Beneath the Cracks Read online

  Beneath the Cracks

  By LS Sygnet

  Copyright 2012 LS Sygnet

  Smashwords Edition

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner without permission except in the case of brief quotations.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are fictional or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or paper print, without written permission from LS Sygnet.

  Eriksson Series by LS Sygnet

  Daddy’s Little Killer

  Beneath the Cracks

  Chapter 1

  Preacher scratched the stringy beard that stretched down and covered his neck. Dusk had fallen over Darkwater Bay, along with it, the heavy shroud of evening fog. He shivered and tugged the edges of tattered flannel closer to his chest. Hooded eyes scanned the neighborhood. The long row of Harley Davidson motorcycles lined a filthy, rundown street. The door to Uncle Nooky's banged and shuddered on its hinges when another leather and chain-clad patron entered.

  He'd give his eyeteeth to somehow shed this skin he'd slid into, exchange it for one that granted him access to the inner circle. If only he'd had a better picture of the circumstances in this forgotten corner of Downey, the neglected neighborhood that prided itself on seedy establishments and faces that remained invisible to the upstanding folks hell bent on making the rest of Downey respectable again.

  No, this part of town belonged in Darkwater proper. A few months ago, it would've fit right in next door to Central Division. But that was before Helen Eriksson blew into town and exposed Jerry Lowe for the corrupt bastard that he was. Now…well, maybe the rest of Darkwater Bay had a fighting chance to become something more than the sum of its parts.

  But not if things didn't change here – in Downey, on Northeastern and Third where something still festered. Something uglier than anybody imagined. Gut instinct led him to Uncle Nooky's Bar and Grill. Oddly, this seemed to be the respectable business. The shelter? Something about the place was more than a little off. But what was it?

  Preacher's shoulders folded inward against the chill of the damp October night air as he bent into the wind blowing swirls of fog through the streets. It would be seven soon, and if the slow moving headlights coming up Northeastern were any clue, his ride would be at the shelter about the same time he rounded the corner. This was his chance. Life didn't offer many golden opportunities to really make a difference in the world.

  The van was at the curb when he rounded the corner on Sixth. As he approached, Preacher shielded his eyes from the glare of high beam lights. A side door slid open. A cloying sweet scent rolled from inside the van and blasted Preacher's nostrils. Incense? It was like nothing he'd smelled before.

  "You comin' this time or not, Preacher?"

  He scratched at a beard that quite possibly housed lice. "Yeah," he nodded. "I'm in for a week," he said. If nothing else, he might make inroads with someone who actually understood what was happening, how his fellow patrons of the shelter were ending up in dumpsters with alarming frequency.

  Preacher climbed inside and hit a wall of another kind. A chill ran down his spine. There wasn't a face in the van that he recognized, and none of them looked particularly disappointed at his arrival. At the same time, the menacing glares were far less than happy to see him.

  Too late to hesitate, he was already inside the blandly nondescript van. Preacher raised two fingers and started muttering scripture.

  One of the men in the van snorted softly. "Let's head out. We got all we need for this week."

  The van rounded the corner onto Northeastern and headed down the block back toward the row of parked Harleys. Preacher saw them out of the corner of his eye and again experienced a wistful pang that events hadn't gone in a different direction. Yet the end result would've been the same. Nooky's patrons were the ones who made tonight seem like a good idea after all. No way were they tolerant of a homeless man, no matter how harmless he was.

  Then again, they only thought Preacher was harmless…

  The throwaway cell phone that arrived at his secret place in Newark was a mystery. Franchetta carried it for three days with curiosity itching through every fiber of his body. It had nothing to do with the note accompanying it, or the cryptic hint at the identity of who planned to call him.

  You’re following in your father’s footsteps, Eddie.

  Only one man would ever have the stones to say such a thing to Franchetta. Problem was, there could be no swift retribution for the insult, since the man in question was behind bars. Yeah, he knew the Franchetta family history, so the dig about Eddie’s father could’ve only come from one man – the guy who arrested his father.

  This wasn’t Marcos playing games, not that it was ever his style anyway. If Sully wanted Eddie Franchetta, there were other ways of ferreting him out. So when the left pocket of his tattered jacket vibrated, the unforgotten device was yanked into a greedy palm. The motion startled the breath from his lungs. Was the cryptic message true? Had the old man somehow tracked him down? The burning question was why. Why would he give a damn about Franchetta after so many years in prison?

  "Yeah."

  "Were you followed by anyone to Newark?"

  An indignant puff of air rasped across the long distance connection. The fact that he didn’t recognize the voice was confirmation enough of the caller’s identity as far as Franchetta was concerned. "I'm not some rank amateur," he growled. "And I don't appreciate the insult, not from the likes of you."

  The deep voice chuckled. "Let's not get too outraged, Eddie. I could've called that bastard who owns you and enlightened him to my theory, rather than contacting you. We both know where you'd be right about now if I'd taken a different course of action."

  "Listen old man, I don't know who the fuck you think you are anymore, but I'm beyond your reach. You got that?"

