The motel was in Neptune, few cars outside, graffiti on the walls. He filled out the registration form with a false name, address. The old black man behind the bulletproof glass took his money, gave him a key on a diamond-shaped plastic tab.
There were no phones in the rooms, so he had to use a pay phone in the parking lot. He made the call, spoke for ten minutes, had to feed in more change halfway. When he was done, he went back to the room, lay on the thin mattress and looked up at the discolored ceiling. Next door, a black couple argued. He closed his eyes, slowed his breathing, found the Valley.
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He was standing outside, finishing a cigarette, when Connor's Crown Victoria pulled into the lot. It was a gray day, clouds scudding by overhead. He'd slept a long, dreamless night, felt awake and alive. Focused.
He tossed the butt away, waited for Connor to unlock the passenger-side door, got in. Connor swung the car around.
“Nice place,” Connor said. “Only the best, huh?”
“You don't always have a choice.”
They pulled out onto Route 33, headed west.
“Well?” Connor said.
Johnny fished the recorder, wires and mike out of his left jacket pocket, put them on the seat between them.
Connor looked at them, then back at the road.
“I have to say, John, I doubted you.”
“Why?”
“I didn't know if you could go against your nature like that, keep your end up. Do the right thing.”
“Was this the right thing?”
“Yes, it was.” He looked at him. “You doubt that?”
“I don't know.”
“It's a good thing, John. For both of us. You won't regret it. It's just the beginning, though.”
“What do you mean?”
“If what's on that tape is half as good as you say it is, it's a start. But we'll need more. This needs to be rock solid, no questions.”
“Or you won't get your promotion?”
Connor smiled.
“This is a marathon, John. Not a sprint. The tape itself isn't admissible. You know that as well as I do. But it's the bedrock we can build a case on. We'll know what to look for, what doors to knock on. It all comes out of this. But there's more work to do, for both of us. This is just the first step.”
There was a Dunkin' Donuts up on the right. Connor pulled into the lot.
“Get you something?”
“Regular,” Johnny said. “Easy on the sugar.”
Connor got out of the car, went inside. Johnny turned the AM-FM on, scanned the dial until he found music, WCBS, an oldies station. The Four Seasons' “Rag Doll” came on.
After a few minutes, Connor came out carrying a small cardboard box with two coffees in it. He got behind the wheel, set the box on the dashboard.
“Yours on the right,” he said.
When they pulled out of the lot, Johnny said, “Let's get off this road. Too many cars around. It's not good like this, when it's still light out.”
He took his coffee from the box, peeled the plastic lip back.
“You feeling the irony?” Connor said.
“What do you mean?”
“Here you are, murder warrant for your arrest. Cops all over, looking for you. And you're riding around with an FBI agent.”
“It occurred to me.”
They turned off the highway onto the access road for an industrial park.
“That's the beauty of it,” Connor said. “And something you shouldn't forget.”
“What's that?”
“When you're with me, nobody can touch you.”
They pulled into the empty parking lot of an electronics company, parked around the side, out of sight of the road.
Connor put the car in park, left the engine running. Johnny handed him his coffee. Del Shannon on the radio now. “Runaway.”
Connor took the lid off the cup, sipped.
“Like I said, John, you did the right thing. The only thing. You'll see.”
“I guess I will.” He put his coffee on the dashboard, flexed his fingers inside the gloves. They were still stiff from the cold.
“Big nor'easter coming,” Connor said. “They're talking ten, twelve inches of snow. Going to be a fucking mess.” He brought the cup to his lips.
Johnny waited until Connor had a mouthful of coffee, then took the Sig out of his right jacket pocket and shot him in the side of the head.
Even with the silencer, the shot was loud in the closed car. Connor's head cracked against the glass. Coffee and blood splashed against the window, dripped down the door.
Johnny watched him slide down in the seat, twitching, his eyes wide. He pushed the silencer into the folds of the overcoat until he felt ribs, then pulled the gun back an inch, fired twice more. Connor jumped, shook, then seemed to relax. His chin settled on his chest, his eyes half-closed. Bits of scalp were stuck to the window with blood.
Johnny put the Sig on the dashboard, finished his coffee. Then he reached over and turned the key, cut the music off.
He got out, opened the trunk. A briefcase inside, a cardboard box with files. The briefcase was unlocked. He went through itâpapers and a bound planning calendar. Nothing with his name on it. Nothing in the files either.
He pushed them to the side, opened the driver's-side door, caught Connor as he slumped out. He got him under the arms, dragged him to the back of the car. He hitched him up and into the trunk, went through his pockets, careful to avoid the blood. He found Connor's Bureau ID in his suit jacket, a wallet with $150 in cash in his pants. He took the money, tossed the ID and wallet in the trunk. There was a Smith & Wesson .38 in a belt holster on his hip, a set of handcuffs in a loop on the back. He took them both, dropped them into his jacket pockets, shut the trunk.
There were some napkins in the box the coffee cups had come in. He used them to wipe the window, the steering wheel. The blood on the glass smeared, but he got most of it off and all of the hair. There was almost no blood on the seat.
