The Recruiter (A Thriller) Page 19

  A quick glance around the neighboring homes confirms his perception. Most of the cars parked in the driveways are newer Hondas and Toyotas, with the occasional Volkswagen thrown in.

  Esposito walks up the front walk, then mounts the porch, and stands at the front door. He presses the doorbell and waits.

  A snowplow goes by, tossing salt onto the already bare streets.

  He rings the doorbell again but hears nothing inside. He takes a few steps to the right and glances in the living room window. Nothing but a couch and recliner surrounding a coffee table piled high with magazines.

  Esposito checks his watch. It’s nearly eleven. He’d called the recruiting office ten minutes ago and spoke to Paul Rodgers again. No sign of Julie Giacalone. And she hadn’t answered her phone.

  He walks back down the front steps and turns left, heading up the driveway. As he walks past the side of the house, he tries to peek in the dining room windows but only sees the table and chairs. He gets to the garage and looks inside. Her car is there, matching the information he’d gotten from the secretary of state, right down to her license plate number.

  Now Esposito’s worried. It could just be she’s in the shower—but for several hours? Maybe she overslept. He goes to the back door and tries it, but it’s locked. He looks through the window and sees a narrow hallway leading from the kitchen into the living room.

  He walks back around the house to the front door. He turns the knob.

  The door opens.

  His breath catches in his throat.

  An unlocked door is always bad news.

  He slides the slip of paper where he’d written Julie Giacalone’s address into his shirt pocket and pulls out his Glock from the shoulder holster.

  He steps inside the house.

  Coffee, flowers, and carpet cleaner are the smells that he can detect. It’s quiet. No radio. No television.

  The front entrance opens into a small foyer area, where an umbrella holder stands. It’s white, with different colored umbrellas painted on the side. The living room has beige carpeting, a leather couch, loveseat, recliner, and entertainment center.

  Just off the living room is the dining room and, beyond that, the kitchen. Esposito glances in each.

  “Anybody home?” he calls out.

  No one answers.

  The hallway to the left leads, he assumes, to the bathroom and bedrooms.

  He walks down the hallway, his shoes tapping lightly on the oak floor. Family pictures line the wall, and he forces himself not to look.

  The first door on the left is a bathroom, and it’s empty. The tub is dry.

  He walks closer to the second door, which by its position would seem to be a guest room. It is. A small twin bed is pushed against the wall; an antique dresser and mirror take up the other wall.

  Back in the hall, Esposito takes the final steps to the last door. The master bedroom.

  He holds the Glock in front of him, firmly in both hands, and nudges the door open.

  A light yellow splash of color. A ruffled bed sheet. Light from a window. And then something that makes Esposito’s blood run cold.

  He nudges the door wide open.

  Julie Giacalone’s face purple and distorted.

  The belt cinched around her neck has been tied to the ceiling fan and with each rotation of the fan’s blades, her feet, raised four feet off the floor, seem to vibrate.

  Goddamnit, Esposito thinks, looking up at the dead woman.

  Eighty

  The point where it’s still possible to turn back, the last exit off the freeway of Things Gone Terribly Wrong, was passed a long time ago, Samuel realizes. The thought swims to the surface of his mind with astonishing ease and peacefulness. There’s no panic. No anxiety. No white knuckles on the steering wheel. Samuel simply understands that the course he has set for himself, the path to his dreams is now a one-way street with no room or opportunities to pull over to the side.

  The highway analogies seem appropriate to him as he pulls into the fast lane of I-75 North. Traffic is clogging up, but Samuel’s white Taurus seems to glide in and out of problem areas on its own volition. Things are moving quickly, all right, Samuel acknowledges.

  The pain in his temples is now a constant, aching throb. No relief whatsoever, but that’s okay. He can live with it. It’s a part of him now. As much his nature as the things he’s had to do to achieve his dream. What is that famous saying of the Oakland Raider guy? Al Davis?

  Samuel thinks. Searches his memory.

  And then it comes to him.

