Full Ratchet: A Silas Cade Thriller Hardcover Page 15

  “Fifty-nine hundred,” he said.

  “Now we’re talking,” said Dave.

  —

  “What was it really worth?”

  “About four grand, maybe four and a half.”

  “What? I thought you bargained him down to an honest price. I paid five!”

  “Hey, he worked hard on it. Like he said.” Dave laughed. “What’s a few hundred bucks?”

  Not that much, true, but I didn’t have much left on the debit cards. Until this job wrapped up and I was back on familiar ground, cash flow was a concern.

  “Anyway, just as well Pootie went away happy,” Dave said. “Don’t want him complaining about you to anyone, right? This way, it’s all good.”

  “Yeah, yeah.” I admit, he was right.

  We were parked a half mile down the road, in front of a shuttered restaurant. I finished tightening the screws holding my new car’s license plate—the one I’d taken from the attacker’s Nissan two days ago.

  They wouldn’t return the number to circulation, not after the debacle at Barktree. Whoever supplied Harmony’s team had to know that canceling the plate would only attract even more attention from Chief Gator. The best thing would be to let it lie, and trust that the ghost status would deflect further inquiry.

  Now I had my own ghost vehicle.

  I closed the Leatherman’s screwdriver blade and stood up.

  “Let’s go detect some clues,” I said.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  As we drove up the winding forest road out of Clabbton, approaching Dave’s garage, a state police forensics van came down the other way. It was big enough we had to squeeze past each other, guardrails on either side, along a wooded ridge.

  The driver nodded, but we were in the utterly forgettable Aveo, and didn’t attract further attention. We’d left the Charger at Brendt’s house, for lack of any better place.

  The carryall full of weapons I kept with me.

  “Wonder what they found?” Dave said. He had one elbow out the open window as he sat tipped back in his seat.

  “A ton of brass.” The Aveo’s transmission had trouble with the grade, kicking back and forth between second and third gears. “And some wrecked cars. You should call one of those scrap metal companies, see what you can get.”

  “Police will take all the good stuff with them.”

  “If there’s anyone there, even if they’re not police, we’ll drive on by and come back some other time.”

  But Barktree Welding was empty. Yellow tape sagged, and piles of debris here and there showed where the technicians had been sorting through the wreckage. It was midafternoon, shadows from the hills already falling across the field. Bullet holes pocked the brick walls everywhere.

  “I’m supposed to see Gator sometime,” Dave said.

  “Not now.”

  “Think it’s okay if I get some clothes out?”

  There wasn’t any mystery about what happened in the assault, so I couldn’t see any purpose in maintaining crime-scene inviolability. “Sure, why not?”

  Dave wandered in, stepping carefully. I saw him become immediately distracted inside the garage bay, stooping to pick up some tool or other, checking behind the bench.

  Most of his shop equipment might be salvageable, and not just by him. “Close and lock the doors when you leave!” I called over. He waved an acknowledgment.

  I walked through the field toward the tractor. State CSI would have done a good job scouring the building and the lot—no need to follow them around. But out in the weeds they might have missed something, especially because they probably didn’t know for sure a third gunman had been out here.

  The uncut grass near the tractor was trampled slightly, either by the shooter or someone later, but it had mostly bounced back since yesterday. I crouched behind the engine compartment and looked over. The office window was clearly visible. I pretended I was holding a rifle, pointed at the building.

  The Russians had all been using similar weapons—short-barreled, extended stocks. The magazines might have been a little longer than typical. I guessed where the ejector port might have been, traced a trajectory with my eyes and looked in the grass.

  A gleam of brass, exactly where it should have been. I bent to pick it up.

  No head stamp, but the cartridge style was distinctive. There was another nearby, and a third farther away. I pocketed one and left the others in place.

  Back at the car Dave had a bundle of clothes, a wrench set and a six-pack.

  “My torque wrenches,” he said. “That’s a thousand bucks’ worth of tools there.”

  “And the beer?”

