Thread of Revenge (The Joe Tyler Series, #6) Read online

  “I'm Frank,” he said, holding up a hand. “Mr. Stefano sent me to see you.”

  I nodded, but didn't say anything.

  Frank held up a thin blue folder. “He said you were waiting for this and asked me to bring it right over.”

  I nodded again and took a couple of steps toward him.

  He held out the folder. “Mr. Stefano asked that you recycle this when you're done with it.”

  “Got it,” I said, taking the folder from him.

  “Mr. Stefano also asked me to wait until you've had a chance to look at the folder, just to make sure everything's in order,” Frank said.

  I had no idea if Frank knew what he was giving me, but I figured the answer was somewhere in between.

  I opened the folder and examined the papers inside of it.

  I looked at Frank. “Everything's in order. Thank you.”

  Frank nodded, then reached into his coat and extracted a small business card, holding it out to me. “Mr. Stefano wanted you to have his private number in case you need anything else.”

  I took the card. It had the phone number written on it and nothing else.

  “Thank you,” I said. “And please let Mr. Stefano know I appreciate it.”

  Frank nodded, turned, and left the room.

  I sat down with the folder and opened it again. It was clear that someone in Stefano's organization had been keeping tabs on Anchor. There were five sheets in the folder, each one detailing his daily activities, with times, locations and any additional notes. It was easy to see that Anchor was paranoid. He did virtually nothing the same way: from the route he took to work to the time he ate lunch, he varied up his routine every single day, based on the information they'd collected.

  Except for one minor detail.

  Each week, he went for an appointment at a hotel spa in downtown Minneapolis. Always at 4:30 p.m. And always on Wednesday.

  I checked my watch.

  He'd be there in a few hours.

  The notes detailed that he'd been doing that now for over four months. He was dropped off and picked up at the same time, though sometimes used a different entrance to the hotel. The time and regularity had been confirmed by someone inside the hotel. His protection didn't enter the spa with him, so he went in alone.

  I sifted through everything else on the papers, but not a single other thing was the same. I wondered why Anchor was so careful to vary everything else up. I came up with several reasons.

  Favorite masseuse.

  After hours.

  Middle of the week.

  Whatever the reason was, it was the one predictable thing he did each week.

  Which gave me a small window to work with.

  I laid the papers and the business card out on the table and took a photo of each one with my phone. Then I tore each sheet in half and then in half again and then one more time. I took the card and tore it into fourths. I gathered up all of the torn pieces and headed out of the room. I dropped some of them in the trash container near the door, then more of them in a container outside and the remainder in a dumpster in the alley near where the car was parked.

  I got back in the rental and set my hands on the wheel, my heart thumping inside my chest.

  I was a few hours from getting to John Anchor.

  THIRTY TWO

  The door to Marc Codaselli's apartment was unlocked.

  I'd left the coffee shop, trying to formulate a plan as to how I was going to approach Anchor at his appointment that evening. Not being familiar enough with the area the hotel was in, I was hoping Marc might be able to help me navigate the streets and suggest the best way to get to it.

  And it still bothered me that he hadn't answered my call.

  I parked on the street again, waited for another resident to exit the building and took the elevator to the sixth floor. When I got to the end of the hallway and didn't get an answer after I knocked, I tried the door.

  And it was unlocked.

  My internal alarm tripped again.

  I opened the door slowly and stepped into the apartment quietly, shutting the door behind me. “Marc?”

  No answer.

  I walked down the short hallway to the living room we'd sat in just a few hours earlier. The throw pillows were still entrenched in the corners of the couch and the pile of magazines on the coffee table hadn't been disturbed. It was just as we'd left it.

  I peered into the kitchen and the eating area.

  Nothing.

  I walked down the hallway past the bathroom and toward the bedroom. “Marc?”

  No answer.

  I stopped at the first room and looked in.

  Marc was lying face down on the bed, still in the clothes he'd worn to the coffee shop. I could see red on the pillow, and his body was at an awkward angle on the bed, his legs bent too much.