  Just win, baby.

  A great philosophy for football. And one for life.

  Just win, baby.

  He pictures himself with fellow Navy SEALs on a search-and-destroy mission somewhere in Asia, or the Middle East perhaps. That’s what he would say to his fellow SEALs, the most highly trained, dangerous soldiers in the world.

  Just win, baby.

  The image pops into his brain of Julie Giacalone, her eyeballs bulging as he chokes the life right out of her. He had to do it. Sure, he feels it was regrettable. She was a nice person, just too nosy, too concerned about her fucking career. She should have left well enough alone. Not gotten in the way of his dream. He pictures her there in her little Mr. Rogers neighborhood, in her little domestic house with all of her pretty little feminine decorations.

  And then he pictures her hanging from the ceiling fan.

  Not exactly a Martha Stewart moment.

  Samuel cackles out loud at that thought and passes a van with a bumper sticker that reads “Unless you’re a hemorrhoid, get off my ass.” How appropriate. That’s what he’d like to tell the world right now. Just get off my fucking ass.

  It’s a crazy fucking world, he thinks. He’s just trying to make his way in it.

  He’s trying to live the American dream, which is different to everyone. For Julie Giacalone, it was probably to be a big shit in naval administration, but with a husband and a house full of little brats.

  The pain in his temple bursts, and he nearly gasps in agony as he thinks of someone else’s dream.

  Beth Fischer’s.

  Her dream? To escape Lake Orion. To get away from the drunken clutches of her mother.

  Anna Fischer.

  Anna the Lush.

  She should have kept her nose in a bottle and out of her daughter’s life. Because now she’s involved. The call came out of the blue, he has to admit. Sitting at his desk, working hard for the benefit of Paul Rodgers, who seemed to be beside himself with worry about Julie Giacalone. Wondering where she could be, going on and on about how she’s never been late in five years of working. Like that’s a good thing. Christ, get a life, Samuel thought.

  Paul Rodgers scurrying about like Chicken Little, and the whole time Samuel had to play the concerned coworker, offering suggestions, helpful advice, wearing an expression of worry.

  The whole time envisioning Julie Giacalone hanging from the goddamned ceiling fan.

  And then Anna Fischer had called him. Drunk. Going on and on about the packages with Beth’s highlight video. How he’d sabotaged THE DREAM, as she’d emphasized it. On and on about trust. How he’d hurt her more than he could ever imagine.

  Samuel smirks at the thought. Anna Fischer knows nothing about pain. He presses on the accelerator, and the Taurus’s scrappy V-8 responds, smoothly cruising past traffic, a white streak in the fast lane.

  Maybe he’d be able to charm his way past Anna, convince her that the post office must have lost the packages. Maybe even lie that he has tracking numbers and that he had called and that the packages are still in transit, or mistakenly shipped to Mada-fucking-gascar. She’d sounded so drunk that she’d probably believe anything.

  The question is: will she remember any of it when she’s sober?

  Maybe he’d have to step things up a notch with Anna.

  Like he did with Julie Giacalone.

  That way, Beth’s dream of getting out of Lake Orion can come true. And that will pl
ay right into Samuel’s pursuit.

  Get the recruits.

  Get back to Coronado.

  Get on with becoming a SEAL.

  It’s simple.

  It’s right.

  It’s the American way.

  Just win, baby.

  Eighty-One

  “Beth, thank you so much for coming to help,” Mrs. Forbes says. “I know he’ll turn up. He’d better turn up or he’s going to be in some serious trouble.” She puts an I’m-a-brave-trooper smile on her face. But Beth can see that the veneer is cracking. Worry is rapidly being replaced with outright fear.

  “Call me on my cell as soon as he comes home,” Beth says, cursing herself for nearly saying “if.”

  Mrs. Forbes nods, her face now fallen into the likeness of granite. Beth sees her jaw muscle bulge. It’s nearly impossible to suppress tears without showing some signs of the effort.

  “Do you need a ride home?” Mrs. Forbes asks.

