Presumption of Guilt (26 page)

She looked at the ground a moment, a small passing breeze shifting her dark hair. “Dangerous,” she answered. “He scared me.”

*   *   *

Johnny Lucas studied his reflection in the bathroom mirror, appraising the speed with which his beard was coming in. It made for a major change, he thought—that and the newly bald head. He passed his hand again across the unfamiliar smooth pate. He had been a remarkably hairy man from puberty onward, shaving twice a day to keep the girls from complaining about whisker burn. Who knew it would turn into an unexpected advantage? He'd always colored the hair to maintain its original near-black hue; now, it was gone, and the beard below it was almost white. Once the process was complete, he imagined his own mother would've had a tough time picking him out, were she still alive.

So far, so good. He left the mirror and entered the living room to admire the view of the mountains across the valley. He was in Vermont—Dummerston, above Brattleboro—tucked away in a small, converted hunting cabin, surrounded by wilderness. He'd bought the place for cash years ago, unbeknownst to Linda or anyone else, and under an assumed name, just in case.

In case of what? Well, that was the point, wasn't it? In case of a mess like this one, he mused. He pulled out the disposable cell phone he'd just purchased for emergencies. But who was he supposed to call?

All these years, he mused regretfully, basically without a hiccup. Good-looking wife, nice home on the river, pile of cash, facing a life of retirement and travel while still in the pink of health—until some sorry asshole bureaucrat decides to tear down a perfectly good warehouse.

He reached out and squashed a lethargic fly against the windowpane. What were they gonna do? Remodel? Everybody knew that once you built a nuclear power plant, it was there till the next Ice Age. Perfect place for a burial site.

He replaced the phone and removed the gun from his holster. It had been a while since he'd fired it, and chances were he'd have to soon. Time for a little practice, with it and the other weapons he'd stockpiled here over the years.

At the time, even he'd thought himself a little paranoid. Now he was wondering if his resources were deep enough. He had two hundred thousand dollars in a duffel bag, a passport under another name, and several overseas banking accounts, not to mention the guns. It was a start.

But he didn't want to just take off. He was getting too old for that kind of stunt. Plus, he didn't know everything he was running from. The Paniks, he understood, and he figured their envoy would be Walter, since he'd reached out when Barrett got whacked. But what about the others? The people who'd broken into his place? Who the fuck were they? Had they killed Barrett? Were they after him now? And who did they work for?

Johnny had first been sure that Walter was just jerking him around, pretending to be clueless when in fact he'd sent out a team to take out both BB and him as soon as Hank resurfaced. That's what Johnny would've done—tied up all the loose ends.

Now he was less sure. Why rig those cameras and then give Johnny a heads-up? Had they gotten so weird under new management that they gave you a warning before they killed you?

So, maybe it was something else.

Lucas reholstered the gun, opened the sliding door, and stepped out onto the cabin's small deck. Leaning on the railing, staring at the scenery, he considered his more immediate options.

Running is what they'd expect him to do—maybe even encourage. So, his best response would be to turn the tables. Make them the target instead of the hunters. It shouldn't be all that hard. He had the stills Walter had sent him, and unbeknownst to anyone, he'd had his own cameras rigged a quarter mile down River Road in both directions—just as he did here—to log anyone trying to park supposedly “out of sight.” They were high-end, traceless, without detectable radio waves, designed to slip by the tracking equipment of anyone snooping.

He'd done this kind of surveillance before, after all. He was no beginner. And once Walter's footage had revealed those black-clad nocturnal visitors, it hadn't been any trick to review his own archival footage and find a similar twosome getting into a discreetly tucked-away car.

That would take care of them—probably locally hired help. The next hurdle would be Walter himself, since Johnny had no doubt that a veteran like Walter would be heading north to check things out—especially if the local talent turned up dead.

