Legally Dead (3 page)

Venturi watched a wide-eyed, curly-haired tot nestled in her mother's arms, her profile a tiny replica of the teary-eyed young woman who held her.

His own eyes stung and blurred for a moment, then he left. He knew what he had to do.

Gino Salvi was a dangerous, admitted killer.

Venturi had been ordered to keep away from him and this small, tense community, which was already on edge and wary of strangers.

He was accustomed to conducting missions on forbidden turf, but this time he was stateside, alone, with no chain of command.

Officially, he was at the Jersey Shore. He couldn't risk a traffic stop by some sharp-eyed cop who would run his ID through the system.

He blended in as best he could and wondered why the FBI hadn't entered the case. Had the people he worked for asked them to hold off?

He used Iggy's credit card to check into a small guest cottage, one of six clustered near a trailer park a mile away from Salvi's place. The arthritic desk clerk asked what had brought him to Flemington.

He and his wife hoped to relocate to a slower paced rural community, Venturi said, and he was scouting the area on his way home from a business meeting in Burlington.

“Children?” the old man asked.

Venturi nodded. “One, she'll be three soon.”

He always knew precisely how old their daughter would be—had she been born. Madison's name was constantly at the tip of his tongue, her laughter an echo, her touch a memory just out of reach. His ghost family was always with him.

“Have to pay people to live here if they don't bring those little girls home soon,” the clerk grumbled. “Born and raised here, I've never seen the town in such an uproar.”

“Saw all the posters,” Venturi said. “A parent's worst nightmare. What do you think happened to the girls?”

“Whatever it was,” the old man said, wagging his head, “they better solve it quick, before it happens again.” His swollen, misshapen fingers trembled as he handed over the key.

Venturi took what he needed into his room from the car, set up his laptop, made coffee, and took the dog for a long walk. They passed Salvi's house. The computer screen in the dining room had gone dark. A light was on in the bedroom. They returned to the motel and waited.

He was solo. Salvi knew him, and he had to keep moving so no fearful neighbor called the cops to report a stranger or an unfamiliar car. A perfect surveillance requires three teams who switch off frequently. Venturi had three strikes against him, so he did what he had to do. At 2 a.m., he pulled on a dark color sweat suit and running shoes, left Scout in the room, and set out on foot through a wooded area bordering the road between the motel and Salvi's neighborhood.

He emerged a block from the house and jogged by. Everything quiet, the bedroom was now dark. He jogged by again, dropped to the ground, and slid beneath Salvi's Ford in search of a metal surface. He found a perfect spot next to the gas tank. Penlight clenched between his teeth, he attached a magnetized device half the size of a small cell phone. The job took less than fifteen seconds.

He was ready to go, but suddenly the entire driveway was bathed in a light so brilliant that it hurt his eyes.

A policeman on patrol? Or Salvi with a powerful flashlight? He froze.

Then he heard the engine. An SUV swept around the corner, its white high-intensity beams ablaze. The driver braked, almost to a stop, just feet away.

A tiger-striped cat dashed for cover under Salvi's Ford, detoured when he saw the space occupied, and streaked across the street.

Did the stray give him away? He didn't dare look. He expected to see a pair of patrolman's boots next. But the lights began to ease away as the vehicle rolled slowly into the driveway next door.

He heard the engine die. The slam of a car door. A high-pitched beep as the driver locked it with his remote. Then footsteps, the jangle of keys, and finally, a front door closing. He lay motionless, breathing deeply.

He waited in case the driver came back for something in the car or to check his mailbox. He wondered if the neighbor's late arrival woke Salvi, who, among his myriad of complaints, had once bitched and moaned that he hadn't slept well since his arrival in Flemington.

Salvi's place stayed dark. Eventually the lights went out next door.

Venturi slid cautiously out from beneath the car, jogged to the end of the street, then disappeared into the woods.

Scout wagged his tail furiously. “What's wrong?” Venturi asked him. “Did you think I wouldn't come back?”

He went straight to the laptop, tapped into the program, and smiled. The signal from the GPS tracking device was strong and bouncing off the satellite. He set the timer on his watch, so he could check the monitor every two hours.

The display on the screen was Salvi's address. The Ford never moved.

At 6:30 a.m. Venturi took the dog for a short walk, put the laptop in the car, and took Scout out for a fast-food breakfast.

