Barry Friedman - Dead End (23 page)

Kim Marino was alongside, her eyes wide open.
“What’s wrong?”

“The crew in the van reported that the side door
was open. I put the dead bolt on. Someone unlocked it.” He ran down the
basement steps. Seated in front of the screen were the two younger boys.

He shouted. “Where’s your brother?”

The two boys looked up, frightened by Kinkaid’s
loud voice. The three-year-old began to cry. The five-year-old sat on his
haunches, his mouth open.

Kinkaid shouted again. “Where’s—?“ He had
forgotten the name of the other boy.

 
The
five-year-old shrugged without speaking and stuck his thumb in his mouth.

Kim Marino had followed Kinkaid. She grabbed the
older of the two by the shoulders. “Where’s Victor?”

He wailed. “I don’t know!”

Kinkaid said, “Mrs. Marino. You look through the
rest of the basement and check upstairs. I’ll look outside.”

He grabbed the walkie-talkie from the kitchen
table and ran out the side door. He talked into the two-way radio as he ran.
“Did you see the kid leave?”

“Negative. The door opened a crack and closed.
There’s a hedge that covers our view of the lower half of that door.”

Kinkaid glanced up and down the driveway. Victor
was not in sight. He ran to the front of the house. The boy was not there. He
ran around to the back. The backyard was separated from the house behind it,
one that faced the next street, by a picket fence. Low boxwood hedges enclosed
the sides of the backyard. He ran to both sides and looked into the yards of
the adjacent houses but did not spot the boy. As he passed by the log cabin
playhouse, he looked through one of the small windows. Seated on the floor,
reading a comic book, was Victor.

The boy looked up and smiled. “Hi Detective. Did
you come out to play with me?”

Kinkaid blew out a deep breath. “Not right now
kid. Come on back in the house.”

Ephraim Rankins thought he had gone blind. Around
him was blackness. It took him a moment to remember that he had been asleep on
the floor in the back of the van. He was parked in woods on what was little
more than a dirt path off Richville Road, five miles south of Massillon. He had
driven there last night, cautious about returning to his own apartment after he
had seen a patrol car in front. The police car was gone when he drove by again,
but instinct told him to be wary now that he was so close to his goal.

His supper was a tasteless fried fish sandwich he
had bought at the drive-in window of a fast food joint. Excited in anticipation
of what he had to do the next day, he had eaten only half of that. Now he was
hungry and thirsty.

A rooster’s crow from a farm about half a mile
away told him that dawn was about to break. He got up, stretched and relieved
himself outside the van.

He knew he would have to get on the move soon.
Even though he was in
 
remote rural
woods, he wasn’t sure who might come by when dawn broke. After the sun crept
over the horizon, he drove toward a country general store he had passed on the
road near Navarre, three miles back. He waited twenty minutes until the
storekeeper, a wizened sixty-year-old man unlocked the door and grunted a good
morning at him. The old man looked quizzically over the wire-rimmed glasses
that hung low on his nose. “You ain’t from around here, are you, sonny?”

“No.”

“Thought so when I seen your Pennsylvania plates.
Where you from?”

“Pittsburgh.”

Rankins helped himself to a quart of milk and a
package of sliced ham from the refrigerator case and brought it to the counter
along with a loaf of bread. After he had paid for it, the storekeeper waved him
off. “Drive careful.”

Four miles ahead, he entered the northbound ramp
to I 77. He drove to a highway rest area and parked between a motor home and a
truck. His breakfast consisted of a ham sandwich washed down with the milk. He
remained parked in the rest area throughout the morning and early afternoon.
Periodically, he got out of the van and strolled through the fields and woods
that surrounded the rest area. Every hour or so a State Highway Patrol car
pulled in and parked for a few minutes. He watched through the back window of
the van as the officer in each of the cars would get out and stretch or go to
the men’s room. The green van with the Pennsylvania plates caused the highway
patrolmen no more concern than any of the other summer tourists passing along I
77.

Remember
your mission. Today’s The Day
.

He was seated in the driver’s seat now, and waved
an impatient hand toward the back of the van. “I know, I know.”

Do you
have everything you’ll need?

“Not everything.”

The
sacrificial instrument
?

“The gun?”

