Boston Cream (29 page)

“We might be able to slip through the hoarding somewhere,” Ryan said. “Pick our spots based on the camera placements we’ve seen.”

“The other possibility,” I said, “is we get a man into the trunk of Stayner’s car. He can slip out first chance he gets.”

“Why Stayner’s?” Frank asked.

“Because he’ll be the last one in. Everyone else will be impatient to go.”

“Then what?”

“Here’s what I’ve been thinking. One of us dresses up like one of the surgical team. The gown, the mask, all of it. Then we pull a switch and our guy gets in with a gun. Leads the attack from the inside.”

“Pull a switch how?”

“I’m still working on that.”

“Okay,” Frank said. “Five opportunities to get in. And hopefully one to get out.”

“Six,” Ryan said.

“How’s that?” I asked.

“We didn’t count the donor. The guy they can’t start the party without.”

“His name is George Riklitis,” Stayner said over the phone. “Aged forty-seven, five-foot-nine, one hundred and eighty pounds. A day labourer, according to his file, something to do with patios. Excellent health except for chronic back pain, which is immaterial to his suitability as a donor but explains the need for money. I’m told he has brought more children into the world than he can presently afford and jumped at Daggett’s offer.”

“Who’s met him so far?”

“Carol-Ann made the initial contact. I’m not sure who presented the actual offer. Once he accepted it, he reported to one of the hospital affiliates outside the city for further testing.”

“But Daggett would have seen him face to face.”

“Probably.”

“When is Riklitis supposed to arrive?”

“Around a quarter to nine. Before the McConnells, at any rate. We don’t want them meeting at that point. It could overwhelm one of the parties emotionally. He’ll settle in, the nurses will prep him and put him under just as I arrive,” Stayner said.

“Would he have an overnight bag?”

“Yes. They go straight from Halladay’s to the recovery facility so we tell them to bring a few days’ worth of things.”

“Do Daggett’s men ever search these bags or frisk a donor?”

“No. Why?”

“Because Mr. Riklitis will be bringing a gun in.”

“He what? Has he agreed to this?”

“No,” I said. “But neither have you and you’re bringing one too.”

Stayner sputtered, spat and swore at the idea of bringing a gun in with his gear, but I told him there was no point in arguing. No one was asking him to fire it. He just had to bring it in and stash it in a location to be determined. I kept at him until he acquiesced.

Then it was time to go to work on Frank.

“Admit it,” I said. “You look more like a Riklitis than any of us do.”

“You’re still fucking nuts.”

“You’re the closest to his age and size.”

“I don’t care if I’m his identical twin, go fuck yourself. I’m not doing it.”

“Don’t make me say this,” Victor said.

“I’ll kill you if you agree with him,” Frank said. “Flat out kill you.”

“Okay.”

“Okay what? You agree?”

“I agree having a guy inside from the start gives us an edge.”

“And?”

“And it might be easier for you to go in that way than, you know, slipping through the hoarding or running in behind a car.”

“What are you saying, Victor? You saying I put on weight?”

“You don’t exactly slip anymore, Frank. It’s more like you barge.”

“All right, now I’m back to killing you.”

Brothers.

“Just give it some thought,” I said. “If you could get in there with a gun, find Jenn and give us the word, it could all be over in a minute.”

“Yeah, it won’t be you they’re shaving.”

“Stayner would tell the team members at the right time. If necessary, they can stall. Fake an anesthesiology breakdown. We’d make sure you never went under. And Stayner will have a second gun in his gear as backup, in case you have to ditch the one you have.”

“Daggett knows Riklitis. He’ll know I’m not the guy.”

“That’s if he shows up,” I said. I knew in my heart he’d be there for Jenn’s surgery but getting Frank to buy into this was hard enough as it was.

“He’ll be there,” Frank said. “And didn’t Stayner say the donor goes under before he gets there? That throws off the whole trunk scenario.”

“We’ll get him to come in early. Time everything to go off around nine-thirty. I can get Stayner to tell the others to come early too.” My own excitement was starting to build as I began thinking this might actually work.

“Didn’t you tell the congressman you’d wait until after the surgery?” Frank asked me. His protests were getting weaker; I had him.

