Crickets chirped in the bushes beside the car. The night was humid, and every house on the street hummed with air conditioners. The back of Tozzi's shirt was wet with perspiration. The .44 in the belt clip was chafing his side. There were no other cars parked on the street, and that was making him nervous. It was quarter after twelve, and this was the kind of neighborhood where nervous ladies call the cops when they see unfamiliar cars parked on the street. They didn't need cops now. Cops get very indignant when they find FBI people in their jurisdiction, and they don't like being bullshitted, which is what they'd have to do if a cruiser came along and asked them what they were doing there. The patrolmen wouldn't simply check their IDs and go away. They'd want to go down to the station, probably call the field office for verification. No, Tozzi didn't need cops now.
“We've been staring at this damn house since eight o'clock, Gib. There's nobody else in there but him. The lights went out an hour ago. He must be asleep by now. Let's go get him.”
Gibbons nodded, his eyes stayed on the house. “Yeah, I think he's in there alone.” He said it to himself, as if he were finally convinced. This was Gibbons's legendary caution, the caution that had often driven Tozzi up a wall when they had worked together. Look before you leap, watch your step, don't be hasty. As Tozzi thought about it, it occurred to him that his partner's infuriating degree of caution might have been one of the contributing factors to his going renegade. A minor factor but still a factor.
“How do we know it's really him?” Gibbons asked.
Tozzi pounded a steady nervous rhythm on the dashboard. “What can I say, Gib? You traced him to this address.”
“Hmmm.” Gibbons was wearing his hat. The half-light of the street lamp illuminated his profile. His eyes were pinpoints focused on that house. His profile reminded Tozzi of Dick Tracy.
“Suppose it is Varga,” Gibbons suddenly said. “What do we do then? He's not going to just break down and confess to killing Lando, Blaney, and Novick simply because we found him.”
Tozzi sighed in annoyance. “I'll stick my gun in his eye and tell him point-blank that we know he killed three FBI agents. Then if he doesn't start blubbering the way he should, we tell him we have Bill Kinney and that Kinney fingered him for the murders. He'll deny it and blame it all on Kinney. Then I stay here with him and you go back to New York to do the same with Kinney. Kinney will deny it and pin it all on Varga. What do I have to do? Paint a picture for you, Gib?”
“What if it doesn't go that way?”
“Then you'll step out of the room and I'll take care of Varga my way.”
“No.” Gibbons said it evenly but with absolute authority. Tozzi decided not to debate the point now.
“Gib, we'll never find out anything if we just sit here.”
Gibbons pulled on his nose, then looked at his watch. “Fifteen more minutes,” he said. “Let him get into a deep sleep.”
Tozzi rolled his eyes and rubbed the flesh on his hip where the gun clip was irritating him.
The little Cape Cod didn't have central air-conditioning, just individual units in most of the rooms. People always want to save electricity, though, so they open windows to get whatever breeze they can, and a lot of times they forget to lock their windows before they go to bed.
That's why the dog days of summer were burglar harvest time. Varga had been under witness protection long enough to be careless, Tozzi figured, but he figured wrong. The only window he could find not secured by a vent lock was the small, high window in the downstairs bathroom. He had to stand on a wire-mesh patio chair so he could poke two holes in the bottom corners of the screen and get his fingers in to release the spring latches and lift the screen. The spindly legs of the chair kept sinking into the soft soil of the flower bed, which made hauling himself up and in quietly more of a challenge.
Once he was inside, he leaned out and whispered to Gibbons. “Come around the side. I'll let you in through the kitchen.”
“No. Just give me a hand.”
Tozzi wanted to object, but anything he'd say at this point would be taken as an insult. The guy wasn't that old, after all. He should still be able to climb a window. But how quietly was another question.
Gibbons had powerful arms and once he had all his weight on his hands on the sill, he was able to maneuver himself in without a sound. Quieter than Tozzi had been, they both noted to themselves.
