Kings of Midnight (19 page)

“What?”

“You're wearing gloves.”

She didn't answer. The phone went silent.

“Why don't you step on out here?” he said.

“I don't think I want to do that.” Her hand touched the butt of the Glock.

He looked at the card again, then slid it in a jeans pocket. “You don't look like a realtor.”

“Do I need to call the police?”

“This property isn't for sale. Hasn't been. Won't be. What are you doing up here?”

“I think I already told you that.”

“You don't talk much like a realtor, either.”

“Is this your property? Are you the owner?”

He looked at her, jaw working, then turned away, went back to the bike. He climbed on, started the engine, spit. He pulled onto the shoulder, out of her way, watched as she drove past.

When she reached the end of the driveway, she turned left onto the county road, wondering if he would follow. A half mile later, she pulled into a dirt turnaround. She was calling Benny when the Escalade passed her, coming from the other direction.

“I've been trying to call you,” he said. “She'll be there any minute.”

“I saw her. I'm clear.”

“You okay?”

“I'm all right.” She tugged her right glove off with her teeth, wiped the palm on her jeans. “You get a better look?”

“Yeah. It's her. The years haven't been kind, but I'm pretty sure.”

“She see you?”

“I don't think so.”

“We've got other complications, too. She's not alone up there. A boyfriend maybe, biker.”

He gave that a moment.

“It's the two of them in it together,” he said. “Waiting for Joey to die so they could start spending his money. It's gotta be up there somewhere. That's the only way all this makes sense.”

“Maybe. But I'm burned. So is the car.”

“What do we do now?”

“Part of me says walk away.”

“And the other part?”

“We'll talk about that later,” she said, and ended the call.

SIXTEEN

They'd gotten adjoining rooms at a motel forty minutes away. Crissa was at the desk, the laptop open, scrolling through the pictures she'd taken. Benny stood in the connecting doorway, watching her.

“What do we do if there's a safe?” he said.

“We'll have to take our chances with that. Go in strong when someone's home, convince them we're serious. Get them to open it.” She looked up. “You ready to do that?”

“It's been a long time since I've gone in heavy anywhere.”

“That's why we need to get this straight now. We know there's at least two people in there, maybe more. I can't pull this off myself. I could start looking for someone else to bring in, but that would take time. Time we don't have.”

“Why not?”

“Could be she's been putting money away all this time—banks, whatever. There might not be much left. Also, the longer we wait, the more risk we run someone else goes in and grabs it first. Taliferro and his crew. Or maybe somebody we don't even know about yet, who has all the same information we do, and is waiting to make their move.”

“Who?”

“I don't know. That's the point. There's too much we don't know. The longer we wait, the less chance we have of bringing anything out of there. at all. So you need to make up your mind. In or out.”

When he didn't answer, she said, “And the other option is to cut our losses right now and walk.”

“I still think there's money up there. A lot of it.”

“That might well be. But the first thing we have to do is get into the house. Then get them to open the safe, with no guarantee there's anything in it. Same amount of work to find out, though. For all we know, she's been depositing money at banks all over the Northeast, and there's nothing left.”

“How many banks could she have hit, though, since Joey died? A deposit of ten thousand dollars or more, they have to report it, right? She wouldn't want the IRS after her. At that rate, it might take her a long time to get rid of it. Joey hasn't been gone that long.”

“There's lots of places to hide money.”

“She's already got a place to hide it. In the house. Why take a chance with it somewhere else, out of her sight? My bet is she'll sit on most of it until she has a reason to move it.”

“You saw the Escalade, the boat. She could have been spending the money all along, pissing it away. There's no guarantee what's still up there is worth the effort to take it.”

He sat on the bed, rubbed his chest.

“You okay?” she said.

“I'm good.”

“What were those pills for, really?”

“Monopril. For my blood pressure.”

“You have heart trouble?”

“I had an angioplasty last year.”

“If you're not up to this, you need to tell me that now. I can't be worrying about you when things start to jump off. I'm going to have my hands full.”

“I understand.”

“I'm going to have another look at the place tomorrow, from the trail. You can stay here. I don't need you this time.”

“I talked to Marta a little while ago. She's restless, nervous. I can't blame her. She doesn't like being alone.”

“Then I guess you have some decisions to make,” she said. “And you need to make them soon.”

*   *   *

The next day, she was back on the path. She'd taken the Honda, didn't want to risk being seen in the Taurus again.

She sat on a wide flat rock among the trees, away from the path, but with a clear view of the house. She'd brought a bottle of water and three granola bars, had eaten one already. The binoculars hung around her neck.

She heard the motorcycle before she saw it, a distant insectlike buzz, not the full-throated exhaust she'd heard yesterday. She saw movement through the trees, tracked it with the binoculars.

The motorcycle drove into the bare front yard, pulled up near the door. The driver killed the engine, took off his helmet. He was bald and bearded, head shaved clean. She could see an
SS
tattoo on the side of his neck. He wore a sleeveless denim vest over a black leather jacket.

The door opened, and the rider she'd seen yesterday came out in jeans and T-shirt, barefoot. They greeted each other with soul handshakes and pounds. The dark-haired one had a chromed automatic tucked into his belt in the back. She wondered if he'd had it yesterday, there beneath his jacket.

A woman appeared at the door. She was in her fifties, black hair piled high, smoking a cigarette. She spoke to the bearded man, and then the three of them went inside, the door closing behind them.

Another complication. She sipped water, broke off half of the second granola bar, ate it.

A half hour later, the bearded man came back out, a knapsack over his shoulder. He tucked it into a saddle bag on the rear of the bike, climbed on. The man and woman came out into the yard behind him.

The three of them spoke, then he kickstarted the bike, exhaust and dust billowing up. He wheeled it around, started back down the driveway.

