Kiss Her Goodbye (A Thriller) (22 page)

 Donovan flicked his call button. “What, exactly?”

 “Front window. Drapes. Maybe somebody peeking out.”

 “Maybe?”

 “I saw
something
move. Could be the family pet.”

 “You’re killing me, Al.”

 “Hey, I’m doing the best I can, here. Wait—there it is again. Definitely somebody at the window.”

 Donovan turned to Waxman. “What do you think?”

 “Your guess is as good as mine.”

 Reaching for the holster on his hip, Donovan pulled out the Glock that Cleveland had brought him. The clip was full.

 It felt good in his hand. Weighty.

 The radio crackled again. “Car coming,” Cleveland said. “Older white broad. Could be the mom.”

 “If it is, let her go in. We don’t want to tip our hand too soon.”

 “I don’t know, Jack. Sounds a little iffy to me.”

 “Trust me,” Donovan said. “If things go bad, he’s not gonna shoot his own mother.”

 “Then he’s got a lot more willpower than I do.” Cleveland clicked off.

 Waxman turned, the hint of a smirk on his face. “Not gonna shoot his own mother? How the hell you know that? You some kind of soothsayer now?”

 “Don’t start, Sidney.”

 “No, really,” Waxman said, enjoying this. “Your little trip to the other side turn you into Uri Geller?”

 “Careful,” Donovan said. “I’ve got a weapon in my hand.”

 Waxman grunted, turned his attention to the house. The car, a gray Buick Regal, pulled to the curb behind the Nova. The woman at the wheel put it in park, set the brake, opened the door, and stepped out.

 She was about sixty, tall and well built, but with a weariness in her eyes and a tautness of skin that reflected a hard life. She wore a tight-fitting gold-and-white waitress’s uniform that screamed coffee shop.

 “What do you bet she works at Millie’s Diner?” Donovan said. He had the glasses on her, watching as she approached the door, saw it swing open just before she reached it.

 Someone inside. Nearly lost in the shadows.

 Donovan lifted his radio. “Is it him?”

 “Can’t tell,” Cleveland said. “Too dark in there.”

 The woman stepped into the doorway and kissed the dark figure on the cheek as the door closed behind her.

 Donovan lowered the glasses.

 “It’s him,” he said, but he wasn’t sure. Maybe he just wanted it to be. Either way they had no choice. Time to move.

 He clicked the call button again. “Okay, this is it. No mistakes. I want this guy alive and talking. Franky, you awake?”

 Franky Garcia sat in a postal truck about three blocks down the street. “Standing by.”

 “Time to deliver the mail.”

A
S MANDATED BY
the Justice Department, every incoming agent of the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms and Explosives receives intensive training in tactical entry and suspect apprehension. Despite the thoroughness of the training, however, every good team likes to develop its own techniques, based on the strengths and weaknesses of each of its members.

 Because of his small size and nonthreatening appearance, Franky Garcia often took on the role of decoy, posing, for example, as a delivery boy during the successful apprehension of Bobby Nemo. The maneuver had been improvised when the real delivery boy had shown up, and because Garcia was often mistaken for Asian, the switch had worked out well.

 The crew called him Franky the Chameleon, telling him he’d missed his calling, that he should be strolling the red carpet at the Academy Awards instead of taking down perps. They’d even presented him with a gold-plated Oscar replica after a particularly successful bust. The caption read, “Best Performance by a Decoy.”

 What Franky didn’t dare tell them was that he was secretly taking an acting class. Two hours, every Saturday morning. The highlight of his week. He figured if cops like Eddie Eagan or Dennis Farina could make the career transition, why not him? And these little decoy jobs were excellent preparation.

 This time around, Franky was playing the part of mailman. Nothing groundbreaking, sure, but he liked to think he handled it with a subtle authority.

 A minute and a half after Donovan’s call, he nosed a regulation postal truck to the curb in front of the target’s house and hopped out, a package marked EXPRESS MAIL in hand.

 Moments before, Donovan and the others had exited their vehicles and vaulted the chain-link fence surrounding the house, the pale sky offering them no protection whatsoever from prying eyes. Cleveland and Payne headed toward the rear of the house as Donovan and Waxman crouched near the bushes out front, weapons drawn, awaiting Franky’s approach. Franky could only hope that no one inside was watching, because his butt would be the first to go down.

