Jack the Reaper, page 11
The buildings were spaced twenty feet apart, adjacent to a sidewalk that followed the winding curves of the streets. A young tree, bare of leaves, perched on each lawn. Perhaps there were small lawns and flower gardens under the snow. Hard to tell.
No garages. Old vehicles of various kinds were parked in front of about half of the homes. Parnell figured the duplexes without vehicles were either unoccupied or the residents owned no personal transportation. Could be either. Given the population of disabled veterans who lived here, it was unlikely the residents had hopped into their trucks and headed off to work.
He had scouted the planned community only briefly after the tedious drive to Upstate New York from the city. He’d wasted too much time at the Dakota, which meant he’d arrived in Stanwix Village not long before dark. During the quick drive-through, he’d seen lights burning, and a blue television screen flickered inside the unit that interested him. Nick Scavo was home. Which was all he needed to know. He’d been searching for Scavo for a long time.
Parnell began looking for Scavo right after the business with the three stooges in Baghdad, at the same time he started his hunt for Reacher. Both men were completely off the grid. Both could have been dead. For quite a while, Parnell could find no evidence to the contrary in either case.
After months of fruitless searching, he caught a lucky break. Scavo’s passport pinged at London’s Heathrow airport. Scavo had used it to board a nonstop flight to JFK. Parnell had tracked him easily from that point.
When Scavo’s flight arrived in New York City, he’d stayed in the city for four days. About half of those hours were spent at a hospital. The remaining hours had been unaccounted for, until Parnell’s visit to the Dakota.
Thanks to the blubbery Simon Peck, Parnell now knew Scavo had spent those hours stealing his nine million dollars. While he was there, Scavo must have also taken the documents revealing the location of the rest of Parnell’s funds.
When he left the city, Scavo had traveled by train to Upstate New York. He spent a few days in a VA hospital. After that, he moved into a low-rent boarding house on the edge of town, where he remained until last month. When he moved here.
Parnell had assumed the Stanwix Veterans Village duplex was subsidized by the government. Scavo had no income he had claimed on a tax return. Which meant he couldn’t qualify for a mortgage or even a decent rental, but he could qualify for subsidies.
Until the Dakota, Parnell figured Scavo’s living conditions were unremarkable. Scavo, like every member of the Colonel’s crew, was ex-military. He’d been discharged nine years ago. He wasn’t the best the army had to offer, but he wasn’t the worst, either.
He’d received a general discharge in the normal course of events. Which meant he’d never been good enough to qualify for medals, but he’d never been charged with any bad acts they could actually prove.
Bottom line, because of his service and lack of income, Scavo must have been entitled to certain veteran’s benefits which, in his case, apparently included subsidized housing.
Parnell turned off the engine and stepped out of the car. Cold wind blew across the powdery snow, whipping his legs and stinging his eyes. The short sidewalk leading from the curb to Scavo’s duplex was shoveled recently, but blowing snow had drifted across the concrete here and there, making it treacherously slick.
He covered the distance carefully, struggling to maintain his footing. The last thing he needed was to land on his ass.
He plodded up three icy steps to the four-by-seven concrete stoop running in front of two adjacent doors, one on each side of the dividing wall leading to each unit. An aluminum awning covered the stoop and protected both doors from rain, but not from wind.
Scavo’s unit was 17A, on the left. Parnell raised a gloved hand and pushed the doorbell. The first six notes of “The Star Spangled Banner” chimed in appealing tones from inside. He shook his head. Schmaltzy.
A minute later, the interior door swung open. Parnell stood on one side of the storm door and made every effort not to stare.
A shell of the man who had been Nick Scavo stood on the other. Warm moist air fogged the glass that separated them. Neither man moved.
Parnell was the first to blink. Scavo was barely recognizable. The big man described in his army files and depicted in his passport photo had vanished. This wreck had been aged by long, hard years rather than the mere passage of time.
