BAD DEEDS: A Dylan Hunter Thriller (Dylan Hunter Thrillers) (36 page)

He nodded toward the Lincoln.

“So, I’m driving by and I see your company’s name on the fence. And I see the gate open, with that big Linc sitting here. I didn’t know it was yours; but I figured it had to belong to one of your company big shots. So yeah—it was stupid what I did. But I lost it. If I had a crowbar, I would have smashed in the windows and doors. But all I had was a screwdriver, so I started on the tires.”

“All right, Mr. Marino,” the cop said. “I saw you do it, and now you admit you did it. So, you’re under arrest for trespassing, for malicious destruction of—”

“Wait a minute,” Dad said quietly. “Let him go.”

The cop blinked. “What do you mean? He—”

“I said:
Let him go.
I won’t be pressing charges.” His voice softened again. “Please, officer—take Mr. Marino’s handcuffs off.”

The cop stood there a moment, then shrugged. He freed Marino, who rubbed his wrists as he glared at Dad.

“Feeling guilty, huh? Well, if you think you can make up for this by not pressing—”

“Mr. Marino, before you go on, let me say something.” Marino opened his mouth, but Dad raised his hand. “Please, sir. Just give me a chance.”

Marino stopped, breathing hard.

“Whether you believe me or not, Mr. Marino, I didn’t know about the eminent domain takings. The city council and I have had it out about that stuff in the past. They know damned well that I don’t get involved in that sort of thing. So I think they’re trying to pull a fast one on me—get me to sign contracts for this project before I find out what they’re up to.”

His lips pressed thin, and his jaw muscles worked. He went on:

“I want you to know that this is
not
going to happen.”

Marino blinked. “You mean, you’re not going to be involved?”

“More than that. I mean this whole ‘takings’ thing—it just isn’t going to happen. I’ll make sure of that.”

“Oh yeah? So, just how are you going to stop them?”

His father sent a quick look at the cop, who was watching him intently. His lips curled into that crooked little grin that Matt loved.

“You leave that to me.”

Matt could tell that Marino was debating with himself whether to believe it. Finally he cleared his throat.

“Sorry about the car,” he said.

“You’ve got nothing to be sorry about. I don’t blame you one bit. I’m just glad you weren’t carrying a gun.”

“Yeah,” Marino said, swallowing hard. “Still …” He dropped his eyes, then looked up. “Look. Can I give you a lift somewhere?”

Dad’s grin broadened. “I know this Irish bar. You like Guinness? Or do you drink that wop
chianti
shit?”

Marino grinned back at him. “A bottle of Iron City will do fine.”

As they walked toward Marino’s car, Dad dropped back and said, “Sorry you didn’t get your lesson tonight, Matt.”

Matt looked up at him. “But I did.”

The next day, Dad invited him to take a seat in his cluttered office at the company headquarters.

“One of life’s most important lessons,” he said, “is to own up to it and make amends whenever you make a mistake.”

“Like you did last night.”

“Like that. But I want you to learn another lesson, too. Don’t ever be afraid to stand up to people who everybody else thinks are important. Politicians, celebrities—people with money, degrees, fancy titles. They’re no better than you are, Matt. Most times they’re a lot worse. So never let them intimidate you. You can’t be a doormat and let them walk all over you. You got to stand up to them. Today I want to show you what that looks like.”

He picked up his office phone, poked the buttons, and waited.

“Jerry. Mike here.” He covered the mouthpiece of the phone and whispered to Matt, “Jerry’s my lawyer.”

Over the next ten minutes, Dad explained to the lawyer about the eminent domain plan. They discussed options.

“Far as I’m concerned, I’m out of the project, and they’ll know why later this afternoon. But I want to go farther. I don’t want them to proceed with another developer. I want to fight this whole thing … I know, I get that I don’t have legal standing to sue them myself. But those property owners do. They just don’t have the money to do it, which I do. That’s where you come in, Jerry. I want to pay you to take on their case. Represent them in court. You’re the best I can think of to handle this kind of thing … Uh huh … Well, I’m sure you’re busy. So, how much would it take to persuade you to
make
time for it? … Yes, right away … Come on, that’s ridiculous. Your time is more valuable than that. I’ll double that, to one-fifty … Sure, I’m serious. And if you find that you need more, it’ll be no problem. Okay?”