 Whistling softly, he threw the gate open, sauntered up the walkway to the front porch, and knocked.

 There was no immediate answer, so Franky knocked again, then found the bell and rang it. After a moment, the door opened a crack and an attractive older woman peeked out.

 “Yes?”

 “Afternoon, ma’am. Got a package here for”—he glanced at the label—“Luther D. Polanski.”

 “Who’s it from?”

 Franky played his part, glanced at the label again. “Danville Correctional Center.”

 The woman frowned. She seemed distracted, glanced over her shoulder into the house. “Just leave it on the porch.”

 “Gonna need a signature,” Franky said, flashing a smile.

 The woman sighed and pulled the door wide, stepping into the doorway. She was wearing a short terry-cloth robe, cinched at the waist, showing a hint of cleavage. Franky had to admit she looked pretty good for her age. The way she was dressed, he wondered if he had interrupted something.

 “Let’s make it quick,” she said, not bothering to hide her irritation. “I’ve had a long day.”

 “It’s best if I get the recipient’s signature,” Franky said. “Is Mr. Polanski in?”

 “No, and I don’t expect him anytime soon, so either let me sign or bring it back tomorrow.”

 Testy old broad. Now he was
sure
he’d interrupted something. Time for a little attitude adjustment.

 Keeping his voice low, he said, “I’ve got a better idea. How about if you step outside for a moment?”

 The woman’s face took on the universal what-the-fuck? expression that Franky had seen a thousand times before. “What did you just say?”

 Franky smiled and lowered the package to reveal the Glock 20 in his right hand.

 “I think you heard me.”

D
ONOVAN WAS THE
first one through the door.

 As soon as Garcia got the woman outside, Donovan radioed an urgent “Go!” then cleared the bushes and shot forward through the doorway, knowing Waxman wasn’t far behind. Cutting to the right, he moved into a crouch and scanned the room for any sign of a threat.

 Nothing. Just a dimly lit, standard-issue living room with doilies on the furniture.

 With a quick hand gesture to Waxman, he pushed forward toward a narrow hallway as Waxman split off and headed for what looked like a basement door.

 There was a crash somewhere at the back of the house. Footsteps on stairs. Cleveland and Payne, headed to the second floor.

 The sound was clear notification that the place was under siege, and if Luther had a weapon within reach, things could get nasty. With surprise no longer a factor, their only advantage was speed.

 Keeping his Glock raised, Donovan moved sideways down the hallway, his back against the wall. Halfway down on the opposite side, was a closed door with a faded Ozzy Osbourne poster taped to it. Donovan quickly approached it. Bringing his leg up, he kicked it open and immediately ducked away, anticipating a barrage of gunfire.

 Nothing came.

 A quick scan revealed what looked like a teenager’s bedroom: baseball memorabilia on the shelves, a set of barbells tucked into one corner, an unmade bed, closet hanging open with dirty clothes on the floor. It had to be Luther’s, but Luther himself was nowhere to be found.

 Pressing on, Donovan approached an open bathroom, which was small and cramped and empty.

 Then he heard a scream above him.

 Donovan shot through to the back of the house to where a narrow set of steps led upstairs. Taking them two at a time, he reached the second floor, barreled through the hallway, and found an open door, Darcy just inside, in shooting stance. Her weapon was pointed at a large, short-haired woman who sat shrieking in the middle of a queen-size bed, sheets clutched to her ample bosom.

 “Hands!” Darcy shouted, her voice cutting through the din. “Show me your goddamn hands!”

 The woman’s eyes were nearly as wide as her open mouth, but the shrieks caught in her throat as she let the sheet drop and threw her hands into the air. Tears streamed down her cheeks.

 “Luther Polanski,” Darcy demanded. “Where is he?”

 “I-I don’t know,” the woman blubbered. “I don’t live here…. I … I haven’t seen him in days.”

 Donovan moved to a nearby closet door, threw it open, found only a neat row of blouses, carefully arranged by color. An adjoining bathroom was also empty—except for the gold-and-white waitress’s uniform hanging on a hook next to the shower.

 Christ, Donovan thought, shifting his gaze to the foot of the bed where a pile of clothing lay. Pants, blouse, bra. He looked at the woman, hands still in the air, tears rolling off her chin onto her bottom-heavy breasts.

 Was this who they’d seen in the doorway? The recipient of Marilyn Polanski’s kiss?

