Necessary Decisions, A Gino Cataldi Mystery Page 3

“I know a guy, but the thing is, you can’t fuck with this guy. If you tell him you’re in, you better be in all the way. Know what I mean?”

  “Give me the number.”

  “It doesn’t work that way. If you’re in, tell me.”

  “Why the runaround?”

  “Are you in or out?”

  “In,” Lonny said, and received his first instructions. He drove to another corner store and checked with the clerk inside, who told him a disposable phone was in a bag in the dumpster. Lonny got it and wiped it off, disgusted at what he was doing already, then waited in the truck. He waited for almost half an hour before it rang. “Hello?”

  “I heard you want work.”

  “Yeah, I need work.”

  “Here’s what you do. And don’t write this down. Nothing gets written down, got that?”

  “Okay.”

  “Go to the coffee shop at Louetta and Kuykendahl Road. Be there at 9:00 AM. Do not be early. Park in the lot behind the shop next to a green van. The door will be unlocked. Get in the passenger side, put on the mask that will be on the seat and slip through the curtains into the back of the van. Talk to no one. Bring this cell phone with you.”

  “Is this a joke? You must be nuts.”

  After a short delay, the man spoke again. “Deal is off. Put the phone back in the bag. And remember, we know where you live, Lonny Hackett.”

  Lonny panicked. How the hell do they know my name? And where I live? “No, wait. I’m sorry. I’ll do it.”

  “Any more arguments, and you’re finished. Clear?”

  There was something about the way the man said clear that both grated on Lonny, and frightened him. “Clear,” Lonny said. He asked for the instructions again, then got in his truck and headed home. He kept telling himself he was doing this for Lucia and the kids, but he knew differently. This was an easy, cowardly way out of a tough situation.

  God forgive me for whatever I’m about to do.

  Chapter 6

  Easy Pickings

  Lonny woke with a queasy stomach. He got dressed, sat on the edge of the bed and said a prayer. Then he stood, straightened his shirt, took a handkerchief from the drawer, and tucked it into his back pocket. Not many people carried handkerchiefs these days, but Lonny’s father had taught him that it was something gentlemen do. Lonny always made sure he had one.

  Coffee waited for him in the kitchen, compliments of Lucia. Lonny drank the coffee, and managed a piece of toast but gave his eggs to Mars. The way Lonny’s stomach felt, he didn’t think the eggs would stay down for long.

  A few minutes before nine, he got to the coffee shop. At exactly nine, he pulled alongside the green van. The door was unlocked. He hesitated before getting in, searching for a reason not to do this, but his desperation had him open the door. A wool cap with a dark nylon stocking mask lay on the seat. Lonny looked around to make sure no one was near. His hands shook as he slid the mask over his face. He moved the curtains aside and got in back. Five minutes later, the driver’s door opened and the van started. Lonny never saw the driver.

  After a drive lasting about twenty minutes, the van stopped. A tap on the ceiling signaled Lonny it was time to get out. He exited through the side doors into a small room resembling a two-car garage, but it was industrial, not a home. A door to his left was open. He walked into a large room. He noted the metal walls, concrete floor, and lack of windows. Warehouse, he thought. Fluorescent lights shone from about twelve feet above. At the far side of the room, a man sat behind a laminate desk. He wore the same kind of mask as Lonny.

  “Come in, Lonny.”

  His deep voice matched his lumberjack size. Probably weighed 240. Lonny didn’t like that the guy knew his name.

  “Have a seat,” the guy said. “I’m called Boss.”

  Lonny endured an intense interview with Boss, who explained the process to Lonny—what he didn’t know already—and more than once reminded him that mistakes were not tolerated.

  “We never take our masks off,” Boss said. “Never.”

  “I got that from this morning.”

  “That’s another thing. No one is to know where you meet. The meeting place will change every time. No personal information is to be shared. All instructions must be carried out immediately. Clear?”

  The word clear shook Lonny’s nerves. So this is the guy? “Clear,” Lonny said.