He swung by Salvi's house on the way and was startled. Salvi was no morning person, but there he was, big as life, the man himself, wearing sneakers and a red and white sweat suit, up and out at 7 a.m. He plucked the newspaper off his lawn, tucked it under his beefy arm, and climbed into his car.

Venturi followed from a distance, the map on his computer screen showing Salvi's position and each change of direction. Was he bound for a rural jogging path or hiking slope? No. The man parked at a Denny's just off the interstate.

Salvi took a rear booth, near a window overlooking the parking lot. He was joined minutes later by a muscular dark-haired man in his late thirties. Everything about the newcomer, his ramrod posture, his haircut, the way he carried himself, screamed military. Venturi recognized the face but couldn't quite match it to a name. Salvi had to be violating the rules by associating with him. He watched from a distance through powerful lenses as the men attacked their breakfasts like wolfish animals. Venturi wished he could monitor the animated conversation between them as Salvi speared bacon strips and drowned his pancakes in butter and maple syrup. The discussion grew more intense over coffee but they stopped speaking whenever anyone passed near their table.

Salvi picked up the check, then they lingered beside his car talking. Venturi copied the New York tag number on the other man's vehicle, a black Escalade, then loosely tailed Salvi back to his house. He re-emerged shortly, swinging a gym bag. He worked out at the community center gym for nearly an hour, then drove to the Krispy Kreme for doughnuts and coffee. Afterward he bought a few groceries at Hannaford's and drove home. Salvi never did go to work. Venturi wondered what had become of the job that had been arranged for him.

Iggy called later to report that Deputy U.S. Marshal April Howard had left a message on Venturi's cell. Said she wanted to touch base and say hello.

He had Iggy reply with a text message. “Hvng a blst. c u sn.” Her caller ID would display his number. Anyone who checked would confirm that the signal bounced off the cellular tower in Cape May, New Jersey.

Salvi's morning schedule remained identical for two more days, except that the breakfast boys chose a different booth each time. Worried they might be bugged?

The breakfast club grew by a third the following morning. Short, stocky, and middle-aged, with a thick shock of wavy salt-and-pepper hair. The three pored over papers brought by Salvi and the new man. Through military-grade binoculars from the far end of the parking lot at least one appeared to be a road map. Were they planning a trip?

The trio's body language as they left the restaurant set off alarms. Puffed up, purposeful, energized, and acting in concert—they were ready to rumble.

Yet, Salvi, again, drove home alone. Would he stick to the community center routine? He did. Or did he? His demeanor was furtive as he left the house. No gym bag. Instead, he gingerly placed two heavy military-style duffel bags in the trunk, scanning the landscape as he did.

Did a sixth sense warn that he was being watched? Or was he edgy because of what he was about to do?

Venturi wanted to follow but felt a strong sense of urgency. If Salvi did go to the gym, he'd have a one-hour window. He had to hit the house in what little time he had left.

He had already checked the frequency and timing of local police patrols, which he found alarmingly predictable considering the crisis in the community.

He pulled on latex gloves and took his digital camera. What if a once-a-week housekeeper arrived and let herself in with a key? He had to risk it.

He rang the doorbell first—several times—then skirted the side of the house. The kitchen door was the easiest target, hidden from the street and shielded from neighbors by a six-foot fence. The lock was a simple deadbolt, commonly sold at hardware stores. Venturi opened a small leather case and selected a tiny wrench from a dozen delicate metal tools, some of which resembled miniature dental instruments.

He chose a lock pick, inserted it, and simultaneously manipulated both the wrench and the pick. The welcome click came on his fourth try. He slipped into the kitchen.

His actions had now escalated from an unauthorized surveillance to an illegal search. He did not hesitate. He had to know the truth.

No need to worry about a housekeeper. Salvi obviously didn't have one on the payroll. Dirty dishes filled the sink. Stale-smelling beer cans and empty pizza boxes were scattered everywhere, along with half-empty Scotch bottles. Venturi moved swiftly from room to room. He found a gun, a small-caliber automatic pistol, fully loaded, beneath a sofa pillow. The bed unmade. Dirty clothes on the floor.

Scribbled notes inside Salvi's nightstand were a puzzling series of initials and times. Phone numbers with no matching names were scribbled in the margin of a newspaper on the floor beside his bed.

A New Hampshire road map lay open on the dining room table, a short stretch of interstate highlighted in yellow.

Child porn on Salvi's laptop. The son of a bitch, Venturi muttered to himself.