  “Aw, you know.” He stood, looking at the damaged garage, then turned away. “What’d you find?”

  “They were firing 9x39. It’s a Russian subsonic round, high-powered.”

  “That don’t mean much to me.”

  “Their special forces use them. I think the rifles were SR-3 Vikhrs.”

  “Is that good or bad?”

  “I suppose it depends.” I opened the Aveo’s door. “Does anyone want spetsnaz commandos chasing after them?”

  As we drove back to Clabbton, Dave untwisted the cap from one of his salvaged beers. The forest smell blowing through the car was stronger now.

  “Seeing all that,” he said. “Man.”

  “You can put it back together.” A lot of damage, but the walls were thick, and nothing seemed to have collapsed.

  “I thought maybe, but now I don’t know.” He seemed discouraged.

  “Find something else, then?”

  I slowed at the blinking light and coasted through. No traffic.

  “It’s the money,” Dave said. He put his hands on his knees, straightening his posture. “You’re right. There’s nothing wrong there that couldn’t be fixed up again. The problem—what I’m—well, I kinda owe some guys.”

  “Van?”

  He didn’t seem surprised. “Him and some others. Van’s been around Clabbton for—like—ever. Old as my dad—my foster dad, I mean. Not ours.”

  “So . . . ?”

  “When I got out.” He hesitated. “You know how hard it is to get started again? Once you’ve got a record?”

  “Sure.” It’s difficult enough as an honorably discharged veteran—everyone says we’re heroes but just try to get a job. A résumé with prison time? Forget it.

  “No one would hire me. Not even my buddies. Always had a good excuse, but, you know. I did all kinds of shit work there for a while—day labor on a jackhammer, that was probably the worst, but it weren’t none of it fun.”

  The picture was clear enough. “Van helped you out.”

  “Yup. I saw the garage was for sale, even talked to the old guy selling it. But he wanted the cash to retire out to Alabama on, and no one would talk to me about a loan.”

  Maybe local underwriting hadn’t been as lax as I’d thought. “How much?”

  “Hundred and twenty thousand. I had six grand for a down payment—cash buried in an aluminum suitcase in Brendt’s backyard, as a matter of fact. He didn’t know about it. Nobody knew, not even my asshole lawyer.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Good thing, or he would have ended up with that too.”

  “You needed financing for ninety-five percent.”

  Dave nodded. “Van offered to put it up. No questions, no bullshit.”

  “And now you owe him.”

  “I keep paying off, every month, never missed a single payment. But somehow the nut don’t ever get any smaller.”

  I took one hand off the wheel to scratch my other arm. Some welts there, red and itchy. The cabin blankets might have been hiding more than just dirt.

  “What did you think I’d be able to do?” I said. “I don’t have a hundred grand either.”

  “You’re a numbers guy, right? Adding machine and a CPA? Only with guns.” He smiled. “Perfect background to talk to Van with.”

  “Talk to him?”

  “Uh, yeah. Could you?
” He grinned. “I mean, I know you can get me a better deal.”

  Like life wasn’t complicated enough. Two death-dealing mobs after me already, Dave wanted to add a third. “I think the shop could be rebuilt, but insurance adjusters tend to see things different. Van might be the same.”

  “Well, in fact, you know . . . no insurance.”

  “Van won’t be happy to hear that. Not one iota.”

  “I guess I was a bad risk after all.” Dave shrugged. “You’re right, I got nothing. All the more reason Van ought to back off.”

  “Yeah, guys like Van always see it that way.”

  “Exactly.” He stood up. “Let’s go!”

  What could I do?

  “Right,” I said. And we drove on into Clabbton.

  Dave gave some directions—over the railroad bridge and then left, along the tracks. Just a few blocks away from the town green the streets got scruffy. Signs in low storefronts housed a pawnshop, two nail salons and FOR LEASE signs. Trash lay dirty and flattened in the gutter.