  “The person who drives the van is called Driver. No one sees Driver. No one talks to Driver. Clear?”

  “Clear,” Lonny said.

  “You will go through several days of training before your first job.”

  “I need work right away. I—”

  “I know you need money. You’ll be paid for the training.”

  Lonny nodded. “What do I do?”

  Boss stood, walked to a door at the back wall, and knocked. Another guy with a mask came in. He wasn’t as tall as Boss, and not as big, but still had Lonny by an inch or so. “This is Number Three,” Boss said. “He’ll teach you what you need to know.”

  For the next few days, Lonny went through the same routine. Meeting the van—at Starbucks, or Denny’s, McDonald’s, or a donut shop—anywhere that drew a lot of morning traffic. Afterward, he was driven to an unknown location where Number Three put him through the paces. On the fourth day, they went out, receiving instructions from Boss on the way to a job. Lonny had no idea what kind of job until they were halfway there.

  “This is a home invasion,” Boss said. “If we follow procedure, no one will get hurt, and we’ll make good money.”

  Lonny swallowed hard. Home invasion! What the hell have I gotten myself into?

  They got to the house by mid-morning, driving past it a few times to check that all was in order. Just before noon, Driver pulled to the side of the street and tapped on the ceiling to let Boss know it was clear. Boss waited while Driver got out of the van, and then Boss moved to the front seat, closed the curtain, and removed his mask. He exited the van and approached the house. He was dressed as a telephone repair man; it wouldn’t do to be seen wearing a mask in this neighborhood. He rang the bell. By the time an old woman answered, Boss had his mask on and gun drawn.

  Number Two got the call to come in. Driver pulled up to the garage. Everyone exited the van and entered the house through the back door.

  The wife was the only one home. It didn’t take much time to gather the jewels, a little cash, and a stack of negotiable bonds from a safe hidden in the bedroom closet. Lonny’s job was to watch the street from the front window. Number Three got the safe, and Number Two watched the wife. Boss checked the house for things they might have missed. He found a few pieces of art that would bring good money.

  Boss looked at his watch as he came back to the living room. “Number Three, time to go.”

  Thirty seconds later, they were in the van and headed back to the base. Boss paid everyone then sent them home. “I’ll call when the next job comes up.”

  Lonny’s cut was a little more than two thousand. Not a fortune, but enough to keep his mortgage paid and put food on the table. He hated what he’d done, but Boss said the wife’s insurance company would cover everything. That made it seem less like stealing.

  For two nights, Lonny threw up, cursing his weakness, ashamed of what he’d done. The only things that kept him going were the money and the knowledge that no one got hurt. He didn’t give a shit about insurance companies. Still, when the call came from Boss about the next job, he got sick all over again.

  ***

  Boss parked a block down the street from the Marshalls’ house, fastened a leash on the dog, and started off on his daily walk. He’d been doing this for a week, ever since he chose this house as the next target. He didn’t like home invasions, but they produced big scores with less risk than banks, which didn’t bring much more than a good convenience store. The poker games had been a good gig, but they had gotten too hot since Number Three hit that cop. Boss should have killed Three for doing that. Next time he would.


  Boss walked slowly, taking time to case the house and make note of the Marshalls’ routines. The dog path ran past a wooded section of the backyard that bordered a golf course, a perfect spot to gain access. After he finished the walk, he loaded the dog into the car and headed for home, calling Dispatcher on the way.

  “It’s me.”

  “Tell everyone it’s tomorrow night. I want them to meet me an hour early.”

  “They’ll be there.”

  Boss sat in a folding chair, going over the plans one final time. A door creaked open, and he stirred, pulling his mask down as his hand slipped to the gun in his waistband. The mask was nothing more than a dark nylon stocking, but it sufficiently disguised his face.

  “Number Two coming in.”

  Boss relaxed, focused on the door. Number Two took a seat next to him, studying the plans.

  “We’re certain of the times?”

  Boss nodded. “Double-checked and confirmed.”

