People were going to die; there was no getting around that. Anyone who knew what was really happening, who had helped in making it happen, was going to have to die. Just like those twenty-six people had died at his hands. The secret had to be preserved, or there would be no place on the planet to hide.
That was coming soon, and Brett was gearing up, getting ready for the action, for the war.
Damned if he wasn’t looking forward to it.
He got to the warehouse at nine-thirty. Loney drove down from New York, and was there ten minutes later. It was formerly a medical supplies storage facility, but was now mostly empty. The FOR LEASE sign looked weather-beaten and the place was old and in terrible shape; it seemed likely that the medical supplies it housed must have included whiskey and bullets to bite on for pain.
They briefly went over the plan for the meeting. Loney would do the talking, since the judge knew him, and was aware of the danger he represented. Fowler was just there to be a calming influence, should one be needed.
Loney was to tell the judge that it was almost over; that once he issued his ruling this would all be behind him. Providing the judge kept his silence on the matter, neither Loney nor anyone else would ever call or visit him again.
It’s a message that had been delivered repeatedly ever since the trial date was established. Loney doubted the judge ever believed it, or that he would believe it now.
The fact was that it wasn’t true. The judge knew too much, and was too unstable emotionally to be trusted. It wouldn’t happen the next day, or the next week, or even the next month, but the judge would soon take his secrets to his grave.
It wasn’t until ten after ten that Fowler looked at his watch and said, “I don’t like this.”
“He’ll be here,” Loney said. “If I have to drag him out of bed.”
“He should have been here by now. This is not a guy who’s out drinking beers and forgot the appointment. To him this meeting is one of the most important of his life.”
“Then let’s go find him,” Loney said.
“Where?”
“His house.”
Fowler shook his head. “No, we don’t want his wife and kid to see us. That just complicates things.”
“So let’s grab the wife and kid. Then the judge will do exactly what he’s told.”
“No. Let’s call him first. I think you should be the one to do that. Tell him that not coming here is unacceptable.”
Loney nodded, and took out his phone. Just as he was about to dial, Fowler said, “Hold it. I think I hear a car.”
He walked to the window, which was behind Loney. He had to wipe away the dust to look outside, then stared out there for about ten seconds.
“You see him?” Loney asked.
“No. You’d better call him.”
Loney turned back to his phone. It was set up exactly the way Fowler wanted it. Loney was concentrating on dialing, his hands occupied, and his back to Fowler.
It was therefore the easiest thing in the world for Fowler to take his handgun from his pocket and shoot Loney three times in the back.
Loney fell forward, landing on the floor just before his cell phone did the same. He was already dead by that time, but Fowler felt for a pulse to make sure. “Damn,” Fowler said to Loney’s body. “Now that I think of it, I forgot to tell the judge about the meeting.”
Fowler wasn’t terribly worried about the body. It would be a long time before anyone entered this warehouse, and the discovery of a dead gangster could not in any way come back to him. He had been careful not to leave fingerprints or any other evidence that could implicate him.
But he didn’t want to just leave the body where it was, so he took one of the large, empty drums that was in the warehouse, and laid it on its side. Then he half pushed and half rolled the very large Loney into it. He put the top on, but could not lift the drum upright. Which was fine.
Fowler locked the place and left. It had been a while since he had personally killed anyone, and as a marine in Kuwait that had been done more anonymously.
But this didn’t bother him at all. Not a bit. Which was good, because Loney would not be the last person he would have to kill.
The door opens and two men step out.
They’re not particularly large, maybe an inch taller than me and not much heavier. One of them looks at me, then Marcus, then back at me. “Not him,” he says. “Just you.”
I nod and ask Marcus to wait outside the door. He doesn’t seem happy about it, but it’s been prearranged, so he goes along with it. I let the two men lead me into the room, realizing with horror as they do that I forgot to make the call to Cindy at the FBI, so I could show it to Ricci on my phone.
I thought they were leading me into a hotel room, but that’s not what this is at all. It’s an apartment, as nice as any I’ve ever seen. It is amazingly elegant, and the main room is an atrium with a glass ceiling and a spiral staircase up to the second floor.
The furniture seems clearly very expensive and perfectly designed to complement the room, though I don’t have the slightest knowledge of furniture, designs, or even rooms. In the center of the room is a grand piano.
The room is set down a few feet, and one has to go down two stairs to get to it. I wonder if the people in the rooms below it have to duck down, because their ceilings are lower than everybody else’s.
Making the place somewhat less appealing to the eye are three very large men, none of whom are smiling. One of them comes over to me and frisks me, very carefully and intimately. If the TSA people frisked people at airport security like this, everybody would take trains.
I’m assuming that none of these people are Ricci, since they all seem to have basically the same level of authority. Once it’s determined that I’m not armed, they lead me into another room off the main one. Only one of the goons goes in with me, but he leaves moments later, leaving me alone in what seems to be a den.
The room has a desk and three chairs, all recliners, all facing a wall with eight televisions. There is one large one in the middle, probably sixty inches or so, and then a bank of seven others, each maybe thirty-two inches.
The one in the center has the Lions-Packers game on; it’s a measure of how scared I’ve been that I had forgotten that Thanksgiving is a big NFL football day.
I watch the game for about five minutes, still all alone. If I’m being kidnapped and held, I can think of worse rooms to do it in. There’s also a full bar, but I resist the temptation to make myself a drink.
I could really use a drink.
Finally, a door opens and a man comes in. I assume it’s Carmine Ricci. He’s dressed casually, tan slacks and a green pullover shirt, and seems to be in pretty good shape. He doesn’t have the sophisticated air of Dominic Petrone, and is at least twenty years younger. Ricci looks like he’s earned his stripes the hard way.
“You a football fan, Carpenter?”
I nod. “Big Giants fan. Huge.”
“I have a large bet on the Cowboys to win the NFC.”
“I hope they wipe the floor with the Giants.”
“Dominic Petrone says you’re a wiseass, but that I shouldn’t kill you unless you really piss me off.”
“Trust me, my goal is not to piss you off.”
“Then talk,” he says.
I ask him if he knows about the Galloway case and he says that he does, from reading the papers.
“Galloway is innocent,” I say. “He’s been set up; he didn’t set the fire.”
“Why should I care about that?”
I decide to go head-on. “Because your man Loney has been doing all the dirty work. Among other things, he threatened Galloway’s wife, he killed Danny Butler, and he has blackmailed a number of people, including a judge.”
I’m not sure if all the things I said are true, but I’m also not sure Ricci would know if I’m wrong.
He doesn’t say anything, so I continue. “There’s a lot more that I suspect, but which I’m not sure of. But rest assured I’m in the process of finding out.”