Chapter 3

I settled back into a routine that I had hoped I would never be in. We caught up with Leo Gomez exactly where Ricky Scudaro said he would be. Leo was quite disappointed when Marcus and I were waiting for him when he arrived.

Leo wasn't one to do things halfway though. He showed up with a hunting rifle and scope and appeared to be planning to set up shop about 200 yards from where he had arranged to meet Ricky.

Sadly, my mind worked the same as Leo's. Marcus and I had scouted out the area earlier in the day and we heard Leo tromping through the brush from half a mile away. He hadn't even cleared the last of the trees before Marcus shattered his kneecap with a retractable police baton.

Leo let out a wail like a wounded animal before I could silence him with a sharp jab to his throat. In fairness though, Marcus had swung the baton like he was planning to drive a sinkerball over the Green Monster at Fenway Park. The sound when it hit Leo's knee was sickening.

By the time Leo came around, he was strapped into the chair that only two days prior had held Ricky Scudaro.

"Fancy meeting you there," I said as I stood inches in front him with a straight razor in my hand. "Marcus and I were out doing some asshole hunting and it looks like we bagged the biggest asshole of the herd."

Marcus let out a loud guffaw at my joke and I saw Leo shift his eyes in Marcus' direction.

I saw his bruised windpipe expand when he saw what Marcus was holding: a fireman's axe.

"Yep, Leo," Marcus said as he ran his finger over the blade's edge. "It looks like you are in for a pretty long night unless you start talking."

I would bet Leo's eyes were two-inches wide by this point.

"I still got the money," he said. "I'll give it back to you. All of it. Just let me go to the bank and I'll get it."

I shook my head at Marcus.

"All of it, Leo?" I asked. "I mean, you have the $25,000 you borrowed and the $12,000 in interest?"

Leo gulped again.

"I can get it," he said. "Just give me a few weeks. I'll have a lot of money coming in the next month or so."

"I don't think you will, Leo," I said. "You see, Ricky was sitting pretty much where you are right now when he called to tell you that Janet and Lila were dead." Leo's eyes watered. When I used the name Lila instead of Penelope, he knew I was telling the truth.

"You'll never get the money back if you kill me," he cried. Marcus laughed at him.

"Damn, Gomez, you don't get it," he said. "Boss here took a liking to your ex-wife and daughter. Fact is, he's the one who saved them. Now ol' Janet is driving around in a Benz and Lila is trying to figure out if she wants a new Jag or a Beamer when she turns 16."

I saw anger in Leo's eyes and I knew Marcus had hit a tender spot.

"It's a shame about that STD you picked up a few years ago," I said. "You probably would still be tapping that hot piece of ass instead of sleeping on the couch if you hadn't fucked around. Damn, what were you thinking? Maybe he's retarded like Ricky."

"Might be, Boss," Marcus said. "Must be a retard to pick a tired old piece of whore ass instead of going home to a fine lady like Miss Janet." Jesus, Marcus was laying it on thick.

"It's a shame I'm such a gentleman," I said. "Or I would mention how Janet gave me a blowjob in the car this morning on my way in or how she let me bang her tight little ass last night. Lila is certainly glad my house has 5 bedrooms, that's for sure. She started out upstairs with us but now she's moved a bit farther away. She said she had trouble sleeping with the sounds that were coming from our room. But I'm too much of gentleman to give details. Hey Leo, did you know that Janet got a tattoo. Yep, right above her snatch. A butterfly. Man, can she spread those wings."

Marcus let out another guffaw.

"That Lila is gonna be a hottie in a few years," he said. "How you like a big buck like me for a son-in-law, Boss?"

I saw pure rage enter Leo's eyes, so I drew the straight razor across his thigh. The rage was replaced by agony as the pain quickly set in.

"Old Leo here doesn't like the thought of that one bit," I said. "I'm not sure if it's because you're black or because he wanted to knock a slice off Lila his damn self."

Leo tried for anger again but his resolve was broken. Shortly thereafter, most everything else was broken, too.

In the end, Leo Gomez died much like my father had: whimpering, begging and covered in his own urine and feces. By the time Marcus and I finished, it was almost 3 a.m. and both of us were covered in sweat and Leo's blood.

We both knew it would be a while before we felt clean again.

I slept most of the next two days. I knew Leo deserved to die for what he tried to do but I felt a sense of remorse for the savage pleasure I took in taunting him before killing him.

Marcus was somewhat immune to guilt but he was not immune from wondering if days like Leo Gomez's last were all his life would ever be about.