  “No, I have my mom’s car. I’m not up to walking it just yet.” Beth’s home, although clearly separated socioeconomically from the Forbes’ house, is only about four miles away. In the summer, before the injury, Beth and Peter would often walk it together. Taking their time. Holding hands. Goofing around.

  “Thanks again for all your help, Beth. You’ll call me if you hear from him?”

  “Immediately,” Beth says. The two women embrace, and Beth leaves the house, shaken by the fierceness of Mrs. Forbes’ embrace. It was the hug of a mother who fears she’s lost her child. Beth instinctively knew it was the kind of embrace Mrs. Forbes is waiting to unleash on Peter…and Beth was simply the current stand-in.

  Beth walks across the front yard and halfway down the block to where her car is parked. She stops and looks at the sky. A solid sheet of oatmeal gray.

  Peter, where are you?

  There are no answers up there.

  Beth unlocks the car and gets behind the wheel. Her left leg is still in its thick brace and despite its Herculean support, shafts of pain drive into the joint during the awkward act of getting behind the wheel. She still has a long way to go. The knee is being drained on a regular basis. She is continuing her therapy sessions with the hospital therapist.

  But progress is slow.

  Maybe it would go faster if she was into the rehabilitation, but she isn’t. Beth realizes that she should do everything she can to heal as fast as possible so that the therapy sessions can end, but she can go into the DEP program for the Navy, the Delayed Entry Program. For up to a year at least. So in that sense, there’s no hurry. And despite her usual steadfast discipline, this time, she’d rather just avoid the pain than face it head on. At this point, she just doesn’t want to deal with the pain. Why suffer through the agony when time will take care of it?

  She fires up the car, puts it in gear, and pulls out into the street. She passes the cars parked on either side of the street. Friends, family, Peter’s teachers. They’ve all come to help.

  Time will bring Peter back too. Beth is hopeful, despite the bad feeling in her stomach. It’s not like Peter to do this at all. She imagines him wrapped around a tree somewhere, his car crushed. He’s probably in a hospital room somewhere watching Jeopardy as some cute nurse tapes up his bruised ribs.

  That’s the version she wants to believe.

  Or maybe he was shot, caught in the middle of a convenience store robbery somewhere, and the police haven’t been able to identify his body yet. Peter, dead. The thought chills her.

  She forces it from her mind.

  Beth turns onto the highway and puts the accelerator to the floor. Maybe there’s a message at home from Peter. Be positive, Beth, she tells herself.

  Peter’s fine.

  He’s just…somewhere.

  Eighty-Two

  The booze welcomes Anna back with open arms and unbridled warmth. Like an old friend who’s always there in times of crisis.

  Halfway through the first bottle of whiskey, Anna’s anger nonetheless remains undiluted. If anything, it’s sharper and more focused than before she’d started drinking.

  She’d trusted him.

  The recruiter.

  He’d played her like a drunken old fool. And she practically handed him her daughter on a silver platter.

  When will she ever learn?

  More importantly, when will she ever stop hurting Beth?

  The last thought elicits a soft moan from deep within her. That’s the part that really hurts. The part of her that, despite the booze and the wasted years, had never really stopped being a mom.

  She can forgive herself many things.

  But the mother part—that essential aspect of her being—will never, ever forgive her for the mistakes she’s made with her daughter.

  Even the booze can’t wash that away.

  She raises the glass to her lips and takes a long drink of whiskey. It no longer burns her throat. Instead, it slides down with astonishing ease. Smooth as silk until it spreads out in her belly like some heaven-sent mushroom cloud, vaporizing any last remaining shreds of doubt.

  Anna looks at the clock.

  A few minutes yet.

  She tops off her glass and walks unsteadily toward her bedroom. She has a vague idea in her mind. Like most thoughts during a drunk, they’re rather fuzzy and not terribly well-defined. But it’s an idea that holds a certain power for her. She walks into her bedroom and sets the whiskey glass down on her dresser. The framed picture on the dresser top catches her eye. It’s of Vince. He looks so much like Beth. The strong jaw. The challenging light in the eyes. A strong personality quietly offering to take whatever the world can dish out, and then gives it back in spades.

