Cold Shot to the Heart (14 page)

“How connected?”

“Close. Family.”

“Nothing like that in the news stories. I've been checking every day.”

“It's true, though.”

She sat back, looked out the window, watched steam rise from manhole covers. She felt the first stirrings of an upset stomach, the tea not sitting well.

“I thought this couldn't possibly be more fucked up than it already was,” she said. “I guess I was wrong.”

“I don't know what happened with our friend down there. He's been a solid guy up to now. And it sounded good.”

“It
was
good. Until it wasn't.”

“There's another thing, too. I hear he's back. Up here.”

“Already? Then he's stupider than I thought. He looking for me?”

“I don't know.”

“You need to be careful, too,” she said. “He knows you.”

“If he's looking, I'll hear about it. If it comes to that, I'll handle him.”

“This just keeps getting better, doesn't it?”

She looked out at the traffic. If Stimmer was back, he had to still be in bad shape from the beating he'd taken. In no shape to be on the hunt.

“We have to get a message to our other friend,” she said. “With the tattoos.”

“My thought, too. I'll call his man.” Chance's contact was a retired bank robber in Missouri named Sladden.

“If there's fallout on this from across the river,” she said, “it's on one person.”

“I know.”

“He put us all in danger down there, then tried to take us off. He did what he did. He's on his own.”

“Understood.”

She edged the bag closer to him under the table.

“That's for you. A little better than last time. Twenty and change. That should take care of those Communion clothes.”

“Gracias.”

“That's dirty. Raw. Just so you know.”

“Understood.”

She finished her tea. The ache in her stomach was a dull burning now. She looked at people hurrying along the sidewalk. A different world.

“Sorry about all this,” he said.

“What's done is done. There's no going back.”

“No,” he said. “There never is.”

*   *   *

Back in the apartment, she got the maroon suitcase from the closet, opened it on the bed. It was always packed, ready to go. Two weeks' worth of clothes in it, and thirty thousand in cash—all hundred-dollar bills—sewn into the lining, slight bulges through the material. Tomorrow she'd get the .38 from the bank, keep it in the apartment. If Stimmer came looking for her, she would have to be ready.

She switched out some of the clothes, packed everything neatly again, then closed the suitcase. She looked at the laptop on the desk. She'd loaded Maddie's new photos onto it, would want to bring it with her if she had to leave. She'd used one of the pictures as a screensaver, then taken it down after a day. It hurt too much to look at it.

She heard a noise, turned to see the cat watching her from the doorway.

“What are you looking at?”

She'd gotten used to having it around. It made the apartment seem less empty. She hadn't named it, though, wouldn't. The next time she left town, she'd put it back out on the fire escape, let it fend for itself again.

The cat leaped onto the desk in one fluid movement, crouched there, eyeing her.

“What's your problem? You think you were just going to move in here, live happily ever after? Who gets that?”

She latched the suitcase, put it back in the closet. It felt good to have it here, ready.

It would feel better when she had the gun.

SIXTEEN

“He's not there,” Eddie said, “and he's not coming back either.”

It was their second night watching the house. The street was lined with trees, so they were able to park in shadow. The photo Nicky had given them was on the dashboard. It was a mug shot, a couple years old, but good enough that Eddie would recognize the man if he saw him.

“Left the country if he's smart,” Terry said.

“Tino said he was back here.”

“I don't know. Doesn't make sense.”

“No, it doesn't,” Eddie said. “Go creep the place, see what you turn up.”

Terry didn't answer.

“You can still handle that, right?”

“Not anymore, Eddie. Like I said, I haven't done that in years.”

“I'm sure you still got the touch. You have tools?”

“Maybe a couple.”

“Good enough. Let's go get them.”

*   *   *

Eddie waited in the El Camino, caught glimpses of light moving around in the second-floor windows. Terry up there with a penlight.

Fifteen minutes later, a shadow detached itself from the trees out front, started down the street. Terry walking fast.

