Killing The Rat (An Organized Crime Thriller) (5 page)

Dexter hopped off the Jet Ski. “I got too comfortable, that’s what happened.”

Liam slid off the Jet Ski, a sly grin on his face. “I waited and then made my move. Sometimes you just have to go for it.”

“The only thing I could go for right now is a drink,” Dexter said.

Liam looked around the room. The arcade was huge. He’d heard someone say that there were over five hundred different kinds of games from basketball hoops to computer blackjack to flight simulators. Supposedly companies had parties here. Right now, Liam could see men and women in business clothes shooting water guns into clown mouths. There were a bunch of men in suits sitting behind the Indy 500 race cars. They were whooping and shouting at each other. Liam had never seen grown-ups having so much fun.

Liam watched it all in awe. It was huge. It was the biggest video arcade he’d ever seen in his life. He couldn’t wait to tell his buddies at school about it. They’d never believe that he’d spent the better part of a day here with some wild black dude he’d never even met before. A part of him was scared, but a part of him was totally psyched.

He was digging Dexter.

“How long before my Mom is coming to pick me up?” Liam said.

“Should be any minute now,” Dexter said.

Liam pondered that. Then he raised an eyebrow and looked at Dexter. “Wanna get your butt kicked again?”

8.

Loreli saw Liam by the Jet Skis and walked directly toward him, her heart beating fast and strong. The sights and sounds of the games— the blinking lights, the flashing colors, the startled yelps and cheers of the contestants. None of it registered.

Her world was still reeling. Literally. The floor seemed out of whack, much like the roads had been on the 90 m.p.h. drive over. She had vague, blurred visions of cars pulling over to let her through. Her headlights flashing on and off, the palm of her hand never far from the horn.

Now, her vision cleared and narrowed. Like a lens going from wide angle to zoom, she zeroed in on her son. On Liam. Who, incongruously, sat on top of a Jet Ski.

He seemed to feel her eyes and looked up. She saw the flash of recognition and then he was off the Jet Ski and running to her. He was yelling “Mommy! Mommy!” Even then, through the haze of her near hysteria, she sensed something wasn’t right. She’d imagined her boy crying and cowering in the arms of a madman.

Liam looked like he was having fun.

Loreli watched him tear across the game room floor and then he was in front of her, leaping into her arms.

She hugged him as hard as she could, kissed his cheek and breathed deeply. She squeezed so hard she heard him gasp. Loreli loosened her grip and buried her nose in his hair. The smell of him always calmed her. That little boy smell. Half-pillow, half-shampoo.

Loreli loosened her arms and he slid down the length of her body. She saw the man approaching. The black man with the dreadlocks and the silk T-shirt. He was slowly making his way over to them. Loreli felt the blood surge again.

She put her hand on Liam’s shoulders and said, “Why don’t you go over and watch those guys shooting baskets.”

“But Mommy, Dexter said—”

“Who?” Loreli asked.

“Dexter,” Liam said and pointed at the man who was now just a few feet from them.

 “Liam. Go.” The words came out through nearly clenched teeth.

Liam said, “Aw, Mom, I just kicked his—I just won that game. I’m spanking him—”

“Liam,” Loreli said, and the boy recognized the ice in her voice. He went over to where two accountants were having a spirited free throw competition and pretended to be interested. He looked back at Loreli but she stared him down until he turned back to the game.

Loreli turned to the man Liam had called ‘Dexter.’ He put on a big smile and extended his hand.

“I do apologize—” he said.

“If you ever touch him again, I’ll kill you.” Loreli spat the words at him. She had never been so angry in her life. The fury spilled from her. At that moment, she knew in her heart she could kill another human being.

Despite this, the man laughed. “Hold on, honey.”

“I’m serious,” Loreli said, interrupting him. His smile faltered. “Come anywhere near him again and I’ll kill you myself.”

The smile now completely disappeared from Dexter’s face. “Tell you what,” he said, looking around to make sure no one was listening, that everyone was wrapped up in their little video games, trying desperately to earn enough tickets to buy a cheap little plastic watch that probably wholesaled for about five cents.