Walter might be trickier. He was Tina Panik's direct link, after all, and the only connection that Johnny had maintained from his past life—the one to whom he'd funneled all that laundered money during the Ridgeline Roofing years, and the equivalent of a career counselor after Johnny had bid BB Barrett good luck with his Vermont Amalgamated merger.

Johnny frowned. Keeping in touch had been a mistake, he realized. He should've just told Walter and the Paniks “
Sayonara
” instead of being sentimental about old times. Once the money laundering had stopped, after all, nobody had owed anybody else a thing.

But Johnny hadn't opted for a clean break, and Walter sure as hell hadn't encouraged it.

Too bad, Johnny thought. From now on, that's all it was going to be about—clean breaks, forever.

 

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Sally Kravitz watched her father as he sat by the window, observing the street below. They were in their apartment above the restaurant—a room that had been a social hall a hundred years ago. All the lights were off except for the small one beside her bed, which now seemed like a single star in a dark galaxy, given the space's vast gloominess.

Of the various places Dan had called home, this was Sally's favorite. Part of that fondness, she knew, had to do with her age. As a kid, she'd paid little attention to location, focusing instead on playmates, which her father had made sure were in ready supply. After that, she'd gone off to boarding school, thanks to a combination of scholarships and money that Dan always seemed to have available, and whose source she now better understood. During those years, she'd often not lived with him, copying his example by camping out with families of her own choosing, albeit ones that he'd vetted.

But now, things were different. She was older, as was he. They understood, even if it had never been discussed, that she'd be going off to college after her so-called gap year. And that might be it—she could use college as a springboard to head out into the world; probably would, in fact, leaving him behind to his own strange devices. She imagined that had been the basis of his finally confessing to her about his alternate life. He had wanted, in a single gesture, to give her access to his inner workings, his hidden abilities, and to explain, however indirectly, how hard he'd worked to give her some extraordinary advantages through extremely unusual means.

In many ways, his latest effort had been matched by her own. Her choice to pause a year between high school and college, she thought, had been born of a subconscious hunger for such an explanation. And he had risen to the request naturally and without prompting, as always with her.

But he was worried now, and she knew why. The role of a gatekeeper, after all, went beyond simply monitoring who came and went. Dan Kravitz was his daughter's defender, as well. By taking her into his confidence, and involving her in his activities, he'd compromised his protectiveness by exposing her to danger.

It had turned out to be a high price for additional bonding, and she knew the guilt was wearing at him.

She left her reading and joined him in his vigil of the street, sitting in a beanbag across from him, now in the shadows herself. “You okay, Dad?”

He kept his eyes on the outdoors. Brattleboro was rarely completely void of activity, especially downtown, and the coming spring had made people more restless than usual. “Not really.”

“I know that being cautious is smart,” she said. “But nothing you told me about what Kunkle said seems all that conclusive.”

He gave her a thin smile. “Meaning my fears are outdistancing reality?”

“Meaning maybe your fears have become your reality,” she offered. “Given they're all we have.”

“Sometimes that's the difference between getting away and being eaten,” he said, his smile broadening at her sparring.

She laughed. “Okay, Obi-Wan. So what do we do now?”

“That's what I've been pondering,” he said. “I don't actually like acting on fear alone, especially when it's based on ignorance. But,” and here he looked at her, “my overriding concern is your safety.”

He shifted in his seat. “Sweetheart. I have reached where I am in this life through any number of crazy deals with the Devil, most of which I've spared you. Those choices have resulted in two absolutes: a happy and stable—if unconventional—mental state, and you, the center of my universe. All of a sudden, maintaining the first has put the second at risk. It is no contest what matters more to me. Without you being safe and sound—as best I can control such things—my world ends. I hope that makes the point without being too melodramatic.”

She leaned forward and held his knee between her hands. “I love you. You're the weirdest, most wonderful dad I know. Whatever you decide to do—regardless of whether it's based on fear or fact—is fine with me.”

He gave her a slightly sheepish expression, wrinkling his nose, and said, “Okay, then I think we ought to pull up stakes and lie low for a while, just to be on the safe side.”

