The Recruiter, page 16
“This business trip of yours,” he said “You’re just being overly cautious, right? Not like you to start mixing it up.” He gestured toward the new, clean Glock beneath my coat.
“You know me, never can be too careful.”
“I hope that’s all it is.”
I smiled. “See you around, Frank.” He waved and I turned back, my stomach suddenly very unhappy with the Marriott’s continental breakfast. In one final act of misguided hope, I pulled out my phone and opened the chat rooms where I communicated with Ghost and The Persian. After we landed in Scranton, as we taxied to the jetway, I tossed a Hail Mary, texting both of them individually, asking them to reach out. No context. No desperate plea. Nothing to indicate that I knew both I and my family had likely been added to their contracts. Just three simple words:
Can we talk?
Neither had responded. It had been foolish to even entertain the notion that they would. Still, those three unanswered words spoke volumes.
There would be no eleventh-hour reprieve. This was real now.
CHAPTER
TWENTY-TWO
Step One of our master plan was complete. We were armed, but the playing field was far from level. Yes, we knew they were coming so technically had the element of surprise, but how useful was that when the people you’re surprising were experts at not being seen? Despite the new gun pressed against the small of my back—my third in as many weeks—I wasn’t exactly brimming with confidence. Making matters worse was that Step Two involved us splitting up, and that called for a massive leap of faith on my part.
We stopped at an Enterprise in a small town just over the Jersey side of the bridge from Chester. Joey rented a Honda minivan that would be practically invisible on my old suburban street. In the parking lot, I shook both their hands and thanked them.
“We got them covered, Rick. Don’t you worry about it,” Joey said as he slid behind the wheel. I’d given him my old address for the GPS. It was a short, ten-minute ride away. I’d passed by this Enterprise branch a thousand times before, in fact. There was an ice cream parlor down the road the kids used to love. Many a summer night was spent at a table in their small outdoor patio, licking the sprinkles off a cone filled with soft-serve, watching the cars roll by on Route 45, listening to the crickets chirp in the field behind the parking lot.
“I know,” I said, but there must have been more of a tremor in my voice than I thought because he grabbed my arm before I could walk away.
“Hey,” he said, “I mean it. First time in my life since I left the military, I’m getting paid to do something positive. It feels good. Nobody’s gonna touch your family, Rick. Believe that. Just let those motherfuckers try.”
I gripped his hand and nodded but didn’t say anything. I wasn’t sure I could. It was all hitting me in a big way.
I walked Erica around to the passenger side and pulled a picture from my wallet. Normally, it stayed in my hidden apartment safe next to my emergency cash and passports, but I’d taken it along with everything else for my trip to Mexico that wasn’t to be. Folded into fours, its edges rumpled and worn white, it showed Denise and our kids sitting on the front step. She had her arms around them, Ethan at two years old on the left and Mags at seven on the right. All three were smiling the smiles of people without a care in the world.
We’re content and we’re happy, those smiles said. We have all we need right here.
It was Mother’s Day. I had just surprised Denise with a gold necklace with her birthstone—a diamond—in the middle. The kids’ stones, amethyst and pearl, hugged it. The diamond was not small, and the necklace was legit 14k gold, not the cheap spray-painted silver stuff that filled her jewelry box from past Mother’s Days, birthdays, and Christmases. It was as much a gift for me as it was for her.
Not quite one year earlier, we had stayed up late into the night wondering how we would make our next mortgage payment. With the country mired in its worst recession in eighty years and nobody hiring at all, let alone paying someone to help them do it, my income had dwindled from a trickle to a slow, agonizing drip. Barely enough to keep the lights lit and food on the table.
But I’d fixed that. The necklace was my way of proving to her that I would keep the promise I’d made the day I proposed—when we were barely out of college and full of big dreams and bigger naïveté—to always take care of her. She’d questioned how we could afford such a gift. Our account was joint and, as far as she knew, had improved over the last few weeks but not enough to justify such luxuries. She didn’t know about the other account I’d opened. It was the first of many lies.
I’d told her not to worry about it and clipped the chain closed around her neck while she held up her mass of curly brown hair with one hand. The kids were there and beaming. I’d taken them to the store and let them pick out the setting and their own individual birthstones, telling them all along how surprised Mommy would be, how she would love it so much she would cry. With them there, I knew she wouldn’t press the issue any further, even though I’m sure she still had questions about where the money came from. Denise always worried about our finances. It was why I handled the bills and banking, which was how I was able to open additional bank accounts without her knowledge.
When she asked again that night as we lay in bed, both kids sound asleep, I gave her the same answer and silenced her follow up question with a long, deep kiss. The kiss turned into more and we never spoke of the necklace again. After so many lean months, it must have felt wonderful to wear tangible proof that things were finally turning around. I wanted a reminder of that feeling too, so I printed out the picture of her and the kids on the steps with the intention of putting it in a frame.
Ten days later I walked out my front door for the last time. I’d taken the picture and left behind my wedding ring. If I had my way, I wouldn’t be walking back in. I hadn’t earned that right.