  Beth has that same spirit.

  Or at least she used to. Before her wretch of a mother took over her life.

  Anna sets the picture down; it wobbles and topples over. When she picks it back up, she sees the glass is cracked and spider-webbed.

  The tears come then, slowly and steadily. Several minutes later, they’re gone. Anna puts the picture back in its place and takes another drink, turning her back to the picture so Vince can’t see her. Shame is another emotion the booze can’t suppress.

  Anna goes to her closet and reaches up to the top shelf. The shoebox is still there, a thin film of dust on its top. She takes it down and sets it on the bed, then sits next to it. She looks over at the picture on the dresser, and Vince is looking at her. Challenging her.

  I don’t know what to do.

  She takes the top off and reaches in, her fingers recoiling initially from the feel of the cool metal. She picks up the heavy automatic and holds it in both hands. Don’t think, she tells herself. Just act. Just take care of the problem you created.

  Vince had taught her how to handle a gun. One of the many lessons she remembered but, for the most part, had died with him. Now it comes back to her. She reaches into the shoebox and retrieves the magazine filled with the heavy bullets. She slams it into the butt of the gun, feels it lock in place. She turns off the safety.

  Okay, she thinks.

  It feels totally unnatural, and for a moment, she’s outside herself, looking down with detached horror.

  Then she comes back to herself.

  The feeling of disconnectedness is gone.

  She feels good.

  She’s doing something.

  Taking action.

  It’s about time she righted a few wrongs.

  Time. What time is it? She looks again at the clock. He should be here any minute. The message she left the recruiter—that she knows what he’s done and that she’s going to put a stop to all his plans—was designed to put the fear of God into him. Anna knows he’ll rush right over, trying to protect his investment, so to speak.

  Well, he’s in for a few surprises.

  Anna stands, and feeling like a corny TV cop, she reaches behind her and slides the gun between her jeans and the small of her back. She pulls her sweatshirt down over the back so the recruiter won’t notice anything.
She has no plans to kill him, just scare the life out of him.

  She goes back to the dresser and picks up her glass, takes a long drink.

  The whiskey slides down her throat, and she looks at the picture on her dresser. On cue, a small shard of glass drops from the frame and lands on the dresser, wobbling for a brief moment before coming to rest.

  As if on cue, the doorbell rings.

  Anna freezes for just a moment, then drains the rest of the whiskey and hurries to the front door.

  Eighty-Three

  “I need your full attention, do you understand?” Esposito says into his cell phone. His voice is calm and steady.

  After a short moment, the voice on the other end responds. Paul Rodgers informs Esposito that the detective does, in fact, have his full attention.

  Esposito, standing in the driveway of Julie Giacalone’s house, waiting for the crime scene technicians to arrive as well as the first of the Lake Orion cops, speaks slowly.

  “Where is Samuel Ackerman?”

  “He’s out of the office right now,” Rodgers says carefully.

  “I didn’t ask where he isn’t, I asked where he is. Now, if he’s not at the office, then where is he?”

  A shuffle of papers. “Probably meeting with recruits.”

  “Which recruits?”

  Another shuffle of papers. “Hold on just a second.” Esposito can hear the man’s labored breathing as he hurries across the office. “I’ll have to check his status sheet.”

  The sound of computer keys tapping followed by a soft whir of a hard drive. “Um. My guess would be Fischer. Beth. 928 Cherry Street, Lake Orion.”

  “Give me the phone number.”

  Rodgers does, and Esposito thanks him, tells him that if Ackerman returns to the office, to do nothing, to just go about his business as usual. As soon as he disconnects with Rodgers, Esposito calls his chief and as quickly as possible, explains the situation. More cops will stake out the recruiting office and wait for Ackerman’s return. Meanwhile, an APB will be issued. As well as alerts on Ackerman’s car.