“I said we might, if it gave us the advantage. But we can’t wait. This is our shot and we have to take it. What do you say, Frank?”

“Can I bring the pump gun in?”

“Only if you can fit it under a gown,” Victor said.

We took the Charger to a nearby mall and split up in search of what we needed: plain black track suits, balaclavas, thin gloves, gym bags, black shoe polish, a crowbar. Prepaid cellphones from Circuit City. When we were back in the car, we divvied up the goods so each of us had what he needed for the night.

Ryan and I headed back to our new hotel to check in. I needed some time with him to go over the finer points of the plan. Sometimes two voices were easier to bring into harmony than four.

Frank and Victor left to visit the East Boston home of George Riklitis and impress upon him that if he showed up tonight, it would be as a cadaver donor, not a live one. And to borrow his car, which was the make and model the guards would be expecting.

We were coming up Massachusetts Avenue, just crossing Columbus, when I heard an engine kick into a higher gear behind us and saw a van swinging out to pass me on the left. Its side door was open and a gun barrel was sticking out. As soon as the front end came level with our rear, I swung the wheel hard and clipped his bumper. The van lurched to the left, almost hitting a southbound car, then veered back into its lane and kept coming. I floored it, wishing now we had the hemi-V8 engine Ryan had wanted.

Ryan levered his seat back so he could scramble into the rear. He kept his head down and Glock up as he lowered the
rear window, leaned his arm out and fired out of it. The van braked and went into my blind spot momentarily. Then I could see it again in the rear.

“Hang on,” I yelled, and spun the wheel right, sending us sliding through the intersection. Half a dozen horns blared in concert as I corrected the skid and took off eastbound.

“They make the turn?” I yelled.

“Just now.”

I had the bigger engine but it wasn’t like we were on a highway; it gave us no real advantage. There were cars in front of me doing moderate speeds—maybe ten miles over the limit. We were screaming along twice as fast with the van on our heels. Ryan leaned out the window and fired again, then ducked back in.

“You hitting anything?”

“Old ladies in crosswalks.”

“Use the shotgun.”

“We’ll go fucking deaf in here.”

“I don’t care,” I yelled. “Get them off our tail.”

He racked the shotgun and was bringing it to bear out the window when I saw brake lights going on in front of me in the lineup for a red light. I hit my own brakes and Ryan flew forward between the headrests. His head slammed into the back of mine, sending pain shooting straight through to my eyes. I kept my foot down hard, looking for a turn I could make. There was none. The van was coming up closer behind us.

“He’s going to hit us,” Ryan said.

“The fuck he is!” I waited as he grew closer in my mirror, shifted my eyes to the opposing traffic, then hit the gas as I spun the wheel to the left. As I cut sharply across the westbound lanes, the van crashed into the rear of the car that had been in front of me. I saw the driver’s door start to open so I braked and threw it into reverse and slammed the Charger’s rear end into the driver’s side, staving in his door. Then I put it back in drive
and leapt ahead of the oncoming cars into a fierce, fuck-all-of-you kind of U-turn. I got a full brass section of horns in reply, plus a clutch of Boston middle fingers, ignored them and wrenched the wheel and floored it the other way, watching in my rearview as a man yanked away at the door of the van, having no luck opening it.

“You okay?” I asked Ryan.

“I’m the one should be asking you. You bleeding?”

I touched the back of my head. The pain was immediate but there was no broken skin or blood. “No. An icepack and two gelcaps and I’ll be fine.”

“Usually not my own fucking head I crack.”

I turned south off Albany onto Southampton Street and parked. We got out of the car and checked the damage. Another rental car, another crumpled rear end. I knelt down and checked the underside for a transponder.

“Anything?” Ryan said.

“No.”

“At least there are no bullet holes in the car.”

“When that’s the best thing you can say, you know you’re pretty well fucked.”

We got back in and took a circuitous route back to the hotel.

“Man, Daggett played me,” I said. “He had me so focused on tonight, I didn’t think he’d try to hit us today.”

“Let’s see who plays who in the end.”

“Think we should change hotels again? In case they know where we’re going.”

“Fuck that,” Ryan said. “I’m tired and I’m armed and I’m in a mood like I got PMS. If I was them, I’d leave me alone right now.”