He got behind the wheel, his face pale. There was sweat on his forehead despite the cold. He took a chamois bag from under his coat and slid it beneath the seat.

“What's the word?” Eddie said.

Terry tugged at his gloves, had trouble getting them off.

“Relax,” Eddie said. “You're clear. What did you find?”

“Not much. Dust in there, no one's been home for a while. It was wired, though. I had to bypass the alarm system on a back window.”

“See, I told you. You never forget.”

Terry took a business card from his coat pocket, handed it over. It read
ALLIED ELECTRONICS
, a Staten Island address and phone number beneath it. “A whole box of these in the kitchen.”

“Find any cash?”

“Nothing. And no sign of a safe anywhere.”

“You holding out on me?”

“Eddie, I would never do that.”

“I know.” He put the card away. “Good job.”

Terry started the engine. They made their way back to Richmond Parkway, could see the lights of the Outerbridge in the distance. Terry got a cigarette from his pack, dropped it, had to bend to pick it up from the floor mat.

“Got the adrenaline going again, huh?” Eddie said. “Feels good, doesn't it?”

Terry punched in the dashboard lighter. When it popped, he lit the cigarette. Eddie let him.

“We'll check out the store tomorrow,” he said. “See if he shows up. Mornings right before they open, at night when they close. Doubt he'd show his face there during the day, people looking for him.”

They reached the bridge, the steel roadway humming under them, the lights of Jersey ahead.

“I'm worried about Ange,” Terry said. “I don't like leaving her alone at night like this.”

“Maybe you should call your friend Cody, have him stop by.”

Terry was silent.

“She's got a phone,” Eddie said. “She has a problem, she can call someone. She'll be fine. Crack that window a little, let that shit out.”

Terry rolled down the window. Wind sucked out the smoke.

“Anyway,” Eddie said, “sooner we find this guy, the better.”

“What happens then?”

“What do you think?”

*   *   *

Allied Electronics anchored a strip mall on Amboy Road, in sight of Raritan Bay. They'd parked behind it, in the lot of a liquor store across the street. They had a view of the alley behind the mall, the service doors and loading docks. That morning they'd watched as employees parked, went in to open the stores.

Now it was 10:00
P.M.
and they were drinking McDonald's coffee, watching the alley. They had come back here at nine and parked in the same spot, the liquor store closed for the night.

Terry had smoked a half-dozen cigarettes since they'd gotten there, the window half open. Now his right foot was tapping steadily on the floorboard.

“Knock that shit off,” Eddie said.

Terry fumbled with his cigarette pack.

“Give it a break,” Eddie said.

Terry put the pack away. “I was wondering. Those things you were saying the other night. About Tino.”

“What about them?”

“If the guy pisses you off so much, why are we helping him out?”

“I need him. For now. Need his cash, his connections. What burns me is he still acts like he runs the show, like things are the way they used to be. You see that shithole he was hanging out in? What does that tell you?”

“But he's still the man. I mean, in North Jersey at least, right?”

“He may think he is, but he's pushing seventy, just beat one case, already indicted on another. Most of his money goes to lawyers. And his kid's useless. I don't know what he has in mind for him, but whatever it is, he's not up to it.”

“Still, I wouldn't want to fuck with either of them.”

“What makes you think I am?”

“I'm just saying.”

“Their days are over,” Eddie said. “Him and all those guys. If he's lucky, he'll die before that case ever goes to trial. He's done. He just won't accept it.”

They watched people get into cars, drive away. By eleven, there was only one car in the lot, a Corvette parked directly behind the electronics store.

“Someone's staying late,” Eddie said.

Headlights turned down the alley, lighting up Dumpsters and wooden pallets.

“Heads up,” Eddie said.

It was a black BMW with tinted windows. It pulled up alongside the Corvette, doused its lights. Almost on cue, the store's rear door opened. A man stood there, outlined against the light.

Eddie put the half-full coffee cup on the floor, took Stimmer's photo from the dashboard. The BMW's lights went out.

“Think that's him?” Terry said.