But even those hardships didn’t explain Scavo’s skeletal appearance. His body had wasted to near nothingness.
He had lost at least sixty pounds, much of it muscle. His chest was concave, and his back bowed, like a human question mark. His left hand was wrapped around the brass handle of the heavy cane he leaned on.
Scavo’s gaunt face was as emaciated as his body. A furry brow ridge protruded beyond sunken brown eyes accented by coal dark smudges, like a football player’s eye black grease. The black hair in the photo was still thick, but all white now, which accentuated his colorless albino skin.
Somehow, Scavo had been separated and left behind by the Colonel’s crew during that West African revolution. He hadn’t died, as the three stooges assumed.
But something horrific had happened to him. Scavo probably felt the Colonel owed him. Maybe that’s why he stole Parnell’s money. Not that Parnell cared about his motives.
Briefly, he considered forcing his way inside. He was armed. He was bigger, more fit, and highly motivated. Should Scavo resist, the fight would be short, and the outcome assured. At the moment, though, resistance seemed unlikely.
He’d try the easy way first. He could move on to the hard way, should the situation prove unmanageable.
Parnell raised his voice to be heard over the whistling wind and through the glass. “Nick Scavo?”
“That’s right, General Parnell.” Scavo nodded, surprising words spoken in a strong voice. “I’ve been expecting you.”
Parnell paused. But Parnell was a man who took life exactly as it came, moment by moment, supremely confident that he could handle whatever came his way and conquer it. Which he always had.
“May I come in? It’s damn cold out here.”
Scavo paused a moment longer before he waved Parnell forward and limped away from the cold draft.
Parnell opened the storm door and stepped into Scavo’s home, which was like entering the hammams, Turkish steam baths Parnell had frequented in Istanbul. The limited square footage, squeezed by the clammy heat, enveloped him with mild claustrophobia.
One glance around the place was all it took to confirm that Scavo had not spent Parnell’s money on home decorating. The lightweight furnishings could have been ordered from a catalog and delivered in flat boxes for assembly. Or maybe purchased as a whole room from a discount warehouse. Everything was cheap and small and arranged in the open floor plan by someone with a sense of design beyond Scavo’s expertise.
At this point, Parnell figured his nine million dollars probably wasn’t stored on the premises. So where was his money?
“Are you alone?” Parnell asked. He craned his neck and peered into the hallway that probably led to one small bedroom and a smaller bath.
“Look around if it will make you more comfortable,” Scavo replied while continuing his halting progress.
He moved so slowly that Parnell could have searched every square inch of the place with a magnifying glass before Scavo made it to wherever he was headed.
Parnell walked through into a short corridor, one flimsy pressboard door on either side. He opened the door on the right, which was a cheaply constructed bath. A sink, toilet, and narrow shower.
The door on the left opened into a ten-by-ten bedroom. A full-sized bed on a low frame and no headboard took up most of the floor space. No bedside tables or lamps. No pictures on the walls. No room for a small chair. One window, covered with the same plastic mini blinds that Parnell had noticed on the other windows.
The closet ran across one end of the room. Both flimsy bi-fold doors stood open. A single metal pole was the only organizing principle. Half a dozen shirts and two pairs of pants hung on plastic hangers on the pole. A cardboard box on the floor held a jumble of underwear and socks. A pair of running shoes rested next to the box.
In short, nothing here. No backup. No nine million dollars. Nothing worth stealing.
Parnell returned to the all-purpose room. Scavo’s crab-like movements had eventually carried him to a straight chair at the kitchen table. Parnell waited for Scavo to get settled, which seemed to take way too long.
“Satisfied, General Parnell?” Scavo finally asked.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
He crossed the room in half a dozen steps and sat across the table to maintain eye contact. “Have we met before?”
The answer was inconsequential, but Parnell needed a baseline to judge Scavo’s reactions later.
Scavo shook his head. “I’ve followed your career for a while now. I knew you’d retired. It was only a matter of time before you showed up here.”