  But when we arrived, it wasn’t the warehouse or pool hall or razor-wire-encircled junkyard I thought might be Van’s business office. Instead, we pulled into a blacktop lot beside a freestanding one-story with mirror windows and a drive-through. A patch of chemically controlled and neatly trimmed grass surrounded the front.

  I stared.

  “Don’t need these!” Dave said cheerfully as he picked my carryall off the floor and dropped it behind the seat. “Best not be carrying inside.”

  Indeed not. We were about to enter the home office of Clabbton Savings and Loan—Clark Vanderalt, president and chief executive officer. I got out of the truck, bemused.

  “David, come in, come in!” He shook hands and led us into his glass-fronted office behind the teller counter. Fifties, not much hair left on top, decent suit. “Thanks for stopping by.”

  “Hey, Van.”

  “And nice to meet you.”

  “Silas Cade,” I said. “Dave’s brother. I happened to be visiting.”

  Vanderalt looked like he was interested in that, but we let it drop. “Real sorry to hear about the shop,” he said to Dave.

  “Yeah, I know, right? Ain’t nothing left but rubble.”

  “What in the world happened? Gator was here yesterday, asking to see all the loan paperwork. Said they were still picking bullets out of the walls, and everything else was blown to kingdom come.”

  “No idea.” Dave put a serious, sober, completely sincere face on. “Might have been meth gangs. Don’t know who else would be carrying around those kinds of guns and bombs. All I can think is they made some huge mistake, got the wrong address or something.”

  “I’m just glad no one was hurt.”

  And there you have it. Dave’s last-resort loan shark was the president of the local bank. A pillar of the community. The wall behind his desk held a framed degree from Duquesne, a series of gold Kiwanis plaques and a display of softball team photos. Everyone wore blue and gold uniform shirts.

  Clabbton S&L probably sponsored the Boy Scouts, too, and raised thousands of dollars at Christmas for homeless families.

  No too-big-to-fail bank here. The financial apocalypse wasn’t caused by local lenders like Vanderalt. No doubt he’d just kept doing business the way he always had: simple loans to people he saw on the street every day, uncomplicated deposit accounts, extremely conservative cash handling and investments. He sure wasn’t getting rich, not by megabank standards, but he had standing in the community and people who respected him. He’d probably known Dave from childhood.

  They didn’t have to watch It’s a Wonderful Life, they were living it.

  “So what are you going to do now?” Vanderalt asked.

  “Yeah.” Dave kind of grimaced and looked down and nodded. “See, I know I should of—the thing is, well, I missed some payments on the insurance.”

  “Hmm.”

  “For maybe . . . let’s see . . . I think, a while?”

  Vanderalt turned stern but sympathetic. “When did the policy lapse?”

  “Maybe two years ago?”

  “I see.”

  We all looked at one another for a while, then the walls. Two customers were outside the glass, talking with the tellers, smiling. Vanderalt’s computer hummed quietly.

  “Your principal balance is one hundred ten thousand,” he said. “I looked it up when Gator was here.”

  Dave nodded. “But you know I sure don’t have that.”

  “Yes.” He looked at me, one eyebrow raised. “Silas?”

  I shook my head. “Sorry. I’d help out if I could.”

  “Well.”

  “You can foreclose,” I said. “The building’s maybe a loss, maybe not, but the land has to be worth something.”

  “Twenty thousand, maybe.” Vanderalt’s affect shifted again, subtly, to steel and business. “It’s assessed separate from the construction. Of course demolition and site remediation will cut into that.”

  “Fifteen percent, then, with luck. Worse than a Greek government bond.”

  “Indeed.”

  “If it was a drug gang . . .” I glanced his way. “Dave certainly has grounds for a civil suit. Damages could cover the loss.”

  “Possibly, after years of litigation.” He shook his head. “Years and years and years. And more years.”

  Sounded like the voice of experience. “Could be.”

  Dave perked up. “What about, like, the cops seize the gang’s cars and boats and all?”

  “Asset forfeiture?”