Tozzi had his gun drawn, ready to proceed, when Gibbons put a hand on his arm. “Wait up a minute,” he whispered.
The next sound Tozzi heard was a stream of piss hitting the water of the toilet.
“Don't forget to flush,” Tozzi said sarcastically.
“Fuck you. I had to go.”
Tozzi briefly wondered if Gibbons's bladder was the real reason he finally agreed to break in.
“Okay,” Gibbons said as he zipped up. “In a house like this there are probably only two bedrooms on the second floor. When we get upstairs, you check the one on the near end. I'll take the other.”
Tozzi nodded and watched Gibbons pull out Excalibur. The gun's familiar blue finish in the dim light reminded him of the good old days before he went renegade. No time for regrets now, he thought.
Together they stepped out of the bathroom and rounded the corner into the living room. The walls were covered with pictures of horses, most of them framed prints of line drawings with soft pastel colorings. They were fox-and-hound-type pictures. It was the kind of decor a purchasing agent for the Justice Department might pick for a man living alone, Tozzi thought.
As he walked into the room, Tozzi's eye went directly to the lighted
numbers beaming from the wall unit opposite the couch. He froze, thinking this might be some kind of electronic alarm system, but then he realized that the blue numbers were on the face of the VCR, and the red “27” was the channel selector on the cable box.
On the shelf above the television there was a collection of toys, small plastic windup toys. A robot dinosaur, a dachshund, a bear on roller skates, a matching King Kong and Godzilla, a clown, a penguin wearing a top hat, and a crawling eye. Tozzi examined the metal glint behind the creatures and discovered a Slinky. It was hard to imagine Joanne married to a guy who played with a Slinky.
He took a second look at the crawling eye and gritted his teeth. Lando, Blaney, and Novick.
Tozzi also noticed a Willy Nelson album on top of the turntable, and a copy of
Forum
on the coffee table. Country music and dirty books. It certainly did seem like a lonesome buckaroo's bunkhouse.
He felt Gibbons's hand on his shoulder. Gibbons signaled with his head toward the stairs, which fortunately were carpeted. Gibbons started to climb and Tozzi followed, pointing the .44 up the stairwell to cover his partner.
The stairs squeaked under their weight, but the carpeting muffled the sound. As Gibbons reached the top, Tozzi suddenly wondered whether Varga had any pets. A dog sleeping by his side could be trouble. Also, with friends like his, Varga would certainly be armed.
As Tozzi rounded the stairs, he saw Gibbons pointing with Excalibur at the room that he was supposed to cover. The door was open. By the light of the night-light in the hall, he could see a single bed littered with disheveled clothing. The room was cluttered with cardboard boxes, and there was a tabletop hockey game on the floor.
Across the hall, the bathroom door was open. There was a cat's scratching post between the sink and the toilet. Tozzi checked the floor. He didn't want to step on a goddamn cat.
As they approached the second bedroom, Tozzi could hear the air conditioner buzzing in a loose window frame. It made enough noise to cover any sounds they might have made, but Tozzi was still suspicious. Varga could be waiting in there for them. Tozzi thought maybe he should be leading the way instead of Gibbons.
They took their positions on either side of the door. Tozzi was glad to see that the doorknob was on Gibbons's side, which meant he'd have to reach across and open the door himself. He opened it a crack.
A weird light glowed from the side of the room behind the door. All he could see was this watery light on the noisy air conditioner.
He opened it a little more and saw a sleeping figure under a sheet. The entire bed was cast in this wavery light.
Gibbons touched his arm and gestured with a jerk of his thumb. Tozzi nodded. He took a breath, felt to make sure the safety on his gun was off, then threw the door open so hard it smashed against the wall behind and wobbled on its hinges.
The sheets flew up and the startled sleeper sat up, ready to bolt.
“Freeze,” Tozzi shouted, holding the .44 in both hands, which were leveled right in front of the man's face so he could see it.