T
he Bay State Hotel was a find Jenn would have been proud of, right across from the great reflecting pool of the Christian Science complex. As her face came into mind, I felt a hot surge of rage through my body. Helpless at not being able to get her right now, this minute, to see her unharmed and throw my arms around her and carry her to safety like a damsel. Instead my visions were of her tied up, twisting to get free of her bonds, maybe being questioned by Daggett, being slapped or punched if he didn’t like her answers. I got out of the car clenching and unclenching my own fists, trying to breathe the coiled tension out of my body. Some of it went. Most stayed.

The hotel was a two-storey ell set back in a parking lot, with a small pool and a few shaded tables in a fenced-off area. Our room was in the wing that faced the great dome of the Mother Church. It was a small, very basic space that hadn’t been designed with two grown men with big guns in mind. We put most of the gear in the closet and sat across from each other across a small marble-topped table, where I uploaded all the photos DeMaurice Simms had taken to my laptop so we could zoom in on every entrance, window and alarm junction. We pored over the landscape, noting the best places to try to get in,
whether through the hoarding, over it or via the trunk of a car.

I called Stayner to get a description of his assistant, James Reimer: a tall man, mid-forties, wore wire-framed glasses, balding but trying to hide it with plugs.

“Beard? Facial hair?” I asked.

“No, he’s clean shaven.”

“When you say tall …”

“About six-one, I guess. A good few inches taller than me, at any rate, and I’m five-nine.”

“Okay, I’m six feet. If I had glasses on, and a cap and mask, could I fool someone?”

“Maybe for a minute, if they didn’t look too close. He doesn’t carry himself like you do. He’s not athletic at all. He stoops a bit.”

I asked Stayner if his key fob would work from inside the trunk.

“How on earth would I know that?”

“Test it.”

“You expect me to get inside?”

“You have a second set of keys?”

“Of course.”

“Then have your wife stand by to let you out if it doesn’t work.”

“If I do this, any of this, you have to promise you’ll get Daggett.”

“I already have promised,” I said.

“To whom?”

“Me.”

“It’s early yet,” Ryan said. “Not even dark. We could mount up right now and hit him at home.”

“Daggett?”

“Someone has to know where he lives. The four of us could crash his house.”

“He has a wife and kids.”

“Makes him all the more vulnerable. Bust in and put guns on anything that moves. Make him give up Jenn.”

“We haven’t scouted it,” I said. “We don’t know what security he’s got.”

“You don’t like the idea?”

I loved Jenn so much. There was no one closer to me now. But to train shotguns and automatics on a woman and children who had nothing to do with Daggett’s depraved business … I could see Victor squeezing the trigger of his Uzi too tightly and ripping fire across one of the kids.

“We can’t,” I said. “Kids have no place in this.”

“Even though it’s Jenn?”

“Yes.”

“All right. I had to ask.”

“Would you do it?”

“You didn’t call,” he said. “You don’t get to see my hand.”

We went back to planning: reviewing the sketches and notes from Stayner. The make of each car that was due to arrive. We put all the photos on slideshow and played a game, seeing who could identify the view first as each photo came up.

“South-side entrance!”

“East-side camera!”

“Coal chute door!”

We crammed like students before a big exam, quizzing each other, no notes, challenging each other to come up with something new, just one more thing we hadn’t thought of yet.

The plan we finally drafted went like this. Frank would arrive a little earlier than expected, around eight-thirty, posing as the donor, George Riklitis, saying things were crazy at his house, he needed to relax before the procedure, get his head around it. He’d stash his gun in the operating room and, if possible, do a walk-through and see if he could find Jenn. If anyone
recognized him, he’d have to shoot his way out. This, we hoped, was a light percentage.

The anesthesiologist would arrive first. He also drove the biggest car, a Navigator. When the gate was opened for him, Victor would slip in behind his car and hit the ground along the hoarding, work his way along it toward the rear.

That left Ryan and me. The nurses were coming in a Mazda 3, too small to get in behind, so we decided Ryan would pry back the hoarding in the southwest corner, farthest from any camera, and slip through there. I would get in the trunk of Stayner’s car. Ryan had made me get into the trunk of a car once before, so technically it was his turn, but he insisted, as only he can, that there was no point breaking in someone new.