“Ted is into me for five grand, and he’s not taking it seriously. You help him out, get me my money, you’ll never see me again except in an erotic dream or two. Are we clear?” Dexter folded his arms across his chest.

Loreli was stunned. Hadn’t she made herself clear? A small stab of fear pricked her insides. The man was so confident. She noticed the muscles on his arms, saw the hint of tattoos just below the sleeves of the T-shirt.

“Listen to me,” Loreli said. She felt the heat in her face. Her tongue was dry and she was barely able to get the words out of her mouth.

“Whoa, baby, relax...”

“If you ever come near me or my son again I will kill you.”

“We’ve covered that, I believe. Tell Ted—”

“Ted is officially out of my life—has been for a long, long time. Anything you do with him is none of my business. And if you ever come near Liam again, I will rip your heart out.”

Her voice had begun to rise and several of the nearby business people turned in their seats.

Dexter glanced at them out of the corner of his eye and the heads quickly swiveled back to the video screens.

Dexter sighed and shook his head. “I need my five grand in five days, honey. You do what you gotta do. And if it doesn’t happen, I’ll do what I gotta do.”

Loreli turned on her heel toward Liam. As she walked away, she heard Dexter’s voice, low and menacing.

“Five days, bitch,” Dexter said. “Or you’ll find that boy hanging from your chandelier.”

She took Liam’s hand and hurried toward the exit. Loreli heard Liam say, “Mommy?”  

She couldn’t answer.

9.

“For her outstanding achievements, her tireless enthusiasm, and her ability to always get the job done, I am pleased to promote Amanda Rierdon to the title of Special Agent In Charge.”

She watched her boss, Douglas Vawter, Detroit Field Operative In Charge (FOC) turn to her with the most obviously superficial smile she’d ever seen. Instead of feeling proud, Amanda Rierdon felt bored and disgusted. First of all, the promotion was long overdue. She’d done twice as much work as all the other agents, and she’d maneuvered herself well over Vawter’s head. In fact, the regional director of the FBI had told her over cocktails at a conference in Washington that in less than two years, she would be Vawter’s boss.

Second, Vawter was a fool. She looked at him. Short and wide with a bad crewcut, and a deeply creased face. The man had never heard of anything remotely resembling fashion. His hair was gray, his skin dry and old-looking. His clothes were Sears specials, at least ten years old. To be receiving a promotion from this man wasn’t worth the effort it took to stand next to the flimsy podium and endure the smell of his drug store cologne.

Amanda thought about what a contrast they presented.  She imagined how her tall, slender physique combined with her pale skin and fiery red hair would look in the paper. Next to a guy who looked like he had just finished slopping the pigs. Definitely new guard versus old.

Vawter stepped up next to her and together, they posed for the photographer from the Free Press. Amanda watched the guy. He had two cameras, thick glasses and a pony tail. What’s with the pony tail, Rierdon thought? Is it a prerequisite to be a photographer? Don’t they know the creepy stereotype? This one looked like he’d have no problem telling young girls he was a talent scout for Hollywood. And why did the Free Press send a guy who was obviously the third or fourth string? Didn’t she rate a better photographer? She made a note to look into the editor’s record. You never knew when payback could come in handy.

She flashed her smile, one of her best features. She had spent considerable time perfecting it, correctly assessing that it was more than just an expression. It was a tool. She had gotten to the point where her smile could make confident men feel naked, hardened criminals confess, and send tremors of fear down other women’s spines.

The photographer snapped his pictures, then a reporter, a frumpy-looking woman with a bad skirt and a visible moustache asked a question. The sight of the reporter pissed off Amanda as well. Where was the A-team of reporters? These two looked like they should be covering the bake sale at one of the elementary schools.

“Agent Rierdon, what are your priorities going to be as SAC?” The woman’s voice was nasally with little inflection. She had read the question from a notepad, most likely supplied by her supervisor.

Amanda stepped up to the microphone and spoke clearly. Despite her boredom with the event, she could always feel herself warm to the spotlight. “FOC Vawter has charged me with many responsibilities,” she said. “For now, I’ll be wrapping up some work I’ve done with the organized crime unit before moving to my new post.”

