Blood Flag: A Paul Madriani Novel (40 page)

It must have burned in Tony’s hand that day at the office when I handed Brauer’s key to him and he had to give it back. There were too many people in the conference room for him to do anything else.

The other key, the one invented by Tony, and possibly the encrypted thumb drive, was a ploy. They were intended to lure me into the open along with Brauer’s key, presumably for comparison. Fortune, through the intercession of Nino Toselli, spared me. How and why, I don’t know. But one thing is clear: just as the fates had taken the life of Sofia, they saved mine.

As for Sofia’s murder, it has become obvious that her death, like the fate of her unborn child, was the product of misfortune. Tony never planned to kill her. The discarded and torn V-belt, a weapon of ultimate chance found on the floor in the cellar by Harry, is evidence of the fact. She was in the wrong place at the wrong time. Tony was busy searching Brauer’s house for the key when Sofia showed up looking for the dog. Somehow she stumbled onto him. For Tony there was only one thing to do. He had already killed three people.

My greatest fear now is that Joselyn says something that sets him off before we can reach the house. If she lets slip with some sliver of information that reveals to Tony how exposed he is, he will disappear forever, but not before killing Joselyn.

“It’s the reason I didn’t want her to tell him that the flag is a fake.”

“You don’t think he already knows?” says Thorpe.

“No. If he did he wouldn’t be doing this. He’d already be on the run. If you killed four people, five including Toselli, and you knew you had an item you couldn’t sell because it wouldn’t pass muster on inspection, would you stick around?”

Thorpe looks at me, shakes his head, and says, “Probably not. But that still doesn’t answer the question, why didn’t the old man tell him?”

“Any one of a number of reasons. But if I had to pick one, I’d say it was that Ed Pack was a stand-up guy and a good father.”

“What are you talking about? You mean the fraudster?”

“Think what you want, but you asked me for an answer. Life’s complicated. People have facets, sometimes too many of them. Everything I saw, read, and heard about Edward Pack confirmed one thing. He was a good man, cared about people, treated them for free, some of them for years. True, some of the information came from Tony, the son who killed him. But that doesn’t diminish the stature of the man. If he failed to tell Tony that the flag wasn’t real, it was for a simple reason, the most fundamental instinct of any parent, that he wanted to protect his son. He didn’t want to involve Tony in the fraud. The fear that if things went south during the attempted sale they’d all end up in jail. So, thinking that ignorance was innocence, he kept Tony in the dark.”

“And the kid killed him,” says Thorpe.

“Along with four other people that we know of. Ed Pack didn’t know it, but he left a ticking time bomb in that safe-deposit vault. He probably would have warned the kid on his deathbed even as Tony was killing him if he had had the time and the presence of mind. But Tony, true to form, probably pumped him full of enough insulin to kill a cow.”

“Are you sure you want to do this?”

I nod. “What other choice is there?”

“We could surround the house and call him out,” says Thorpe.

“In which case he takes Joselyn hostage, and if things go badly, he kills her.”

“We could try to get her out before he knows we’re there.”

“If we had more time, perhaps. But we don’t. If I don’t get there soon Tony’s gonna know that something’s wrong. If that happens, Joselyn’s life won’t be worth spit. If there was some other way, believe me, I’d do it. But there isn’t,” I tell him.

“It’s against my better judgment,” says Thorpe, “but maybe you’re right. I wouldn’t want to be the one responsible for losing her.”

“Think of it as gaining a good woman and losing a lawyer.”

“Leave it to you to find the silver lining,” says Thorpe. “Before you go in you gotta sign this.”

“What is it?”

He hands me a waiver form. I reach for the pen in my shirt pocket.

“Not that one,” he says. “Here, use mine.”

“What do I do if he asks to borrow my pen?”

“Give it to him,” says Thorpe. “It writes. It’s got a small cartridge. But if it starts to skip, whatever you do, don’t let him try to take it apart. Just make sure you get it back, and when you do, put it in your pocket the same way with the clip facing out. You don’t have to worry about turning it on or off. We’ll take care of that. And whatever you do, don’t give him the pen in your coat pocket.”

“I know, that’s the pepper spray.”

“Get ’em mixed up, you’re gonna end up writing a tearjerker,” he says.

Thorpe has me wired seven ways from Sunday. I’m a walking television studio with tiny minicam lenses and mics in every crevice and opening. If I belch or pass wind I’m hoping it results in an Emmy.