The gun.
It’s back in the apartment, isn’t it?

“Yeah.”

You’ll
have to go back there and get it, wont you
?

“Uh-huh.”

Well, do
it. And be careful. They’re watching
.

He nodded.

They’re
watching. They’re watching…

He backed the van out of the space he had
occupied for more than eight hours and drove toward Massillon.

At ten minutes to six, Dr. Marino followed his
last patient out of an examining room. He stopped by at the staff lounge where
Maharos and Vandergrift sat. He said, “I’ll finish some dictation and be ready
to leave in fifteen minutes.”

During the day, Maharos and Vandergrift had taken
turns walking out of the office and casually surveying the surrounding area.
The building occupied by Marino and his partner, Dr. Ed Lathrop, was one of
several small professional buildings of similar size and design on the street.
On their walks, neither Maharos nor Vandergrift had seen anyone or anything
unusual. Yet, Vandergrift told Maharos she had the feeling that they were being
watched. He shrugged. “I never discount a woman’s intuition, but my signals
tell me we’re striking out.”

“You don’t think he’ll make a move?”

“I don’t know what to think at this point. We’ve
still got a long way to go to get through the day.”

He reflected that all the previous murders had
occurred after dark. In early July, that would be past nine o’clock.

At six-fifteen, they walked to their cars in the
parking lot. Vandergrift rode in the BMW with Marino. Maharos followed them to
Marino’s home.

Kim Marino passed the platter to Maharos. “Finish
the rest of this. Chicken cacciatore is no good left over.”

He held up a palm. “Thanks. It’s delicious. But I
can’t eat another mouthful. I’ve already had three helpings.”

Marino said, “Where’d your partner disappear to?”

“She’s checking the house again.”

“Again?”

“That’s why we’re here.”

Vandergrift came back into the dining room and
sat down. For the third time that evening she had checked the doors and windows
from basement to attic to make sure they were securely locked. She was still in
the same slacks and blouse she had worn since morning. Now, her blouse was not
tucked into her slacks at the belt. Under it, her service automatic in a narrow
belt holster, was discreetly hidden.

Maharos had never seen her so nervous.
“Everything locked up?”

“Tighter than Fort Knox.”

They were drinking coffee when Dr. Marino said,
“I brought home some work. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll go up in my study and
dictate some reports.”

Vandergrift said. “Would it disturb you if I go
with you? I promise I’ll keep my mouth shut.”

“Come on along.”

Maharos said, “I’ll wander around the house.” He
spoke softly into the walkie-talkie he carried. “All secure inside. How about
you.”

The voice from the surveillance van came over the
speaker, “All quiet.”

Maharos carefully examined every door and window.
Houdini would not have been able to pierce the defense they had set up. But
Maharos was worried.

*
 
 
*
  
*

Ike Show sat in the kitchen of Rankins’ apartment
facing the window that looked out to the back of the building. The apartment,
on the second floor, was higher than the houses behind it giving him a clear
view of the alley behind the building. Directly below him was a back door to
the building. Clemens had told him he had checked and found it was locked.
Anyone who entered by the back door would have to do so from the alley. From
his perch at the window he could see anyone who approached the door. There was
even a spotlight mounted over it that would be turned on after dark. In plain
view, was the row of ten garages that faced the alley. He could also see a half
block down Fern, the street that ran along the north side of the building.

It was only five-thirty. There was still a lot of
daylight left.

He sat with the chair tilted, balanced on its two
back legs. His feet were propped on the windowsill. In one hand he held the
walkie-talkie, in the other, a paperback book.

The scratchy sound of the two-way radio speaker
interrupted his reading. “Unit One. Suspicious person approaching your
building.”

“Ten-four.”

For the fifth time since he had been in the
apartment, the surveillance team had called in a “suspicious person” sighting.

A few moments later, “All clear.” Again.

These dumb shitheads were nervous as fifteen
year-old-kids in a whorehouse. “Come on, you guys. Knock it off.”

Downstairs in Warner’s apartment, Clemens said to
his partner, “That prick is getting on my nerves.”

Conrad said, “Fuck him. I’m gonna call what I
see.”

Show had insisted that only one person, himself,
was needed in Rankins’ apartment. He had sent Clemens downstairs. Told him if
two people were needed anywhere, it should be in Warner’s apartment. When
Clemens objected Show said, “You ever been staked-out?”