Amanda went on to say a few more things about the state of organized crime in Detroit and then there were a few more background questions before the reporter and photographer were all set. As they packed up, Rierdon and Vawter answered several questions from the Bureau’s internal P.R. department. The interview would appear in an inter-office newsletter which no one would read. When they were done, they rode the elevator back up to their offices on the fifth floor of the Federal Building.

When the elevator doors closed, Vawter turned to her.

“Glad that’s over with,” he said.

Rierdon kept her face impassive.

“Thank God they haven’t heard about Tommy Abrocci,” Vawter said. His face was like a slab of granite. Hard and unyielding. “More importantly,” he said. “Have
you
heard anything?”

Rierdon heard the joyful sarcasm in his voice and wanted to claw him, just rake her nails right down his cheeks, give him lines to match the ones across his forehead.

“No, sir,” she said. Her voice smooth and controlled. “But I expect to have something by the end of the day.”

They walked to the end of the hallway. Vawter’s office was to the right, Amanda’s to the left. “You’d better find him before he does something you regret,” Vawter said. “It would look especially bad now after your promotion.”

“Yes, sir,” she answered.

“I don’t want to have to remind you of a certain expression that seems appropriate.”

“What would that be, sir?” she said, the sarcasm in her voice matching that of her supervisor’s.

Vawter sighed. “What the Bureau giveth, the Bureau can take away.”

He turned from her, not bothering to wait for a reply. Amanda watched him go. A mediocre bureaucrat with nothing important behind him and even less in front of him. She would be very, very happy to see him go.

Maybe she would have the opportunity to fire him.

And when she figured out a way to deny him his pension, she would remind him of that very same expression.

10.

Amanda Rierdon’s office was small, or at least it seemed small to her. The physical dimensions of the room didn’t seem to be so confining, but the architects who did the floor plan had no idea that a woman would be inhabiting the space. Even if she knocked down the wall and converted the office next to it, it still wouldn’t have been enough to give her the room she needed.

Rierdon’s desk, as well as her file cabinets, her phone and her bookshelves, were all standard issue, circa 1990 particleboard. Big, heavy and horribly outdated. The bookshelf was jammed with FBI literature on procedures, case histories and various analyses. The file cabinets were packed with neatly organized, highly detailed notes of every case Amanda Rierdon had ever worked on, from her days as a junior agent in the Detroit office to her new, hotly contested position.

The walls held no artwork or pictures of family. She had been an only child, raised all around the world. Her parents had both been very bright, very driven people. Her mother had been a professor of French literature before marrying her father, a colonel in the Army. They had died in a car accident in Paris shortly after Amanda had graduated from college.

There were seven neatly framed newspaper articles, four of which showed the photograph of Amanda Rierdon taken at her first promotion. The headline read, “A very special Special Agent.” The other stories featured headlines a lot less saccharine, but with similar details. Together, they chronicled the rise of a woman who lived for the job. A woman who focused her enormous energy on bringing the targets of her investigations to justice.

Currently, her target was Vincenzo Romano.

Her path to Romano was Tommy Abrocci.

And now, Tommy Abrocci had disappeared.

Rierdon fought down the anger inside. She had deserved the promotion. She’d worked hard. She’d had the best clearance rate of any case worker in the Detroit bureau.

But no one would cut her any slack. In fact, there were a great many people, like Vawter, who would jump for joy if she failed. Who would happily call up the very same reporter from the Free Press and “leak” a story about a mistake Rierdon had made.

It wasn’t a game, but there were stakes.  

For Amanda Rierdon, the stakes had never been higher.

11.

It was clearly a “Rierdon Red Alert.”

Amanda knew of the term, had overheard it on several occasions. She was aware that it was a direct label for her angry outbursts, for her refusal to accept the lazy, sloppy work of her subordinates.

It didn’t matter to her what they called it. All she knew was that she was pissed, and it was up to her and her lackluster team to take care of the situation.

She could feel her face burn with the fury inside her. She could feel it build and did nothing to stop it. Her long, lithe body moved with abrupt, violent motions, her hostility working its way out of every pore of her skin.