William Lashner - Marked Man

“We have to get out of here,” I said.

“Back in the cab,” said Joey.

“There’s no door,” I said.

“I can drive without a door.”

“Maybe you can,” I said, “but how far we’d get before the cops stop us is another thing entirely. And then she probably told the cleaners what kind of car we had. If we pass them on the road, they’ll figure it out and spin around after us.”

“But it’s Hookie’s car. I can’t just leave it here.”

“We’ll retrieve it later, patch it up, I promise.”

“It’s a piece of crap anyway,” he said.

“Then how do we get out of here?” said Monica.

“We’ll take her car,” I said, gesturing toward the pulpy mass on the ground. “Let’s find her bag.”

“Is this a time to be rummaging for spare change?” said Charlie.

“We need the keys,” I said. “And her phone. Joey, check her car and see if the keys are there. The rest of us will comb the area, the bag should be somewhere around.”

The gun was off to the side. I picked it up carefully by the trigger guard and placed if in a jacket pocket. Joey came back, reporting that the car was locked, and we continued our search, moving slowly toward the heap of metal and flesh.

“She had nice hair,” said Monica, as we passed the corpse. “I always wanted red hair.”

Beyond the body, beyond the door, almost to the edge of the gravel lot, where the woods had already encroached, we found the bag. Phone, wallet, but no keys.

“They must have spun out in the crash, flying somewhere into the woods,” I said. It could take us another hour to find them.

“I could just pick the lock of her car,” said Charlie.

“Don’t they have electronic gizmos?”

“I can get around them,” said Joey.

I turned to stare at them.

“Hey, you were the man with the plan,” said Joey. “We was following you.”

“Let’s get the hell out of here,” I said.

A minute and a half later, we were in Rhonda’s rental car, the engine humming, Joey Pride pulling us out of the lot.

“Go east,” I said.

“Back to the shore?”

“Back to the parkway and then the Atlantic City Expressway,” I said. “It might take a little longer, but I don’t want to pass any goons on this little road on our way back to Philly.”

He did as I said, and then I made my calls.

I didn’t know I wasin a race.

I should have known, of course, it was all there in front of my face. But at the time I was a little preoccupied with staying alive. So we took the roundabout route to Philadelphia as I called McDeiss. I gave him the last phone number Rhonda had called, so he could track down her accomplices, and a description of Fred and Louie. He promised to have a squadron of New Jersey state troopers converge on the site of Schmidty’s deserted farmer’s market and pick up whoever showed in response to Rhonda’s call.

“And when the cops finally arrive,” I said, “there will be a little treat waiting for them. A dead body.”

“Damn it, Carl, what the hell is going on?”

“You know the guy who you think killed both Ralph Ciulla and Stanford Quick?”

“The guy from Allentown?”

“Well, you were right about him doing the killings, except he wasn’t a guy.”

“Get the hell out of here.”

“I cleared two of your cases, you should be thrilled. I even have the murder weapon sitting in my pocket. And when you figure out who she really is, pick up her father. He was in the business before her. Now, are you ready for us?”

“We have a cordon around Mrs. Kalakos’s house, and we have a phalanx of black-and-whites ready to pick you up at the mouth of the Tacony-Palmyra Bridge and escort you to her street. You’re still in that green-and-white taxi?”

“Not anymore,” I said.

“What happened?”

“We had a little accident. We’re driving something new.”

“Just picked it up off the street?”

“That’s right,” I said.

“Mind telling me what it is?”

“Yes, I do. Last thing I want is a phalanx of police cars pointing out to everyone in the city exactly where we are. How many in a phalanx anyway? Can two be a phalanx if they’re really, really big?”

“Don’t be a hero, Carl,” said McDeiss.

“Little chance of that. But don’t worry, there will be a green-and-white cab meeting your phalanx.”

“Come again?”

“Just have your phalanx meet the cab and flash its lights and escort the cab to the Kalakos house. Have it pause there for a moment, and then lead it back to the Roundhouse. That should be safe enough. But the Kalakos house is not where you and I are going to meet up.”

“Then where?” said McDeiss.

“Someplace else. I want you to show up quietly, no black-and-whites, no commotion or press. Wait until the noisy procession begins and then slip in unnoticed. Just you and Slocum and Hathaway and a team from your CSI unit to process a body. Can you do that?”

“We can do that. Where?”

“Ralph Ciulla’s basement. And remember that pickax you found in Stanford Quick’s car?”

“We still have it.”

“Maybe you should bring it along.”

“What the hell’s down there?”

“Unfinished business,” I said.

It was Monica who drove us into the city. I didn’t know who’d be looking for us, but I figured, even in the rental car, they’d be less likely to identify us with a pretty woman at the wheel.

When we reached the Walt Whitman Bridge, I called Beth on her cell. It was time for her to play decoy. Earlier she had gone to the railroad station, picked up a green-and-white cab, and been cruising around the city. The driver didn’t know what he was in for, but I figured the police protection and the hundred Beth slipped him would cover it. Now, while we headed over the Delaware, she headed to the western mouth of the Tacony-Palmyra Bridge.

As we drove north on I-95, Beth phoned in her reports. It was like a parade, she said, with the police cars, the lights and sirens. McDeiss had even put in a few motorcycle cops for effect. The man knew how to build a phalanx. But there was no effort to stop her, no opposing army of thugs, no shots, no danger. Apparently Rhonda Harris had called off those dogs before Lavender Hill had silenced her but good.

We got off I-95 at the Cottman Avenue exit, took a nice calm drive into the Northeast, circled counterclockwise to the back alley behind Ralph Ciulla’s house. Nothing looked strange, nothing looked out of place. Monica pulled the gray rental car into the spot beneath the little backyard deck.

I got out, patted the heavy metal thing in my pocket as I looked around. Nothing. I stepped to the closed basement door and slowly pushed it open. It was dark inside.

“Hello,” I said softly.

“Hello yourself,” came McDeiss’s whisper.

“Any news from New Jersey?”

“They found the body and picked up four suspects at the scene, including two that matched the descriptions you gave me over the phone.”

“Terrific. All right, give us a second.”

I stepped back, waved to Monica. She climbed out. Then I tapped the windshield, and two figures popped up from hiding low in the backseat. I motioned them out. They scrambled quickly out of the car, as quickly as two old guys bent stiffly at the waist can scramble out of a car, and then slipped through the basement door. Monica and I followed.

When the door closed, the lights suddenly clicked on and we could see the whole setup. Two CSI technicians, with their briefcases. Two uniforms, pump-action shotguns at the ready. Slocum and Hathaway together off to the side. And McDeiss, leaning on the handle of a rusted old pickax, standing smack in the center of the room.