Five minutes later, from Augie’s cluttered basement, they’d gathered up Dex’s backpack which held the laptop, Bruckner’s log and papers, and the translation. It would have still held that weird metal bar if Dex hadn’t thought its extra weight would be the reason he drowned.
He shook his head. No sense going there. Forget it. As they headed for the back door, Augie grabbed his sleeve.
“What’s up, my friend?”
“C’mon, Chief, you can’t leave me here.”
Tommy looked at his leather-faced neighbor. “Huh? What’re you talkin’ about?”
“What am I gonna do if I get a visit from the bad guys?”
Dex had already thought about this, but had pushed it to the side of his concerns as they’d prepared to get on the road. But the old guy had posed a very good question.
“Jeez, Augs…” Tommy raked his fingers through his thick dark hair. He looked deeply distressed. “What’s a matter?”
Augie adjusted his Orioles cap, winked. “I wouldn’t tell ’em where to find their own ass, you know? But they might wanna hurt me — then what? I wouldn’t wanna let you guys down.”
Dex looked at the little old man with the impish grin. He looked like a weathered lawn gnome. “You have any relatives nearby? Any place you can go?”
“My niece lives around the corner. My son’s out in Harford County.”
“Your niece is too close. You got a way to get to your son’s?”
Augie pretended to think about this, then: “I guess I could, but I was thinkin’-a somethin’ easier.”
“What’s that?” said Tommy.
Augie grinned. “Take me with you.”
Dex considered it. “It might be very dangerous. Our friend next door was already kind enough to tell us he’d have killed us if necessary.”
“Mr. McCauley,” said Augie. “Look at me — I’m-a eighty four years old and I need somethin’ to keep me goin’. If they get me, at least they did when I was trying to be useful.”
“You sure about this?” said Tommy. “Things could get rough.”
Augie cocked his head. “I was a teenager when they sent me to New Guinea to kill Japs. How rough could this be?”
Dex smiled. The old guy had a point.
“Okay, get whatever you think you might need, and let’s get out of here.”
Augie nodded, opened the back door on the mini-jungle of his back yard. “I got false-a teeth. I don’t even need a toothbrush. Let’s go.”
Chapter Thirty-Four
His estimate of time and traffic proved less than accurate. The pleasant spring weather had tourists and locals out in force along many of the downtown area’s major streets. They didn’t reach Little Italy for an hour, and that, combined with Spruill’s silence concerned him.
Following the always-on homing beacon of Spruill’s Escalade, Entwhistle located it on the corner of Albemarle just off Eastern Avenue. The hulking black vehicle was vacant and had acquired a citation from the police for parking longer than the posted signs allowed. Bad sign, that. Combined with his failure to check in on schedule, the odds were increasing he’d been removed from the gameboard.
“I’m betting he’s still at the target address,” said Entwhistle.
“Sounds like a winning play.” Sinclair threaded the Lexus through the crowded streets until he reached the next restaurant that offered valet parking. “Let the college boys dump this thing.”
As the valet approached, Sinclair gave him a bill several times larger than a generous tip, then walked up Stiles Street toward the home of Thomas Chipiarelli. With Entwhistle at his side, Sinclair weaved his way along the sidewalk, automatically surveying the pedestrian traffic for any signs of suspicion or worse, potential aggression. But they were thoroughly ignored by everyone who passed, and that was either very good or very bad — depending on too many other factors to weigh and consider.
“Are you thinking the direct approach is the plan?” said Entwhistle.
“Modified. I’ll knock via the front door. Casual. Unassuming. You get in the back entrance any way you can.”
As they reached the corner of High Street, Sinclair watched his exec continue up the block toward the alley behind the block of row-homes, then he turned left and headed directly for the address of the firefighter. Passing the entrance to an upscale restaurant and a departing crowd of patrons, Sinclair reflected on how totally oblivious the average citizen remained to what was taking place all round them. From the vague, wondrous mysteries of quantum physics to the covert thoughts and actions of shadow people like himself, the range of existence beyond the scope of most people would be truly terrifying if they ever caught even a glimpse of it.
Ascending the absurdly small front steps to Chipiarelli’s residence, Sinclair knocked with his left hand while placing his right inside his jacket to the Taurus in his underarm holster. It was a small, powerful weapon, fitted with the latest noise suppression technology which rendered it almost silent in even the most quiet environments. It was his instrument of choice whenever he had the need to perform in public places.
He knocked on the door, waited, knocked again, and was not surprised to get no response. He stood before the door, looked at his watch as if a visitor who could be too early or too late, and waited patiently for Entwhistle to gain entrance and make contact.
His cell phone rang, and he answered it with no greeting because he recognized the ID. “I’m in. I’ve got Spruill.”
“Alive or dead?”
A tersely mannered chuckle, then: “Very much the former. Stand by. I’m opening the door now.”
Just as the connection ended, the sound of a thrown bolt accompanied the opening of the door into deep shadow. Entwhistle could barely be seen in the absence of light. But as soon as Sinclair stepped inside, sealing the door behind him, he toggled a wall switch.
The sudden splash of light from a small table lamp revealed his exec pointing into the kitchen at the rear of the narrow house. Walking into the space, Sinclair looked down at Spruill curled up on the ancient linoleum trying to manipulate a paring knife into a position that would sever some of the duct tape trussing him up like a turkey.
“Are you going to cut me loose,” he said through gritted teeth. “Or am I part of the show?”
Sinclair nodded to his exec and Entwhistle produced a small Spyderco Raven from his back pocket, slicing expertly through the layers of tape.
“You want to tell me how you managed this?”
“They were waiting for me. ‘Navy’ is a competent man. Nothing fancy or complicated. He was business.”
“How much business? Did you have to tell them anything?”
Spruill shook his head, reached down to start yanking the tape off his ankles after Entwhistle had freed his hands. “Nah. He’s the best kind of adversary — one with a conscience and a moral code. He’s not going be hurting anybody unless it’s absolutely necessary.”
“Any idea where they’re going?”
Spruill pulled a considerable amount of hair off his left wrist, swore like a Scotsman. “None. But the tape’s missing from the answering machine. They may have gotten a call from somebody we should know about.”
“Extremely likely,” said Entwhistle. “Why else would they get rid of it?”
“I’ve got Winter on his way to McCauley’s place. He may find something there.”
Entwhistle shook his head. “I don’t know — that guy seems to be pretty sharp.”
“Something goes snafu sooner or later.” Spruill’s tone was a subtle blend of anger and embarrassment.