David Baldacci - Daylight

She zipped her jacket up, looked around, and gained the lay of the land. Vincenzo’s place was about a hundred yards down the street, a small beach bungalow that looked nearly identical to the neighboring homes. She walked on and gained a sight line on the place from across the street. She drew a pair of small optics from her pocket, glanced around to see if anyone was observing her, and then took a good look at the bungalow.

It was one and a half stories with dormer windows, saggy green shutters, a tan exterior, and no garage. Rotted and empty flower boxes clung to the underneath edge of the two windows bracketing the front door, which was painted black and badly weathered. A dark blue, rolling, rubber trash can was outside by the front stoop. An empty six-pack of beer bottles sat next to it. A black exhaust pipe piercing the roof was a definite add-on, she figured, because it looked relatively new. Danforth had mentioned a pellet stove, and the pipe must be its exhaust source, she thought. There was a car in the concrete driveway that was spiderweb-cracked in at least five places. The car was a Ford Focus with Jersey plates. As she kept looking it over, she spotted a Fort Dix parking sticker on the rear bumper. The yard in front was more sand than grass. She could have easily thrown a football from the backyard and hit the ocean at high tide.

She recalled that there had been no car in Vincenzo’s driveway back in Trenton, but the man had been there. Either this was his car, or he had gotten a ride with someone, or a person was visiting him, or he wasn’t here but whoever had driven this car here was.

She found a café open across the street with a good sight line of her target.

She ordered a coffee and a toasted bagel and watched the darkness thicken. No one came out of the house, and the car remained right where it was. She could hear the waves crashing on the beach as the tide rolled in. Normally a calming effect on people, it just made Pine more tense.

Two cups of coffee, a second bagel, and another hour of observation later, Pine took a moment to check her emails. Nothing from Robert Puller, and nothing from Blum. She expected Puller to stay until his brother was clearly out of danger. No word from him was good, at least from Pine’s perspective. And Gorman and Franklin must still be in the building.

As a fog rolled in off the ocean, Pine’s patience ran out. She left the shop, crossed the street, hit the beach, headed west, and came up on the sand side of the Vincenzo bungalow. There were no lights on in the house or in the residences on either side. There was a small, paved, fenced-in patio on which sat a set of rusty outdoor furniture and a tattered umbrella that was listing to one side. An empty beer can sat on top of one of the fence posts. Pine cleared this area and snuck up to the back of the house. She peered in a window and found herself staring at what looked to be the kitchen. She tried the back door. Surprisingly, it was not locked. She pulled it open slowly, prepared to face loud squeaks from a seldom-used door, but it opened silently.

She stole inside and took out her Tac light, and the thin beam cut through the still darkness.

She left the kitchen after seeing that there were stacks of dirty dishes and glasses in the sink. Apparently, someone, hopefully Vincenzo, had been here for a while. The air didn’t feel musty, either, which was another sign this place was being occupied, even if the car wasn’t parked out in the driveway. After searching the house, she planned to check the car next, when it was even darker. It was on the street side, which made it more perilous for her to search when people might still be walking down the street. Hopefully, it would be unlocked, too. The registration would tell her who owned the car. And there might be some other things of interest inside.

There was a small front room with decades-old furniture, a frayed carpet that looked ground down by sandy feet, and a small bookcase full of old paperbacks. The pellet stove Danforth had mentioned had been inserted inside the original fireplace. The black pipe went up into the ceiling and through the roof, as Pine had seen before. And, as Danforth had said, she could see tiny cracks in the old walls where she could feel damp air coming in. This place must be hell in the winter, she thought.

A small 5,000-BTU AC unit was perched in one window.

A fairly new-looking Samsung wide-screen TV hung on one wall, and there was an Xbox controller perched on the coffee table. Next to that was a virtual reality headset. That was a good sign that Vincenzo was in the neighborhood.

And next to the VR headset she struck gold.

It was a photo ID card for Anthony Vincenzo, allowing him access to Fort Dix.

There was one bedroom on this level. When she opened the door it was like she had stepped back forty years. The bed was made with a crocheted afghan on top, done in what could only be described as psychedelic colors. The bed and nightstands and bureau were all matching wood in a style from at least as far back as the 1970s. A tattered copy of Jacqueline Susann’s Valley of the Dolls was on one nightstand along with an old-fashioned windup alarm clock. The bathroom attached to it matched the age of the bedroom. The small closet was empty.

She left the bedroom and approached the narrow staircase to the left of the front door. She ducked down as a car passed by outside. She cut off her light, stole to the window, and peered out. The car was already gone. The fog was thicker, and she could see no one passing by on foot. She clicked her light back on and took the stairs up.

The half-story must have been put on later, concluded Pine, because it was drywall instead of plaster, and the finishes looked more modern. There were two small bedrooms and a full bath up here, the latter with a one-piece fiberglass shower and double sinks. In one of the bedrooms, Pine found where Vincenzo was staying. A large duffel was on the floor, and clothes and remnants of fast-food meals were strewn all over. The stink of stale French fries assailed her nostrils. She searched through the duffel and found a nine-millimeter Sig. She popped the magazine, took out all the bullets, and cleared the breach before putting it back. If things went sideways later, Old Tony would be reaching for a useless weapon.

There was a smaller pink roller suitcase. She nudged it open. Inside were women’s clothes, a box of tampons, and a fingernail file set in a small leather case. Inside the closet were about a half-dozen women’s outfits on hangers. On the floor were three pairs of women’s shoes, from heels to flats.

Okay, he was shacking up with a girl. Pine wondered who that might be.

On the nightstand was a bottle of Oxycontin that, despite the label, didn’t look to be prescription. Probably street made with other shit in it, like fentanyl that could send you to the hereafter faster than any other synthetic drug known. There was also a wad of cash bigger than her fist, and two burner phones. And a bong with a full baggie of weed sat next to the phones.

Pine looked up and saw the dangling rope. She pulled on it and a set of folding wooden stairs came down, revealing the attic access.

She didn’t expect Vincenzo to be hiding up there, but she wouldn’t know until she checked. Still, she doubted he would have left his gun down here if he was up there.

She mounted the steps and shone her light around. There was no floor, only ceiling joists with pink insulation in between. But as she kept shining her light around, she saw that some large pieces of plywood had been laid over some of the joists. And there were some cardboard boxes stacked there.

The place smelled starkly of age, mold, and mildew, and Pine covered her mouth as she tread carefully over the joists to the boxes.