  I swallowed hard and stepped closer to the bed.

  The blood was seeping from his neck and I could make out a thin bloody line just below his hairline and above his collar.

  My stomach rolled and convulsed. I took several deep breaths, exhaling loudly, trying to hold off the nausea.

  I reached down and laid one finger behind his ear, checking for a pulse.

  Nothing.

  I debated rolling him over, but decided against it. I hated myself for it, but I was already going into self-preservation mode. I couldn't afford to get entangled in Marc's death.

  But I did feel guilty because I was certain it wasn't a coincidence.

  I retraced my steps back through the apartment, wiping down the two doorknobs I'd touched. I knew I'd have questions to answer later. Police would eventually get to the phone calls on his phone and eventually get to me. It would take some time, but they'd get to me. I didn't need anything else to point them in my direction.

  I checked the other rooms in the apartment without touching anything. They were empty and I avoided looking back into Marc's room as I passed down the hallway. My stomach convulsed again.

  I reached the front door, pulled my shirtsleeve over my hand and pulled the door closed. I checked the hallway for cameras, but didn't see any. I found a stairwell at the end of the hallway and used those instead of the elevator, just to avoid running into anyone.

  When I stepped outside, my hands started shaking and I shoved them into my pockets as I walked to my car.

  Less than twenty-four hours and I'd now been in the company of two dead bodies.

  And I felt responsible for both of them.

  THIRTY THREE

  “Mr. Tyler,” Dominic Stefano said. “I didn't anticipate hearing from you so soon. Is there a problem?”

  “Yeah, there's a fucking problem,” I said. “Marc Codaselli is dead.”

  I'd gotten into my rental and started driving, just to get away from the apartment building and to try and calm my nerves. I managed to put distance between myself and the building, but I couldn't get my nerves to settle down. So I'd pulled up the photo of Stefano's business card and dialed his number.

  “Excuse me?” he said.

  “You heard me,” I said. “He is dead.”

  “You must be mistaken.”

  “I’m not. I was just at his apartment. I’m not mistaken.” I couldn’t keep the panic out of my voice. It wasn’t strong, but it was there, a thread that anyone with a seasoned ear could hear.

  The line buzzed for a moment. “He was with you earlier today.”

  “Yeah, exactly,” I said. “He brought me to the coffee shop. You said hello to him. Well, I don't know what the fuck happened in the interim, but he is dead right now in his apartment.”

  “You were in the apartment?”

  “Door was unlocked when I got there. I was going to tell him thank you for putting me in touch with you. I'd called him and he hadn't answered. And it didn't feel right so I went over to his place.”

  “Were you...careful, Mr. Tyler?”

  I squeezed the wheel with my one hand. “Yeah, I was. But I gotta ask you something, Mr. Stefano.
Any of your people have anything to do with this? Because I'm having trouble thinking any of this is a coincidence. A lot of trouble.”

  “Mr. Tyler.” His voice was thin, sharp. “It would behoove you to remember whom you are speaking with.”

  “I know exactly who I'm speaking with,” I said, my voice rising. “And that's exactly why I'm asking the question. How in the fuck did that kid get killed while I was talking to you? He didn't do a goddamned thing other than bring me to you.”

  There was a rustling sound and Stefano's voice was muffled, talking to someone else. I forced my fingers to relax on the wheel and concentrated on trying to control my breathing. I needed to get my head clear.

  “Mr. Tyler, I understand you're upset,” Stefano said, his voice clear once again. “But I can assure you I had no knowledge of Marc's death. If you were thinking rationally, you would understand that. Peter and I were rivals, but there was respect. Our families have always been off-limits, and always will be. And I have no ill will toward Marc whatsoever.”

  I glanced in the rearview mirror. I knew he was right. He had nothing to gain from Marc's death. He had no reason to go after him. There was nothing at stake there for either of them.