“Quiet.”

The driver got out, reached back in, and drew out a pair of crutches.

He hipped the door shut, used the crutches to limp up the steps. The man held the door for him. In the light, Eddie could see the driver's shaven head, wide shoulders. They went inside, the door closing behind them.

“That's him,” Eddie said.

“What do we do?”

“We wait.”

Ten minutes later, the door opened again, and Stimmer came out. He made his way down the steps, a small canvas bag tucked under his arm. Eddie could see him grimace with every step.

“Guy's fucked up,” Terry said.

Stimmer got the driver's side door of the BMW open, tossed the bag in, fumbled with the crutches. He put them in the backseat, slid behind the wheel.

“He's skimming the till,” Eddie said. “Getting them to put money aside for him. Or he keeps some in there regular, a safe maybe.”

The BMW's lights went on. It backed out of the space.

“Get on him,” Eddie said.

*   *   *

He led them back to Jersey. They crossed the Outerbridge again, drove for twenty minutes before the BMW turned onto Route 22 West, down into Middlesex County. They followed a safe distance behind, neither of them talking.

The BMW slowed. They were in Plainfield now, old two-story houses hard against the side of the highway. Peeling paint, no front yards. The BMW turned without signaling, pulled into a narrow driveway and around the back of a house.

“Take this next right,” Eddie said. “Then pull over.”

Terry made the turn, steered the El Camino to the curb, killed the engine and lights. They could see the BMW's headlights in a backyard two houses down.

“Come on,” Eddie said.

They got out of the El Camino and crossed into the first yard, a concrete patio with clotheslines strung across it. They ducked beneath, came to a chest-high wooden fence. In the next yard, the BMW's headlights lit up a garage, wood stairs leading up the side, the windows dark.

Stimmer got out of the BMW, balancing on the crutches, and fought the garage door up and open. Then he got back in the BMW, drove it inside. The headlights went out.

Eddie took thin leather gloves from a coat pocket, pulled them on.

“Maybe I should wait here, keep an eye out,” Terry said.

“No. You come with me.” He put his hands on top of the fence, vaulted it, dropped down quietly on the other side, staying in the shadows.

Stimmer crutch-walked out of the garage, the canvas bag under his arm again, and got the door closed. He stopped to rest, wiped sweat from his face, then started up the stairs.

Eddie heard Terry come over the fence behind him. Stimmer reached the door of the garage apartment, got keys out. He almost dropped the bag, but trapped it between his elbow and side, while he unlocked the door. Eddie crossed the yard to the stairs, went up without sound.

When Stimmer opened the door, Eddie came up behind, shoved him hard. Stimmer stumbled into the room beyond, the crutches tangling, and went down on his side. Eddie drew the Star, kicked the crutches away, pointed the gun at the dark doorway of the next room. No movement or sound.

Stimmer was wheezing, pulling at the zipper of his jacket. Eddie crouched over him, put the muzzle of the Star against his temple. Terry came up the stairs.

“Come on in,” Eddie said. “Close the door.”

SEVENTEEN

Stimmer's gun was a black Ruger automatic, 9 mm. Eddie tossed it on the couch, searched him with his free hand. In Stimmer's right pants pocket was a straight razor with a bone handle. Eddie put it beside the gun.

“Watch him,” he said to Terry.

He walked through the apartment. Living room, bedroom, eat-in kitchen, and bathroom. A few clothes in a bedroom bureau, nothing in the closet but an empty suitcase. He went back into the living room, turned on a table lamp.

Stimmer had rolled into a sitting position. Eddie could see the fading bruises on his face, a purple spot on the side of his jaw.

Eddie picked up the canvas bag, tossed it to Terry. “Check that out.” Stimmer was watching them.

“Wallet,” Eddie said.

Stimmer's eyes were watery with pain, but no fear. He reached behind, drew out a thick wallet, tossed it at Eddie's feet. Eddie picked it up, sat on the couch.

“What do you want?” Stimmer said.