Ruthless (15 page)

CHAPTER 52

Doug Mancini’s plane touched down on schedule at Hartsfield-Jackson Airport in Atlanta. Doug had avoided packing the needed materials in his luggage. Why take the risk when they could be easily shipped via Fed Ex?

He traveled under the “James Franklin” alias again. Now that the FBI was poking around, he had to be more careful than ever to avoid detection, especially on this trip.

After picking up his rental car, Doug pulled out of the airport and headed north on I-85. He didn’t see any cops trailing him, but no matter if they were. He had a plan for ensuring he wouldn’t be followed.

A few days ago, Doug had shipped his materials to George Mason, an associate. Once leaving the airport, he headed in the direction of George’s house to collect the package.

As he sped down the interstate, Doug called his friend. After exchanging greetings, he asked, “So, you got my package, right?”

“Yeah, I got it. You coming over now?”

“Yeah. Say, I’m trying to keep a low profile on this trip. Didn’t you say you have an empty stall in your garage?”

“Yep—ever since Page left.”

“Can you open the garage door so I can slip right in? I’d rather not be seen walking around in broad daylight if I can help it.”

“Sure—I’ll go open it now.”

“Thanks—see you in a few.”

Half an hour later, Doug pulled his high-end rental into the garage. George was waiting and immediately lowered the garage door. The two walked into the dimly-lit kitchen, the décor of which appeared to have remained unaltered since the Carter administration.

Doug glanced around the room. “So where’s my stuff?” he asked.

“Got it right here,” said his friend, opening the crisper drawer of his refrigerator. He removed the bundle and handed it over.

“Keeping it safe, huh?” asked Doug with a mirthless laugh.

“You know how it is,” responded George. “If the cops come around asking questions…” He trailed off with a shrug.

“Good man, George. Say, I have one more favor to ask…”

FBI Agents Marshman and Wilfer had trailed Doug Mancini from the airport to a nondescript neighborhood in the southeast quadrant of metro Atlanta. They had observed Doug zip into the open garage and now staked out the house from around the corner. Although they were located a mere fifty yards from the abode, a dense hedge of holly bushes lined the edge of the corner property, providing effective concealment.

“Do you think we should call to have someone cover the back of the house?” asked Marshman.

“Hmmm,” mulled Wilfer. “I don’t think he noticed us trailing him, do you?”

“Naw—I don’t think so.”

“In that case, I think we’re okay—”

“Wait a minute,” cut in his partner. “The garage door is opening.”

Peering over the holly bushes, the two agents observed the rental car back out of the garage and pull away at a leisurely pace.

“He still doesn’t seem to be worried about a tail, does he?” asked Marshman as she gunned the car to life.

“Nope. Let’s keep it that way.”

Maintaining a discreet distance from their suspect, the FBI agents watched the rental pull back onto I-85 North. The rented Cadillac XTS continued to glide northeast along the interstate, eventually passing I-285, the perimeter road encircling Atlanta. As the Caddy cleared the metro area, the number of lanes shrank from seven down to two.

“Where’s this guy going, South Carolina?” groused Wilfer as he rummaged through the glove box for the peanut butter crackers he had stashed there a few days earlier. He sat back with a sigh, his search unsuccessful.

“Out of food again?” asked Marshman. “You need to stock up more, man. Or learn how to control your appetite.”

Wilfer turned to look at his partner. “I’ll talk to my stomach about that.”

As the rental reached the midpoint between Atlanta and the South Carolina boarder, it veered off the interstate.

“Chief,” radioed Wilfer, “the suspect pulled off of I-85 at the Jefferson exit.” He nodded as he listened to his supervisor’s instructions. “Will do. He’s still in our line of sight.”

The rental traveled a mere half mile from the interstate before pulling into a Quik Trip gas station. The trailing FBI agents pulled into the station as well, parking to the side of the QT building so they could observe the suspect’s car, which was now parked beside one of the many pumps.

As the Cadillac’s occupant emerged from behind the vehicle’s tinted windows, Marshman experienced a sudden knotting in her stomach. “Hand me that suspect photo.” She studied the picture of the tall, burly Doug Mancini for a moment and returned her gaze to the short, thin gentleman who calmly pumped gas a few dozen yards away.