  “Alright,” I finally said. “I'm sorry. I'm just...I'm shocked.”

  “Understandably so,” he said. “I have my people on their way to Marc's home right now. Just to investigate and to make sure you didn't overlook anything.”

  He might've been spinning it that he was helping me, but I also knew he was covering his own bases. Marc had at some point spoken with his daughter, and my guess was he wanted those calls taken care of.

  “And let me make this clear, too,” Stefano said. “I don't believe it's a coincidence, either.”

  “You don't?”

  “No, Mr. Tyler, I don't,” he said. “So I have to believe that Mr. Anchor may be aware that you are in town, and might also be aware of your exact whereabouts.”

  I glanced in the mirror again. I'd kept my eyes open for tails, but now I wondered if I'd been too lax in my watch. And maybe my failing to spot anyone had gotten Marc Codaselli killed.

  “As I said before,” Stefano said. “Anchor is despicable, but he is not stupid. This might be a message. Or it might just be fun for him. Hard to say.” He paused. “Either way, Mr. Anchor will need to answer for this if he's responsible. And you should move quickly, Mr. Tyler.”

  “I know,” I said, my throat dry, my heart still hammering.

  “The information I provided is helpful?”

  “Yes. I was hoping Marc...could help me with some logistics. Directions.”

  “You call me back if you need anything,” Stefano said. “And if I learn anything else, I'll notify you immediately.”

  “Alright.”

  “You need to be careful,” Stefano said. “I'd say the threat level has been raised here, Mr. Tyler. Because of Mr. Anchor's position within Peter's organization, I can't overtly go after him. The politics are too complicated. So you need to be careful. He is a dangerous man.”

  I checked the mirror again. “I know.”

  “But when you find Mr. Anchor, Mr. Tyler?”

  “Yes.”

  The line buzzed for a just a moment before Dominic Stefano spoke again. “Let him know I helped you. And make him pay.”

  THIRTY FOUR

  I pulled the car over to the curb.

  I wasn't in control and the last thing I needed to be doing was driving a car in an unfamiliar area. And I didn't want to be unfocused when I made my next phone call.

  “Joe?” Isabel Balzone said after I dialed her number. “I didn't know if I'd hear from you again while you were here.”

  “Um, yeah. I'm still here.”

  “Are you alright? You sound...I don't know.”

  “I'm not,” I admitted. “I...I need some help.”

  “Okay,” she said. “I can come to you.”

  “No, no. Not like that. I need some help with directions.”

  “Directions?”

  “I'm...I'm over near Target Field,” I stammered. “I need to get to the Foshay Tower. Am I close?”

  She waited for a moment before answering. “Just a few minutes, really.”

  “Is there parking there?” I asked, delaying the real reason I'd called. “At the hotel? Or in a lot nearby?”

  “Joe, what's going on?” she asked. “You could've found these answers on your phone. Are you sure you're alright?”

  I sighed and it left my body in a ragged cloud. “I'm sorry, Isabel.”

  “Sorry for what?”

  I leaned my forehead against the steering wheel, suddenly weary and heavy. “I went to see Marc earlier today. After you gave me his info.”

  “Okay,” she said. “Did it not go well?”

  “No, the opposite,” I told her. “He was incredibly helpful. He was able to...fill in the blanks. I can get to Anchor this evening.”

  “Then what's the problem?”

  I debated as to how much to tell her. I didn't want to put her in jeopardy and I didn't want her rushing to Marc's apartment to find him. Not because I was afraid she'd call the police or something like that, but because I didn't think she needed to see his body.

  “I think I put him in danger,” I told her finally. “I told him exactly why I was here and he still wanted to help. And he...got me a way to get to John Anchor. But I think he's...just know that I'm sorry, okay? If I'd realized it, I would've tried to protect him.”

  “You aren't making sense, Joe,” she said. “And now I'm scared for him.”

  “I know I'm not,” I said. “I'm sorry. I shouldn't have called. I just want you to know...I don't know what I wanted you to know. Just that I'm sorry.”

