The Betrayal (23 page)

“Well, I just wanted to let you know that I'm getting out of here now.”

“What?”

“You heard me. I'm renting a car.”

“You can't do that without a credit card, which means they could trace you in ten minutes. And how long do you think it would take them to figure out where you might be going? You can't exactly take back roads. Just stay put or you're going to make things worse, not to mention make yourself look guilty. Now hang tight, hear?”

“You're going to make a great husband.”

He laughed. “Aren't we getting a bit ahead of ourselves?”

“You love me, Boone. You can't help yourself.”

“You got that right.” He told her of his phone call from his mother and what she had said about Max and Haeley.

“Max was all it took?” she said. “I could tell she was not thrilled with me. . . .”

“No more. She wants to be Max's other grandma.”

“She didn't say that.”

“She did.”

“You're in trouble, buddy. Both your mom and I want her to be Max's other grandma. Maybe it ought to be you trying to escape.”

“Escape from you. That'll be the day.”

Wednesday, February 10, 2:00 p.m.

Boone met Jack at a corner three blocks from headquarters and slid into his car, shivering.

“You up on your meds?” Jack said.

“Just took 'em. Ought to be high momentarily.”

“Stay with me, Boones. You've got to hear this. Am I brilliant or what? Don't answer yet. I gotta show you something.” Jack pulled onto the expressway.

“Where we going?” Boone said.

“Indiana.”

“I'll bite.”

“I couldn't have this done in Illinois, could I? We don't know who's watching. Now tell me how things went with Wade and I'll tell you about my great idea.”

Boone did not get the response from Jack he had hoped for when he rehearsed the whole lunchtime conversation with Pete.

“I don't know,” Jack said. “It almost sounds too easy. It's like he knows what you're doing and is trying to convince you it worked. Maybe he's still playing you.”

“Don't you think I would have been able to read that?”

“You were pretty nervous.”

“True.”

“So don't trust your own judgment. Here's the thing: If you did convince him, he might think he's got a lot more time to do whatever he wants to do with Pascual. If he's onto you, the clock is ticking.”

“We're not moving slow regardless, right?”

“No. But add into the mix that Pete isn't as convinced as you think he is.”

“And you think we've got time for a drive into Indiana?”

“We won't be long. I want you to meet a guy. He's the only friend I got who has two first names, except maybe you. This guy's name is Carl Earl. Worked with me in the 18th in a previous life, took early retirement, and got a job handling security for an RV manufacturer in Elkhart, Indiana. He's doing okay for a lot of years. I see him now and then; he seems happy. Then the whole RV thing goes belly-up with the economy. Only a couple of those firms survived, not including his. So they dive into another business altogether, and surprisingly, a lot of their equipment and technology—with a few modifications—fits the new industry.”

“Which is?”

“Tricking out trucks for municipalities. They make garbage trucks, sanitation trucks, snowplows—”

“What's the difference between a garbage truck and a sanitation truck?”

“The kind of sanitation truck I'm talking about are those ones that suck the gunk from septic tanks. So I call Carl Earl and I ask him what kind of truck do they make that has room in it for people. He suggests a garbage truck, only the only way people can get into the back of that is through the scooper—you know, that hydraulic thing that grabs the cans and bags and mashes 'em in there.”

“No way for people to get into the back of a truck.”

“Right. So he suggests a sanitation truck. Says there's a hole in the top that's like the door of a submarine and allows one person at a time to get down in there. And there's room for plenty.”

“Why would anybody ever want to do that?”

“I don't know. In case there's a clog, some problem, something that has to be cleaned out.”

“Somehow I love my job even more now.”

“I hear you, Boones. Now listen. They're making a half dozen of these trucks right now. Most of 'em are done and ready for painting, putting the city name on the outside, all that. Here's my idea. We have 'em paint ‘Addison Streets and San' on the side of one of these new trucks, put some temporary foam padding inside the tank, along with some sturdy handles; then we drive that sucker through some slush and mud so it looks old. Maybe we even spray some stinky stuff on it from another truck.”

“And the padding and handles are for . . . ?”

“Pascual and his mom and his kid to have something to hang on to, in case the ride is rough.”