“Leave Brattleboro?” she asked, keeping her voice neutral while inwardly cringing. Unlike her father, she was a social creature, and had lifelong friends spread all across this town, of every stripe and background.

His response surprised and pleased her. “Not for starters. I don't want to lose access to my eyes and ears, in case I can find out what's truly going on.” He cast an encompassing gaze around them. “But we ought to leave here. If you don't mind being a little isolated for a while, I think I can find us a spot you'll find pretty nice.”

She slid from her beanbag chair awkwardly and leaned forward to kiss his cheek. “I can't wait, Dad.”

*   *   *

“Assuming Lucas was Mobbed-up when he was cutting his teeth,” Willy argued, “then all the more reason to think what happened to Lester's kid wasn't just some hormonal woodchucks acting out. I say everything stays connected till somebody proves otherwise.”

“His name's David,” Lester said wearily, having made the same comment an irritating number of times.

“Despite that Bullfrog's copped to organizing the whole thing and is currently cutting a deal with the SA,” Sam added.

“Or,” Joe couldn't resist, “that we had the inside of Hobart's trunk compared to what we collected from under Dave's fingernails, and it was a perfect match.”

Willy was not receptive. “The Mob can't buy testimony all of a sudden?”

“Patrice Celli never invoked the Mob, or organized crime, or anything else,” Joe said, hoping to get the squad meeting back on track.

“That's what
we're
supposed to do,” Willy continued. “It's
our
job to connect the dots.”

“I think we got it,” Sam cautioned him.

Willy heard the warning in her voice and backed off. “Just sayin'.”

“And we hear you,” Joe told him. “I agree that Lucas may've pulled a fast one forty years ago, and maybe killed Hank Mitchell in the process. We've had more convoluted cases before. The catch is—whether it's true or not—how does it tie into BB's death? If we are being paid to connect those dots, we're not doing a great job of it.”

Lester indicated the phone by his elbow. “I double-checked the alibi Linda Lucas gave Johnny,” he said, mostly to Willy. “The wine tasting and doo-wa-diddy weekend at Stratton. I talked to several people who remembered him, including the guy he yelled at for burying his car at the back of the lot. I even built a time line, to see if he might've rented a car or something and snuck out, but given Barrett's estimated time of death, I couldn't make it work. Course, I suppose anything's possible.”

Sammie was shaking her head. “I don't see it. According to Joe's notes, Linda said Johnny was sweating bullets from then on. That's not what I'd look for in a killer playing a cool game of ‘Who, me?' Not only that,” she added, casting a conspiratorial glance at Willy, “but when I was looking through Lucas's papers earlier, with Linda breathing down my neck—as arranged by Joe—I chatted her up, and she confirmed that everything was hunky-dory up to when they heard of BB's killing, right after that weekend.”

“You find anything when you were there?” Lester asked.

“No more than what we knew. He might as well have been born at the age of twenty-two. Every scrap of paperwork identifying him looked like it had just been printed in the basement.”

Sammie looked around, feeling like a kid who couldn't believe her tall tale had gone over. Not that she'd actually lied, except about what documentation she'd seen where, and how she'd come upon it.

Willy helped her out by moving the conversation along. “I know I said Mob before. But the Marshals Service was mentioned, too—not that one precludes the other. But the marshals usually set up their people with new jobs, homes, the works. Lucas sounds like he made it up as he went. That's sort of what got me going. According to what Celli told you, boss, Lucas just walked into the office with Barrett one day and went right to work.”

“Agreed,” Joe said. “She also said it seemed like he was being paid with money she couldn't account for.”

“Right,” Willy supported him. “Bonuses from happy customers. Bullshit, more likely.”

“The interesting thing to me,” Joe continued, “isn't that Lucas worked to drive Hank out of the business, or that he took the bookkeeping away from Patrice. It's that nothing could've happened without BB's cooperation.”