Parnell schooled his features to reveal nothing. “And why is that?”
“Because of the Colonel.” Scavo shrugged. His voice was wheezy. “I was the Executive Vice President of Operational Security Consultants for a few years. I knew you were his inside contact. You funneled off-the-books military contracts to OSC.”
Parnell waited while Scavo’s tale was detoured by a fit of coughing. “At some point, you’d want what was yours.”
Parnell neither confirmed nor denied. He noted that Scavo was smarter than the average OSC soldier. Which was probably why he was still alive.
Parnell waited through another round of hacking.
After the coughing stopped, Scavo wiped spittle from the side of his mouth with the back of his hand. “Made sense that you wouldn’t want your fingerprints on any of the OSC funds until after you parted ways with Uncle Sam.”
Parnell narrowed his eyes. An almost involuntary frown etched his face. Was this a setup? Some kind of sting?
He left Scavo in the kitchen and conducted a more thorough search of the premises, this time for electronic surveillance. He found no hidden cameras or listening devices anywhere.
A laptop and a cell phone rested on a table beside the sofa. The television was hooked up to cable. Parnell disconnected the cable and unplugged the television. He powered down the laptop and removed the batteries from the cell phone and shoved both under the sofa.
Satisfied that no spying devices remained in place, he returned to the kitchen and searched Scavo for tech capable of recording audio or video or both. He found none.
“Who lives next door?” Parnell asked.
“An ex-Marine. Don’t worry, he’s deaf as a post. Besides, he’s been out of town for a couple of weeks. I figured you knew that.” Scavo cocked his head. “Maybe you’re not as careful as I assumed you would be.”
Parnell asked, “What’s wrong with you? Medically, I mean?”
Scavo shrugged. “They don’t exactly know. Some kind of systemic disease, they figure. Maybe latent, from the time I spent as a POW. Most of the symptoms came on suddenly after I returned to the states.”
“What’s the prognosis?”
“Docs don’t say. Right at the moment, it doesn’t look good, does it?” He flashed a wry grin, which Parnell figured was some sort of coping thing. “The cold dry air makes it worse. Which is why it’s so hot and humid in here, if you were wondering.”
Parnell sat, allowing Scavo to make eye contact. “Since you’ve been expecting me, you know what I came for.”
Scavo shrugged. “I’m guessing you want that nine million that was in the bedroom safe at the Dakota.”
“For starters.”
“And after that, you’re looking to collect the forty-six million the Colonel socked away for you in a safe place, right?”
He smirked. “Precisely.”
“I can help you with that.” Scavo opened his mouth to say more, but another coughing jag possessed him for a long time. When he was able to catch his breath again, he tilted his head toward the refrigerator and croaked, “Water.”
Parnell retrieved a bottle and handed it over. Scavo took a long, thirsty gulp.
“Sorry. I don’t talk a lot. I’m out of practice.” He rested the bottle on the table.
“Where is my money?”
“Your share of the contract payments is still where the Colonel placed it. Or at least it was the last time I checked.”
“Which was when?”
“Right after I met the Colonel in London and, uh, persuaded him to tell me where to find it. I can’t check from here. Too risky. You’re right to be worried about surveillance in this place. Secrets do get out, one way or another.” His voice was raspy and strained. He drank another few sips.
“Why did he give you that information? Were you supposed to collect the money and get it to him?”
“Not exactly. My motives were not that pure.” He smiled again. “The Colonel left me for dead in West Africa. I was captured by the enemy. Let’s just say it wasn’t a pleasant experience. After I escaped, it took me a while to reach my evacuation kit, which I had stored in a hotel safe in London. As luck would have it, the Colonel was in London at the time, so we had a little…discussion about my…compensation.”
“And what about the nine million?”
“That’s a tougher question. I’m not exactly sure.” He adjusted his bony ass on the chair as if the hard surface was too uncomfortable. “I’m sure you know I went to the Dakota apartment when I returned from London.”