  The line stayed quiet for a moment. “You know, Marc always worried that his father's business would haunt him. Hurt him somehow. He did his best to stay clear of it. I know he's been entangled in it since Mr. Codaselli passed, and I don't think he was comfortable with it. But he always worried.”

  My mouth was clamped tight and the muscles in my jaw ached.

  “You're not telling me everything, Joe,” she said. “I can hear it in your voice.”

  Isabel was like me. She'd spent years working with people who told half-truths and danced around facts. She'd developed the same skills I had – listening to people's words but reading between the lines, watching their body language, digging out where the truth really lay. I knew that I couldn't fool her, nor was I sure I wanted to.

  “I'm sorry, Isabel,” I said. “I truly, truly am.”

  “Tell me, Joe.”

  I didn't say anything.

  “He's dead already, isn't he?” she finally asked.

  I sat up and stared through the windshield. “Yes.”

  She didn't say anything for over a minute and I just sat there, staring out the window.

  “Do you know who did it?” she asked, her voice strained.

  “Yes. I'm pretty sure.”

  “And is this where you ask me to not mention you to the police?” she asked. “If and when they come to talk to me. Because of why you're here and because they may make a connection from Marc to you.”

  “No,” I said, shaking my head even though I was alone in the car. “I won't ask you to do that. You need to do what's right, and you shouldn't take any risks for me.”

  “You can't tell me any more than what you've said?” she asked.

  Of course I could have. But I didn't see what good it would do, and I worried that it could somehow endanger her. “No.”

  She didn't say anything for a long time. I kept the phone pressed to my ear, even though it now felt like an anvil.

  “Go find your wife, Joe,” Isabel finally said. “And if you can make it up to Marc, you should do that, too.”

  THIRTY FIVE

  I'd set the phone down for thirty seconds after hanging up with Isabel when it started vibrating on the passenger seat. The number was blocked. I hesitated for a moment, then picked it up
and answered.

  “Joe, this is Noah,” he said. “We missed you earlier. I apologize. But we moved to a contingency plan.”

  “Why?” My heart jumped into my throat. “What contingency plan?”

  “There were just some things,” he said. “Things we weren't comfortable with. So we moved to a new location that we're more comfortable with. That's why we didn't get back to you immediately. I apologize for it taking so long, but you asked me to make sure your daughter's safety is a priority and that's what I'm doing.”

  “What things?” I pressed. “What weren't you comfortable with?”

  “It's not important and I don't want to get into it,” he said. “Carter and I just discussed a couple of things and decided we wanted to alter our approach. I was taking our earlier conversation into consideration.”

  I started to ask another question, but realized he was doing exactly what I'd asked of him. Questioning what he was doing could undermine that if he had to change things up again. I didn't want him worried about me. I wanted him worried about Elizabeth. And, considering what had just happened here in Minneapolis, I wanted him to do whatever he deemed necessary to keep my daughter safe.

  “Alright,” I said. “You're safe, though?”

  “Yeah, we're good.”

  “Okay, because I'm pretty certain that the guy who has my wife is aware that I'm close to him,” I said. “And I have no idea how he'd know, but I'd guess he might have a lead on Elizabeth, too.” The words felt heavy on my tongue and they came out garbled and in a rush.

  But Noah heard them. “If he does, we're ready,” he said. “I promise.”

  I didn't have any choice but to believe him. “Can I talk to Elizabeth?”

  “Yeah, hang on.”

  I took a couple of deep breaths. I was sweating beneath my shirt, and the air in the car felt humid, stale. I cracked the windows on both sides and a cool blast of wind rushed in.

  “Dad?”

  I exhaled again, hearing Elizabeth's voice. “Hey.”

  “What exactly is going on?”

  “What do you mean?” I asked cautiously. I didn’t know if she was asking about her mother or asking about their change in location, and I didn’t want to offer up any more lies or half-truths unless I absolutely had to.