“Jack, you're not saying . . .”

“Am I brilliant, or what?”

“How do you come up with this stuff?”

Keller shrugged, looking pleased with himself. “We've got to get them out of there, and every other way I could think of would make it obvious to Pete and whoever's working with him what's happening. We get in there, we clog the toilets. I tell everybody I've called the city to come and check the septic; when that truck shows up, nobody's going to want to get close enough to check it. I'll get Carl to drive it. He'll pull it into the back at just the right place where we can get the family out and into the tank before anybody's the wiser.”

“Then where do we take them?”

“I haven't got that far yet. I just want them out of the safe house, which ain't so safe anymore.”

“I've got it. Come up with a story about how there's something wrong with the truck and it has to be taken back to the outfitter in Elkhart to check it out. That way, if it gets stopped on the highway because it looks suspicious to a state trooper for an Illinois septic truck to be heading into Indiana, Carl has a story. He can even have paperwork.”

“Great, Boones! And no statey is going to want to peek into the back of a septic truck.”

“We're some team, Jack. I can't wait to see this truck.”

30

Progress

Wednesday, February 10, 4:00 p.m.

Boone wouldn't have recognized Carl Earl as a cop if he'd been wearing a badge. The fat man in his late sixties who emerged from the security shack at the Elkhart truck plant wore untied construction boots, no socks—or maybe anklets or socks that had slid from view—denim coveralls over a bare chest, and an unzipped sweatshirt that provided little protection from the lake-effect, below-zero gusts.

Carl was freckle faced and hatless, despite that he was bald on top with a rim of gray hair that extended over his ears. And he wore gold reading glasses perched precariously on the end of his nose.

He gave Jack a bear hug and shook hands with Boone. “The hero,” he said. “I always had that in me, just never the chance to prove it.” And he roared with laughter.

“Aren't you cold?” Boone said.

Carl nodded toward the security shack. “Hot as fire in there. Anyways, I got my own installation—” obviously meaning
insulation
. “Been buildin' it up for years!”

He led the cops to an auxiliary white cement-block building at the back of the complex. “Handlin' this job myself,” he said. “Obvious reasons.”

“Good idea,” Jack said. “But I didn't know you were a handyman.”

“Built my own house, man. And believe it or not, from wood I harvested from my own tree farm.”

“Are you kidding me?” Jack said.

“God's honest truth, JK. Tuned up my own cars too, back when we had to do that kinda thing. Also made myself one of the weapons I used to carry on the street. You knew that.”

“I did. It was a monster that shot .50 caliber bullets, wasn't it?”

“That's the one. Watch commander put the kibosh on it. Stewie Lang—'member him?”

“Sure. He's at the 11th now.”

Carl raised his eyebrows. “That right? Said he'd never be able to explain to the brass or the press if one of his guys blew a hole like that in a bad guy. Tell you what, there woulda been no wounding anybody with that sucker. Death was the only option.”

“You still got it?”

“Shore do. I've hunted with it.”

“You have not!”

“I swear. Kilt myself more'n one deer with it. Gotta be sure, though, to get 'em in the head. Normally you wanna shoot a deer through the heart, you know, to be humane about it. But with that monstrosity I'd get so many bullet and bone fragments in the meat that you had to eat careful like.”

“You're incorrigible.”

“That's nothin'. You know what Jimmy used to like?”

“Your little guy?”

“He ain't so little anymore, Jack. He's almost as big as me. In his forties now.”

“No way!”

“Kids of his own. Anyway, when he was little, we'd be out huntin' deer, him with a Winchester and me with my .50, and he'd goad me into shootin' squirrels. Still feel bad about that. Those tiny varmints didn't stand a chance and never knew what hit 'em. That baby made stew of 'em, one shot. Would you believe I did that twice and actually lost sleep over it? I'm no pacifist, but I couldn't make that justifiable, so I quit doin' it.”

“Admirable,” Boone said.

“Well, doing it even once was shameful.”

Inside the building, they came upon a gleaming new white tanker truck.

“Tricked out nice for a municipal vehicle,” Carl said. “It's got a digical clock and peda-stool seats.”