  “I could get a piece of that, right?”

  Vanderalt sighed.

  The meeting struggled to a close, no one happy, least of all the banker. But what could he do? We shook hands again, walked back past the counters and sat in the Aveo outside.

  “That didn’t go great,” Dave said.

  “Yeah.”

  “Maybe I could declare bankrupt.”

  “That would get you out from under the mortgage. Of course, not even Van would lend you anything else for a decade.”

  “Well, fuck.”

  “Yeah.”

  I started the car and drove out of the parking lot. It was four-thirty, and three cars were stopped at the next corner—Clabbton’s rush hour had begun.

  “I need some money,” Dave said.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  I dropped Dave at the police building, an unprepossessing block of 1960s public architecture. Not in front, but a hundred yards up the street—he had to do a second, formal interview with the chief, and I didn’t feel like getting drawn in.

  “I’m surprised he didn’t have you in hours ago,” I said. “Or yesterday.”

  “It’s the fracking. All these drillers everywhere, pockets full of cash every weekend. Gator spends most of his time breaking up bar fights and arresting drunks.”

  “You ever think about doing that?”

  “Drinking and bar fights?” He laughed. “On occasion.”

  “No. Working on the rigs.”

  The grin faded. “Naw. But I might have to now. The money’s good.”

  He got out of the car and walked off. Back drooped a little, like he was tired. I knew the feeling, but I was sorry to see Dave that way.

  Nothing I could do. After a moment I turned around, pointed the Aveo north and got back on the road to Pittsburgh.

  Brinker and I hadn’t been able to finish our conversation the previous night.

  —

  Clay Micro looked closed down when I arrived, a little before five P.M., and the small parking lot was not close to full. I drove around, scouting routes and exits, reminding myself of the layout. Yes, I’d been here twice already, but refreshers never hurt. The lot had only two entrances, both onto the street along the canal. The iron trestle spanning the waterway was illuminated in stark outline by the late-day sun behind it, two hundred yards down.

  I couldn’t wait in the lot itself—it would be too easy to get boxed, not to mention seen. The best surveillance
location was clear—a driveway opposite the bridge, leading to a locked-down loading bay in the grocery wholesaler. It dead-ended against the building’s dock, and a low wall concealed the Aveo from the Clay Micro lot.

  I backed in, killed the engine.

  I’d kept the binoculars from the forest cabin, and they brought the cars in the lot into sharp focus. I wasn’t sure what Brinker was driving now, but the CFO’s Cayenne was visible, still in the row of executive spots near the front door. I wondered if he’d ever driven it again.

  Nothing but country and ranting on the radio—kind of like you get on AM, back home, but this was FM. Not so many stations. Maybe with all the industrial iron around, it was a broadcast dead zone.

  Maybe it was because civilization’s edge was three hundred miles east. I gave up and sat in silence—and ran out of patience after five minutes. I hate surveillance.

  Time to move things along.

  “Good afternoon, Clay Micro Technology. How may I help you?”

  It sounded like Sharon. At least someone was working a full day. I shifted the phone away from my mouth and put some phlegm in my voice. “This is Detective Trotsky from the zone two police, miss. I’m trying to reach Gerald Brinker. Is he there, please?”

  “Um, police? Mr. Brinker is, he’s not available right now.”

  “Is he in your office, miss?”

  “No, he’s not here. He left for a meeting, um, at three-thirty.”

  And maybe not coming back. In the offices I usually visit—corporate and Wall Street—people are at their desks until long after dinner. I guess not everyone works like that. “It’s important we talk to him as soon as possible.”

  “Yes, um, I’ll tell him as soon as I see him. Just like the other detective asked me to.”

  “Other detective?” I realized Brinker might have called the police after all, after the attack at his barn. It might come in handy if I could find out who the investigating officer was. “Was that Harrison, miss? He and I have been working separate today, and I apologize if we crossed wires on you.”

  “Um, no, it was a lady officer, she said her name was Short, maybe?”