Forced Out (6 page)

"Why would he do that?"

"They killed his girlfriend. He got stinking drunk and lost it. Couldn't take being without her. Missed a turn, went over the edge."

Johnny felt a familiar lump form quickly in his throat. He still hadn't gotten over her. Never would. "
Who
killed his girlfriend?"

"The Lucchesi family. The Mafia."

Johnny stood straight up and took a quick, involuntary step back. Then hunched over for a split second, like he'd been slammed in the stomach with a sharp punch. Angelo Marconi had left that little detail out. Unless this was an intricate dodge Casey was trying to pull. But the missile had landed too close to home, sounded too believable. How could Casey
possibly
have known he was being tortured tonight on direct orders from a Lucchesi boss? "Why would they kill his girlfriend?" Johnny asked, trying not to act like Casey's response had hit him so hard.

"Kyle owed them money, I think. Yeah, that was it. Like almost a hundred grand. He borrowed it from them to pay for his mom's operation. For my sister, Helen. She and her husband didn't have insurance, didn't have anywhere near that kind of cash. And the rest of us didn't have the money, either. She would have died without surgery, so Kyle went to the mob for the money. They were his only option."

"Yeah, but why'd they kill his
girlfriend
?"

No answer.

"Mr. Casey!"

"Okay, okay, here's how it went down. So they come looking for the VIG early, see, way before they're supposed to. They want some big extra payment they'd never mentioned at the beginning, too. A processing fee, they call it. Kyle keeps telling them he can't pay

'em yet, that it's way earlier than the original deal. But they won't stop coming around, won't stop badgering him, won't give him a break. It doesn't make any sense, and Kyle gets pissed off at 'em one night in Brooklyn,
really
pissed off. Tells the main guy to go screw himself. Tells him he's gonna turn the tables and come after him. So they off Kyle's girlfriend to let him know they mean business.

"Now he's going out of his mind because he feels so guilty and the main guy tells Kyle they're gonna start killing his family next. Torture us before they kill us, too. Gouge out eyes with pens, pour acid on the wounds. Cut off body parts real slow. Real bad shit, you know? Helen first, then the rest of us. Yeah, well, Kyle can't take it, would never be able to live with himself. And he knows they're serious now, too. Like I said, he can't handle being without his girl, either. They were tight, real tight. So he goes the only way out he can think of. He ends it."

Johnny raised his hand slowly to his chest, feeling the two of hearts in his shirt pocket beneath the warm fleece. "Suicide?"

"Yeah, right, suicide. Now, will you
please
let me go?"

"But you told me a minute ago that McLean accidentally drove his car off that pier. That's what your police report says, too."

"I forgot. I'm sorry. Kyle didn't want me to put suicide in the report. He didn't want his mother to hear about that. He didn't want his mother to think he murdered himself. He knew Helen wouldn't have been able to handle it. So I doctored the report after Kyle killed himself."

"
Doctored
it? Wasn't that risky? Couldn't doing something like that have gotten you kicked off the force?"

"I'm his uncle, for Christ's sake. Kyle and I are close. I'm really like his older brother. I'd do anything for him."

There it was. The mistake Johnny had been hoping for. Casey's sliver of a brain hemorrhage. "If McLean's dead, how can you
still
be close to him? How can you
still
be like an older brother to him?"

Casey went silent. The only sound in the room was water dripping. He wasn't even shivering anymore.

"Answer the question, Mr. Casey."

"I don't understand. What do you mean?"

Johnny had always fantasized about being a trial lawyer as a kid. He loved watching Perry Mason black-and-white reruns after school on the old Zenith in his grandmother's cramped living room. But there hadn't been enough money for college, let alone law school. He still loved manipulating people into corners, though. "You just told me you're still like his older brother. How could you still be like his older brother if he's dead?

How can you
still
be his uncle?"

"I...I don't know. I was just talking. It was a figure of speech, just something you say. Kyle's been dead for a couple of years. I was his uncle. That's what I meant to say. I was his uncle. Okay?"

"We dug up his grave." A bald-faced lie, but it sounded chillingly convincing in here. He knew McLean was supposed to have been buried, not cremated. And he knew what cemetery he was supposed to be buried in. "At St. George's in Queens. Way in the back." Johnny hesitated. "Guess what? No bones. Just an empty coffin." Casey's teeth were suddenly chattering out of control again. "I'm so damn cold."