He tossed the bloody napkins in the back, got behind the wheel and shut the door. He started the engine, pulled around and back out onto the access road, careful not to rub up against the blood on the door.
He headed back to Route 33, drove for five minutes and turned onto Route 66. The storage facility was right before the Parkway entrance. He pulled up to the electronic gate, used the key card he'd been given when he rented the unit. When the gate slid open, he drove through.
The unit was toward the back, away from the highway. He pulled up to the door, turned the headlights on. The day was almost gone, the sky an unbroken gunmetal gray.
He found the key, got out and bent over the padlock. He opened it, slipped the lock off, rolled the door up on its tracks.
The unit was empty. He'd rented it two weeks ago for just this purpose. Pulling the car in, he parked nose-first against the far wall, killed the engine. He opened the glove box, looked through the papers there. Nothing but the registration, insurance. He shoved the recorder inside, shut the glove box door. If they ever found it, it wouldn't matter. The tape was blank.
He got out, locked the doors. There was a climate control thermostat on the wall. He turned it all the way off. He had
paid for the unit in advance for six months, cash. There would be at least two more months of cold weather, maybe more. By then he would be long gone.
He went out, pulled the door back down, reset the padlock. He let himself out a pedestrian gate, crossed Route 66 and walked a half mile to a Home Depot, where he used a pay phone to call a cab.
He smoked a cigarette while he waited, then dropped Connor's keys into a storm drain. The padlock key went into another one. Then he broke the key card into four pieces, put each in a separate trash can outside the store.
He was back at the motel before dark.
“Nothing yet?” Ray said.
Harry shook his head, poured coffee for both of them from the office machine.
“He didn't leave much behind that was useful,” he said, putting the cup on Ray's desk. “Except cigarette butts.”
“What?”
“Cigarette butts. Unfiltered Camels. That's what he smoked.”
“So?”
“I found a cigarette filter in Sherry Wicks's apartment, broken off. He smoked her cigarettes, snapped the filters off first. He was there.”
He sat down opposite the desk, sipped coffee.
“And the brother?” Ray said.
“Still in custody, but not for long, I wouldn't think. They don't have much to hold him on.”
“How involved do you think he is?”
Harry shook his head.
“He's small-time. His sheet is minor. He and his brother don't play in the same league. And he's got a live-in girlfriend now, a kid.”
“What's Salerno say?”
“They'll go back to Alea, keep at him. And someone will stay at the trailer, watch it.”
“You think he'll go back there?”
“Not a chance.”
“You heading back to the hotel?”
Harry nodded.
“For a while. See how she is.”
“Errol will spell you later. I'll give him a call. He can stay outside in the wagon, watch whoever goes in or out. The girl will be safe.”
“Good.”
“Maybe if we're lucky, Harrow's had enough. He'll figure it's not worth the effort, fuck off back to Florida.”
“Not this one,” Harry said. “He's not going anywhere.”
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“The Sea Vista,” she said. “I should have known. If I'd thought about itâ”
“What do you mean?”
They were in a dark corner of the hotel restaurant, food untouched in front of them.
“That place ⦔ she said. “It's close to the Heartbreak.”
“I know.”
“It was the first place Johnny and I ever went ⦠to be together.”
He nodded, pushed back slightly from the table.
“I should have thought about it. I could have told you. Then they could have found him before ⦔
“There was no way you could know,” he said. “And you had no reason to think he'd be there, that he'd stay so close.”
“When you think about it now, it all makes sense, though, doesn't it?”
“How's that?”
“The places he went back to. Places he knows. From the past. Places that meant something to him.”
“I suppose.”
“If I'd thought about it that way ⦠I could have saved her.”
“Maybe not.”
“But there would have been a chance.”
He let his shoulders rise and fall.
“What have you heard about Janey?” she said.
“There's an aunt coming down from Minnesota. She may already be here. She'll take her back.”
She grew quiet, looked away. He leaned forward, touched her hand, didn't speak.
“Are you going to stay tonight?” she said.
“I was thinking about it.”
“Don't. They're talking about a snowstorm. You should go home. I'll be okay.”
“If I don't stay, someone else will be here, outside.”
“I'm never going to be able to pay for all this, you know.”
“I don't think Ray's even worrying about that at this point.”
“But he's got a business to run, doesn't he? I must be monopolizing a lot of his time, resources. Not to mention yours.”
“What else do I have to do with my time?”
“Live your life?”
“What life?” he said. “And speaking of that ⦔
“What?”
“Ray asked me to mention to you, since Christmas is in a couple weeksâ”
“I'd lost track.”
“âhe's having dinner at his house. He wants you to come.”
“With you?”
“That's what he implied.”
A ghost of a smile played across her face, disappeared.
“In the middle of all this craziness,” she said, “it's hard to think about that.”
“I know.”
“I don't know if I'm up to it.”
“Me neither. No pressure, though. It's your choice. And there's plenty of time to decide.”
“Is there?” she said.