 Donovan heard a noise and spun. Al Cleveland in the hallway. Cleveland’s eyes immediately went to the half-naked woman on the bed. “Second floor’s clear. No sign of him anywhere.”

 “Son of a bitch,” Donovan said, then jabbed the call button on the radio clipped to his belt. “Sidney. Give me some good news.”

 The radio crackled in response. “Sorry, Jack. Basement’s clear. Same with the first floor. We got bupkis.”

38

M
ARILYN POLANSKI WAS
refusing to cooperate.

 Sure, she told them, Luther had gotten into some trouble when he was younger, but he was a good boy, sucked in by the wrong crowd. He’d done his time and he was clean now—just ask his parole officer. So if they wanted any help from her, forget it. She’d said all she was going to say.

 Her girlfriend, Barbara Watkins, a beautician who had met Marilyn at the Cuts & Curls Beauty Salon just three weeks earlier, knew less about Luther than they did.

 Sniffing back tears, she told them she was humiliated and embarrassed by this whole situation and was seriously considering a lawsuit against the ATF, the Treasury Department, and the Attorney General’s Office.

 It was all background noise to Donovan, a jumble of high-pitched voices drifting in his general direction as he stepped into Luther’s bedroom for a closer look around.

 The room had been seized by a severe case of arrested development. Next to the baseball memorabilia on the brick and plywood shelves were two Monsters of Hollywood models of Dracula and the Mummy. Next to them, a camouflage-garbed G.I. Joe was twisted strategically to suggest doggy-style sex with the Barbie doll beneath it.

 A Polaroid camera sat on the dresser. Pulling open the top drawer, Donovan found socks and boxers, all neatly stacked and folded. There was a precise, anal-retentive feel to the arrangement, and judging by the unmade bed and the clothes strewn on the closet floor, Luther wasn’t the culprit. Twenty-eight years old and Mommy was still doing his laundry.

 Donovan formed an image of him in his mind: a huge, muscle-bound galoot with limited brainpower and an overbearing mother. A grown man trapped in adolescence who liked to think he was independent, but could be twisted and manipulated as easily as the G.I. Joe on his shelf.

 He was the perfect target for a guy like Gunderson.

 Donovan could see them in the prison yard, Luther bench-pressing an easy two hundred, Gunderson spotting, sucking on a Marlboro as he worked Luther like a hungry politician, recruiting him for the cause—whatever that might be. The image was so clear in Donovan’s brain that he had to wonder where it was coming from.

 Earlier, in Reed’s office, he had pictured Gunderson sprawled in Reed’s living room watching TV. But now that he thought about it, when he
really
concentrated on the moment, he wasn’t quite sure he’d seen Gunderson at all. The guy had been there, all right, but he was little more than a gesture of the hand, a crossing of legs, a reflection in a window.

 It almost felt as if these images were coming from Gunderson himself.

 Like … memories.

 “Find anything?”

 Donovan looked up from the drawer. Waxman stood in the doorway.

 “Luther has little sea horses on his boxers.”

 “Cute,” Waxman said, stepping into the room. “The miz and missus ain’t giving us squat. Cleveland and Payne volunteered to sit on the house, but I don’t think Mama’s little troublemaker’ll be coming home anytime soon.”

 “What about his file? We need that list of known associates.”

 “Danville Correctional is faxing it to the command center, same for the CPD.” Waxman frowned and nodded to the open drawer. “What’s that?”

 Donovan followed his gaze and found a corner of white plastic peeking up from beneath the edge of the drawer liner. He pulled the liner aside to reveal at least a dozen Polaroids lying facedown at the bottom of the drawer.

 Gathering them up, he thought about the photo of Jessie he’d found in the tunnels. His stomach tightened as he turned them over in his hand.

 The first one featured a girl of about twenty, naked and smiling at the camera, her legs parted in invitation. She was in this room, sprawled on Luther’s bed. A defect in the emulsion made it impossible to identify her, but the next photo left no doubt about who she was.

 This time she had a hand between her legs, playing with herself, as the other hand hooked a finger at the camera, beckoning to the photographer.

 It was Sara Gunderson.

 The third photo introduced a new player to the scene, Luther Polanski in all his glory, standing next to Sara with an erection so large it nearly dwarfed her face. She was smiling up at him, mouth slightly open.