Back to the kitchen for another look at a wall calendar. Today's date circled in red. No other dates had been circled since Salvi arrived in Flemington. What was so special about today? It wasn't his birthday. He knew Salvi's real date of birth as well as the new one he had been given.

Advertising magnets posted on the doors of the big side-by-side refrigerator/freezer came from a local pizzeria, a pharmacy, and an auto repair shop. Venturi opened the freezer, stared through the icy cloud that emerged, then closed his eyes.

He opened them and cursed out loud. She was still there, her pale, naked body twisted, long eyelashes frosty, shiny blond hair matted. Her eyes were blue. A small amount of blood had pooled beneath her head, which rested on the bottom shelf. Lividity had purpled the skin on her face. Her feet were wedged up toward the top.

He had been right from the start.

His need to retch was quickly overcome by something stronger, the need to kill Gino Salvi. Who deserved it more? Rage shortened his breath.

She was the missing Girl Scout. Where was the other girl? He thought he knew.

He shut the freezer gently, as though closing a coffin, took a long ragged breath, and reached for the refrigerator door.

Footsteps stopped him dead. Up the front stairs, across the porch, to the door. He had dreaded coming face to face with Salvi. Now he couldn't wait. He drew his gun and moved swiftly to the front of the house, extraordinarily light on his feet for a man his height. Poised, he waited for the metallic turn of Salvi's key in the lock.

Instead, the jarring sound of the doorbell raised the hair on the back of his neck.

He stood motionless, like a deer in the gun sights just before the rifle crack. He could hear his heart beat in the silence. The doorbell rang again, a loud, impatient chime. Expected, but still unsettling.

He'd been seen. A neighbor must be checking. Were police en route? Or were they already here? Venturi calculated his options. How many were out there?

He heard voices, two of them, but could not make out their words. Then a scrabbly sound on the other side of the door. The knob shook. Then nothing.

He moved in closer, scarcely breathing, gun in hand, and put his eye to the peephole. A middle-aged man in a suit and a younger woman in a modest print dress were leaving. Down the stairs, across the front walk. Each carried a book and some papers.

He watched them cross the street.

They had left something. He cracked Salvi's door open and it fluttered to the floor.

DEATH, IS IT REALLY THE END
? the headline asked.

The publication they left was
Awake
.

They were Jehovah's Witnesses.

He sighed and put his gun away.

Steeled for the worst, Venturi took a deep breath, wrenched open the refrigerator door, then blinked.

Well-stocked shelves: orange juice, bacon, eggs, two quarts of milk, fruits and vegetables, cold cuts, a cheese cake, coffee creamer, three six-packs of Bud, and a fifth of Grey Goose vodka.

Where was Holly, the missing third-grader? He'd already scrutinized the yard. No fresh-turned earth, no newly poured cement. No suspicious odors.

He shot photos of what was in the freezer, then descended a narrow flight of stairs to the musty basement. There he found a stained mattress along with discarded ropes and duct tape, indicating that someone had been tied up. He wondered how long she'd been alive here, while the world searched.

He was careful not to disturb a thing. The scene was a forensic gold mine, blond hairs on the duct tape, blood and body fluids on the mattress. Crime-scene investigators would have a field day if Salvi didn't clean it up first.

He took more pictures. The beauty of a camera's eye and of good science is that they never blink and do not lie.

Nothing suspicious in the attic. The dust and undisturbed cobwebs indicated that Salvi was never up there.

How simple it would be to dial 911 like any good citizen reporting a crime. But his illegal search could prove fatal to a prosecution.

He checked his watch. He still needed to know why this day was different. Salvi was not at the gym. His hand weights and gym bag sat near the front door. Left behind. What was in the heavy duffel bags that he did take?

Venturi revisited the road map on the dining room table and studied the highlighted stretch of highway about twenty miles east of Flemington. He returned to the bedroom and the scribbled papers and penciled notations in Salvi's nightstand.

PU had to represent pickups listed at WaMu, clearly Washington Mutual, at the supermarket, the Rite Aid Drugstore, and other local establishments along with the times the PUs took place. Who picks up at those stops?

Armored cars, Brinks trucks.

A handwritten notation next to the target area on the road map was “bwt 10:45 a.m. and 11:05 a.m.” It was now 10:47.

If an attack on an armored car was what made this day special, it was happening now.