“This is my second.”

“Look, I been on so fuckin’ many ‘a these things
I got one eye shaped like a keyhole. If this guy shows, which I doubt, the only
way he’s gonna get upstairs is from downstairs. Don’t it make sense to have you
two guys downstairs where you can innercept?”

Clemens wasn’t entirely convinced but he wasn’t
secure enough to question the more experienced man’s judgment.

Show called on his walkie-talkie. “Hey. I’m
getting hungry. How about picking up a hamburger and a Coke for me.”

Clemens said, “Want relief?”

“Nah. I’ll stay here. Bring it up.”

Clemens clicked off. “Bastard treats us like
flunkies, ‘Bring it up.’ I oughta tell him to blow it up his ass.”

Conrad said, “I’ll go. I’m getting hungry myself.
Want something?”

Clemens shook his head. “I’ll wait till you get
back. I’ll take relief then.”

*
  
*
  
*

Carrying a paper sack with Show’s hamburger and
coke, Joe Conrad walked into the apartment house vestibule. He unlocked the
inner door with a key that Warner had given him, and walked up the flight of
stairs. At the door to Rankins’ apartment, he pressed the doorbell. He heard
the deadbolt slide and Show opened the door. The detective took the sack and
peered into it. He nodded. Conrad noticed that he didn’t offer a word of
thanks. “Did I get it right?”

Show recognized the sarcastic tone. He looked
into Conrad’s face. “Somethin’ crawl up your ass?”

“Fuck you, Show.” He turned and slammed the door
as he left. He stopped for a moment at the head of the stairs, listening for
the deadbolt to click into place, heard nothing, shrugged and continued
downstairs.

*
  
*
  
*

Rankins parked the van on Fern Street, half a
block from his apartment building. By walking close to the houses that faced
Fern, he could not see the window of his kitchen, nor could he be seen from
there—until he reached the alley that ran behind his building. When he crossed
the alley, a distance of twenty feet, he would be in full view of his kitchen
window.

As he approached the alley, his kitchen window
came into view. His heart pounded. Someone was seated inside the apartment at
the window. As he watched, he saw the person stand up, peer out the window in
his direction and disappear from view. Had he been spotted? Rankins stood
still, his sweaty hands balled into fists. Like a cornered animal, his sense
told him he would be less conspicuous motionless. He heard the front vestibule
door slam and a moment later, a man wearing a sport shirt appeared at the
corner of the apartment building. Rankins tensed, ready to run back to the van.
He watched, not moving, not blinking, not breathing, as the man in the sport
shirt kept walking along Bridges, away from where he stood. Upstairs, the
figure again appeared at the window, his back turned.

Rankins took a deep breath and sprinted across
the alley.

Upstairs in the apartment, Show was taking his
sandwich and Coke container out of the paper sack, placing them on the kitchen
table. Another boring, fucking stakeout that would end up a big zero. At least
he wasn’t going to be hungry.

Rankins was at the back door. The key was already
in his hand. The same key that opened the inner vestibule at the front door,
also unlocked the back door. In seconds, he had it open and entered.

He stood for a moment on a small stairway landing
just inside the back door, then crept silently down the stairs to the basement
of the building. In the dark he felt his way, along a row of storage lockers.
He had been in the basement enough times to know that there was a second
stairway. One that ascended to a door leading to the inner lobby. His hands
touched a railing and he knew he had found it. The door at the top of the
staircase unlocked with the same key he had used to open the back door. From
the inner lobby, he passed the door to Warner’s apartment, quietly went up the
carpeted staircase to the second floor.

 
Rankins
stood outside his apartment and put his ear to the door. He heard no sound from
inside.

He carefully put his key in the upper keyhole to
unlock the deadbolt. By turning it slowly, he hoped the noise of the sliding
deadbolt would be minimized. But the key would not turn. The deadbolt was
already open! The second latch, a simple spring lock above the doorknob opened
noiselessly to his key. He turned the knob and slowly cracked open the door.
Peering inside, he could make out the back of the man seated in the kitchen
facing the window. In one hand he held a sandwich, the other held a large soft
drink container, a straw stuck out of the top.