Boone bit his lip to keep from bursting. How he wished he could spend more time with this fountain of malapropisms.

“What's the smell?” Jack said.

“Glue.”

He led the men around the other side of the truck, where two one-gallon cans of glue sat on a pallet. “I know I ought to shut one of 'em at least, but I'd rather the smell and the fumes distipate a bit out here than in the tank when I'm down in there.”

“Makes sense,” Jack said.

“I can only spend about twenty minutes down in there at a time as it is. Kids get high on that stuff, so they tell me, but I just get a headache and dizzy. Hard to breathe. Can't be good for you. 'Course, I don't suppose too many people carry glue into a tanker truck anyway.”

“What's it for?” Boone said.

“Gluin' foam mats to the walls. Jack tells me you want to put people in there while she's rolling. Gonna be hard to keep your feet, though, even with the handles.”

“How'd you manage those?”

“Glued two-by-fours to the sides and screwed 'em into those. Wasn't easy, either, because those walls are round. But I figured it out. It's what I do. Wanna see?”

“Sure,” Boone said, not sure how he'd manage the built-in iron ladder with one hand.

“Just watch the wire comin' from the ceiling. Leads to the only light I got in there. I wouldn't climb down in, but you ought to be able to see okay from the top.”

Boone shed his parka and started up, feeling it in his shoulder as he kept his left arm pressed to his chest and fought to stay steady. At the top he reached the manhole and peered in. The hanging light illuminated an area about six feet square that Carl Earl had fashioned with the kind of foam panels you see at the end of a gym, where basketball players hit the wall on fast breaks. They were wider than the opening.

“How'd you get these through the hole?” he said.

“Just folded 'em over. Wasn't easy, but I managed. They popped right back into shape. Trouble was, they wanted to straighten themselves out when I was gluing them to the wall too, but eventually I got 'em to work. One advantage of being a big man, know what I mean?”

“No, what
do
you mean?”

“I just glued the wall and glued the back of the panels, then pressed my big old backside against the panels till they stuck. Guy I arrested once asked me if I carried a red hankie in my back pocket so I could make the wide turns. Even I had to laugh at that one.”

Boone saw the two-by-fours adhered to the sides, bearing the steel handles. “So, you're done?”

“Well, that's all Jack asked for, but the engineer side of me says you need more.”

“What would you add?” Jack said as Boone made his way back down.

“Seating,” Carl said. “Found a couple of old car bench seats with seat belts still on 'em.” He pointed to them in the corner.

“The Candelarios aren't going to be in there that long, Carl.”

“Yeah, but it could be an hour or more at least, am I right?”

Jack nodded.

“I've seen pictures of the Mexican. He's bigger'n I am. He wouldn't have much trouble. But you say there's a grandma and a little boy? They ought to have places to sit, and even use the seat belts.”

“How long would that take?”

Carl Earl shrugged. “Not long. I can do it yet today. Unless you need to take it with you when you go.”

“I hope I don't. I'm looking for you to drive it, maybe as soon as tomorrow.”

“Count on me gettin' it done.”

“Can't thank you enough.”

“Yes, you can. I'll bill ya.”

For the next half hour the three men sat at a tiny wood table in the corner, and Jack outlined the plan. “As soon as you hear from me, you start heading our way. Depending on the time of day and the traffic, you should reach Addison in a little over two hours. Wear something that looks authentic for a city septic-truck driver.”

Jack drew a map for Carl and told him he would pave the way by creating the plumbing problem and letting the guards know to allow the truck in. “And you can dirty up the truck so it doesn't look like it just came off the assembly line?”

“Oh, yeah. My sign painter's coming in 'bout half an hour.” He pulled from a pocket a sketch of what he had asked the man to paint on the side. “They do the stencil in their shop, then spray it on here in just a few minutes.”

“I hope you didn't give 'em this spelling of
Addison
,” Jack said. “It's got two
D
s, you know.”

The fat man looked stricken. “What? I had the wife proofread this!”

“Chill, Carl. I'm kidding. It's perfect.”

“Why, I oughta . . .”