The man was speechless, his mouth hanging open. He put his hands up, dropped them, then put them up again. He didn't know what to do. Then he suddenly noticed Gibbons and Excalibur at the side of the bed, and instinctively he backed toward the headboard in fear.
Tozzi glanced quickly at the source of the weird light. It was coming from a fish tank on the bureau.
“Get up,” Gibbons said. “And keep your hands where I can see them.”
“Hey, guys, what do you want? Just tell me, okay?”
Tozzi looked him over closely. Big hairy belly, double chin, heavy blunt-end mustache, dark wavy hair. “We want to know a few things, Richie.”
“Who?” He smiled nervously. “Hey, you got the wrong guy. My name is Davis.”
“Yeah, Mark Davis,” Gibbons said. “Also known as Richie Varga.”
“No, you must have the wrong guy. Really. I don't know who you're talking about.”
Tozzi thrust the muzzle of his gun in the man's cheek. “You want to see how fast I can undo your plastic surgery, Richie? Let's play it straight, okay?”
“Jesus fucking Christ,” he cried, gasping for breath. “Jesus, Jesus.” He kept repeating “Jesus” as if it was the only word he could remember.
Tozzi shoved him back onto the bed. He fell on his back like a board, and Tozzi jammed the .44 into his neck. “I'm gonna ask you this once, Richie. That's all.” Tozzi could feel the pulse of his jugular through his gun. “We want to hear the story you didn't tell in court. Are you with me? We want to hear the one about the three guys whoâ”
“Wait a minute,” Gibbons interrupted. “This isn't Varga.”
Tozzi glared at his partner. “What do you mean this isn't Varga?”
“I've seen a lot of pictures of Varga. I don't think this is him. Not even with plastic surgery.”
Gibbons was stalling, being goddamn cautious again. Damn it all. But then Tozzi thought of something. “Get up, fatso,” he ordered the man on the bed.
The man didn't move. He was too scared.
“I said get up!” Tozzi shouted.
When he still didn't move, Tozzi grabbed the waistband of his boxer shorts and pulled. He yanked and cursed until they started to rip. He tore the fabric off him and exposed the man's genitals.
Tozzi stared at him in the watery light, then turned on the bedside lamp to get a better look. “Fuck! Varga only has one ball. This bastard is hung like a goddamn horse.”
Gibbons looked at Tozzi with surprise and indignation. “How'd you know about that?”
“Somebody told me.”
“Yeah, and I bet I know who.”
“Fuck,” Tozzi repeated. “This guy's a fucking ringer. Varga hired a fucking ringer to take his place in the Witness Security Program. Unbelievable!”
Tozzi suddenly smelled piss. He looked down and saw that “Mr. Davis” had peed all over himself.
“Did Richie Varga hire you to be his fucking ringer?” he shouted at the man.
“Mr. Davis” couldn't form the words, but he nodded wildly in a nervous stutter motion.
“Goddamn him!” Tozzi's body was shaking with rage. He wanted to shoot, but instead he picked up the phone on the night table, ripped it out of the wall, and threw it at the fish tank. It hit the wall just above the tank, knocked the lid off, and splashed down into the water. It sank to the bottom as small iridescent-blue fish darted frantically around the turbulent water.
“Don't you dare move out of that bed until the sun comes up,” Tozzi yelled at the prone man. “You understand me?”
The man kept nodding and mouthing unformed words. Tozzi was pretty sure the scared little shit would stay put for a while. But just in case, he was going to yank the cord on the downstairs phone on
his way out. “Come on, let's go,” he said to Gibbons, backing toward the door.
“Somebody told you, huh?” Gibbons muttered to Tozzi on the stairs. “That's some pillow talk you have.”
Tozzi ignored the crack and rushed down the stairs with Gibbons snickering right behind him.
The Kinney dining room sounded like a mess hall and looked like a scene from a sitcom. The kidsâthe oldest a fourteen-year-old girl, the youngest a two-and-a-half-year-old boyâsat along the flanks of a long oak table, three on one side, three on the other.