Frame-Up (33 page)

“He said he'd call us tomorrow morning. We were to be ready to turn the money over to him. What should we do?”

“Listen to me very closely, folks. I want you to do this. No more, no less. When Markov calls tomorrow morning, you're to tell him you need until the evening to get the money together. He'll be suspicious. Tell him it's not in liquid funds. It's with a stockbroker. You'll have to work on getting it into transferable form. Tell him to come here to your house tomorrow night at nine o'clock. You'll have as much as you can for him then. Are you all right so far?”

“What if he doesn't accept that?”

“He won't. Tell him you have no choice. You're both in ill health. You can't travel. But you'll meet him here. He'll argue, but stick to the story. Nine o'clock, here. I was going to suggest that you sound scared, but I think that'll come across without trying.”

They looked at each other and hesitated.

“Listen to me, folks. There's more to the plan, but that's all I want you to know right now. It'll help you play the part better if you don't know the rest. Trust me.”

They both walked me to the door with profound thanks. I hadn't actually done anything yet, but I guess they were clinging to the hope that I might.

There was one question that had been nagging at me since I got their call that afternoon. I toyed with saving them the embarrassment, and then decided that with all that was at stake, a little embarrassment was a small price to pay.

“One last question. Clearly, you were not in a frame of mind to trust me with your problems the last time we got together. Now you are. What made the difference?”

Again they looked to each other before Mr. McKedrick managed to get out, “The call from Mr. Markov. We were really terrified. We remembered that you had always been a good, loyal friend to our son.”

I had always thought so. John and I had been very close friends, and they both knew that. So why the freeze and then the thaw? The frightening call from Markov was an answer, but I didn't think it was the right answer.

Once more I was face-to-face with the theory that I had rejected every time it reared its head. This time, I couldn't shake it. I not only accepted my previously rejected theory, I made every move thereafter depend on it. The terrifying thought was God help us all if I'm wrong.

The next morning I got Tom Burns on the phone.

“Tom, I need two of your best men with a rifle for this one.”

“Sounds interesting. What did you get yourself into this time, Mike?”

“Same case. Here's the deal. John McKedrick's parents live in Brookline. I'll give you the address. You'll want to scout it out yourself, but here's the layout. Their house sits back from the street behind about sixty feet of driveway. Woods on both sides and across the street. This is Seclusionville.”

“Sounds cozy.”

“On a good day, yes. Tomorrow, it could mean they're sitting ducks. There's a man coming to see them at nine o'clock tomorrow night. He's coming to collect money they don't have. This guy thrives on violence with no limits. I want you to have your men positioned across the street in the woods with rifles just in case. I need two, so at least one will get a clear shot.”

“That's possible, Mike. As long as the action stays outdoors.”

“That's my job. I'll do my best to keep the confrontation in front of the house.”

“I understand. Any other instructions?”

“Yes. This is important. I want your men to hold their fire until the last possible second consistent with the safety of the McKedricks. That's why I need good riflemen with judgment.”

“I never give you less than the best, Mike.”

“I know, Tom. That's why I'm calling you instead of the police.”
By nine o'clock the next night, the sun had been down for some hours. The moon was a tiny sliver and cast practically no light.

I had arrived at the McKedricks' about eight. This time we were back in the living room, at my suggestion, with the lights out. I wanted a full view of as much of the street as I could see through the bowed window.

They were nervous as cats, sitting on the couch facing the street, each holding the hands of the other for strength. I was confident without seeing anyone that Tom had had his men in position since the sun went down. I could have told the McKedricks about them, but something told me they'd play their parts better if they didn't have that crutch to rely on.

The minutes were endless before nine o'clock, but the seconds seemed like hours after nine. At quarter past nine, I felt every muscle go into full freeze. In the darkness on the far side of the street, I saw a deeper darkness that took the shape of a black sedan moving at a creep with no running lights. It passed without stopping and continued down the street.

I whispered to the McKedricks, “It's time. Come on. Just exactly the way I told you. Most important. Not a word out of either of you. No matter what. I do the talking.”

I waited until I saw the same black shadow return from down the street and stop just beyond the driveway. I saw a sole figure get out of the car. I was betting that Markov would come alone. He had nothing to fear from the McKedricks, and I doubted that he wanted another living soul to hear what he was there for.

I opened the front door and stood back in the darkness while I ushered Mr. and Mrs. McKedrick out the door into the circle of light thrown by lamps on either side of the door. They stopped according to my directions at the top of the three front steps and looked as if they were scared out of their wits. I knew that would give Markov the sense of control of the situation.

I let his footsteps approach to within fifteen feet before stepping out onto the front landing beside them. He stopped where he was. It was a slight jolt to his anticipation, but he quickly regained the
dominating attitude. The light caught the barrel of the Austrian Glock in his right hand.

“Mr. Knight, I should have known you couldn't keep out of this. You McKedricks, who else did you tell?”

Mr. McKedrick leaped in with an answer. “No one. I swear.”

I hoped my right hand was hidden behind Mr. McKedrick's back when I gave him a smack between the shoulder blades, soft enough to prevent him from leaping, but firm enough to remind him that he did not have a speaking part in this scene.

“They told no one else, Markov. This is not something they want made public.”

“That had better be true, Mr. Knight. I'm actually glad to see you. We have a score to settle. But one thing at a time. How much money did you people bring?”

My hand rested on Mr. McKedrick's back like a hand puppet, just in case he became loquacious again.

“I can answer that, Markov. Not a dime.”

That brought a pause, which was good. It also brought a raising of the Glock to a firing angle, which was not good.

“I think you better explain that.”

“Certainly. Not a dime means you don't get one damn cent.”

His eyes focused on me, but he could pick off the three of us in rapid-fire succession. My comfort level was descending rapidly.