  "Do you really believe that, Mr. Franchetta? Or do you honestly think that I don't have more than a modicum of respect in my current living situation? It is rather atypical for me to make phone calls without someone paying attention to where my fingers have gone walking. I’ll not tax you with details such as how I managed to make sure you’d answer the phone you received."

  Franchetta snarled softly. "You made your point. What do you want?"

  "Information, at the moment."

  "I owe you nothing."

  "Then maybe Sully would appreciate my knowledge of where his money landed – or more importantly, who embezzled it. You and I know damn well that it wasn't Rick Hamilton."

  Franchetta's breath stilted half way between his trachea and freedom.

  "Have I got your cooperation yet?"

  "Fuck you," Franchetta rasped. "You couldn't possibly know jack –"

  "An account in the Caymans, I believe. Would you like the account number?"

  The sound of metal grinding against flint floated across the phone line followed swiftly by Franchetta's deep inhalation. "You've been out of the loop for a long time. I think you're bluffing."

  "Account number 124096380, from Grand Cayman International, if my source is correct. Do I have your attention yet, Eddie?"

  The pause stretched between blasts of smoke from Franchetta's nostrils. His teeth ground through the filter of his Camel. "I'm listening."

  "Good. Now I’d suggest you listen to what I want very carefully. I'm not asking you to betray Sully, after all. At least not any more than you've already done."

  The chuckle prickled the skin on the back of Franchetta's neck, drew the fine hairs taut as they stood on end.

&nbs
p; "What do you want?"

  "Information, nothing more."

  "About?"

  "Take a wild guess, Eddie."

  The bitch. It had to be about the bitch. What else could this bastard want to know? "You're going to have to be more specific."

  "I want to know how Hamilton died."

  Cagey, not to ask about her outright. "Somebody put a pistol behind his right ear and pulled the trigger."

  "Witnesses?"

  "Maybe, maybe not," Franchetta's audible smirk accompanied the admission.

  "Dammit."

  "You of all people disapprove? Jesus, what did you expect? Not all of us were duped into believing her act."

  "The weapon?"

  "Gone."

  "You have it?" he rasped softly.

  "Hell, don't I wish," Franchetta chuckled. "I could solve a multitude of problems if I did."

  "Who has it? Surely she didn't keep it."

  "Unless someone wants to drag twenty miles of the Potomac to find the pieces, nobody's gonna have that particular gun."

  "This witness, he didn't feel compelled to stop the gun's disposal?"

  "Why make things easy for the feds or for Sully? Everybody knows who pulled the trigger. It's the doubt – reasonable or through lack of evidence – that makes all of this interesting. Everybody, and I do mean everybody, is satisfied with the status quo."

  "Even Sully?"

  Franchetta cursed softly. "Everybody minus one."

  "I'd wager the bureau isn't particularly thrilled that their would-be songbird was so permanently silenced either."

  "Fuck the FBI," Franchetta spat. He flicked the cigarette butt into the shadows in the dank alley when the cherry burned the fleshy insides of his fingers. "Since when do you care what the cops want?"

  "You might be surprised by that answer, Eddie. Let's not forget the other important player in this story who is certain to be seething with rage but for far different reasons."

  Franchetta laughed. "You think Marcos gives a shit what Danny Datello thinks? Let me assure you, he does not. Danny boy severed those ties long ago."

  "Yes, but he still was the one who brought the launderer into the fold." He clicked his tongue softly against his teeth. "Or is Uncle Sully of the mind that Hamilton absconded with cash at Danny's behest?"

  "I wouldn't know."

  "Then you haven't received any orders to…uh…prune an errant branch from the family tree?"

  Franchetta laughed softly. "Oh, hell no. Sully doesn't have to do anything about that situation, not with the bitch stalking Danny. He'll meet an untimely end free of charge, much like poor old Rick did."

  This time, the stilted breath didn't come from Eddie Franchetta. "What exactly are you saying?"

  Franchetta needed the confirmation, if there was any hope in hell of maintaining the status quo. Was Datello the reason she relocated? If it was, the whole ballgame changed. Hell, he could really pin the whole thing on Helen Eriksson.

  "I'm saying that you might have excellent sources in Grand Cayman, old man, but you've missed the boat to the west coast. She's there, and you can be damned sure that the Pacific will be a hell of a lot harder to drag for gun parts than the Potomac."

  The mysterious voice chuckled. "Now what makes you think my source for Darkwater Bay has failed me, Eddie? You've told me everything I needed to know. And I thank you from the bottom of my heart."

  "You son of a –"

  "Ah-ah," he warned mildly. "You may think you're beyond my reach, Franchetta, but you'll do exactly as I direct you to do – if you want what I know about the Caymans to remain between the two of us. I expect you to respond promptly if I need to speak to you again. If that’s not the case…"

  "Your next call is to Marcos," he muttered.

  "Always knew you were cleverer than your father, Eddie. You know how to contact me if you hear of anything that I should know, yes?"

  "The post office box in that little note you sent."

  "Indeed it is."

  "And our phrase so he remains unaware of your guilt?"

  The old man laughed again. "You have word regarding how Helen fares. He'll get the message to me, and I'll know it's you."

