jersey. It wasn’t Vinnie’s style. Someone would find her on the side of the road, another in a long line of Vinnie’s victims. The gun that killed Jimmy would also mysteriously show up, along with an anonymous note as to whom the prints belonged to.
It was in picturing his daughter’s face that Bino ultimately found the courage to act. He would give anything to bring her home, safe and sound. Maybe by saving her he could vindicate himself and bring a flicker of purpose to the years of disgrace and humiliation he’d suffered. And perhaps a paragraph or two of his own would help close the wound he’d inflicted in the heart of his ex-wife.
Fed by the angry voices of frustrated agents demanding answers to their inane questions, Bino’s sense of duty built to a crescendo. “I don’t know!” he cried out, rising to his feet. “So you either . . . book me . . . or turn me loose–now!” His chest heaved; every other part of his body shook violently. For nearly 12 hours he’d been deprived of one of his most cherished vices. Now he’d almost kill for a cigarette.
By nine a.m. Wednesday, Nurse was already showered and dressed. Lifting a long wooden spoon to her lips, she sampled from an old pot of boiling grits, added some salt and a pinch of pepper, and took another taste. Another second hand pan, full of bacon sizzled on the stove’s other burner. Too enthralled with the grits, she didn’t notice the dark swell rising from the pan, until every smoke detector in the apartment was crowing its own rise-and-shine symphony. Not exactly the most subtle way for a bunch of criminals to start their morning.
Of course, Cap’n’s response had a bad-mouthed tinge to it. To say the least, he didn’t hold back on his opinions, none of which touted the marvels of the life-saving device. Between mumbled curses, one could hear the words “blasted communists” and “causin’ heart attacks” and “air raids.”
Pretty soon everything calmed down and the team got on with the day’s relatively light list of tasks. In an effort to fine-tune their plan, Eddie was assigned to stage a simple experiment with Clint to see if blood really was thicker than water–or, in this case, thicker than money. Sound had agreed to saunter on down to the T-Bird to see if Ritter had shown his face, then return and assemble the team’s communication system–a rather MickeyMouse system purchased from Radio Shack for $49.95. And the magic moment everyone was waiting for would be a call from the dental lab. With a 24-hour turn-around time, the new set of dentures would be the finishing touch to the team’s masterpiece, the new ‘queen of the street,’ Mrs. Rebecca Lambert.
After breakfast Smitty sat down cross-legged on the kitchen floor to show Mitch how to pick a lock. First he dismantled several simple locks he kept in his tool pouch and demonstrated how they worked. Cap’n passively looked on over Mitch’s shoulder.
Mitch caught on quickly and, wielding a pick and a spring, he guided into place the tumbler pins of the most basic lock. But it was harder than Smitty made it out to be. Nevertheless, a frustrating half-hour later, Mitch had successfully opened his first lock. Delighted by his teaching ability, Smitty tossed his hands in the air as if he’d just won the Boston Marathon.
Having beaten the lock–and against the better judgment of both Nurse and Greg–Mitch took a relaxed stroll over to the convention center to call the hospital and check on Grandpa. The news was all good. The old man was doing well, and swore he’d be home in time for supper. The attack had been mild, as heart attacks go. The only drawbacks were that he’d have to put away the pipe and–heaven forbid!–stop eating fried foods. Doctor’s orders also prescribed a few pills, bed-rest for a week, and that he cut out chasing ghosts in the junkyard. Within five or six weeks, he’d be back in the pink. “Darn rules . . .” groused the old man. “They take all the fizz outta life!”
Mitch said his good-byes and hung up the phone–but not before the Feds had narrowed down from which floor and which part of the building the call had originated. Aching to speak with Stephanie, Mitch once more picked up the phone–then abruptly hung it back up. Having been warned by the skittish Alley Team that the phones might be tapped, he maneuvered through the crowds to a more remote bank of pay phones and punched in the number. The only other occupant of the small, six-unit booth hung up his own phone and went off down the hall.
While waiting for the call to connect, Mitch stared down at the carpeted, two-foot square, metal-edged panel under his feet. Subconsciously, he tapped his foot on the center of the panel, which swayed ever so slightly beneath him. The phone rang, then rang again.
“Hi, Maggie,” greeted Mitch, nervously. ”Is–uh–Stephanie there?”On the other line, Maggie was unsure of what to do next. “Hello, Mitch.” She rolled her eyes, a signal to Sutton–who’d returned for a second tour of duty–to flip on the recording device and caller ID equipment set up near the stove. Then she handed Stephanie the phone.
Stephanie’s tone was breezy. “Mitch . . .”“I don’t have much time, and we’re probably being listened in on, so I’ll make this short. I love you . . .”
“I love you, too, Mitch–and you’re right. Why don’t you come in and let the police help us?”
“I can’t. Not yet, anyway.” A man sidled up to place a call one spot away. From behind the screen separating the two phones, Mitch could see the fellow’s casual loafers.
“They know almost everything that’s going on. They want to help; they can protect us . . .”
“Like they protected you the other night?” Mitch chimed in. “Like they helped me in high school?” He craned his neck to peer over the heads of the Home Expo guests, keeping a close eye on the exit doors.
“They’ve beefed up security since then, Mitch. They have someone with me 24 hours a day. We’re being moved to a safe-house this afternoon. ”
Mitch’s fingers toyed with his All-In-One knife/tool, shoved deep in his pants pocket. “We can’t hide forever. I have to finish what I started. . . . Stef, it’ll be over in a few days–I promise.” He tried to lighten the conversation–and send a hidden message. “And if you start to worry, you make a quick pot of dog stew, okay?”
