Читать книгу Don't Ever Tell - Brandon Massey - Страница 12

On Monday morning, after spending the weekend at the hideout in central Illinois, Dexter finally returned to Chicago.

Before leaving, he thoroughly wiped down the house for fingerprints, and he vacuumed for hairs, too. It was highly unlikely that the law would trace him to the place, but taking such precautions was second nature. Once a cop, always a cop.

The story of the missing prison transport van, guards, and inmate had been circulating on the news since Saturday. The reports featured a penitentiary mug shot in which he wore his beard. Although the cops had not formally announced a manhunt, the machinery would be revving up, and within a few more days—sooner if they discovered the sunken vehicle and its gruesome cargo—the machine would be rolling at full steam across the entire region.

It didn’t concern him. When the subject of escape inevitably came up in bullshit conversations with fellow inmates—inmates jawed about what they’d do if they broke free like regular folk talked about what they’d do with lottery jackpot winnings—he’d always said that if he got away, he would go to Brazil. He had no more intentions to flee to Brazil than he did the moon, but the gossipy inmates would do the job of spreading disinformation and muddling the cops’ search.

It was a clear, crisp morning. The Chevy Caprice, though ten years old, was in good condition, outfitted with a new set of tires.

He slipped on a cheap pair of sunglasses that he found clipped to the sun visor, and started the engine.

He tuned to a radio station that played music from the seventies, when music was music—unlike the bullshit that dominated radio airwaves today. He motored down the highway to the tunes of Earth, Wind, and Fire, Sly and the Family Stone, The Ohio Players, Parliament-Funkadelic, and other classic sounds. He sang along loudly to just about every song, sometimes flubbing the lyrics but pushing on anyway.

At a gas station, he refilled the tank. He had to go inside to pay with cash. A potbellied, hayseed cop was at the food counter getting his daily fix of free coffee and donuts. He glanced at Dexter, but it was the bland, appraising look that cops tended to give everyone.

Shortly before noon, the downtown Chicago skyline came into view on the horizon. Warm tears unexpectedly pushed at his eyes.

Goddamn, it felt good to be going home.

A half-hour later, he took the exit for Ninety-fifth Street, the major east-west road on the South Side. It wasn’t a direct route to his destination, but he wanted to drive around for a little while, immerse himself again in the city that had been his home for thirty-four of his thirty-eight years.

In spite of the cold weather—it was in the mid-thirties and the infamous hawk was out in full force—people were hanging out on street corners. They were most of them young brothers, in their late teens or twenties, clad in parkas and skully caps, talking shit and looking hard at everyone driving or walking past. They reminded him of inmates milling in the yard: grown men who had nothing productive to do with their time. The jagged skyline of downtown was visible in the hazy distance, but the business that took place within those towers was as meaningless to these men as constellations in the night sky, light years’ distant.

At one time or another, he had probably rousted a few of those brothers, or someone they knew. Good times.

He hit Forty-seventh Street, which took him to Bronzeville, an area once known as the “Black Metropolis” because of all the black movers and shakers who’d once lived in the neighborhood. By the time he had been born, the only movers and shakers around were the thugs who controlled the high-rise slums. The inevitable wave of gentrification had eventually demolished the projects, though, and single family homes and condos had been erected in their place.

The home in which he had lived before his bid in the joint was a one-story, brick, with three bedrooms, built in 1905. It stood along a row of similarly old, elegant properties flanked by skeletal, ice-encrusted trees.

He slowly cruised past the house. It was in good condition, the front yard mantled with snow.

In his so-called divorce, the judge had allowed him to keep the place, since he’d lived there long before he had married the bitch and she displayed no interest in taking the house anyway. As if she were so eager to sever her ties with him. It compounded the insult of her betrayal.

The home had long been paid off, and stood vacant. Javier had paid the property taxes each year and hired a lawn service to cut the grass during the summer months. He was a loyal partner.

Dexter circled around the block, checking for surveillance vehicles. He found none, which meant either that the manhunt had not yet progressed to the city—or, more likely, someone was off taking a lunch break.

He parked around the corner, under a gigantic oak. He rummaged in the duffel bag on the passenger seat, found the hammer he had taken from Javier’s hideout, and stuffed it inside his parka.

He also pocketed the Glock.

He went back to the house on foot. Snow and ice crackled under his boots. There was light traffic, no police cruisers.

He crossed the walkway that led to the front door and marched around the side of the house, to the back. A brown, two-car garage stood behind the house, bracketed by snow.

A thermometer was affixed beside the garage door, in the same position where he’d mounted it several years ago. He peeled off his gloves and opened the concealed slot at the base.

A key dropped into his palm.

The key fit the back door. He pushed open the door and stepped into the kitchen.

It was like going back in time. All the furniture was still there, though cobwebs draped the lights and dust covered the counters. Amazingly, the bitch had left with nothing but the clothes on her back.

Most important, the Turkish travertine floor tiles he’d installed were still in place, as was the refrigerator. It was unplugged, but occupied the wall niche for which it was intended.

Uncharacteristically, his pulse had begun to race.

Before going farther, however, he drew his Glock and searched the house. Squatters were always a potential problem in vacant properties.

The house was clear. It was tempting to linger in the various rooms and reflect on old times, but he quickly went back to the kitchen.

He grabbed the sides of the refrigerator and dragged it out of its wall slot, until he had hauled it completely clear of the space. A black oil drip mat lay on the floor where the refrigerator had stood, ostensibly to protect the tiles.

The presence of the mat was an encouraging sign. But his pulse still raced.

He knelt, peeled away the mat, and tossed it aside. He withdrew the hammer from his coat and used the hooked end to loosen the stone tile in the upper right corner.

Once that piece was free, he began to remove the tiles surrounding it, gradually exposing the concrete slab on which the house had been constructed.

A gray, fireproof safe had been sunk in the concrete. It was about two feet long, twenty inches wide, and one foot deep.

At the sight of it, he smiled.

He wiped sweat from his brow with the back of his gloved hand, and carefully spun through the combination. He turned the lever and raised the heavy hinged lid.

“No,” he said, breathless.

The box was empty.

One point seven million dollars, in rubber-banded denominations of twenties, fifties, and hundreds, had been stored in the safe, and now it was gone.