He locked the back door behind him, peeled off the gloves, and stuffed them in his pocket.

Scout, waiting in the car down the street, stood up, wagging his tail hopefully. He wanted out.

“Sorry.” Venturi slid into the driver's seat. “No time.”

He checked the computer screen. Salvi's car was parked at the community center, had been for more than an hour. He probably changed cars there. Venturi couldn't call the police, but maybe he could thwart the robbery and end the nightmare now—if he wasn't too late. He snatched a custom-made brass catcher from the glove box and attached it to his gun. The device would collect his ejected casings. He wished he had lights, a siren, or a chopper; instead, he stuck to the posted speed limit until he reached the on-ramp.

“Hang on!”

The dog whimpered and hunkered down on the floorboard as though he understood.

Mere minutes from the highlighted stretch of highway, he slammed on the brakes.

DANGER—ROCKSLIDE
ROAD CLOSED

The sign, dead center in the road ahead, looked official. Black block lettering on international orange. So did the Detour sign directing all traffic to an off-ramp.

The robbers had planted it to detour potential witnesses after the armored truck passed. As he maneuvered his car around it, he heard an explosion. A plume of black smoke curled into the sky around the next curve about a mile ahead.

He floored it, then heard a second blast. The car rocketed forward. He braked to a stop just off the road before the curve.

Gun in hand, several clips in his pockets, he sprinted through the trees and undergrowth that bordered the roadway. Then he saw it. The still-smoking Brink's truck, its skin ripped and crumpled like aluminum foil. The armored car listed toward the driver's side, its windshield shattered.

What did they use? It looked like a roadside bomb. The robbers had converged. A dark blue Oldsmobile blocked the path of the armored vehicle. A moving van stood at the rear.

A robber in camouflage and a black ski mask and armed with an AK-47 assault rifle paced between the vehicles. He covered two accomplices working in tandem, unloading canvas money bags from the back of the truck. A man inside lobbed sacks of cash out to the other, who heaved them into the back of the van.

The armored-car driver was slumped, motionless, over the wheel. But as Venturi watched, the damaged passenger-side door slowly creaked open, spitting broken glass onto the pavement. The second guard stumbled coughing from the smoking truck. Dazed, face bloody, he fumbled for his gun.

The lookout advanced, brandishing the assault rifle. The guard staggered, reeled on his feet, saw what was coming, and lurched clumsily for cover behind the door of his smoking truck. He hesitated at the last moment, apparently fearing fire or an explosion. He turned, helpless, to face the gunman. The masked man showed no mercy. He lifted his weapon for the kill, as Venturi opened fire from the trees.

The robber spun and hit the ground hard. But moments later, as Venturi watched in disbelief, he slowly climbed to all fours, then got to his feet. They were wearing body armor. The lookout shouted to the others, who looked wildly around them for the source of the gunfire.

The shots and shouts brought them scrambling from the back of the truck. Both drew handguns. The one Venturi recognized as Salvi, despite his mask, stopped to snatch a long gun from inside the moving van.

He heard their curses, saw their confusion, as all three brandished their weapons, backed up, spun around, and scanned the brush along the road.

“Who's out there?”

“How many?”

“You see 'em?”

“Where'd it come from?”

Hyperaware, experiencing the crystal clarity that always came when engaging the enemy, Venturi fired rapid bursts as he scuttled swiftly through the cover of dense foliage along the road. Lucky it was spring, he thought, and not the starkly bleak and leafless winter.

His goal was to keep them confused and unaware that he was out-manned, outgunned, and alone. He regretted not coming prepared with at least a second weapon. Who knew? He never expected this.

Crouched behind a boulder, he fired a volley of six shots, scrambled to another position yards away and opened fire. He had to make them believe they were under attack by several shooters.

As their shots went wild, he broke into a dead run, then fired from a stand of trees. Again, he brought down the lookout, the gunman who had tried to execute the bleeding Brinks guard. This time he stayed down.

Salvi and the third robber panicked and retreated toward the moving van. Venturi rolled into a better position and fired repeatedly. His slugs kicked up dust, shattered the pavement in front of them, and cut them off from the van.

He moved again, sat on the ground behind a thick tree trunk, slammed in a new clip and got off six more rounds as they fled toward the Olds. One stumbled. The stocky man he'd seen with Salvi that morning screamed and tore off his ski mask, blood streaming from the side of his head. Salvi cursed and ran hard for the Olds. The wounded robber staggered after him. He was only halfway in the car when Salvi burned rubber back toward Flemington.