"You gonna tell me the truth?" Johnny asked with a snarl.

"He's dead. Dead, I
swear it.
"

Johnny opened the Saran Wrap box, pulled out a few feet of the razor-thin, transparent wrap, pressed the end of it to Casey's forehead and began shrouding his face. Over his face and under the plywood, over his face and under the plywood. Again and again as Casey struggled futilely against the chain and ropes. Johnny was careful not to cover Casey's nostrils as he wrapped. "One more chance, Mr. Casey," Johnny warned when he was done, ripping the wrap off against the box's jagged metal teeth, then tossing the box back toward the stool. "You gonna tell me the truth?"

No answer.

Johnny leaned down, picked up a bucket of ice water, and poured it slowly over Casey's face, making certain some of it went down his nose. Instantly Casey started screaming, his cries muffled by the Saran Wrap. It was probably already over, but just for good measure Johnny picked up a second bucket and poured it over Casey's face. Now the guy was really having a heart attack.

The technique was called waterboarding. Used by the feds to extract information from terrorist suspects in secret prisons around the world, it replicated the sensation of drowning perfectly. A friend of Johnny's had told him about it. Also told him that when the agents had tried practicing against it--in case it was ever used on them--the average agent gave up in fourteen seconds. Johnny had used the technique six times before, and each victim had broken right away. He ripped the Saran Wrap from Casey's mouth.

"I faked it okay I faked it!"
Casey yelled. "I faked everything for Kyle, everything. I forged the accident report. Confirmed his death. I did it all. He was scared out of his mind they were gonna kill us all after they whacked his girlfriend. And they probably would have."

"Where is he now?" Johnny demanded.

"I don't know.
I swear to God I don't know.
I think he left the city after the whole thing. I don't know where he went. Nobody did. For all I know he's really dead now." Casey's chest was heaving. "I don't know what happened to him. As far as I know he hasn't talked to any of us since that night. Not even Helen."

It made sense that Casey wouldn't know where McLean was. That was the whole reason McLean had done what he'd done. To cut all ties so nothing could lead Marconi to him. The obvious risk here was that if McLean and Casey were somehow still communicating, Casey could warn McLean that people were looking for him. And he could make his getaway.

"Don't kill me," Casey begged. "Please don't kill me. I told you everything I know. I haven't seen your face."

"We're not gonna kill you, Mr. Casey," Johnny said in a tough tone, using "we" now because that was always scarier to a victim than "I." "But we'll be watching." He'd get Casey's phone records and check the numbers constantly to make certain he and McLean didn't talk. "And we're gonna
keep
watching. We find out you talk to Kyle McLean once, just once, and you're a dead man. I mean it,
a dead man.
You understand me?"

"I understand, I understand. I swear it."

Johnny started unfurling the Saran Wrap from around Casey's face, then stopped. Making Casey think his suffering was over, then snatching away the awesome feeling of relief. "There's a few more things I need to know. You give me answers I like, and I take this stuff off. You don't, and, well, you know what happens."
7

J
ACK STEPPED DOWN gingerly from the front seat of Bobby's SUV, thinking about how Biff, the EMT, had pressed him several times at the stadium to sign a form saying he'd called for their assistance. But he hadn't signed it. The whole reason Biff wanted that signature was so he and Harry could charge for their time. One thing Jack had learned over the years was that everybody was constantly trying to slip their fingers in your wallet. That life ultimately came down to one big, sometimes completely corrupt, chaotic grab for the dollar. Which was pretty damn discouraging when you really thought about it.

"Easy, Daddy," Cheryl urged as they moved up the narrow, cracked path. "Walk slow."

"I'm fine, Princess."

"Let's just get you in the house."

"Yeah, let's do that," he muttered, glancing up at the small ranch house he and Cheryl had lived in the past few years. Might as well call it the "coffin." This was probably where he was going to die. He'd been thinking about dying a lot lately, down to which room he'd collapse in. His bedroom or the living room, most likely, but maybe the kitchen. Maybe he'd keel over while he was fixing a sliced turkey sandwich for lunch one day. He loved sliced turkey sandwiches--though not nearly as much as he loved grilled hot dogs at a baseball game. "Let's get me in the house." He just prayed it wouldn't happen in the bathroom. That would be the worst. Sprawled out stark naked after collapsing in the shower.