  “And the neighbors aren’t home?”

  “Not on the side we approach from,” Boss said. “The others won’t be able to see us.”

  “Good,” Number Two said. “That’s why I like working with you…Boss.”

  Before long, Numbers Three, Four and Five arrived. They went through the details one last time, and then Boss looked at his watch and stood.

  “Remember your stations. And remember protocol. No one has to get hurt. No one should get hurt. Clear?”

  “Clear,” everyone answered.

  “How much time do we have?” Number Two asked.

  “From entry to exit, twenty-five minutes.” He looked around. “Any questions?”

  “How are we going to drive with a mask on?” This question from the newcomer—Number Five.

  “Driver will drop us off and pick us up. None of us will ever be unmasked in front of anyone. Any more questions?” No one answered. “Let’s go.”

  Driver parked half a block from the house, where an access road to the golf course cut through the houses. As they approached the Marshall house from the rear, Number Four went around to the front, keeping close to the bushes. He stepped onto the front porch and rang the bell.

  Boss checked his watch. “Ten more seconds,” he whispered, then continued the countdown. “Five…four…three…two…one…go!”

  They stepped quickly across the Marshalls’ backyard, moving to the sliding door and making their way inside. A young girl was at the kitchen table. Her mother was answering the door.

  Number Three moved quickly through the house and grabbed the mother. He held a knife to her throat. “Don’t make a sound.”

  Number Two had the girl. “Don’t scream,” she said.

  Boss walked quickly to the living room. Number Four had the servant under control.

  Boss turned to Number Two. “I’m going upstairs. “Five, come with me.”

  Marshall was still in the shower. Boss entered carefully, yanked the door open. A knife was in his hand. Knives scared people more than guns. The man screamed. Fright does that to people.

  “Try to keep quiet, sir. We have your family in the other room. We don’t want anyone to get hurt.”

  “What do you want?” He panicked, grabbing a towel to cover himself.

  Boss took it from him. “No need for that. We’re all family. Come with me.”

  “What do you want?”

  Boss pressed the knife into the man’s stomach, just enough to draw a little blood. By the time they got to the living room, Number Two had the son naked too.

  “I want all the jewelry and cash. And any valuables that will fit in these bags.” Number Three handed two bags to the mother and daughter. “If you try anything, the men die.”

  “Don’t hurt us,” the mother said. “Please don’t hurt us.”

  “Do as I say, and it will be fine.” Boss nodded to Two and Five, a signal to accompany them. “We don’t have much time.”

  They returned in a few minutes. Judging by the smirk shining from under Number Five’s mask, it must have been a good haul. Boss turned to the father. “Where’s the safe?”

  “There is no safe.”

  Boss nodded to Number Three, who struck the boy on the knee with a tire iron. He was a big kid, almost as big as his father, but he went down screaming. Three kicked the boy in the stomach until he gasped for breath.

  “No!” the mother screamed. She broke from Number Four, rushing toward her son. Four grabbed her. Number Five held the servant and daughter.

  Boss looked to the father. “If you want him to ever play football again, you better tell us where the safe is.”

  The mother screamed, “Tell them, Charles. It’s only money.”

  Charles Marshall lowered his head, embarrassed, but whether by his cowardice or his greed, Boss didn’t know.

  The boy grabbed Number Three’s ankles and yanked, bringing him down. Number Three scrambled to his feet. He struck the boy’s face with the tire iron repeatedly.

  “Number Three!” Two yelled.

  “That’s enough,” Boss said.

  “The safe is in the bedroom!” the father screamed. He tried going to his son, but Boss stopped him.

  “Your wife can bandage the boy while you take me to the safe.” Boss grabbed an empty bag and followed Marshall, returning in less than five minutes. He nodded to the others. They used duct tape to secure all five of them in a circle on the floor. “Let’s go,” Boss said.

  They left through the back door, moving along the path at a leisurely pace. Near the end of the trail, Driver picked them up.