He paused, and Parnell nodded.
“I was in much better shape than I am now. I’d begun to have symptoms, but I thought it was malaria at the time. So I ignored it.” He paused and leaned back in his chair. “I found the nine million cash in the safe while I was looking for the documents, but I didn’t have the time to move those big bales.”
“Why not?”
“I had a narrow window of opportunity to find what I needed to…collect the bigger score before the Colonel was due back. I didn’t want to miss my chance.”
“So you expected him back,” Parnell said, nodding, as though he believed the lie.
Scavo smirked. “Your forty-six million plus his twenty, which was hidden in the same place, was more enticing.”
“I can see how it would be,” Parnell replied as calmly as he could manage. He hadn’t expected the Colonel to hide that money in a place where Parnell could grab it. The cash situation just kept getting better and better.
“I planned to go back later for the cash. I mean, nine million isn’t sixty-six, but it’s not chump change, either, right?”
Parnell’s mouth had dried up. He nodded.
“And I figured I’d earned it. He owed me, you know?” Scavo cocked his head and waited until Parnell nodded. “But whatever this thing is that’s attacking my body accelerated. Hell, for a few weeks, I couldn’t get out of bed. And then it turned out I didn’t need to go back.”
“Why is that?”
“Because someone, shall we say, liberated that nine million in cash first.” He shook his head and wiped his lips with the back of his hand. “The likely thieves were my former OSC colleagues. At the time, I was sure they viewed it as spoils of war, rightfully theirs.”
Parnell narrowed his eyes and barked, “My patience is wearing thin, Scavo.”
Scavo nodded. “It took me a while to figure it out. Even now, all I have is an educated guess. I’ve narrowed it down to two likely suspects.”
“And those two are?” Parnell’s hard-edged question sliced the thick air like a blade. Scavo seemed to be cooperative. Maybe he was. Maybe he wasn’t. But he needed to get to it.
“The first possibility is an NYPD detective named Brewer. Gregory Brewer. He was hanging around the first day I went to the Dakota. I didn’t know who he was at the time. I found that out later.” Scavo drained the water bottle and cleared his throat. He tossed the bottle toward the kitchen sink. The lightweight plastic sailed weakly in the right direction but fell short and bounced along the vinyl floor.
Parnell nodded to keep him going.
“Brewer had been inside the apartment, for sure. He’d left one of his business cards on the kitchen counter. Which means he could have gone in as many times as he needed to remove all that cash.” Scavo’s long bout of hacking started up again.
The Brewer story had the ring of truth to it. An NYPD detective would definitely be tempted by nine million in untraceable cash. Although a detective’s salary was reasonable. Certainly, more than cops in smaller towns. Nine million dollars, sitting there for the taking, probably had been too hard for Brewer to resist.
The more Parnell thought about it, the more likely it seemed. An NYPD detective would be in a position to know everything about the security at the Dakota. He could easily have removed the money. That sweaty little fop nor the lazy doorman would have bothered to stop him, even if they’d been around.
Yes. Parnell nodded. Brewer could have been the thief. He’d also have had no trouble locating a good hiding place for that much cash in New York where no one would find it.
“And the other possibility?” Parnell asked when Scavo’s painful spasm slowed.
“You know OSC had significantly reduced manpower after the West Africa debacle.” Scavo raised his eyebrows, and Parnell nodded. “The Colonel had a big, old-fashioned Rolodex of candidates and he added guys to the team as necessary, depending on the job.”
“Right.” Parnell had seen that Rolodex once. He hoped not to spend time tracking every extra grunt listed in there. Scavo was the guy. Had to be.
“A few days before I met the Colonel in London, he hired a new gun. Army vet. Big, fair-haired guy. Bulky. About your size, or maybe bigger.”
“How do you know? You weren’t there.”
“Same way you found out. I asked around.” Scavo paused and Parnell nodded again. Scavo’s body was a wreck, but his mind was still sharp enough.