“Keep them safe, okay?” I said to Erica, handing her the picture. I felt water fill my eyes and bit the edges of my tongue to keep it from spilling out.
“Nobody touches them,” she said. My voice caught in my throat, so the best I could do in response was nod. She looked at the picture carefully, then put it back in my hand. “You keep this. I know what they look like.”
Then she got in the van, shut the door, and they drove away.
Robert Baglioni was a homicide detective in the 3rd District. I tried calling him at the precinct on the off chance he was working on a Sunday, but wasn’t surprised when I was told he wasn’t. I politely informed the operator that I did not wish to leave him a voicemail.
The next call I made was to my old house line. I’d waited about forty-five minutes to give Erica and Joey a chance to drive there and get set up for their stakeout. If Denise or one of the kids answered, I would’ve hung up. My cell number was blocked, so they wouldn’t be able to *69 me. This was assuming the house line was still in existence, or that anyone bothered to answer it anymore if it was. Ten years ago, land lines were already well on their way to extinction. The only reason we’d kept ours was so that we had a working phone in case of a power outage. Now, with most land lines running through a modem, even that one useful function had been removed.
On that cold, gray Sunday, though, I got lucky. Not only was the line still active—and still the same number as when I’d lived there—but Robert answered the phone on the third ring.
“Hello?” he said, and suddenly I was mute. I tried to respond but the words were like taffy in my mouth.
“Hello?” he said again, and I knew I had about two seconds before he hung up, thinking I was just one more person calling about extending his car’s warranty, wondering why he even bothered to answer the damned thing in the first place.
“Detective Baglioni?” I said. It didn’t come out sounding as strong and self-assured as I wanted, but just speaking was a victory at that point.
“Who is this?” The frustrated weariness of his previous tone was gone, replaced by straight up anger. “How did you get this number?”
“I got it from memory, Robert. It used to be mine.”
There was silence on the other end, but I could hear him walking from one room to the other. I wondered if they were still using the old white cordless phone we hung in the kitchen by the laundry room. Then a door clicked shut on the other end of the line and he said, “Who is this?” Only this time, the anger was mixed with genuine curiosity.
“It’s—”
I almost said Rick but caught myself. He had no idea who Rick Carter was. “—Ben. Ben Williams.”
I’d played this scene in my head several times. In none of the run-throughs was his reaction pleasant. Nor was it indifferent, but to my surprise, that’s exactly what I got.
“What do you want?” is what he said, almost like he’d been expecting my call. When my stunned silence drug on, he followed up with, “Do you want to talk with Denise? Because that’s not going to happen.”
“No,” I managed. I had been gearing up for a fight and got a casual brush off instead. I didn’t have a script ready for that.
“Who then, Mags? Sorry, champ, you missed her birthday by about a month.”
Oh I didn’t miss it, I thought. I bought her a card. One with a horse, because they were always her favorite animal. Filled it out, signed it Love, Dad and everything. Then sealed it in an envelope and threw it in the trash. Just like I’ve done every year since she turned eight. And in four months, I’ll do the same for Ethan. Champ.
What I said instead was, “Actually, Robert, I wanted to talk to you.”
“Oh really? What could you possibly have to say to me that I’d be interested in hearing?”
I took a shot. “Frank Portis and Nadia Spencer.”
I could hear the names land, like two bombs from an empty sky.
“You’ve got my attention,” he said. The bored tone was gone.
So you are involved in this somehow. God damn it, I hate it when that dark part of my mind is right.
“Not over the phone,” I said. “Colonial Diner. One hour.”
“How do you know those names?”
“Alone.”
“Tell me how—”
I hung up.
And immediately called Erica.
“I gave him an hour,” I said. “Let me know when he leaves and if he’s with anyone.”
“Want us to follow him?” she asked.
“No, stay with Denise and the kids.” I doubted either Ghost or The Persian was in the country yet, but I couldn’t be sure. If either was, I’d rather have my family protected than me and Robert.
“How’s Joey been treating you?” I asked. “He can be a lot to take.”
“I’ve dealt with worse.”
“I bet you have,” I said, thinking of her former Nazi-loving CO. “Where is Joey, by the way? It’s awfully quiet.”
“He stepped out of the car to talk to his girlfriend.”
Sports Bra? Please tell me he didn’t give some random one-night stand his phone number.
“Nice to know he’s focused on the task at hand,” I said.
“I told him it was fine. I could keep my eyes on them for a minute without his help.”
I swallowed and heard a click in my throat. “Did you see her?”
“Your ex-wife? Yes, briefly.”
“How did she look?” I asked, because I hate myself and enjoy being in pain, apparently.
I could feel Erica cycling through possible answers on the other end of the line. “She looked safe,” she said at last, taking the cop-out route. I was grateful for it.
CHAPTER
TWENTY-THREE
The Colonial Diner is quintessential New Jersey. In a state known for its all-night diners, this one hits every mark.
Stone façade with dark glass windows? Check.
Parking lot that’s way too small for its total occupancy? Check.
Bar in the back serving watered down cocktails and light beer? Check.
Servers that all look like they either just extinguished or are about to light up a cigarette? Check.