The injured man hung on and managed to close the car door behind him. The wound did not appear fatal, but he'd need medical attention.

Venturi trotted back to his car unaware of his half smile, more in his comfort zone than he had been in years. He hadn't even worked up a sweat. But it wasn't over. Not yet.

The dog stood on the seat, staring as Venturi drove his car up the ramp into the moving van, running over some of the scattered money-stuffed bank bags.

He used the van's dashboard controls to lift the ramp, closed the truck's doors, then went out to check the Brinks crew.

The driver, unconscious or dead, had not moved. His partner was down on all fours on the pavement, bleeding profusely from the nose.

“You'll be okay, pal,” Venturi told him. “Stay down. Don't move. Help is on the way.”

He saw how they'd blasted the armored car off the road. Rocket-propelled grenades. They left the launcher behind when they fled. Shoulder mounted, with a scope. Venturi hadn't seen one up close lately. Where the hell did they get that? he wondered.

The robber he'd shot lay on the pavement, sprawled in the dust. He crouched beside him, lifted the ski mask, and saw the man who had looked familiar at Denny's. Now he placed the face. Salvi's nephew, a veteran of the war in Afghanistan and Iraq. Despite his protective vest, a slug had struck him under the armpit—a vulnerable spot, exposed when he raised his weapon to fire—and penetrated his chest cavity.

Venturi didn't bother to check his vitals.

He climbed into the moving van, unaware of how much, or how little, time he had left. Was the Detour sign still in place? Had the guards been able to activate an alarm?

He drove steadily at the speed limit for ten minutes without hearing sirens, then took an off-ramp and turned onto a side road. A small wooden church, its parking lot empty, was the only structure in sight. He quickly loaded as many money bags as he could fit into his car, lowered the ramp, and backed it down out of the van. He left the truck behind the church, keys in the ignition.

Before driving away he exited the car to be sure he had left no tire tracks in the dry ground. As he did, Scout jumped out the open door and ran into the woods.
Damn,
Venturi thought.
He's gone.

Would the dog find his way back to the farmhouse? Would the police find him wandering and link him to the van? Would the woman who sold him step forward to describe the buyer to the police? Did that woman, wary from the start, take down his tag number?

He called. No sign of the dog. Time was running out. He had to leave before he was seen. But as he drove back toward the main road, something burst out of the woods and charged after the car.

“Come on!” He threw open the passenger-side door. “Atta boy!” The panting dog scrambled headlong into the car, claws scrabbling, his attitude indignant at nearly being left behind, again!

“Thought you ran away. Guess you just made a pit stop.”

Venturi called Flemington City Hall, using an untraceable, prepaid cell, and asked for the mayor's office. “This is an emergency,” he told a secretary who answered. “An armored car was robbed and people were shot. Dispatch an ambulance and the police. Now!” He repeated the location twice.

She asked for his name. He ignored the question.

“The man responsible is a mobster, a killer with a long rap sheet. He lives at 1410 Belmont Street, in Flemington, using the name Louis Sabatino. His real name is Salvi. S-A-L-V-I. He's armed and dangerous. Got that?”

She did and asked, “Did you dial 911?”

“No. It's up to you. Do it now!” He hung up.

He clenched a pencil between his teeth and affected a Spanish accent when he spoke to the assignment editor at the nearest TV station and again to an editor at
The Flemington Times Register
, a weekly.

He gave both the same information, then hung up without leaving a name. He wished he could call the police himself but couldn't risk leaving his voice on tape.

He drove back toward New York City.

At rush hour in the bleakest Bronx neighborhood he could find, he stopped, slit the canvas money bags with his knife, then flung them one by one off an overpass thirty feet above the surface street. Brisk breezes caught the free-flying bills that twirled and spun as they fluttered down in every direction.

Seconds later he heard shouts, brakes squealing, horns blowing. He saw pedestrians running, drivers bailing, homeless people with outstretched arms. He wanted to watch, but didn't. He kept moving.

Hell, he thought as he drove away, it's all insured, insured by the government, the same government he blamed for all that had happened.

He did it for all those who had lived routine, small-town lives until recently. Head pounding, he wished he could somehow make the government pay more.

They would, he thought. Only he and Salvi knew what police would find in his freezer and his basement. He hoped they'd hurry. He wanted the world to know.