He knew how Tozzi was going to want to handle this, but that was wrong. Executing Kinney would make him a public hero, for one thing, and besides, it would eliminate their only solid connection to Richie Varga.
Blackmail was another possibility, but Gibbons couldn't see someone
as cold-blooded and nerveless as Kinney buckling under to a blackmail threat. And if it came down to a question of his word against Kinney's, Gibbons had a feeling Brant Ivers would tend to believe the fair-haired boy over the difficult old goat.
No, they couldn't move on Kinney, not yet. As guilty and detestable as he was, Kinney was still only small potatoes compared to Varga. Kinney was really just a tool, the line they needed to reel Varga in.
Gibbons had all his arguments ready for Tozzi by the time he left the field office late that afternoon and headed for Jersey. Rush-hour traffic through the Lincoln Tunnel had been normally insane, but Gibbons was unusually calm. Now that he'd had time to think about it, finding the bad agent was a relief, an opportunity. Having that information was like finally having all the supplies assembled for a big job. The anticipation was sweet, full of possibilities.
Turning off the Garden State Parkway at the Bloomfield exit, Gibbons switched off the air-conditioning and rolled down the windows on the big LTD. It was an unusually cool day for August, one of those days that hints at the coming fall. He breathed deeply, catching a whiff of fresh-mown grass. Bloomfield was a nice town. Old Victorians and big shade trees. Gibbons thought about waiting in the park across the street from the apartment building if Tozzi wasn't home yet.
He cruised down Broad Street and parked around the corner from Tozzi's building. As he walked toward the apartment, he ran over his arguments against Tozzi's certain bid for blowing Kinney's brains out. It was hard to reason with Tozzi when he got something into his head. Gibbons knew from experience that you had to treat him like a little kid when he got that way. Just be forceful and lay down the law.
As if Tozzi gave a shit about the law.
A black Firebird Trans Am was parked in front of Tozzi's building, one of those top-of-the-line jobs with the Firebird logo painted on the hood in gold and white. Gibbons noticed it right away. It definitely wasn't the kind of car the senior citizens in this neighborhood favored.
In the front passenger seat, a fat guy sat eating an ice-cream cone. He licked slow and lazy, concentrating on the cone, lethargic yet very methodical. Coming closer, Gibbons thought the guy looked like an oversized baby. It was then that he saw the two big dogs sitting upright in the backseat. Ugly black things with brown markings. They watched Gibbons pass but didn't bark, which surprised him. He thought all dogs in cars barked at people passing by.
In the vestibule Gibbons rang the buzzer next to Carmella Tozzi's
name. He looked through the glass door and waited. No answer. He turned to go back outside, but just as he was about to push through the front door, a woman opened the inside door. She was in her sixties and very attractive. She walked like a model, back straight and head high. Sort of an Ava Gardner type, Gibbons thought as she descended the steps. She had a little white dog on a red leather leash, and she smiled at him as she passed. A Scotch terrier, he guessed.
Gibbons nodded to the woman, then frowned as he heard something that didn't sound right. When the inside door swung back, there was no click. It didn't lock automatically the way it was supposed to. He climbed the steps and tried the door, which opened easily. As he suspected, the latch bolt had been taped flat.
Gibbons ripped the tape off and rolled it between his thumb and forefinger as he stepped inside. Unconsciously he stashed the wad of tape in the pocket of his jacket, then reached for Excalibur. He released the safety and pointed the gun up as he mounted the stairs very cautiously. It had been a while since he'd done this kind of thing.
Why would someone leave the door open like that? There could be a hundred reasons, some criminal, some not, but one scenario immediately took shape in his mind. Tozzi buzzed in someone he knew who then taped the door so that the big baby with the dogs could let himself in later. He imagined Tozzi in bed with some woman who rolled away just as the fat guy burst in with a silenced automatic. Gibbons rounded the landing and moved a little faster.
