Ded Reckoning (12 page)

A standing Jim Ryder greets Bradovich and points at one of the three chairs and says, "Have a seat.  What can I do for you?"  He sits in the chair at the other end of the coffee table.  Its four foot expanse creates sufficient chilly distance.  Ryder is in his customary blue suit, white starched shirt and a yellow power tie. Is close shaven, eyes steely and well-manicured hands.  The walls to either side are adorned with black and white photos of him with local and national dignitaries and there are various degrees and certificates completing the smattering of individual history.

Bradovich is a sharp contrast in his rumpled sports jacket, open collared sports shirt, a tired frown capped with a slight growth of a beard.  He growls, "Just thought I'd pay a professional courtesy call and see if I can help.  Have anything yet?"  He sits, crosses his legs and tries to find a comfortable position for his Popeye-like arms on the chair.  He can't and crosses his arms across his chest in a psychological display that would interest a psychiatrist but not Ryder.

Ryder stares for several seconds, says, "Nope.  Not much.  And we have nothing for the press either and damn sure want to keep it that way for the moment."

"Gee whiz, Special Agent Ryder, that implies I would let the cat, or the IRA bomber, out of the bag.  I wouldn't do that.  Especially in this case."

"I'm sure."

"Well, San Diego isn't a swarming, sweltering crime-ridden metropolis, but we have our moments.  I like to stay on top of things and keep our seaside town clean and tourists happy.  A terrorist in town with enough plastic explosives to sink the Coronado Ferry or make Mr. A's rooftop restaurant a sidewalk cafe causes me more than mild concern.  So a little heads up and cooperation would be appreciated."

Ryder sits and stares at Bradovich for several seconds. The silence in the room is like a street in old Dodge and the stares like two gunmen waiting to draw.  Surprisingly, but rightfully, Ryder breaks first and gets up, steps to his window, his back to the detective.  Then turns, shoves his hands into his trouser pockets and says in a civil tone, "We have nothing yet that you don't know.  Nothing final back from Interpol or the Brits from the prints or dental.  But, from the photo, we do know he landed in New York two weeks ago, the eighteenth.  Went from there directly to Boston we assume because he flew from Boston to Washington, D.C. two days later. And left there the next day for here.  He must have met someone there because he had ample time to make a same-day connection.  Been here about ten days.  We believe the target was the girl.  So it looks like a contact, or two, put him on the woman here.  And by my reckoning, that contact was in Washington.  The Boston trip was most likely for check-in, equipment, final words, and perhaps a reunion of sorts.  A lot of IRA sympathizers there.  Possibly family."  He pauses, "And that's it.  When we get more I'll let you know.  If I can."

"I see.  Okay.  You know I have some other interests in this ..."

"Yeah, I know.  Kerrigan.  You two are foxhole buddies, right?"

"Fighting hole Buds.  Foxholes are for the Army.  Marines don't like the connotation of a foxhole.  Prefer fighting hole."  Bradovich laughs quietly to see if he gets some reaction from Ryder.  Just a smirk.  "And, yeah, we were and we are."  He pauses again.  Then, "And it's my city."  Then shaking his head, "You tapped his phone, right?  You heard our conversation.  You did get an okay?"  He raises his eyebrows and tilts his head.

Ryder continues his Dodge City stare.  Takes his hands from his trouser pockets.  Enough in the old days to cause the gunfight to erupt.  But, no weapons, at least in sight, he only steps away from the window and sits at his desk.

Bradovich, out of his chair now, steps in front of the desk and says, "Look, that other agent, Oboe or whatever his name was, is, he isn't FBI.  But he's a Fed.  CIA I bet.  For all one knows perhaps I should be talkin' to him."

Jim Ryder laughs, "Yeah, go ahead.  Talk to ole' Oboe or Dobie, or whatever he's using today or tomorrow."  He pauses, looks down at his hands that he has now clasped together, resting on the desk top.  He lets out a breath.  "Ah, Dean, I imagine ..."

"It's Gene, but Detective Bradovich will do fine."

"Yes, Detective.  Well, anyway, you talk to Oboe if you can.  I suspect you'll never find him, or anyone with that name working for that agency or any agency.  Anyway, if you do and he doesn't want to be found, he won't be.  Hell, I could be him and you wouldn't know it."  He lets out a sigh.  "But, you might run across him somewhere ...  it'll most likely be dark, dank, and English the fifth language spoken.  So go ahead.  Look him up."