I am reluctant to say Marcus was a good man. I can say without reservation that he was a loyal, faithful man. In his own way he had a unique sense of right and wrong. I suppose I was no different. In each of our minds there were certain transgressions that were unforgivable.

Marcus knew the list in my mind was considerably smaller than the list in his. Marcus believed a betrayal of trust was significant enough for the ultimate penalty. He believed — as I did — that those who harmed children (or who tried to harm a child) forfeited their right to breathe. He believed — as I did — that those who preyed or the frail or harmless should suffer death for their penalties.

That's pretty well where my list ended. I had few qualms about the execution of murderers, rapists and child molesters — even if it was necessary that I do it myself. Rapist and child molesters were absolutes. There could be no redemption for them. There is nothing anyone could say; there was no act of contrition the offender could offer that would allow me to spare their lives.

I felt differently about murderers. Perhaps because I am — technically — a multiple murderer myself now that Leo Gomez had joined the ranks of the non-living. Some murders are justified. Some people deserve to die horrible deaths for the acts they perpetrated on others. I wonder if the way I had killed my father — and now Leo Gomez — put me in that list.

I had no doubt that if either man had a single living soul who cared about him, my torture and mutilation of the still-living men and my careless disposal of their remains would put me in someone's cross-hairs.

But I was equally as certain that neither man had left anyone like that behind. Men like my father and Leo Gomez burn every bridge they cross. My father ruled by fear. Those who served him were not respectful; they were terrified that the slightest transgression would result not only in their deaths but in the deaths of their loved ones, too. Of course, the death of the loved ones would happen before the very eyes of the transgressor. It usually would come after my father — or his minions — had forced humiliation and degradation upon the family members.

Men like Leo Gomez lived by deceit and manipulation. He took advantage of whoever might offer aid and he gave nothing in return. He stole from the rich and poor alike and he felt no remorse for his selfish actions. Leo believed, to the very end, that he was justified not only in taking advantage of his ex-wife and daughter's generosity but in having them killed so he might live a better life.

I should be quick to point out that I would not have had Leo Gomez killed for failing to repay my money. I would have had him beaten and battered — possibly more than once — but I do not believe theft and deception are capital offenses. Leo died because he was willing to sacrifice others for his goals — much the same reason at the heart of the matter that had cost my father his life.

Marcus had unknowingly (or perhaps knowingly) hit the nail on the head with his taunts to Gomez. His decision to murder his wife and daughter had moved this from business to personal.

When I finally returned to my office on Friday no one mentioned my absence. There was the usual stack of correspondence that needed my attention from my legitimate assets and the usual coded tally sheets from my illegal interests.

I spent most of the morning poring over the messages and returning calls to the ones that were urgent. It was about 10:45 a.m. when my cell phone rang. A very shaken Janet Conroy was on the other end of the line.

"Michael," she said softly. "Did you mean it when you said I could call you if I needed something?"

"Of course I did, Janet," I replied. "If I can assist you, I most certainly will."

"Can you come to the hospital?" she said. "Quickly?"

I wondered if perhaps Marcus' employees had been less careful about hiding Leo Gomez's remains than they had my father's.

"I'll leave right now," I said. "Shall I meet you in the cafeteria in say, 10 minutes?"

"Not in the caf," she said hastily. "Oncology is on the fourth floor. Tell the nurse at the station that you're here to see me about a private, confidential matter. She'll show you where I am."

My early-detection radar in my head sounded urgently. Was Janet Conroy trying to set me up? But she sounded frantic. I agreed to be there and hastily left my office.

I looked carefully for police officers as I drove to the hospital and again as I entered the building. Either the police undercover agents were getting better or there were none on the premises. There were the usual cops lurking around the ER, investigating the events that placed someone there. Of course the hospital employed guards at various stations. But I saw no one who looked like an FBI or ATF agent.

When I didn't see police I was worried further. Janet had sounded terrified on the phone. Even when she was face-to-face with me she had managed to maintain her steely resolve. I was certain that she had been called down to identify the remains of her former husband. The shape I had left him in was a gruesome sight and it wouldn't have been a pleasant task.

But the more I thought about it, the less likely that seemed. There was little remaining to ID the man with. Unless Marcus' men had buried his hands with the rest of the body, there would be no fingerprints. Regardless of what CSI: New York might lead you to believe there was no way they would have DNA back in less than several weeks.

Still, something had spooked Janet to the point that she felt I was the only person who could help her.