They continued the discussion for a few more minutes, and Dad gave the lawyer Marino’s phone number. After they hung up, he dialed another number, winking at Matt as he did so.

“Now to get the media involved.”

He drummed his fingers on the desk, waiting, then said: “Yes, could I have Dick Ryker in the city room? … Tell him Mike Malone’s calling.”

He gave the reporter a shorter version of the story.

“Dick, you’ve been covering urban renewal mostly from the politicos’ point of view. But there’s this whole other side: the human-interest angle. All these people are about to be run out of their homes and shops. It’s outrageous. They’ll wreck Bloomfield the same way they wrecked East Liberty and the Lower Hill District in the Fifties and Sixties. All that federal urban renewal money tore down thriving neighborhoods. They pushed 5,000 families out of their homes. Then they replaced it all with—what? Scores of parking lots. And empty, abandoned lots. And crime-infested high-rise public housing. Everybody admits it was a disaster. But now they want to do it all over again.”

He explained that he was hiring an attorney to represent the neighborhood. “I aim to stop this bullshit, Dick. And you can print that.” He chuckled. “Okay, maybe you change the word ‘bullshit.’ Anyway, I’m planning to hold a news conference with representatives from the district: families, mom-and-pop store owners …” He listened, then laughed. “Do I sound like somebody who gives a shit about ‘repercussions’? … Yeah, you can quote that, too.”

When he hung up, he looked over at Matt and said, “I don’t think we’ll have to wait long before this phone starts ringing. So why don’t we go get some lunch before everything hits the fan?”

That afternoon, they were ushered into the office of the president of the city council. Perry Nickson was a thin little man with quick darting movements and tiny teeth. He reminded Matt of a weasel.

“What’s with bringing the kid here, Mike? We have to talk serious business.”

“The ‘kid’ is my son, Perry, and someday he’ll be
running
my business. So I think this meeting will be a valuable civics lesson for him.”

“Suit yourself. But don’t expect me to pull any punches just because he’s with you. I invited you here right after I got a call from Dick Ryker at the paper. He told me what you’re up to. Mike, what the hell are you trying to pull here?”

“That’s exactly what I came here to ask
you.
You know damned well I don’t do projects built on eminent domain takings. But you guys on the council tried to hide that fact from me about the Bloomfield project.”

Matt sat back, listening and watching as the argument unfolded and grew more heated by the minute. Nickson finally exploded in a torrent of profanity when Dad said he was hiring a lawyer to represent the property owners.

“Understand this, Malone: We won’t put up with that kind of shit. Not from you, not from anybody. I don’t give a shit how much work you have done for the city before, or what your reputation is, or what other contracts we have pending with you. I’m telling you right now: You pursue this, we’ll ruin you.
I’ll
ruin you. I’ll make sure that your company never works again in this entire city. Hell, in this entire
state.
I have a lot of friends in Harrisburg. I can see—”

“Matt,” Dad interrupted, turning to him. “I’ve changed my mind. I need a private moment with Mr. Nickson. Would you excuse us for a few minutes, and go wait in the outer office?”

Matt got up and left, closing the door behind him. Nickson’s secretary was away from her desk. He stood there, not quite knowing what to do. He took a visitor’s chair in the waiting area.

Then he heard noises from the office he had just left. Then a sharp squeal. Then more noise, and a heavy
thump
against the wall next to the office door. A scuffling sound, as if something were scraping against the wall.

Then the sound of a low voice that he thought was Dad’s.

He waited anxiously for several minutes.

Finally, the door to the office opened.

Dad walked out, looking serene.

Behind him in the room he caught a glimpse of Nickson—tie askew, straightening his glasses and his suit jacket, a terrified look on his face.

“Come,” Dad said, motioning him.

Matt got to his feet and walked beside him down the hall, toward the elevators. His father’s face was always hard to read, but it had what seemed to be a look of amusement.

“So Dad … what happened?”

“It’s all settled,” Dad said simply.

Matt ventured, “What did you say to change his mind?”

Big Mike looked down at him, a twinkle in his pale blue eyes.

“I spoke the only kind of language people like him understand.”

The first one was tricky.