  As Driver pulled out of the neighborhood, Lonny screamed at Number Three. “Why’d you do that? You hurt that boy.”

  Number Three reached for him, but stopped dead when Boss’ gun pressed against his head. “Sit back, Three.”

  Three hesitated. Boss cocked the hammer. “Your share of the money can pay for cleaning the van. Your choice.”

  Three leaned against the wall of the van, glaring at Boss.

  Boss turned his attention to Lonny. “Four, if you ever question what was done on a job again, your share will go for cleaning up. Clear?”

  Lonny gulped. “Clear.”

  Chapter 7

  New Case File

  I got the call around 10:00 PM. I was seldom asleep, but if the phone rang late at night, I worried if something was wrong with my son.

  Did he fall off the wagon? Did he overdose?

  I’d been living with this nightmare for a year, though it seemed like ten. I grabbed the phone, anxious. “Hello?”

  “Gino, it’s Chief Renkin. I hope it’s not too late.”

  Chief Renkin! What the hell?

  “Not a problem, sir. What can I do for you?”

  “We have another home invasion, but this one escalated; they beat the son pretty badly.”

  “Where?”

  “Champions Forest. You live close by, don’t you?”

  “Not far at all, Chief. You think it’s the same group?”

  “It sounds like it.”

  “I assume you’ll clear this with Captain Cooper.”

  “Already done.” Renkin hesitated, as if he was going to hang up, then, “I know this doesn’t make any difference, but the Marshalls are dear friends of mine.”

  “I understand, sir.” Doesn’t make any difference, my ass.

  I grabbed my gun and headed out. Home invasions were bad enough; these people being “dear friends” of the chief compounded the situation. During the twenty-minute drive to the crime scene, I thought about my new job—Special Crimes. Sometimes I liked it, and at other times, it was a pain in the ass. Tonight would fall into the latter category.

  A few minutes later, I turned off Champion’s Forest Drive and into a circular driveway that looked as if it led to a country club. Why did the chief bother with an address? He could have just said look for the house that’s as big as a factory. The place stretched for half a block, all brick and windows, and enough rooflines to put a cathedral to shame. I rang t
he doorbell and waited, wondering if a nap was in order before they could answer.

  While I waited, I thought about what Marshall might look like based on what I knew—his name, and that his son played football. Damn good football, according to about every paper in Texas. A man who appeared to be in his mid-forties with signs of gray in his hair greeted me. Marshall fit everything I’d imagined. He was big, my guess was linebacker in college, and from the ring on his finger that anybody in Texas would recognize, he had played for A&M.

  “You must be Detective Cataldi.”

  His accent had me guessing he was from East Texas, maybe up by Tyler. I shook his hand. “Chief Renkin told me what happened, Mr. Marshall. How’s your son?”

  “Not good. My wife is still at the hospital. I came back to meet with you.” He stepped aside. “Come in, Detective.”

  I stepped into a marble foyer that looked half as big as the first floor of my house. It boasted a double-spiral staircase that resembled something from the Gone with the Wind era of mansions.

  Marshall led me through several rooms, all large and all decorated as if Interior Design or Architectural Digest would be there in the morning for photographs. We ended up in the kitchen, a place I could have retired in. It was the first time I felt truly comfortable since entering the house, but then again, kitchens had a way of doing that to me. They sparked images of food and good wine, although the good wine part was only in my dreams. My kitchen was stocked with cheap, or should I say, inexpensive Chianti. Anything over ten bucks a bottle had to wait for a Saturday night.

  “Would you like a glass of wine?”

  I was tempted to refuse, being on the job and knowing he was a friend of the chief, but curiosity got the better of me. “I’d love some. Thanks.”

  “What do you prefer?”

  “Whatever you have is fine, sir.”

  “I’m guessing you’re Italian by the name. How about Brunello?”

  “Brunello would be wonderful.”

  I expected him to turn to his servant or butler or whoever had been trailing us and issue an order, but he didn’t have to say anything; the guy took the cue and disappeared.