Frank Sinatra in a Blender (18 page)

Ron exhaled, asked me was I sure I didn’t want a cigarette?

I told him no thanks. But if I did chose to restart that terrible habit it sure as hell wouldn’t be with one of those goddamn Winston’s.

“Hey, what you got against Winston’s?”

“Besides the fact they taste like a hobo’s asshole? Nothing.”

The Amishman laughed. Said that was a good one. He asked me about that license plate number I gave the Chief.

“Tracked it down through a source,” I told him.

He nodded, said, “I can’t wait to catch these guys.”

Under different circumstances I’d applaud that kind of self-assurance, but his statement confirmed what I’d already suspected. He wouldn’t give up easily.

“Glad to hear you’re confident.”

He shrugged. “This whole credit union thing is one big clusterfuck of epic proportions, Valentine.”

I raised an eyebrow, encouraging him on.

“That security guard? He’s dead.”

I was taken aback. “Dead?”

Amish Ron was driving so slow I thought about jumping out and running on ahead to the crime scene. I glanced at the speedometer.

“Am I drivin’ too slow for you, Nick?”

“No, I always like to drive about 37 myself.”

“I hate this fucking snow,” Ron said. “I try not to drive in it if I don’t have to.”

“That’s right, your not used to the snow. Your first car was a horse and buggy.”

Ron looked up at the ceiling, laughed hard. Told me he knew sooner or later I was bound to make a horse joke.

I asked him if he missed it?

“What? Workin’ my ass off for no money? Havin’ no electricity? What’s to miss?”

I couldn’t argue with that logic. Being Amish sounded like a lot of work.

He got onto the interstate and opened her up to 52 mph. Slow enough we had a school bus pass us. I asked him about the security guard.

He said there wasn’t much to know. The guy’s name was Jason Baker. He asked me if that name rang any bells.

I told Ron I’d never heard of him as I worked out the details in my head.

“Let’s get this straight,” I began. “First, this guy, Norman Russo, he’s,” I paused, “What, murdered? We know he didn’t kill himself, right?”

Ron nodded.

“And now this security guard ends up dead the next day?”

“Exactly,” Ron joined in. “Somebody’s cleaning house, tying up loose ends.”

“But why the security guard? Retaliation? You think somebody’s pissed off he shot up one of their crew? Cause I’d be happy if that was my crew.”

Ron shrugged. Said, “Maybe.” He asked me to elaborate.

“Well, maybe the guard was inside on this thing.” I told Ron to bear with me. “So the guard smokes one of ‘em in the back. That’s less cash has to be drawn from the pile. And then, whoever set this up, kills the driver
and
the guard. Everybody who doesn’t get shot makes three times as much and there’s no witnesses.”

Ron pulled a Winston loose and jammed it in his mouth. “There’s a thought.”

“It might also help explain that suicide note. The guard talks to the banker, he knows this guys going through a rough divorce, he just wants to keep his house.”

Ron was already ahead of me. “So he repeats that to whatever shit bum wrote the note, but then this guy who actually writes the note is too stupid and he fucks it up.” I pictured the tweaker being too stupid and fucking it up.

I knew Bruiser was dead. I assumed the tweaker was dead. Now the security guard was dead. Parker assembled the heist with grandiose ambition, but he didn’t count on Bruiser getting his back blown out through his chest. He never cared about doing it right and he knew the police weren’t stupid. He knew they wouldn’t buy the suicide, but by the time they put everything together it would be too late. He was going to smoke the tweaker anyway, Bruiser too. They were disposable.

Sounds of the road filled the car, and something on the highway vibrated every quarter mile or so that I felt in my feet.

“Is there anything you’re not tellin’ me?” I asked.

He nodded and lit his smoke, told me there was something I outta know.

“What’s that?”

He took a long drag, remembering to put down the window.

“Dye packs,” Ron said, exhaling smoke. “That’s the one thing that ties all of this together.”

“Bank dye packs?” Had Doyle mentioned dye packs? I couldn’t remember.

“Norman Russo collected the dye packs at the end of each night, locked them in a safe in his office. Safe’s a combination, but he’s the only one that’s got it. Each morning he’d set ‘em out again.”

I told Ron I didn’t know much about banks apart from the fact I didn’t trust them.

He said he didn’t know much about banks either, but he did know a thing or two about dye packs.

“Tellers have these packs by their station. If they get robbed, they slip ‘em in with the money. When you make it out the door a remote signal sets ‘em off.”

“Then you’re pretty much fucked,” I said.

“Yeah, then you’re fucked. But, in theory, if you eliminate the possibility of the dye packs being set out in the first place, you stand a good chance of getting away clean.”

“As long as the security guard doesn’t pound holes into your back.”

“Yes, there’s that.”

“Whoever robbed the credit union knew Norman Russo set the dye packs out in the morning.” I paused, “only somebody with knowledge of their routine would know that.”

“Somebody like the security guard.”

Between the two of us we’d come up with a functioning hypothesis. We made the rest of the drive with the sound of highway as our third companion.

We got off Interstate 44 and drove into South County, to a middle-class neighborhood with typical ranch homes. We turned into a cul-de-sac and I could see the last house on the left had two patrol cars and a meatwagon parked in the driveway. A familiar scene to both of us. Ron parked on the corner and lit up his smoke. He asked if I was ready.

When I stepped out of the car the brisk air was revitalizing. I reeked of cigarette odor that covered me in a cloud of stench.

I followed him into the house, watched him shake a few hands. Nobody said much to me, which was fine. That’s the way I like it.

Ron approached a tall black officer with a slim build who handed us each a pair of latex gloves and asked, “What do we have here?”

“This guy is fucked up, Ron.”