I look at the waiver form and put it on top of the slick new attaché case on my lap, the one given to me by Thorpe with the twin canisters of pepper spray inside and the nifty little nozzles, one pointed in each direction. There’s a trigger in the handle so that if I turn my face away, cough and pull it, and it’s aimed at Tony, it may incapacitate him long enough so the cops can get in and cuff him.

Under the terms of the waiver I assume all risk, waive all claims as to liability, and agree to hold the government harmless in the event that I am injured or killed. It’s similar to the boilerplate signed by lawyers visiting clients in high-security prisons. Tonight it’s the price I pay to get into my own home.

“Don’t waste your time reading it,” says Thorpe; “it’s ironclad. Put together by the best minds at Justice.”

“Just want to make sure it only covers me,” I tell him. “That way if anything happens, Joselyn can sue the shit out of you.”

“That’s what I love about you. You’re always thinking of others.”

“I figure she’ll hire Harry and me, so we ought to be able to at least get a third.”

He laughs. “What am I gonna do without you?”

“Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that,” I tell him.

“Which reminds me. One last item,” says Thorpe. “Do you want a firearm?”

“I don’t know.”

“Do you know how to use one?”

“I’ve been to the range a few times. I wouldn’t call myself an expert.”

“We could strap it on your ankle,” he says. “Just in case. You have to figure he’s probably armed. He’s been on the lam for what, a week now?”

“Almost.”

“We could outfit you with a small Glock or a SIG Sauer, in which case you’re gonna want to chamber a round before you go in. On the SIG you gotta deal with the issue of the safety, whether you want it on or off. You can shoot yourself in the foot if you’re not careful. My advice,” says Thorpe “I’d use a thirty-eight special, a small snub-nose revolver, two-inch barrel. At close range it’ll get the job done and it’s pretty much idiot-proof.”

“Thanks for the confidence,” I tell him.

“Just because we’re here to serve and protect doesn’t mean we want to get shot in the process by some dumb-ass citizen,” he says.

“Touché.”

“How about it? Do you want a gun?”

“What if he sees it?”

“That’s the downside,” he says. “I can’t advise you on this. Once you’re inside, it could go either way. If he’s edgy and he sees or even suspects that you’re carrying, it could send him off the rails. The only place I’d suggest is on your ankle. But if he’s nervous and he sees the bulge, well, it’s a long way down to get to it. In all candor, you’d be better off throwing something at him. The gun’s good if you can grab Joselyn and barricade yourselves in a room. Use the pistol if you need to, to hold him off, until the cavalry arrives. And you can trust me, it won’t take long.”

“But that’s not the plan,” I tell him.

“No, it isn’t. But then, plans sometimes don’t work out.”

“If it’s all the same, I think I’ll leave the gun.”

“That’s your decision.”

“If I can talk him out, get him into the front yard, I’ll step away and your guys can take him down. I don’t mean kill him. I’m hoping that with a sufficient show of force he’ll give himself up.”

Thorpe looks at me. “Hope is what gets people killed. It causes them to hesitate. In the time it takes to think the word, a bullet can travel a thousand yards. Do you want some more advice?”

“Yes. Go ahead.”

“When you enter the house tonight, park your emotions outside with the car. Emotions cloud judgment. They’re a luxury you can’t afford when you’re trying to stay alive. You do want to stay alive—keep Joselyn alive, right?”

“Of course.”

“Then reduce everything to a simple, fundamental formula,” says Thorpe. “It’s either you or him. There is no middle ground. The man has killed five times that we know of. If you can get him outside, we’ll take him down. We’ll use reasonable efforts to take him alive. But if he is armed, and I assume he is, and if he makes a move, we will shoot to kill. Chances are he’ll die. My people don’t miss. Do yourself a favor and don’t get in the way. You can’t negotiate with a speeding bullet, and trust me, it doesn’t understand the meaning of hope.”

FIFTY-NINE

T
horpe’s driver delivered me to a government parking area on the San Diego side of the Coronado Bridge, where I picked up my Jeep and headed home. It took me ten minutes to make it across the bridge, through town, and home. On the way I passed a large vehicle that looked like an RV parked at the curb on the other side of the street about half a block north from my driveway. It was the FBI command vehicle. Thorpe called it to my attention earlier when we were leaving the area around Miramar.

