William Lashner - Marked Man

“How?”

“Enough already with cooperation agreements being tossed back and forth like a football,” I said. “Two men are dead, and more will die if you and I and Slocum don’t get together right now to make a deal.”

“Can someone tell me what the hell you two are talking about?” said McDeiss.

“She will,” I said. “After we make a deal.”

Slocum stared at me for a moment, trying to figure out how much of what I had just said was the truth and how much was utter bullshit, and then he turned to Jenna and nodded.

“What do you need?” she said to me.

“Immunity,” I said. “And witness protection. Someplace hot, but with a dry heat, for his sinuses. You give us that, he’ll tell you everything about the mob, the heist, and the girl.”

“And the painting, too,” said Slocum. “Don’t forget that little detail.”

“Has he agreed to your offer?” said Hathaway.

“I’ll get him to.”

“And what will he tell us?”

“I don’t know yet, but I’m going to find out, I promise you.”

“Okay. We’ll give him immunity on everything not having to do with the girl. And if he cooperates on her and we end up with the true story and an arrest, depending on what actually happened and his role in it, I promise nothing more than a couple of years in protective custody and then relocation.”

Slocum turned back to me. “Will that do it?”

“That will do it.”

“And who will bring him in?”

“I will,” I said.

“You?” said Slocum with a derisive edge to his voice.

“Yeah, me.”

“You got any body armor?”

“No.”

“Better get some.”

“This is all very pleasant and cordial,” said McDeiss, “and you better tell me what the hell you’re talking about, and soon. But first can you answer two questions for me? One: Who the hell is going around killing these guys?”

“Did you check that note Joey Pride gave me for fingerprints?” I said.

“Two matches,” said McDeiss. “Yours and prints from the phone where the 911 on Ralph Ciulla was called in.”

“That would be Joey, who is not the killer but instead is in line to be the next victim. The guy who did this is most likely an old hit man from Allentown, a Korean War vet with a buzz cut and gnarled hands, hired through and getting help from the remnants of the Warrick gang. Two hoods from that gang, named Fred and Louie, have been following me tighter than my shadow.”

“You see them around again, will you kindly give me a call?”

“With pleasure.”

“And question two,” said McDeiss. “What the hell was Stanford Quick doing with a pickax in the back of his Volvo?”

To avoid the crowdsand reporters waiting outside, they let me sneak out the back of the Ciulla house while Slocum was on the front steps making a statement and saying nothing. Sure, I wanted to avoid the snap, snap of cameras and shouted questions that make even the pope look guilty of something, but I also wanted a moment to check out the basement on my way from the house. I had hoped I’d be unescorted, but they sent a uniform named Ernie along to make sure I found my way out. Nice of them, don’t you think?

With the light on, the basement was an altogether less ominous place. The shadowy boxes were now just cartons of stuff. The heap of bizarre implements on the makeshift worktable were welder’s tools, a torch, a mask, an igniter, spools of solder, all covered with a layer of dust and debris. The sad remnants of Ralph Ciulla’s failed dream.

When McDeiss had asked about the pickax in Stanford Quick’s Volvo, I had simply shrugged and mentioned something about the gardens at Quick’s Gladwyne estate. I purposely hadn’t told McDeiss about the equipment, clothes, and guns buried in Ralph Ciulla’s basement, and I had my reasons. Sheila the Realtor was doing me a favor and keeping tabs on any potential buyers for the Ciulla house. There was surprising interest in the property, she said. I didn’t want word to get out that the cops were digging up the basement before I discovered from where the interest was emanating.

I had hoped the uniform would point me to the door and then head back upstairs, giving me time to explore, but it didn’t seem to be happening.

“Out this way, Mr. Carl.”

“Thanks, Ernie,” I said. “You can go on up if you want. I can get out from here.”

“That’s all right,” said Ernie as he led me forward and pulled open the door for me. “I’m glad to help.”

Ernie stood in the rear entryway and watched as I opened my car door and waved. He was still watching as I started the car and pulled out of the parking spot beside Stanford Quick’s Volvo and into the alley. They seem to be training them better these days.

I was just reaching the end of the alley when a shadowy figure jumped in front of my car. I slammed on the breaks and just avoided slamming into the intrepid Rhonda Harris.

I rolled down my window, she came around the side and leaned on the sill.

“Can you give me a ride?”

“You’re missing Mr. Slocum’s statement,” I said.

“Is he saying anything?”

“No.”

“Then I’d rather talk to you.”

“I don’t think so, Rhonda. I have nothing to say to the press.”

She gave me a sly smile. “I felt bad about walking out on you that night.”

“It was a bit abrupt.”

“The business I had to deal with was completed sooner than I thought. I slipped over to your apartment, but you weren’t there.”

“You really came over?”

“Yeah. Where were you?”

Screwing Sheila the Realtor, I thought but didn’t say. “I called a friend.”

“Someone I should be jealous of?”

“No,” I said.

“Good. What about that ride?”

I thought about it for a moment. Everything told me it was a mistake to put a reporter in my car, but she had come to my apartment looking for me, she had sought me out. The old weakness started shaking my knees.

“Sure,” I said, and her smile was bright enough to hurt.

She said she was living in the Loews Hotel on Market Street while she was working on the story. As I headed for I-95 and then drove south into Center City, I could feel her sitting next to me, her heat, her spicy red scent, the sensuality that she seemed to broadcast into the very air about her.

“What was it like in that house?” she said.

“Let’s just say you have a nicer fragrance than the dead man.”

“You want to tell me who he was?”

“Have the police announced his name yet?”

“No. They say they’re waiting until the family is notified.”

“Then I’ll wait, too.”

“Is this also about the painting?”

“No comment, Rhonda, really. I thought this was just a ride.”

“It is, but I am a reporter. Why don’t I make a few statements? If I’m completely off base, you’ll tell me. If I’m not, you won’t say anything.”

“Is this a trick you learned in journalism school?”

“No, from Robert Redford. You ready?”

“Go ahead.”

“The dead man was somehow associated with Ralph Ciulla.”

“No comment.”

“And he, too, was somehow involved with the painting.”

“Still no comment.”

“And the rumor swirling around the press corps was that he was some prominent lawyer.”

“I have nothing to say.”

“And other people are at risk, including your client.”

“Can we stop now?”

“And it’s all about someone who is desperate to get the painting for himself.”

“I don’t think that’s it,” I said. “I don’t think it has anything to do with the painting.”

“No? Then what is it about?”