Detective Beachy stepped inside the doorway, said, “Oh shit.” But with his hint of Dutch accent, it sounded more like
sheeeit
.

I followed him through the doorway expecting a scene similar to the one at Norman Russo’s, but that’s not what I got.

“Where’s his feet? Ron wanted to know.

“Where’s his hands?” I demanded.

The officer leaned back against the wall and gave us room.

Ron looked at the officer and said, “Well Clarence, I guess he must’a pissed somebody off.”

“Aw, that shit is
nasty
. Look what the motherfuckers done to his head.”

The victims dismembered body was propped up in a corner minus hands or feet. Blood pooled in the ears, encompassed in raw blisters. The skin around the face had been beaten. It was swelled, and bruised, and dead.

Detective Beachy took a step forward, bent down.

The inside of the guards ears were pallid and crusty with dried blood.

“This is interesting. It looks like scorched pus.” He was talking to an officer named Jenkins as another plainclothes detective entered the room. He was tall, in good shape, like he knew his way around a gym. We shook hands; he said his name was Wyman.

Ron said, “His eardrums look like they’ve been burned out with cigarettes.”

Clarence scrunched his face up tight, created wrinkles. “
Oh hail no!
Somebody fucked this guy up!”

If that was Clarence’s professional opinion, I was inclined to agree with it. The Englishman was truly a ruthless cocksucker, the likes of which I’d never seen.

I pointed to deep grooves carved into the floor, filled with blood and fresh splinters.

“Here’s where they chopped him up.”

Ron took a close look, said, “They used an ax.” That’s what it looked like to me too, but I assumed he’d probably forgotten more about splitting wood than I’d ever learn. Given a choice, I would have used a chainsaw.

Ron walked back over to the body. He bent down and removed a business card with a set of tweezers.

“This is interesting.” He held it up to the light. “What do you make of this, Nick?”

I’d recognize that card anywhere. It had my name on it.

“I’ve never seen this guy.”

Ron stood up. Said he believed me, but I don’t think he did.

We walked out into the living room and everything was in order; there was a wallet on the end table with the edge of a twenty poking out. It was easy to rule out robbery as a motive.

I walked into the kitchen and checked the fridge. I tried to keep my thoughts clean, but I knew those cocksuckers had been to my office. I kept a tray outside the door with a few cards in it. While I was sleeping they were out in the hall. If they’d suspected I had the money they would’ve kicked my door in and plugged me on the couch. Unless they were setting me up.

Detective Wyman walked passed me with a cigar in his hand and stepped out into the backyard.

Ron nudged my shoulder. “What’s goin’ on here, Nick?”

I looked him in the eye and told him a God’s honest lie.

“I have no fucking idea, Ron.”

He began to speak, but his phone vibrated and he pulled it from the pocket of his jacket.

“Beachy.”

He had a brief conversation with a dispatcher on the other end, thanked him and hung up.

He told me, “When they ran your plate number it came back to a car reported abandoned yesterday just down the road. Montgomery’s Steak House.”

I told him I knew the place.

“Good,” he said. “You can drive.”

I pulled onto Lindberg, jumped into the hammer lane, and held the accelerator on the standard police-issue Impala to the floor.

“Good God, slow down.”

I told Amish Ron not to light up that cancer stick in his hand and I’d see what I could do about my driving.

Ron said he’d hold off on the smoke if I’d come clean with him. Was there anything I was holding back?

I told him I’d never seen that prick back there in my life. I’d never seen the banker before either.

“All I’ve done from the beginning is try and find that money. I’ve asked around, I even banged a few heads. I did what I had to do to get answers.”

“But you work outside the same laws I’m trying to protect.”

“I do it so you don’t have to.”

Ron went silent; I wondered what kinds of thoughts were going through his Amish head.

He told me I could drive as fast as I wanted, but he was having a smoke. Was I sure I didn’t want one?

“Stop trying to corrupt me,” I scolded.

He shrugged, told me I really should relax. Something I was well aware of.

I needed alcohol as soon as possible. Maybe a painkiller could be arranged.

I pulled into Montgomery’s and Ron pointed to the car.

“That white one in the back.” It was just as Doyle described.

Ron got out first as I slipped a single Oxycontin out of my pocket and placed it in my mouth,
incognito.
I’d spent the last few minutes working up enough spit to carry it down the pipe. I’d gotten used to the taste long ago and it was quite tolerable. Xanax on the other hand were a different story. Those required half a Corona, minimum.

We did a visual inspection. Ron said the car was registered to a Tim Kelly.

“Never trust a man with two first names.” It was advice I got from Big Tony once, but apparently it went over Ron’s head.

“What do you know about this guy?”

I told Ron I didn’t know jack shit. Said I’d gotten the number, heard he might’ve been the driver.

“It’s probably a dead end.”

He looked up at me, said, “It’s not.”

“Oh really?”

“Had a report of a white Buick leaving the scene.” Ron tapped on the trunk lid, asked me if I’d pop it.

I couldn’t help but notice he expected full disclosure from me but had no problem dispersing his own information whenever he deemed it necessary or appropriate. When I sat down, the headliner was in my face and I had to wrestle with it as I leaned over to the glove box and popped the trunk.

“See anything back there?” I yelled.

Ron said there was nothing but a toolbox with a roll of aluminum foil inside. “There’s not even a spare tire.” He asked me what kind of idiot drove around without a spare tire?

I agreed wholeheartedly, but didn’t bother to tell him I was one of those idiots without a spare tire. All I had in my own trunk was a spare beer cooler, and a Stihl Wood Boss. Oh, and a trashbag full of stolen money two people died for, including that poor bastard who had his eardrums used as an ashtray.