Tozzi's place was on the next floor. Gibbons leaned over the railing and looked up the stairwell before he proceeded. It was empty. He walked quietly to the stairs and laid his hand on the banister. In the dim light of the hallway he didn't notice that the apartment door opposite the stairway wasn't closed all the way.
Before Gibbons took the first step, someone appeared behind him, threw a wire garrote around his neck, and yanked him backward. Either by luck or misguided reflexes, Excalibur got caught between Gibbon's neck and the piano wire, and the gun was pinned against his throat, the barrel pointed under his chin.
The killer yanked harder, grunting with the effort, frustrated and confused with the unsatisfactory results of trying to strangle a piece of metal.
Gibbons couldn't breathe. The gun was pressed against his windpipe, and the wire was burning into the flesh on the left side of his neck.
He was leaning back against the killer, but still on his feet. Instinctively he got a leg up and was able to push hard enough off the banister to drive the man with the garrote back into the doorjamb of the apartment he emerged from.
The attacker grunted again. The impact was enough to cause pain, but not enough to make him let go of the piano wire.
“Die, you motherfuckin' bastard,” he hissed, bearing down on Gibbons, who was on his knees now.
With his free arm, Gibbons played his only option: he hammered with his elbow until he found the man's groin and kept hammering until he triggered his own funnybone on the guy's pelvis. Gibbons felt woozy and sick to his stomach. He was afraid he'd pass out at any moment. Then the wire loosened slightly, and Gibbons found the strength to start hammering again. He was determined to keep it up until the guy doubled over or he passed out, whichever came first.
Finally the killer dropped the garrote and, stooped over, stumbled down the hall toward the stairwell.
Gibbons raised his gun, but his vision was blurred and he was shaking so badly he didn't dare fire. What if he plugged Ava Gardner coming up the stairs with her Scottie?
The killer was gone by then, just leather footsteps on the tile floor and the glass door slamming shut.
Gibbons was losing consciousness and he felt like he was going to heave up his lunch. He sat on the floor, helpless, then minutes later he realized he was still holding Excalibur. He promptly holstered his gun. What the hell would people think if they came home and saw him sitting there, wheezing and dizzy, holding a piece?
The pounding in his head started to diminish, and the nausea had passed. When he dared get to his feet, he half-walked, half-crawled up to the next landing to an open window. Fresh air helped a little. He looked down at the street. The black Firebird was gone.
When Tozzi returned to his aunt's apartment that evening, he found Gibbons sitting on the couch, watching Dan Rather on TV. His shirt was off, and there was a nasty red mark on his neck. He gave Tozzi the eyeball before he said anything. “Where the hell have you been?” he finally said.
Tozzi stared at the welt. He was more than a little surprised to see Gibbons sitting there in his torn T-shirt, an open can of beer on the
coffee table. He'd never seen him so casual, so off-guard. The sight reminded him of some of the old retirees in this building, and that made Tozzi uneasy. “What happened? What're you doing here?”
“Some gorilla grabbed me from behind down on the second floor.” Gibbons didn't have to explain any more than that. The welt and the fact that he was still alive told the rest of the story.
Tozzi looked stunned. “Who? How?”
“Varga's people, most likely,” Gibbons said matter-of-factly. “They could've followed me here the day I found this place. Or maybe they found you on their own. Who knows? Why they decided to attack today is very interesting, though. I didn't think he could put the pieces together so fast. He must somehow have access to that computer monitoring system.”
“You're talking to yourself, Gib. Who's got access to the monitoring system?”
“I found out who Pagano really is. Bill Kinney, the guy who's supposed to be helping me find you.”
Tozzi sat down on the other end of the couch, his face frozen as he digested all this. “Kinney. That's the guy from Philly, right?”
Gibbons sipped his beer and nodded.
“What do you think we should do?” Tozzi asked.
“I think we should let Kinney lead us to Varga,” Gibbons replied, expecting Tozzi to object and argue for immediate execution. For a moment he wondered whether Tozzi was nuts enough to be considering an eye-for-an-eye thing, planning to do up Kinney the way he did Lando, Blaney, and Novick. He dismissed the thought immediately. Tozzi wasn't that bad.