It was dark, and traffic crawled all the way back to Chicago. Boone had taken his meds and should have been mellow, but he was agitated. Something wasn't sitting right.

“Sit still, Boones,” Jack said. “When I hit jams like this, I just resign myself to it. There's nothing we can do but ride it out. There's nowhere to go.”

“I'm not worried about the traffic, Jack. Doesn't it strike you as odd that I haven't heard from Haeley or Zappolo by now? Fritz should have been out of court by lunchtime and have gotten back with her.”

Jack shrugged. “Don't make too much of it. Maybe he had good news and she didn't want to bother you.”

“I don't know. I don't like it.”

“So call her.”

Boone was reaching for his phone when it rang. Fletcher Galloway.

“Put me on speaker. There's not anybody else there but you and Keller, is there?”

“No, go ahead.”

“I got to talk low, because I told the wife you guys just needed a little advice about a case, I gave it to you, and that was the end of it. But I've been noodling this thing and something jumped out at me. Did I get it right that after the break-in at your apartment, you loaded stuff in Haeley's mother's car, then went to see her, and when you got back, the car had been ransacked?”

“Right,” Boone said. “And it made us wonder if it was coincidence. Whoever came to the apartment was after me. But if it was the same guys who messed up the car, why didn't they just stake it out and follow me to the safe house?”

“Exactly. Try this on for size. They were just trying to rattle you, throw you off your game, zig when they should have zagged. But they made a big mistake. They told you something they didn't intend to. They didn't need to follow you to the safe house. They wanted to ensure you would go there, worried about who was trashing your apartment and your car, but they didn't need to follow you.”

“Because?”

“Think it through, Drake. Because they know where it is.”

Boone looked at Jack and shrugged. “All due respect, Chief, but we figure they're working for, you know, the inside guy, and we know he knows where the safe house is. We're worried he's got guys on the inside there, working for him when we think they're working for us.”

“Right, but all these guys having all this inside knowledge has me wondering who else they know. How wired in are they? I don't want to say names over the phone, but think of who this guy knows and has worked with over the years. Besides colleagues throughout the department, he knows your lawyer. He knows our evidence guy. He knows people in the US Attorney's office. You see where I'm going?”

“He knows a lot more than we think he knows.”

“'Fraid so. Sorry, boys. I'm just saying, you'd better act fast and get your people to safety.”

Though the blower was filling the car with heat, Boone shivered. “I've got to ask you, Chief. Do you think there's any way he could know the other, uh, hiding place? Where my friend is?”

“I wouldn't be surprised. And here's why. Your guy, the lawyer, has a history of stashing people here and there. Witnesses, clients, you name it. He's got his favorite places for that kind of thing. Even I know one or two of them. If I was looking for somebody he was hiding, I'd know where to start at least.”

“I haven't heard from my friend for quite a while. And I should have. Thanks, Chief. We'll keep you posted.”

“Better not. I'm on thin ice with the wife here. Made some promises I got to keep.”

“So maybe we just text you?”

“I don't even speak that language, Drake. We'll have you guys over for a barbecue in the spring and you can tell me all about it.”

7:04 p.m.

“Talk about a guy retiring before his time,” Jack said.

“Yeah, I'm impressed too, but he just made me sick.”

“Channel it, Boones. You can whimper or you can take action. Let's get to work.”

Boone called Haeley and got her voice mail. His mind raced. If someone was monitoring her phone, he had to confuse them and reassure her. He affected his breeziest tone, as if he suspected nothing and hadn't a care in the world.

“Hey, Hael, it's me. I'm here with Max. See you soon for pizza. Call when you get a chance.”

Boone dialed Zappolo, and all he heard was Fritz's voice. “Secure line.”
Click.

“Now what am I supposed to do, Jack? Zappolo wants me to call his secure line, and I have no idea . . . Wait.”

“What?”

“I'll try Stephanie in his office.”

“It's after hours,” Jack said.

“I've got to try.” He dialed.

“You have reached the after-hours recording for Friedrich Zappolo and Associates.” It was Stephanie's voice. And despite what she said, it sounded live. He had called after hours before, and the voice had been a professional and the message different. “If this is an emergency, you may call our live answering service at the following number. . . .”