“Dammit—Mancini gave us the slip,” exclaimed Marshman. “We’ve been following the wrong guy all this time.”

Alton looked up from Chelsea’s dining room table and watched Mallory pace the floor as she conversed with Agent McElroy, supervisor of the FBI’s Atlanta office. David and Fahima also watched with apparent curiosity.

When she concluded the call, Mallory sat down next to Alton and sighed. “Doug Mancini swapped cars at an associate’s house. His friend drove away in the rental car and our guys tailed him. They followed the rental for two hours before they learned of their mistake. Our guess is Mancini intentionally booked a rental with tinted windows for just such a reason.”

“How did Doug’s friend explain the switch?” asked Alton.

“He didn’t have to. It’s not like he did anything illegal. But he did volunteer that he had always wanted to drive a Caddy but had never had the opportunity. He said Doug graciously offered to let him use his ride, and he took Doug up on the offer.” Mallory frowned. “From the way Marshman described it, the driver seemed to be rubbing their faces in it. He knows we can’t move against him.”

“Well, we can’t change it now,” said Alton. “What are the next steps?”

“McElroy put out a BOLO for the car Doug Mancini is now driving, his friend’s ninety-eight black Trans Am.”

“What are the odds of finding him that way?” asked David.

“Not good,” admitted Mallory. “If he’s smart enough to have switched cars again—and today’s incident suggests that he is—we’ve lost him altogether.” She shook her head.

“What does this man look like?” asked Fahima.

Mallory walked over to the kitchen table and removed an eight by ten photo from a manila folder resting there. “This is him.”

“He is large man,” said Fahima. “You would think he is easy to find.”

“Ha! Let’s hope you’re right.”

A few minutes later, Pam headed to the kitchen. “I’m getting a Coke,” she called over her shoulder. “Y’all want anything?”

The men and Mallory all requested a beverage, but rather than responding, Fahima followed Pam into the kitchen.

“Pam,” she said. “I am thinking there is a place Mallory and her police friends can look for Doug Mancini.”

Pam raised an eyebrow. “Really? Where?”

Fahima leaned in close, sharing her suppositions in a voice too low to be discernible to anyone but her companion.

By the time Fahima concluded her theory, Pam had raised both eyebrows. “You know, it makes sense,” she admitted.

“But please do not say anything to Mallory,” entreated Fahima. “It is probably not good idea. I do not want her to be mad if she spends time on this idea and it does not help.”

“Okay,” said Pam, “but in that case, what do we do? We can’t tell Mallory, and you don’t have a car or a license.”

“That is good question,” said Fahima, frowning. After a moment’s thought, she perked up. “Can you take me to this place?”

Pam’s face contorted, and her lips began to tremble. “You want me to track a homicidal mob boss? A guy who’s killed at least two people?” She began to pace the kitchen floor.

Fahima laid a gentle hand on Pam’s arm. “I see you are afraid, but you do not have to worry. We will stay in your car to look for this man. If we see him, we call Mallory. She will have the police arrest him.”

Pam resumed her circuit around kitchen, wringing her hands. “Can’t we just tell Mallory about your idea and let her deal with it?”

“Mallory is so nice, she will say is good idea even if it is not. If you do not want to drive me there, I understand. But I will not say anything to Mallory of my idea. She is already busy.”

Pam exhaled slowly. “Okay,” she relented, “I’ll take you. But I’m not getting out of the car.”

“Thank you,” said Fahima. Leaning over conspiratorially, she whispered, “I am not, either.”

CHAPTER 53

Eddie Delvecchio had a decision to make.

The “Marco Polo” outfit dovetailed perfectly with his plan. The evening pizza delivery was an event so ubiquitous that nobody questioned his presence in a gated community, despite his being a total stranger. If anyone asked, he actually did work for the company several nights a week.

That Eagle Crest apartment, however, was proving to be a tough nut to crack. The occupants seemed suspicious, even paranoid. On one hand, if he decided to stick with this project, the cautious nature of the occupants would make this job especially difficult. On the other hand, if he could pull it off, the money was substantial, and he knew he could put it to good use. It was tempting—very tempting.