I could see Markov becoming more agitated.

“You people are being sadly misled by this lawyer. This is not a negotiation. There is no bargaining. Once more. You will listen carefully. One of you will go into that house. You will return immediately with enough money to convince me not to fire a bullet into the heart of the other.”

I grabbed the back of the shirt of Mr. McKedrick. It was now soaked with perspiration in twenty-degree weather. He started to speak. I tightened my grip until he just stood with his mouth open.

Mrs. McKedrick was sobbing uncontrollably. It was heart wrenching to feel her pain, but I knew at least that she couldn't speak.

I raised my voice to be sure to carry to the woods across the
street. “There's nothing here for you, Markov. This is your last chance to leave these people alone.”

He raised the gun to shoulder height and aimed directly at Mrs. McKedrick's heart. “Say good-bye to your bride, Mr. McKedrick.”

I saw his finger begin to tighten inside the trigger guard. Why in God's name did I tell Tom to wait until the last instant?

I knew I had waited too long, but I let instinct or panic dictate one last futile move. I used the grip I had on Mr. McKedrick's shirt to drive him sideways into Mrs. McKedrick. They both tumbled headlong onto the landing, as a gunshot louder than anything I had ever heard concussed in my eardrum.

I landed on top of them and just held them both down under me. When a stillness followed, I looked up at Markov to prepare for the next blast of the Glock.

He was not there. I waited for my eyes to begin to adjust before I could see Markov's body splayed across the lawn on his back.

On his back. He fell backward, not forward. The shot came from in front of him. It had to come from inside the house.

I crawled slowly to my feet with my eye on Markov. As I got closer, I could see by the position of his body that he was dead.

The danger had come to a sudden halt, but now it was my turn to feel sweat running down my back. I knew now that my theory had proven true. The very thought of what I was seeing exposed was making my knees buckle.

While Mr. and Mrs. McKedrick helped each other to their feet, I walked back into the circle of light on the porch that made everything in the dark inside the open door to the house invisible. I didn't need to see inside. I knew to the very bottom of my heart who was there.

From where I stood, I forced the only two words I could utter through constricted vocal chords.

“Hello, John.”

I stood frozen to the spot for what seemed like a lifetime before I heard the voice that I thought I'd never hear again.

“Hello, Mike.”

The figure that walked slowly through the door into the light had John McKedrick's face and body, but I had to touch him to be sure he was substance and not spirit.

It was the strangest moment of my life. Ever since that Friday intended rendezvous for dinner, if anyone had asked what I'd give to have my friend John standing in front of me, I'd have said, “Anything.” Now here he was, and my mind and heart were tugged in a dozen different directions.

My sense of rejoicing was dampened by feelings of anger for the pain of mourning that he had put me through and, I suppose, hurt pride for the lack of trust he had shown in not letting me in on his little secret.

There was no time for sorting out all of the conflicting feelings, many of which I was not proud of. They were finally all submerged under one overwhelming realization. John McKedrick was standing in front of me. It must have hit us both at the same moment, because I suddenly found that we had our arms around each other. I was gripping a friend that I thought was gone forever. I held on as if I could prevent ever losing his presence and friendship again, and neither of us could stop the flow of tears.

We let the moment last, because we both knew that there were things to be done that couldn't wait, things that might mean that the old closeness would never go back to the way it was before.

Most immediately, we helped John's parents into the house. We needed to talk before the outside world intruded, and there was no better place than the McKedrick kitchen.

Whatever else needed explaining, there was one burning question that I couldn't postpone. “John, what happened that Friday?”

He pulled his kitchen chair up closer to me. “Mike, the most painful part of this whole thing was having to let you think I was dead. I wanted so much to let you in on it, but I really believed you'd be safer if you didn't know.”

I could see him looking closely at the mostly healed scars on my face from the bombing, and I could read the pain in his eyes.

“If I'd known that you'd be injured, I'd never—”

“I'm good as new, John.”

He smiled, but his eyes were still full of regret.

“Tell me about it, John. We don't have much time. Your old buddy, Markov, is still decorating the front lawn. We have to call the police, but I need to know some things first. What happened that Friday night?”

He leaned back to collect his thoughts. When he spoke, I knew that every word was the gospel truth.

“I need to put it in context, Mike. You've been right for years. The longer I stayed with Benny Ignola, the dirtier it made me. I could feel myself slipping into that slime. I began to hate myself for it. Every time you told me to get out, I knew I had to do it. The problem was how? I spoke to Benny about getting out. He said he'd ask Tony Aiello. He came back and said Tony told him that if I wanted out, there was only one way. A trip to the bottom of Boston Harbor. I knew where too many bodies were buried and who buried them. It made sense, Mike. It's all business. That meant I had to find my own way out.”

“Which was?”

“I had a connection with Markov and the two Dutch financiers you met in Amsterdam. Aiello had me dealing in diamonds over there that he'd smuggle into the United States. I knew Aiello was planning to take over the family from Dominic Santangelo. His
problem was that he couldn't kill the head of the Boston family without the permission of the heads of the other families. The so-called Commission. He had to convince them that he could make more money than Santangelo.

“That's when I came up with the idea of using a Vermeer painting as security to enable Aiello to borrow a lot of money from the Dutch financiers. Aiello could use the money to double his business in drugs and all the rest of it. That would impress the Commission.”

He saw the wave of disgust that must have passed through my eyes when I heard the dirtiest word in the English language — drugs.

“Hold on, Mike. Hear the rest of the story. Aiello would never see the money. I pretended that I was still representing him. I got our old Professor Denisovitch to paint a copy of the Vermeer that had been stolen from a Boston museum. He could authenticate it as a genuine Vermeer. The Dutch financiers were willing to loan Aiello money on that security.”