Smiling, Bradovich asks, "Are you him?"

Ryder laughs, "I told you what I know.  Anything else will have to come from someone else, somewhere else," pointing up and east.  He pauses again, lets out a long sigh, "I shouldn't tell you this, but the perp didn't die from any fall down a hill.  He couldn't have had that much damage if he had leaped from the top of your buddy's favorite restaurant, Mr. A's."  Ryder's tone becomes gruff again.  "Your boy's feet have shit all over them and no one in the government, the Marine Corps, or any outfit will say anything other than Kerrigan's not involved.  His records are already sealed or they were months or years ago in preparation for something.    Right now, all I have is two bodies; well, one and parts of another, and they'll be gone tomorrow.  So, do me and yourself a favor, go solve something else.  This one is over except for finding out about the good Mister Smith."  Ryder stands, adds, "And then possibly we, the Bureau, can joust a few Irishmen around, but we won't dislodge them.  They're stubborn by nature and don't scare easily.  And if there is someone important involved in Washington, well, who knows how deep that may be buried."

"Thanks, Agent Ryder.  I appreciate the information.  I didn't like your tone at times.  Nor you mine.  If I come up with something, I'll call."  He smiles, "My phone's not tapped, is it?"

Ryder, not amused by the last remark, ignores it. "Yeah, okay.  Appreciate a call.  I'll do what I can.  Just keep the lid tight.  But, tell me.  Is this guy Kerrigan a knight or a nightmare?"

"In shining armor with more holes, more guts, more smarts, more toughness and more leadership than anyone I've ever met.  Smart!  Do you know he can remember everything he reads or hears?  Everything.  He never writes anything down.  Guts! He just believes in attack, attack, attack.  Shoot, if he has to retreat, he'll retreat to the back of his fighting hole, and no further."  He pauses to take a breath.  Then continues, "He's an ace with weapons.  Rifles, hand guns, knives and his hands.  He can see an ant in a cornfield at a thousand yards, and hit it, first shot.  Hell, in another one hundred years, in another two hundred years, they'll still be Marines talkin' about him."   He pauses again to catch his breath, then adds, his eyes a tad misty, "Hell, he's the reason I'm alive.  Agent Ryder, The Hawk could make one phone call and there would be a hundred, more like a thousand, guys standing beside him, like quicker than you can insert a full magazine.  He's ... ahhh, never mind.  Good day, Agent Ryder.  And thanks.  Semper Fi." Pauses again, smiles and says, "Oh, Mister A's is not his favorite restaurant.  It was just the first place here in town he found that served apricot brandy.  He loves the stuff. It makes him believe he's actually civil, urbane, perhaps human."  Bradovich turns and strides out of Ryder's office, closing the door behind him and nodding to the receptionist, "Ma'am, should be in church or on the beach with me."

She half smiles, "Or elsewhere.  That would be better."

Bradovich stops, turns, and grins.  "Okay, I'll remember that."

"Do.  Soon."

 

 

Rocco takes a taxi from Pisa's Galileo Galilei Airport into the old part of town.  It's easier.  More comfortable than the buses and trains that are so convenient at the airport.  The cab might be easier to track him but who would be doing that.  No one should care about his movements. He'd sooner stay closer to the Mediterranean.  He loves the sea, but for his purposes on this trip the old Grand Hotel Duomo Pisa on Via Santa Maria will do fine.  It has a fine old restaurant serving excellent Tuscany cuisine and has a quiet, comfortable lounge and bar.  The hotel is about fifty meters from Duomo Square and The Tower.  And, not that far from the
Borgo Stretto
with its elegant cafes and shops.  These latter places have interest for Adrianna.

More importantly, the hotel is close to Alberto's Restauranti, and hence Antonio Rizzo.  No matter the situation, Antonio will be at or around Alberto's at some point in time.  If he feels he's in danger, most likely at the back door, in the alley.  There is no other place he can eat free when his money runs out.  And then only if they expect him back at work.  And it is his only job, consequently how hard will it be to find Rizzo.  Besides, one or more of the help will know where he lives.  That information can come easy or hard.  It makes no difference to Rocco.  Everyone knows of the slaughter of Alberto and his entire family.  And everyone suspects Antonio knows something about it, even though he has said nothing.  Nothing to the local police.  Nothing to Interpol. Nothing to anyone.  When questioned, or the subject is mentioned, he just weeps, trembles, but says nothing other than he knows nothing.  However, Rocco's mode of conversation and gestures are harshly different.