At last he made his decision: move forward with the plan. He went to the closet and took down a dusty box from a high shelf. From it, he removed a Smith & Wesson revolver and slipped the weapon into his insulated pizza carrier. He removed a blond wig from a desk drawer and decided to pass on the company cap.

The residents in the Eagle Crest apartment had been paranoid, but there was a positive side to that. “Since they never let me in, they never got a good look at me,” said Delvecchio to himself as he studied his reflection in the mirror. “They shouldn’t be suspicious of a blond guy.”

He exited the house to begin a long shift of deliveries, hopeful that this would be the day the plan would come together. Saturday nights were usually busy, so there was a chance he’d have too many real deliveries to make his unscheduled visit. He couldn’t risk losing his job with Marco Polo since it provided his cover story. If today didn’t work out, he could always go tomorrow. Better to get the job done right than get busted.

Whenever I go, maybe I can tell my boss I stopped for gas
.
The Eagle Crest job shouldn’t take much longer than that anyway.

Delvecchio climbed into his Sentra and whistled as he began to drive away.

CHAPTER 54

“This whole thing is so creepy,” said Pam with a shiver. For the fourth time, she checked to ensure the car doors were locked.

The sun had set a good thirty minutes ago, and the light of the more radiant stars was barely discernible above Atlanta’s nighttime glow. The tranquility of the evening sky did little to appease the fears of the two unlikely stakeout partners. Pam seemed to sense danger lurking in every shadow. “How long do you want to wait here?” she asked.

“I do not know exactly,” replied Fahima. “We do not know if Doug go to another place first. I think we should wait a little while longer.”

Pam scowled and nodded silently. Fahima tried to distract her with small talk, but Pam’s unease rendered her even more taciturn than usual.

“You want to check your e-mail? I can watch the street,” suggested Fahima, hoping the activity would prove to be a more fruitful distraction. Pam removed a smart phone from her purse and immediately began scrolling through her messages, tapping a few for further review. Within a minute, Pam’s shoulders relaxed, and she appeared to be immersed in the esoteric world of software design.

Fahima turned her attention to the dimly-lit street. In the comfortable, dark evening, the silence of the location was broken only by an occasional passing car. After a few minutes, Fahima’s eyes began to close of their own accord as the hectic schedule of the past few days began to catch up with her, causing an irresistible fog of drowsiness to descend on her like a shroud.

Her eyes shot open. Had she been asleep or merely caught herself drifting off? And had she heard a noise?

Fahima turned one ear to the window and concentrated. It was devilishly difficult hearing through the glass. She considered cracking the window to better discern the evening’s sounds but doubted Pam would agree to such a strategy.

Her ears pricked at a noise.
There—I definitely heard something!

She turned her head to examine the dark, washed-out colors of the avenue. Her eyes narrowed in suspicion as a burly man emerged from a black, older-model sports car. She couldn’t be absolutely sure the shadowy figure was that of Doug Mancini, but the man and his car matched everything she knew about them.

“Pam,” she said softly. “Look there—in the street.”

Her companion glanced up. “Oh, my…” She seemed frozen, her eyes wide as she watched the retreating figure.

Fahima dialed a number on her phone. “Hello, Mallory?”

“Yes. Hi, Fahima,” came the response.

Fahima quickly described her location and purpose for waiting there. “We see a man get out of a car. I am not sure he is Doug Mancini, but he is tall like man in your photograph. And his car is black like you describe earlier. We think maybe it is him.”

“Okay,” said Mallory. “You guys stay put. Don’t get out of the car. In fact, just leave. You can’t do any more good where you are, so there’s no reason to run the risk of remaining nearby.”

“In case man leave again, you want us to drive away a little but keep watching?” asked Fahima.

Mallory didn’t immediately respond. “That seems reasonable. Wait,” she cut herself off. “How’d you get there? Who’s driving you?”

“Pam brings me here.” At the mention of her name, her companion looked at Fahima with anxious eyes.

Mallory snorted. “I’m surprised she was willing to take you.”

“I think she is not expecting to see Doug Mancini. But when we come here, she is still nervous all the time. Now that we see the man,” continued Fahima, “she is not liking to be here at all.”

“Ask her about your suggestion,” prompted Mallory.