  The resounding click followed by nothing but dead air left Franchetta muttering a spate of curses. He'd like to tell the son of a bitch that Helen was six feet under. Then again, the man had tentacles that reached beyond what one would expect for a man kept in virtual isolation from his fellow inmates, let alone the world at large. At least that was what Franchetta believed about the man contacting him.

  Orion sat in his sedan half a block away from the house atop the high cliff overlooking the Pacific. The lights blazed in the windows. Wasting electricity, he thought. He watched the moving van from Behan’s exit through the open gate before it rolled smoothly shut. Still decorating the new house.

  Bitterness vied with the warm feelings in his heart. Four lousy months and change, and Helen Eriksson couldn't be bothered to take the bait. Not one time had she picked up the phone and called, even though he'd left the door wide open, the ball in her court. Clearly, she still wasn't ready.

  What he'd learned in the following weeks made him question her sanity. How could she grieve the death of a bastard like Rick Hamilton?

  But Maya Winslow promised him that if Helen even hinted at reluctance because of her dearly departed ex-husband, it was absolutely the truth. Then again, Maya had her own theories about why Helen would mourn his death.

  You don't know her like I do, Orion. She's the type of woman who needs answers. The fact that Rick died before the federal prosecutors squeezed the truth out of him is probably bothering her almost as much as the fact that she was married to a criminal and had no idea.

  And just how had that happened? Johnny scratched his head and silently prayed for just a glimpse of her…something…anything that let him see for himself that she really was all right.

  Crevan Conall swore she was. Tony Briscoe simply grinned and all but dared him to buzz at Helen's gate and see for himself. Yeah, they'd seen her, been in contact frequently as they sought her insight into cases for Downey Division over the past few months.

  He wanted to be mad at her. He craved outrage that would make him forget those eyes, that mind that seemed to see beyond the surface of everything other people noticed.

  Those thoughts only plagued him further. Helen Eriksson was too astute to be blinded by love. So how the hell had she spent almost ten years married to a bastard who laundered money for Sully Marcos and remained ignorant? If she loved with the same fervor as she did her job as an investigator, it wasn’t possible.

  Headlights illuminated the crest of the hill but flickered out before another sedan crawled up the way. It slowed as it approached the gate at the end of Helen's driveway. Johnny ducked before it passed him on the street.

  He popped the glove compartment and pulled out his night vision goggles and slid them over his eyes, but the vehicle disappeared around the curve on the desolate street. He cursed softly and dropped them into the seat beside him. With one last wistful glance at Helen's new house – the one Maya swore was keeping her too busy to resume more social activities – he started the car and swung it in a wide arc. The taillights of the car nearly disappeared by the time he rounded the curve on Helen's street. Headlights back on.

  It was blatant surveillance, but by whom? Johnny flipped his headlights on and sped into the night. He closed the gap as inconspicuously as possible and followed the car into Darkwater proper.

  Johnny cursed softly, immediately recognizing the route to the industrial neighborhood that was the destination of the lead vehicle. His heart sank when the car stopped in front of the Datello Enterprises building. He watched two men in suits exit the vehicle and meet another man waiting for them. They spoke briefly and walked briskly inside. From this distance, he couldn't tell which of Datello's thugs were keeping tabs on Helen. He'd recognize them, without a doubt. Johnny made it his business for the past two years to
know anyone even loosely associated with Datello.

  He'd have to settle for confirmation that the sedan was part of Datello's corporate fleet. Slowly, he rounded the corner and drove close enough to get a good look at the license plates.

  Breath hitched in his throat. Above and below the lettered and numbered identifiers on both cars read US Government For Official Use Only.

  The face of Special Agent Mark Seleeby flashed on the backs of his eyelids. "What the hell is the FBI up to now?" he muttered. He might not have been close enough to recognize who the men were, but he clearly saw who one of the men wasn’t – Supervisory Special Agent David Levine.

  Chapter 2

  Jerry Lowe, little psychopath that he was, did me a favor. In the months since his dual attempts on my life, everything in my life has changed. Well, almost everything. I thought at first that being forced to purchase the property that Lowe blew to bits along with one of his detectives was a curse, the proverbial albatross around my neck. Turns out, I’ve found the perfect cover, a legitimate activity that keeps people from wondering what I’m really up to.

  Sure, it’s a beautiful house that I paid way more money to rebuild than dollar amount cut by an insurance company indicated. And it cost extra to complete it in just a few short months. Furnishing it has been the best cover imaginable.

  I even discovered that I’ve sort of got a knack for home decorating. From the dark wood paneling in the study, with its built-in shelving and rich burgundy leather seating to the perfect fresco-style painted walls, my house grew into an exquisite masterpiece.

  In any case, if an outsider could see what I’ve done in such a short period of time, they’d easily believe that’s all I’ve been doing. I’m basking in my retirement, immersed in building a new life within the walls of my new home. I’m following some very good advice. It's like Dad always said. Embrace that American dream, live it like you really believe it. But in the hidden office at the back of my house, another story unfolded. This was dark, clandestine, drenched with the bloody plans I could not abandon, no matter how much hope those around me tried to instill in my cold, heartless chest.