In the late afternoon tomorrow, Rocco will meet with Carmen Messina, Carmen's sister, Rosa and the boy Lorenzo.  He will make the offer, which they will not refuse, and make the arrangements for their travel.  He will treat them to a fine dinner giving them a flavor of life ahead.  But now it is late in the day, and he must call Adrianna.  Have her come here for dinner and whatever the evening holds.  She is much more than an acquaintance and lovingly accepts her place in Rocco's world.  That place pays well, shops well, vacations well and plays well.

In his room, Rocco rings up Adrianna.  She answers after only a few rings.  In his native language he says, "Adrianna, ciao.  It's Rocco.  I'm here.  Come to the Duomo and we'll have dinner.  Yes?"

"And more I hope.  I have missed you.  You left quickly, and the hole in my heart has not mended yet.  If ever."

"Ahhhh, Adrianna, your soothing voice already has me hungry for you.  Come."

"I will be there shortly.  Should I plan on staying long?"

"At least several days, and then, shortly thereafter a vacation.  For that you can shop in the Borgo Stretto."

"Wonderful.  And Rocco, I thought I saw your friend Antonio Rizzo yesterday.  He was slinking around the alley by Alberto's.  He looked exceedingly bad, like a man without a home, and here it is August in beautiful Pisa.  Probably wasn't him.  Come to think of it, Antonio would never let himself go like that.  He is too much a lady's man."

Rocco pauses for a moment.  His mind wandering. Then hears her say, "Rocco?"

"Yes, I am still here.  He is not my friend.  Just a waiter I know that took extra care at my table. I have no idea what's wrong with him, nor do I have any interest in him.  He is of no concern to me.  My only interest here is in you, and some minor business I have to attend to tomorrow."  He pauses, "Adrianna, hurry.  I'm hungry."

"For what?"

"You."

"Me as well...for you."

 

 

The bathing, showering, and the changing of clothes goes as well as Hunter can manage.  It is restrained, and fairly well-mannered, but not non-sexual as he hoped.  At least in Hunter's mind.  Except, there was the moment Dee entered the bathroom while Hunter was in the shower, opened the shower door and whistled.  And later when she came from the bathroom into the bedroom to pick-up her slacks and blouse, wearing only her panties and bra, giggling and jesting, "I heard a saying once.  If love is blind, why is lingerie so popular?"  The first incident got a shout from Hunter.  The latter a groan and a turning of his back pleading with her to be less brazen, and even lesser of a pal.

Regardless, the dinner on the patio at the Del goes well.  It is more cultured than the clothing-changing environment and incidents.  The conversation is about both their families, and reluctantly for her about a few mutual Navy friends, and for a moment or two, however strange, of Angelo.  They each order their own meals, however Dee insists on ordering the wines.  These are DeLuca wines for sure and wonderfully subtle.  There is no apricot brandy, thus Dee suggests, "This has been a great day, and I thank you ever so much."  She leans over and gives him a peck on his cheek.  Then continues, "As I see it we can take a walk on the beach, or we can go back and sit in your Jacuzzi.  What'll it be?"

"It's late; going home sounds good.  Besides I would like my apricot brandy before I call it a night.  We've got a lot of planning and work to do tomorrow ... and Tuesday."

"And how about the Jacuzzi?"

"Daggone, Dee.  Haven't you seen enough of me in a bathing suit today?"

Dee laughs.  "Yes, I have.  That's my point, big fella."

Shaking his head in hopelessness, Hunter gets up from the table, moves over to Dee, slides her chair away from the table and with his hand in the small of her back guides her, more a push, toward the exit and valet stand.  Once there and when the Vette arrives, the top is down and the attendant is smiling.  "Great wheels, sir."

"Thanks."  Hunter hands the lad a twenty.

The young man says, "Both sets.  And thanks a million."

Dee smiles and says, "Thank you," before Hunter can reply.  Slides down and into the sports car and winks at the valet.  Turns to Hunter and whispers, "And I have slacks on."

"Yeah, well, he must have been at the beach today, or one of the old geezers at lunch might have said something.  Either way, he's right or they're right.  Good wheels."   He audibly lets out a breath and says, "Not sure how to handle you."

As they round the drive heading out, Dee exclaims, "Oh God, I hope that's a question.  Is it a question, Hunter?  Because if it is, I can ..."