Booths with fake leather cushions that are cracking and bite into your legs in the summer when you’re wearing shorts? Check.
AMAZING food and coffee that could power a nuclear submarine? Of course.
Denise and I used to take the kids there once a week for dinner, although for me it was “dinner” in name only. A true Jersey diner aficionado knows you only ever order breakfast food when you’re in such an establishment. I liked to mix it up—waffles one day, steak and eggs another—but my go-to was the scrapple omelet.
Scrapple is a brick of mushed up meat mixed with cornmeal. Originally concocted by German settlers outside Philadelphia in the eighteenth century but adapted by the Pennsylvania Dutch into the artery-clogging perfection it is today, the meat comes from the parts of a pig even the pig didn’t want anymore. The kind of ingredients you don’t list to someone who’s never tried it when you actually want them to take a bite. It’s seared to a crispy golden brown on the outside, but remains warm and gooey in the middle. I could eat it by the pound, assuming I didn’t want to live to see fifty. Denise and the kids thought it was trash on a plate.
The Colonial mixed generous hunks of the stuff into a three-egg omelet with green peppers and onions. It might be the most perfect breakfast dish ever conceived. I hadn’t had one in over a decade, and it called to me from the menu. It took more willpower than I anticipated to tell the waitress all I wanted was black coffee when she came to take my order. I was not looking forward to the conversation I was about to have, and if I was going to enjoy one of my favorite meals for the first time in a long time, I didn’t want to worry about having to fight to keep it down right after I ate it.
I was on my second cup when Erica called from outside my house and told me Robert had left.
“Anyone with him?” I asked.
“Not right now, anyway. Sure you don’t want us to follow?”
“No, thanks. I’ll be fine.”
I had a booth by the wall of windows overlooking the sidewalk leading from the always-full parking lot to the front door. I’d never seen Robert Baglioni before in my life—Denise had never posted a single picture, and I’d kept the promise I made to myself not to use my connections to dig up info on him—but when he walked past me on his way inside, I knew it was him right away. I assumed he knew what I looked like from old photos, the asshole husband who abandoned his wife and kids. He scanned the room from the small waiting area by the hostess podium before he found me.
He was shorter than me, but a lot of guys are. His hair was jet black and thick on his head. Longer than mine, but still professional. It hung just past the tops of his ears and almost to his shoulders in the back. He was clean shaven, but the first sprouts of five o’clock shadow were starting to show. He wore a black leather jacket over a plain gray thermal shirt and blue jeans. His badge hung from a beaded chain around his neck.
I was very aware of the gun holstered on his belt. Not that he would put me down in the middle of the diner like a sheriff in an old-timey western but . . . let’s just say I was aware of it. Whatever bored annoyance existed when he first answered the phone—whether real or an act he put on to show how little he thought of his fiancée’s ex-husband—was gone. He was in full cop mode now, and he wanted me to know it.
He slid into the booth seat across from me and set his arms on the table hard enough to ripple the coffee in my mug.
“Thanks for coming,” I said. “I would have ordered you something, but I didn’t know what you’d—”
“How the fuck do you know those names?”
Right to it, then.
“I know a few more names, too,” I said. “David Lofton and Lewis Reed.”
“Those mean nothing to me.”
“What about Yosef and Leah Abrams?”
“No. Tell me about Frank and Nadia.” He punctuated both of their names with a finger stab on the table. My coffee rippled some more. “How do you know them?”
“I don’t. I only know of them. They’re FBI agents working as part of a task force. The other four are agents from MI5 and Mossad. They’re part of the task force, too.” This was progressing a lot quicker than I anticipated. I expected more time spent on how I was a scumbag who ran out on my family and couldn’t be trusted. Some measure of suspicion over my true motives for being here, or how I heard those names in the first place. Robert wasn’t in the mood to dick around, though. I had to make sure the conversation didn’t get away from me.
“How do you know all this?” he asked. “What, did you get caught up in some bad shit with the Feds? They got you in witness protection? Is that why you ran out on Denise?”
There was the shot I was expecting, tacked on at the end.
“Believe me, I’m the furthest thing from a snitch.”
“Then what, an agent? Undercover?” He waved his hand. “Bull SHIT.”
“How do you know Frank and Nadia?” I asked, trying to wrestle the wheel away from him.
He sat back. A spring creaked as he leaned against the booth. Chewed on his bottom lip. Let his hands fall to his lap. Then shook his head. “Nope.” He put his hands on the edge of the table as if he was planning to stand up. “We’re not having this conversation here. If you want to talk, we’re doing it on the record, down at the station. Let’s go.”
He started to slide out of the seat but I said, “They’re dead.” And boy, if ever I felt like I was about to be the victim in an old-timey western shootout, that was it.
“What do you mean?” he said. His hands were still on the table, but it was a short trip to that gun.
“I don’t know for sure, but the odds aren’t in their favor. When was the last time you spoke with them?”
“Two days ago. We did our regular Friday debrief call. Unless you want to walk out of here in handcuffs, you better start talking.”
I had already made up my mind that I was going to tell him the truth. That was the whole reason I made this trip. But there were many truths, and he didn’t need to know all of them.