I pull into the driveway, turn off my headlights and the engine, and take a deep breath. I take a casual glance around. If there are snipers set up around the house I can’t see them. But then, I suppose that’s the point. If I could see them they wouldn’t be doing their job. I grab the attaché case, step out of the Jeep, and head across the lawn toward the front door.

Before I can get up onto the porch the door opens and Tony is standing there looking at me, smiling, something sinister, or perhaps it’s just me, the fact that I know.

“It took you a while,” he says. “How come you’re running so late?”

“I’m busy. Business is booming. What can I say?” I beam back at him and shake his hand. “I hope you guys waited dinner for me.”

“Of course we did. Joselyn told you on the phone.”

“Yeah, I guess she did.”

“Here, lemme take that.” He reaches out to take the attaché case.

“No, no. That’s OK. I got it.” I lean into him with my right shoulder so he can’t reach across my body to my left hand to grab the case. If he feels the weight he’s going to know that there’s something inside it beside papers. The case has a combination lock so it can’t be opened.

“Did you manage to pick up the key?” he asks.

I’m not even in the house and he’s asking. Tony must be in a hurry to kill us.

“Oh, jeez, I forgot. Tell you what, why don’t you and I go get it?”

“You mean now?”

“Sure, why not?”

“Fine with me,” he says.

“It’s about time you got home,” she says. I see Joselyn coming across the living room behind him. “Where have you been?”

“I’ll tell you about it later. Why don’t we eat?”

Tony does a double take like he’s confused and says, “I thought . . .”

“Right after dinner,” I whisper out of the side of my mouth. “Otherwise she’s gonna kill us both.”

“How are you, sweetheart?” I turn away from Tony and give her a kiss.

Not even through the door and I’m already in trouble. If I say anything in front of Joselyn about going to the office to get the key, the first thing she’s gonna do is remind me that it’s in my desk and then ask me why I’d bother with the key since the flag is a fake.

It’s like walking on thin ice. Until I can get her alone in a room somewhere away from Tony and tell her what’s going on, I have to tread carefully.

“Where did you get that?” Joselyn is looking at my new briefcase.

“Oh, I should have told you, I suppose. I saw it in a shop window this afternoon so I bought it. Looks nice, doesn’t it?”

“Yes. Very nice,” she says. “What’s the inside look like? Does it have a lot of pocket space for files? I’ve been looking for something like that. Can I see?”

“Later,” I tell her. “Why don’t we eat first? I’m famished.” I sneak a glance at Tony.

He’s eyeing the leather attaché case, studying it with suspicion, then lifts his gaze to look at me.

I smile at him and say, “Let’s go eat.” The second Tony turns his back I take the opportunity to ditch the case under a narrow library table against the wall in the entry. Before he can turn around again I come up behind him and put my arm around his shoulder. “It’s good to see you again.”

“Same here,” he says.

He is wearing a loose cardigan sweater, buttons down the front. It looks about two sizes too big for him. I’m tempted to pat him down to see if he’s packing any lumpy pieces of steel underneath it, but I don’t dare.

In the mental search for small talk I keep running into items that are off-limits. I would ask him about the wife and kids, but that’s a taboo subject. I wonder if Joselyn has broached it and, if so, what lie he may have told her.

The more I learn about Tony the more convinced I am that he’s the original mystery man. Besides his being a closet killer I’m beginning to think he has a secret life, maybe more than one. After I found out that Tony was waiting for me at home, I called Lillian in Oklahoma City from Thorpe’s digs at the FBI office. I asked her how she was doing and nosed around to see if she’d heard from Tony. She referred to her situation as a continuing struggle and said nothing about her missing husband. Finally I asked if she’d heard from him. She said no, but she still had hope. I should have introduced her to Thorpe. Being the romantic that he was, he would have told her that hope might heal the human heart, but it wouldn’t stop a bullet. And that anyone married to Tony might want to think about buying a Kevlar overcoat.

I asked her if he’d ever done anything like this before, disappeared for periods of time. She broke down on the phone and started crying. It seemed I finally pierced the veil. She told me that Tony disappeared several times previously. Once for more than a month, and often for more than three or four days. The one time she filed a missing persons report, the police brought him home. But they refused to tell her where they found him. Lillian assumed it was another woman. If so, my question is, was she alive?