David Ellis - The Wrong Man

Also good that he knew where Kolarich was heading, because Cahill was going to have a hell of a time keeping up with him. This guy was practically sprinting. Cahill was in good shape and liked his chances with him one-on-one-even better two-on-one-but he couldn’t possibly run that fast.

“He’s coming to Ash, I think,” he said into the microphone that was tucked under his shirt collar. “Faded red sweatshirt and black shorts. Headphones in his ears and an iPod on his waist.”

Through his earpiece, he heard: “He’s coming to Ash you THINK?”

“He’s a fast fuck. I can’t keep up with him,” Cahill managed through halting breaths, sprinting after Kolarich.

It was two city blocks north, then three east. Cahill lost him and felt a flutter of panic before the words came through his earpiece.

“Got him. He just headed south on the lake path. You’re right, he is a fast fuck.”

Cahill calmed a bit. Up ahead he approached the lakefront, which at Ash meant taking a ramp down to a tunnel that ran beneath the highway along the lakeshore. He caught his breath as he walked down the ramp. The sun was just beginning to appear over the lake, casting fluorescent pink and orange color across the skyline.

Then he was in darkness inside the tunnel. It ran the length of the four-lane highway above it and then some. The floor was a flat concrete. There were puddles of water and even a little ice. Other than the flat floor, the remainder of the tunnel was the typical tube shape, the highest point about ten, maybe twelve feet. There appeared to be overhead lights, but they were inoperative. Two homeless people slept against one side, huddled in blankets and layers of clothing with a grocery cart full of their possessions next to them. The chill helped stifle the odor, but it still reeked of urine.

When Cahill reached the end of the tunnel, a running path of cinder forked to the left for north or the right for south. Straight ahead and you were ten yards shy of the beach and the lake.

To the right, the land rose up at a forty-five-degree angle until it met the outer barriers of the highway. A “grassy knoll” if there ever was one. The perfect ambush site. Kolarich would leave the tunnel, follow the cinder path to the right, and not even think to crane his head upward and to the right to look up the hill.

Just what his partner, Dwyer, was thinking. He was standing halfway up that hill, checking on angles down toward the mouth of the tunnel. He nodded at Cahill.

Dwyer was part of the Circle, too. He was ex-military like Cahill, though he was dishonorably discharged after serving five years in the stockade for sexual assault. Dwyer was bad news, but when it came to carrying out an exercise, he showed a steely discipline.

Cahill had demanded a partner for this job. You want to ambush someone while on a jog, you needed two people to be sure.

“He went south,” said Dwyer, slowly descending the hill. “Like a bat out of hell.”

Cahill looked up the hill again. “So it would be a tough shot from the hill.”

“I can hit a human target from ten feet away no matter how fast he’s running,” he said. “So can you.”

“But it’s not supposed to look like sniper fire,” Cahill said, looking around. “Manning said they’ll be suspicious when this lawyer goes down. It has to look like a robbery. It has to be convincing.”

“Who robs a guy while he’s jogging?”

Cahill sighed. It was a problem. True, people had been killed for less than an iPod or expensive running shoes. But it wasn’t usually by a gun. It was more hand-to-hand stuff. A knife, maybe. Cahill had used a rope on Bruce McCabe, but that was different. Still, a good old-fashioned strangulation or blow to the head was the best way. Make it look like a struggle ensued, a grab-and-run gone bad-someone tried to swipe his iPod, he resisted, there was a fight, and he ended up dead. Theoretically, sure. But this guy Kolarich? He wouldn’t be an easy drop.

“We could disappear him,” Dwyer suggested. “Shoot him and cart him off. You pull the car up to the ramp. Two minutes, the whole thing’s over. And we have a dark tunnel for cover.”

But that wouldn’t look anything remotely like a robbery. Plus, that would require privacy of at least five minutes-not the two Dwyer was suggesting-in a very public area.

Another runner, an elderly man, slowly jogged past them. A couple of bicyclists flew by as well. The sun had risen now, and the men had to squint as they looked around.

The lakefront wasn’t terribly crowded at dawn in the middle of winter, but it wasn’t entirely deserted, either. And if they were going to take Kolarich out in a sniper-style ambush, they needed total privacy.

Every option posed risks. Some would look more like a robbery than others. But in the end, Manning had left Patrick Cahill with one final instruction:

Don’t fuck it up. Make him dead.

“See you tomorrow morning, Kolarich,” Cahill said.

Peter Ramini got into the backseat of the town car and didn’t even look at Donnie. He smelled him, though. The whole backseat reeked of fried food. An Egg McMuffin wrapper and plenty of crumbs lay on the floor at Donnie’s feet. A cup of coffee rested in the cup holder near Ramini’s feet. He missed coffee desperately.

“So I don’t even need to tell you why the visit,” said Donnie.

Ramini looked at the driver, Donnie’s brother Mooch, who was watching Ramini in the rearview mirror.

“No, you don’t.”

“Paulie said to ask: What wasn’t clear about his instruction?”

“It’s not a matter of clear, Don. The guy pretty much works round the clock right now. He’s got that trial. There’s no way to get to him up there in that office.”

“He don’t go home at night?”

“Yeah, he goes home.” Ramini’s frustration was growing. And his fear, too. When instructions weren’t followed, there were consequences. He knew he was running out of rope with Paulie Capparelli.

“Hey, you know how it goes,” said Donnie, his tone less amicable than normal. He was delivering an icy message, and they both knew it. “So Paulie said to say, someone’s gonna die. It’s either gonna be Jason Kolarich or Gin Rummy.” Donnie looked over at Ramini.

Ramini bristled at the nickname. “It’ll get done right away,” he said. “No more delays. Tell Paulie it’s my word.”

Donnie put a greasy hand on Ramini’s arm. Ramini, of course, had his hands stuffed in his pockets. “I got a soft spot for your family, old man, you know that. I told Paulie, I said, ‘Gin Rummy’s gonna take care of everything.’ Don’t make me a liar, my friend.”

Ramini slid out of the car and watched it drive away. He knew he was out of warnings with Paulie Capparelli.

Jason Kolarich had to die right away.

After my morning jog, I ate some eggs and made it to my law firm by eight-thirty. I was feeling pretty good, all things considered, after last night with Tori. It seemed like she had some remorse afterward, but I was getting used to baby steps with her, and that was okay by me. Especially because I had this one thing going on, this murder trial, that required some attention.

It was the day after Thanksgiving, but by nine-thirty Bradley and Shauna and Marie were there, and we’d been on the phone several times with Joel Lightner from his office. At three-thirty in the afternoon, my expert on post-traumatic stress disorder, Dr. Sofian Baraniq, arrived.

At one time, Dr. Baraniq had been my entire case. That was back when my client was pleading, in essence, insanity, and the case would rise or fall on whether the jury believed Dr. Baraniq. That part of the case was gone now, and to some people’s minds, that meant Dr. Baraniq was no longer relevant to the case. But he was. I still planned on using him. And while my case no longer rested entirely on him, he was still crucial to our defense.