Stephanie blinked and crinkled her eyebrows. What did he mean by that? Then its meaning kicked in. “Okay,” she replied.
“I love you. And I didn’t kill anyone, but I know who did. If I come in now we’ll never be safe again, trust me.” A silver sedan pulled up at the service dock and two men bustled from its doors. “I’ve got to run . . .” He slammed down the receiver.
“I do trust you . . .” Her words were drowned out by the dial tone.
Trapped in the center of the sprawling building’s north corridor, Mitch, his heart pounding in his chest, crouched down to consider his options. The agents seemed to know exactly where they were headed and who they were looking for. No doubt they’d studied his photograph and profile in every detail. At this stage of the game, they were primed for the hunt. He again stared down at the floor panel, his natural mechanical curiosity at its peak. A recessed pull-ring on one side of the door, a bolt on the other edge, it just might work. With busy conventioneers traipsing up and down the corridor behind him, Mitch pulled a handful of change from his pocket and let it fall to the floor. The caller in the next booth shifted his weight uneasily as Mitch dropped to his knees. “I’ve got it,” he called out cheerily as he began to crawl about, collecting the coins.
A few hurried passers by glared in the direction of the man in the booth, on his knees, his left hand busily dropping change as fast as it was picked up. What most could not see was what his right hand was doing. Clutching his pocket tool, Mitch unscrewed the trap door’s large stainless bolt. Meanwhile, Mitch continued digging coins from the carpet around the other caller’s feet, purposely driving him to the far side of his booth.
Staring through a multitude of legs and feet, Mitch spotted the dress slacks and shiny shoes of his pursuers. They were a mere hundred yards away, closing in fast. If a simple utility repair box was behind his floor panel, he was dead; if, on the other hand, it led to the mechanical conduit between floors, he had a chance. He peered up one last time, then jammed the driver bit under its lip and pried it up.
To his relief, a dark void greeted him. A rush of air blew into his face as he urged his shoulders down through the opening. Hitting bottom, he turned and lunged upward, latching onto the door and easing it back over the hole. Then he lay still, body hunched over, knees pressed to his chest. In seconds a set of heavy footsteps tramped across the floor above him, accompanied by muffled voices. “He’s not here . . . Check the hallway . . .”
Mitch groped in the pitch blackness and inched his way through what appeared to be a concrete maze of pipes and wires. He chuckled softly. How ironic: the floor panel could end up being either an escape hatch or a door to a dungeon. Regardless, by choosing it, he’d just sealed his fate.
The voices receded as he crawled farther from the door above. His eyes began to adjust to the darkness. Here and there, tiny shards of light shot down through openings in the ceiling where pipes or wires terminated. As he fumbled like a mole to find his way, he cracked his skull on one of the maze’s low-hanging corners.
Suddenly the tunnel lit up behind him. “We’ve got a rat down here,” a voice called out. “Get a light–he can’t be far.”
Mitch scooted along on his hands and knees, ending up in a spot in the conduit where it split into a T. Both ways disappeared into a black unknown.
“He was right here picking up his change,” he heard the man who had been on the next phone say.
The light from the doorway momentarily dimmed as an agent dropped inside the horizontal shaft. Mitch turned the corner, heading blindly to the left. A whiff of chemical cleaner drifted down the passage, its toxic odor mingling with the suffocating, dusty air. The sound of flushing toilets echoed from close by. Mitch lurched in the direction of the sound, down a connecting tunnel. In seconds a beam of light bounced off the wall at the end of the tunnel just behind. Heavy breathing and grunts echoed down the shaft.
Mitch lurched recklessly on until he came to a metal step bolted to a concrete wall. A narrow cavity led upward to another small floor panel. He groped in the semi-darkness overhead. Unable to feel any kind of bolt or latch, he applied the weight of his shoulder–and the door popped open. A large, vented door provided enough light for Mitch to tell that he’d come up into some sort of janitorial closet. Straightway he repositioned the trap door back in its place and piled some nearby buckets and boxes of paper towels on top of it. Then he took stock of the situation.
He could see that the lit-up door led to a restroom. Snatching a mop down off the wall, he plunged it inside a bucket, slung a yellow CAUTION: WET FLOOR sign onto his shoulder and pushed through the closet door, wheeling his tools out into the middle of the floor.
Freedom . . . it was too good to be true–literally. Only then did Mitch realize that he was standing in a ladies’ restroom. A flush came from the nearest stall; a woman looked up in surprise from the sink where she was washing her hands. “Uh, sorry, ma’am,” he stammered. “I kinda forgot to put out the warning sign.” Feeling like some sort of pervert, he wheeled his bucket out into the corridor, whistling as he went, and propped the mop handle across the entrance. Then, dropping the yellow sign on the floor, he called back inside, “Would you please come and tell me when everyone is out?” The water in the sink shut off and the woman answered with a timid “Yes.”
Gazing off down the busy hallway, Mitch could see a half-dozen agents crowded around the phone booth, only 40 feet away. Astaticky voice rasped from a radio, set on the shelf next to the phone Mitch had been using. Intent on hearing directions from the man down in the tunnel below their feet, they were oblivious to the new janitor walking in the opposite direction, away from the rubber-necking crowd.