When he was out of sight, the woman turned on the man, making angry gestures, spitting words. He shrugged, went back inside. She flung the cigarette away, followed him.

Crissa lowered the binoculars. Money going out of there, or dope. Or both.

She called Benny. “That South Jersey thing the FBI agent told you about. Where the hundreds came from. Joey ever deal with biker gangs?”

“Not that I know of. Hell, back then we hardly knew what meth was.”

“Could have happened since, though, right?”

“I guess. Why?”

“Maybe Joey's girlfriend was running some of that business for him.”

“Forget it. Joey was old-school Sicilian. No way he would let a broad handle his money. No offense.”

“Maybe she's gone into business on her own since he died. Seed money for meth dealers, or buying and selling it herself.”

“Wouldn't surprise me.”

“I'm heading back now. You think about what we discussed?”

“Yeah, I have.”

“Are you in or out?”

“In, I guess. We've come this far, haven't we?”

“That's right,” she said. “We have.”

*   *   *

She dressed in near darkness in her motel room. Black turtleneck, dark windbreaker, sneakers. It was almost midnight, the only light coming from the bathroom.

There was a tap at the connecting door. When she opened it, Benny said, “Are you ready?”

“Almost.”

He stared at her for a moment. “You look different.”

“How?”

“I don't know. Just different.”

She took the Glock from the nightstand, eased back the slide to check the chambered round.

“Why are you bringing that?” he said. “You think you'll need it?”

“No. But I don't want any surprises, either.”

“I'm still not sure what we're doing.”

“I need to take another look around. I can't go back up there in the daytime.” The Glock went into a jacket pocket. “I want a sense of who's in there at night, how many vehicles in the garage. Who's usually awake, and for how late. That's all information we need before we take the chance on going in there. Like I said, no surprises.”

She took out a black aluminum penlight, tested it. The beam was narrow but bright. She checked her cell next, switched it to silent mode, put it in a jeans pocket.

“Keep yours on vibrate,” she said. “If I need you, I'll call.”

“Maybe I should come with you.”

“No, stay with the car. You'll be no use to me in the woods. If anyone's awake, they'll hear you coming a mile away. And I want you behind the wheel, ready to haul freight fast if we need to.”

She went to the window, parted the curtains. The moon was almost full, backlighting the clouds. That was good.

“Time to go,” she said.

SEVENTEEN

She made her way up through the trees, keeping the driveway to her left. She wore a black watch cap, sweat filming the nape of her neck despite the chill. Benny had dropped her off near the driveway entrance, then gone on to park at the strip mall.

Halfway up the hill, she heard a sharp noise to her right. She stopped, put her hand on the Glock. Holding her breath, she waited for the noise to come again. When it did, she drew the gun, turned to see a deer watching her from a few feet away, eyes glowing in the moonlight. It met her stare for a moment, then sprinted off into the woods. She let out her breath, snugged the Glock back in her pocket.

Ten minutes later, she could see the lighted house through the trees. She pulled back a sleeve to look at her watch. Almost 2:00
A.M.
It was then she saw the shape to her left, a darker mass in the shadows. Moonlight glinted off glass.

She moved closer, saw it was a dark SUV with New York plates, parked on the shoulder of the driveway. She took out the Glock, counted off twenty long seconds, then went up on the passenger side. The hood was faintly warm through her glove.

Voices from the house. A shout, then silence.

She took out the penlight, thumbed it on, played the thin beam inside the SUV. On the passenger-side floor was a New Jersey map folded into quarters, a plastic thermos, empty fast-food containers.

She clicked off the penlight, put it away. Voices again, louder now. She moved back into the woods, stepping carefully. Slowly, she made her way to the edge of the yard.

Lights were on in the front windows. The bearded man's motorcycle was parked in the yard.

She moved toward the side of the house, staying in the trees, then crossed quickly to where the boat was parked. Using it as cover, she looked through the garage window. The Escalade was inside, along with the other motorcycle. The interior door that led into the house was open, light coming through. She heard more voices, insistent, then an answer that was something like a sob.

She circled the house. Light came from the den window, spilled onto the ground. A shadow appeared there, from someone inside the house. She pulled back to the wall. The shadow stayed for a long ten count, then moved away.

She ducked beneath the window, came up on the side of the deck, The sliding door was off its track, the vertical blinds tangled. She could see shiny pry marks on the frame.

She moved back to the side yard and the cover of the boat, looked around the corner of the garage. The light through the front windows lit up bare ground.

When the shot came, it made her jump. A shout, then the front door flew open, and the bearded man came out running, hands tied behind him. He wore a white T-shirt, the shoulder sodden with blood.

He'd reached the driveway when a figure appeared in the doorway, lifted a cut-down shotgun. He aimed calmly, fired once, and the bearded man pitched forward onto his face. He moaned and rolled, boot heels scuffing at the dirt.

The man with the shotgun worked the pump, ejected the shell. He stepped out of the doorway, turned his head, spit. He was in his fifties, heavy, wore a green flight jacket.

Another figure behind him now. A familiar hoarse voice said, “You get him, Sal?”

“Yeah,” Sal said. The biker was twisting on the ground. “I got him.”

“Then finish it.”

Sal shifted the shotgun to his left hand, let it hang down. The biker was on his stomach now, trying to crawl into the trees. Sal went toward him, reached under his jacket, drew out a snub-nosed revolver. The biker kept moving, boots pushing against the ground. Sal straddled him, aimed the snub-nose, and fired twice. The biker shook, then lay still.

“Come on,” Taliferro said from the doorway. “We're not done here.”

Sal spit again, put the gun back under his jacket, went back into the house.

She circled to the den window again, crouched low. She waited, listening, then raised her head and looked through the window.