“Pam,” asked Fahima, placing her hand over the phone’s receiver, “Mallory ask if we can go down the street a little. This will keep us safe but will let us see if the man leaves.”

Pam’s eyes betrayed an inner struggle. “Yes,” she whispered, “but we lock the doors. And we leave at the first sign of trouble. I’m no cop.”

“Thank you,” said Fahima, communicating this news to Mallory. “Now we wait.”

Mallory immediately placed a call to Supervisory Agent McElroy and described the events of the last few minutes.

“What do you think?” asked McElroy. “Does this…Fahimer…know what she’s talking about?”

“I’ve found her to be quite reliable,” affirmed Mallory. “I saw her in some pretty tight spots in Afghanistan. She always kept a cool head. I think we should send some agents—probably the sooner, the better.”

“Okay, I’ll go with your judgment on this one. You’d better be right.”

Mallory ended the call and shook her head in frustration. “We never know with certainty—that’s why it’s called an investigation,” she spoke to the now-disconnected cell phone. “You just want someone to pin the blame on if we don’t turn up Mancini.”

A quarter of an hour later, two federal agents pulled their sleek sedan to a stop against the curb.

“Is this the right spot?” asked Agent Urbano, the driver.

Agent Harris, passenger as well as navigator, checked the unmarked car’s console-mounted GSP and nodded his head. “Yep, the target address is right down there. And look—that must be the suspect’s vehicle.” A block away sat the black sports car Fahima had spotted earlier.

Harris ran the Trans Am’s license plate. “I’ll be damned,” he exclaimed. “It’s a match. That’s Mancini’s buddy’s car all right. We’ve got him.”

“
If
he didn’t switch his ride again,” cautioned Urbano. “Remember—he’s already swapped cars once today. This could be another wild goose chase.”

“Well, here comes the goose now,” said Harris, motioning in the direction of the target vehicle. “Let’s just hope it’s the right one this time.” From the far side of the sports car, a dark figure made his way down the sidewalk towards them. The figure grasped a small satchel in one hand and a manila envelope in the other.

“Friday night routine?” Urbano asked his partner.

“Sounds good to me,” replied Harris.

Urbano loosened up his tie, but his hair was much too short to muss up. “Remember—nice and slow,” he cautioned. “Let’s not spook him.”

The two agents emerged from their sedan and staggered in the direction of their suspect.

“Dude,” said Harris loudly, “you’re in no condition to be driving. I can’t believe you got us here in one piece.” He laughed and slapped his buddy on the back, nearly sending him careening into the grass.

Urbano emitted a single, loud laugh as he swerved along the sidewalk. “Don’t complain. I…got you here, didn’t I?” He stopped and scrunched his eyebrows together. “I did drive, right? Or did you?”

“Yeah, you drove, bro,” replied his counterpart. “Barely.”

Their distance from the suspect continued to shrink as they weaved down the sidewalk, speaking and laughing in apparent oblivion to their surroundings. As the suspect approached, he eyed them warily and shifted his possessions to one hand in order to extract his car keys from a front pocket.

The two agents reached the sports car just ahead of the looming figure, and Urbano halted with an ominous warning, “Dude, I think I’m gonna be sick.”

He leaned over the grass and retched twice, grasping his stomach. On the third heave, he moved his hand further around his side, withdrawing a Glock with lightning speed and jamming it into the suspect’s ribs.

“FBI—don’t move,” commanded Urbano with icy sobriety.

“Doug Mancini?” asked Harris.

The suspect’s involuntary flinch provided a solid confirmation of his identity. Recognizing the futility of denial, Doug merely shook his head in silent disgust.

After relieving Doug of his satchel and envelope, the two agents handcuffed him. As they turned and headed back towards the agents’ sedan, they read him his Miranda rights.

“Be careful with the envelope,” growled Doug as he trudged along. “That can’t be replaced.”

Harris removed the envelope’s single item and raised a perplexed eyebrow. He passed the contents to Urbano, who likewise grunted in surprise. They traveled the rest of the distance in silence.

“Welcome to Atlanta,” said Urbano as he lowered Doug into the rear seat of the FBI cruiser. “Why don’t you stay awhile?”