He hated this house, hated the entire neighborhood. The people were nice enough, but it was so damn boring and bland here. A few storm-ravaged palm trees, some scraggly bushes here and there, and a sea of almost identical ranch houses built on brown, burned-out lawns along a perfect grid of ramrod-straight, potholed streets that stretched east-west and north-south as far as you could see. There was no character to it. It wasn't at all like the beautiful neighborhood he'd lived in on Long Island where the houses were big and different. Like the house he'd lived in back when he was with the Yankees. Back when he had some self-respect. But Cheryl's mother had grabbed everything in the divorce--including his self-respect. And this place had been all he and Cheryl could afford. Barely, at that.

"Don't worry about me, Princess."

"I always worry about you, Daddy."

"You want me to stay here tonight?" Bobby called, hustling up behind them. His SUV

was still idling in the narrow driveway. "In case anything happens, I mean."

"Nothing's gonna happen," Jack said with a growl, catching Cheryl's eye in the light of the porch lamp. Making it clear he didn't want Bobby sticking around. "I just want to rest. I just want some peace and quiet." He pulled out his keys and unlocked the front door. "Cheryl can take care of me by herself just fine."

"Can I get anything for you from the store?" Bobby asked her. "Anything at all?"

"No, sweetheart, but thanks. I'll call you in the morning," she promised. Jack limped inside, hesitating in the foyer so he could hear.

"Baby, can you come back to my place for a little while?" Bobby asked in a low voice.

"I won't keep you long."

As far as Jack knew, Cheryl had never gone to Bobby's apartment. She'd sworn to Jack just last week she'd never been there when he asked.

"I have to take care of my father," Cheryl murmured.

"Just for a little while," Bobby begged. "Please."

"It's just that I have to--"

"I did pay for everything tonight. The tickets, the parking, the beer. And I tried making friends with him like you wanted."

She kissed him. "Yes, you did," she whispered, pulling back, "and it was really nice of you."

"I'll have you back in an hour. I just don't want to say good night yet. I miss you a lot when we're not together."

"Well...I guess I could come over for a few--"

"Where's the aspirin?"
Jack yelled.

"Oh, Lord," she muttered. "I gotta go, Bobby. I'll call you first thing in the morning." She hurried inside, pulled the door shut, then trotted to their small kitchen and a drawer beside the refrigerator. She grabbed two capsules from the bottle of aspirin, filled a glass with water, then headed back down the hall. "Here," she said, holding out the capsules in one hand and the glass of water in the other.

Jack was just coming out of his bedroom. He grinned and took a sip of scotch from the leather-cased flask he'd retrieved from his nightstand. "The aspirin are for you."

"What?"

"Yeah," he said, hobbling past her. "I figured you might need them." He caught sight of himself in the hall mirror and froze. God, he'd aged so much in the past few years. Strange how he'd never noticed it before. Maybe simply facing the day in the morning was such a grind he didn't see it in his bathroom mirror. Maybe the light was different in there. Or maybe he was simply looking harder right now. He leaned toward the mirror so his face was close to the glass. His hair seemed grayer than it used to be, much more salt than pepper. The lines at the corners of his eyes and mouth were more pronounced, too. And his face seemed thinner, not as strong as it once was. At least the light blue husky eyes still burned bright--more so after tonight.

"You should go straight to bed," Cheryl recommended when she'd swallowed the second aspirin.

"Yeah, I hear you." He hesitated. "But I need your help with something first." He straightened up, pulled his shoulders back, pushed his chest out, and sucked in his gut. There; that was better.

"You're still very handsome," she murmured reassuringly, squeezing his broad shoulders from behind. "What do you need help with?"

Cheryl had a computer with Internet connection in her bedroom. Though she'd often tried to get him to use it, he hadn't. Truth was, he didn't know how to use it, and he didn't want to look stupid. Asking for help with anything was a challenge for him. Always had been. Just as it had been for his father. Of course, this had to do with technology. This was different. This wasn't like asking somebody for directions or something. He took a long swallow of scotch. And it might save his life. Literally. Might ultimately show some people they'd done the wrong thing firing him. He could damn well get past his pride for a chance at that.