David Ellis - The Hidden Man

I ripped the first few layers off, until it was clear that it was holding a severed finger.

ITAPED BACK UP the bubble wrap holding the finger and put it in my freezer, not sure if there was any point to it, realizing that the odds of my ever seeing Pete again were dwindling. I was playing high-stakes poker, but it was my brother, not I, who was suffering the consequences.

“I didn’t know they were going to kidnap you,” I said aloud. “Jesus, Pete, I didn’t know. I thought I was helping you.”

I paced around my kitchen, trying to burn off the anxiety, slamming my fist into a cabinet, cursing and shouting, sweat breaking out on my face. They were torturing my brother because of my stupid one-upmanship.

Accomplishing absolutely nothing at home, I went back to my car and drove to the office, hardly able to keep my hands on the wheel. When my cell phone buzzed, I turned to it with venom in my heart.

“Kolarich,” Smith said.

“Every finger he loses, Smith, I take two of yours.”

“Who the hell do you think you’re dealing with?” he hissed. “You think you can threaten us? You think we won’t hit you back ten times harder? Are you finally getting the picture here, son?”

“I’m sorry,” I said, silently cursing myself for the show of weakness but overcome with desperation. “I was just trying to protect him. Just please let him go. I learned my lesson. I’ll-I’ll make it right with DePrizio.”

I knew I was giving Smith what he wanted, capitulation. Every synapse firing in my brain told me it was the wrong move, that I needed to keep the upper hand, but I couldn’t fight back my fear. Please let him go. Please let him go.

“Make it right with DePrizio, period,” he countered. “Every day that you don’t, they’ll cut something else off your brother. Oh, and I’m supposed to tell you-your brother screams like a goddamned girl.”

I bit my tongue. He had me over a barrel, we both knew it, but I had something of my own. DePrizio was now a threat to Smith, a wild card. He could sing to Internal Affairs-give up Smith and his client to save his own ass. Smith couldn’t be sure. He needed DePrizio cleared.

There was no good answer here. If I gave in, they’d probably kill Pete eventually, anyway. If I held out for leverage, left DePrizio hanging out to dry, they’d torture Pete in ways I couldn’t even consider-but at least I’d still have a chance at getting him back.

That was it. No matter what it might mean for Pete in the interim, I had to get Pete away from them. I had to use whatever leverage I had remaining to get him free.

I took a deep breath and spit it out: “Not until you let Pete go.” I hung up the phone, almost crushing it in my white-knuckled grip.

I made it to my office, fortunate to avoid an accident in my current state. I hadn’t had a decent night’s sleep in almost three weeks. My brain was foggy, my limbs like noodles, my emotions scattered. I had no gas left in the tank, and my job was only just starting.

“I’ll find you,” I said to nobody, to the air.

“Now you’re talking to yourself?”

Shauna Tasker was standing at the threshold of my office doorway.

“God, Jason, you look like hell.”

“Leave me alone,” I said through my hands as I rubbed my face.

“No.” Tasker walked in and surveyed my office. “No, I don’t think I’m going to do that.”

“Leave, Shauna. For your own good.”

I meant it. Smith’s people would come after me when Sammy’s trial was over, and they’d kill Pete even before they got to me. If I’d had any doubt on that subject-and I didn’t-their little present in my mailbox reinforced the point. They’d gone too far down the road with me and my brother. And I couldn’t let Shauna Tasker become the third target.

“You look like you haven’t slept in a month,” she said. “You’re running around like a crazed man, I see this affidavit from some guy named Marcus Mason talking about Pete and the drug bust-and you’re playing the Lone Ranger, thinking you can solve all the world’s problems by yourself. I don’t know what’s going on, Jason, but you need to let me help.”

“Anything you do puts you in danger,” I said. I looked up at her. “The truth is, Shauna, you might already be in danger.”

“Then I’m already in danger. Why not go all in?”

I shook my head.

“Hire me,” she tried. “Attorney-client. You got a dollar on you?”

I waved her off.

“Okay, pro bono , then.” I didn’t react to the joke, so she went on. “At least bounce this off me, Jason. I won’t participate. But you have to talk to someone, my friend.”

I let out an exhausted sigh.

“How’s Pete? I take it, from that affidavit, that you got him off the charges?”

I shook my head, no. “Attorney-client?”

“C’mon, Kolarich. Spill it.”

“They took him. They kidnapped him. I get Sammy off the charges, they say they’ll let him go. If not, he’s dead. Me, I figure he’s dead, either way, if I don’t find him.”

Tasker stared at me like I’d just proposed marriage to her. After a while, she grabbed a chair and pulled it up. “Talk to me,” she said. “Tell me everything.”

LOCALLO’S HAD LONG been Smith’s favorite Italian restaurant in the city, not owing to the owner, a longtime friend, but to the rigatoni, served with fresh mozzarella and sausage and red pepper. But Smith was beginning to associate heartburn with the place. Not a week ago, he’d dined here with DePrizio to discuss the chess move made by Jason Kolarich-the motion he’d filed in court requesting DNA testing of the dead bodies behind the elementary school.

Now he was back, once again responding to Jason Kolarich. This time, the meeting was even more surreptitious, not taking place in a private dining room but in the basement’s wine cellar, before the place had even opened.

It served no purpose, Smith knew, to replay what could have been. The plan had never been simple-the underlying circumstances were anything but simple-but it was not the first time they’d tried to exert pressure on a reluctant target. Jason Kolarich had proved unwilling to follow instructions, so they’d decided on a course of action that typically worked. They’d hit him where it hurt. They’d set up his brother for an arrest that, no doubt, would have held up under scrutiny. DePrizio had done it before. It was what made a cop useful to people like Smith.

But Kolarich had fought back, and now Smith and Carlo-and DePrizio-found themselves in the unusual position of playing defense, not offense. The difference, he knew, was that this time, the people exerting the muscle were as vulnerable as the target. Carlo had as much to lose as Jason Kolarich.

Smith approached from the alley and let himself in through the back door, which the owner had left unlocked. He took the stairs down to the basement, where he found Denny DePrizio nervously pacing. The scent of vintage wine brought memories of heady times, of celebration, but nobody was breaking out the party hats now.

DePrizio was smoking a cigarette, something he’d quit years ago. He raised his arms at his side, as if asking a question. Smith’s immediate reaction was to promote calm.

“Hold on, Denny-”

“The fuck am I supposed to do? IAD has me on tape, accepting a briefcase full of money from Kolarich. They’re saying I set up the bust and held him up for ten thousand, then got the charges dropped when he paid-”

“I understand,” said Smith. “What did you tell-”

“Nothing, is what I told them. I said it was bullshit. This is bullshit.” DePrizio stubbed out the cigarette, angrily blowing out residual smoke. He directed a finger at Smith, started to speak but held back. He resumed his pacing, mumbling, “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”