Tozzi leaned forward with his elbows on his knees. “What are the chances of Kinney leading us to Varga? These guys aren't stupid, you know. And Varga's the world champ in keeping his ass covered.”
“What if you turned him in?” Tozzi asked. “Go over Ivers's head. Go straight to the federal prosecutor's office.”
“With what? Hearsay evidence?”
Tozzi nodded thoughtfully. “Yeah, right . . . So what do you suggest?”
Gibbons picked up his shirt from the back of the couch and put it on. “Well, I found you and I uncovered Kinney. Maybe I can find Varga too.”
“Yeah, sure.”
“Wanna put money on it?” Gibbons flashed the crocodile smile.
“The man's a ghost. He's everywhere and he's nowhere.”
“No, Tozzi, that's God you're talking about. Varga will be a little easier to find.”
“Good luck.” Tozzi was still doubtful.
“Listen, do you have any other hideouts?”
Tozzi shrugged. “No place clean enough to stay overnight. I'll have to rent a room somewhere.”
“Okay, when you find a place, call me at this number and let me know where I can get in touch with you.” He jotted down a phone number on the back of an old copy of
Reader's Digest.
Tozzi saw the 609 area code. “Lorraine?”
Gibbons nodded as he shrugged into his jacket and stuffed his tie into the side pocket.
“What're you gonna do down there?” Tozzi asked.
Gibbons grinned slyly. “I'm going down to Princeton to play a long shot.”
“What?”
“Just collect what you'll need and get out of here fast,” he said, going to the door. “And don't come back.”
“Hey, hold up,” Tozzi said. “Do you really think you can find Varga?” There were traces of skepticism, hope, and despair in his voice.
“Won't know till I get started,” Gibbons said. He slipped out the door, but that menacing grin lingered in the air like the Cheshire Cat's.
The afternoon sunlight filtered through the tall trees and splattered light on the old bluestone walks of the campus. It was warm but not too humid, and students from the summer session sprawled on the grass, reading, studying, kissing. Princeton really was a pretty place. It always made Gibbons wary. Things that seemed too perfect naturally made him suspicious.
Lorraine was wearing jeans and a blue work shirt with red and black burros embroidered on the front. Her hair was tied back with a leather-and-wood device that Gibbons couldn't quite figure out. She looked like a protester with the United Farm Workers, one of César Chavez's people, a throwback to the old hippie days. Walking along with him, she must've looked like she was being taken in for questioning, he thought. She looked beautiful.
They walked in silence, which wasn't unusual for them, but Gibbons felt he should say something. Too much had been left unsaid with Lorraine. He felt guilty about that. He wanted some changes made, but he wasn't exactly sure what changes. Things had to be put right between them, but it seemed inappropriate to bring it up now. She was too worried about Tozzi. So was he.
They emerged from a courtyard, and the looming Gothic chapel suddenly appeared before them. Gibbons slowed his pace to take it in. “Do you really think this kid can do it?” he asked.
Lorraine looked at him as if she just noticed he was there. “Well, he didn't think it was an impossibility. At least that's the impression
I got from him. He was one of those four high-school kids from Scarsdale who broke into the Bank of Boston computers a few years ago.”
“What's this kid's name again?”
“Douglas Untermann.”
“So how did you get him to agree to help me with this?”
Lorraine looked at him and grinned. “He owes me.”
A flash of jealousy singed Gibbons's cheeks as he imagined some Ivy League Lothario, some Bill Kinney-type, making a play for his history professor. “What do you mean he owes you?”
“He took my Early Medieval European History course last fall and he got so far behind in the reading, he had to take an incomplete. He was supposed to take the exam in March, but he still hadn't done the reading, so he begged for more time. He put it off twice more, pleading for mercy each time. Doug needs social-science credits to graduate, you see. That's why he needs me.”