His target, Gavin Lockwood, lived at the end of a peninsula that jutted out into the Severn River. Planning the op, he studied the site online, using satellite maps. Big problem: only one main access road in and out, branching off into a lot of curling cul-de-sacs. If he drove in, he couldn’t park on those roads without some risk of being noticed by patrolling cops. Even if his car was overlooked, his only escape route might be blocked off once the 911 calls began.

Another option was to come in by water, using his boat. But that was tricky, too. A boat on the river would be conspicuous, particularly fleeing the scene. It also would be in a narrow channel of water that could be blocked in either direction, again cutting off escape. Very risky.

The satellite imagery revealed a third option. The peninsula where Lockwood lived was one of several that ran parallel to each other out into the river. They were separated by creeks a couple of hundred feet wide. Easy to swim from one peninsula to the other.

Just after midnight on Wednesday morning, he left the house in the CR-V and drove to the commuter bus stop on Kent Island, right across from the K-Mart. He pulled in next to his BMW High Security 7, which he had driven out of D.C. two days earlier and left there among the other commuter cars. He got out, checked both directions. No approaching headlights. He went around to the back of the CR-V, pulled out a large Army-type duffle bag, then transferred it quickly to the back seat of his BMW. Seconds later, he had swapped out vehicles and was on his way.

Twenty minutes later, he turned off the Generals Highway in Annapolis onto a road leading to one of those peninsulas. He drove out slowly through a spider web of little streets with big houses, to the very end. He pulled into the lot at the community marina, backed the car in close to a stand of trees that marched right out to the water. Nobody would think that the luxury Beemer was out of place here.

He went around to the back seat, tugged out the duffle bag, and hauled it into the trees. Then he shrugged off his long overcoat. Underneath he wore a black, two-layer dry suit—neoprene over a polyester liner—with neoprene dive boots. The gear would make the swim possible in the frigid water. He opened the duffle, pulled out the integrated hood, gloves, mask, and flippers. And a lightweight waterproof backpack.

He shoved his overcoat inside the duffle and hid it in some bushes. After zipping and sealing the hood and gloves, he crept carefully through the trees toward the water, carrying the mask, flippers, and backpack.

At the edge of the dock he paused to scan the area. Not a soul. The tethered boats rocked almost imperceptibly in the river current, making soft squeaks, and the water lapped and gurgled against the wooden pylons. Above, the overcast sky hid the moon, but glowed faintly from the lights of the nearby city.

He moved cautiously out onto the pier, careful not to make sudden movements that might attract attention. Kneeling between a couple of bigger cruisers, he prepared and slipped on the mask, checking the seal against his skin. Then donned the flippers and backpack. Gripping the dock line of one of the boats, he eased himself down into the water.

Before moving out, he submerged his face and blew some bubbles, to alleviate stress on his lungs from the shock of the cold. Then he kicked off into a slow, deliberate swim across the creek, careful not to splash.

The neighboring peninsula lay barely two hundred yards ahead. Approaching, he veered right along its shoreline, skirting around the eastern end. A crumbling, abandoned pier jutted out before him. Rounding it, he saw another—and his target.

He had read about Lockwood’s love of sailing, and the first sight of the boat almost caused him to change his mind.
Sundancer
was indeed a beauty, its graceful, stiletto-sharp lines silhouetted against water and sky.

As he came within eyeshot of the mansion on the hill above, he drew a deep breath and lowered his head beneath the surface. He powered forward underwater, mostly on the strength of his legs, just as he used to do in his old college meets. The drag from the backpack fought him, and his exposed mouth and chin stung from the cold. But he did not want to risk being seen by someone’s chance glance from a window.

His lungs were aching when he finally surfaced. He had estimated pretty well; he was within ten feet of the pier. Eyes on the darkened house looming at the top of the slope, he moved around to the far side, where the craft was tied.

It was moored bow outward. He paused there, treading water. No lights on in the house; no indication that anyone had spotted him.

Grabbing the end of the pier with his left hand and giving a hard kick with the flippers, Hunter launched his body upward from the water and seized the gunwale with his right. He chinned up and hauled himself out of the water with his forearms. Rolling smoothly onto the deck, he scrambled immediately behind the low wall of the cabin. There he lay still, catching his breath in the frosty air.