beyond his control. But it didn’t mean he had to sit idly by while Richards fled the city, or possibly the country. Doing nothing was not an option at this stage of the game.
Dantzler’s plan was simple, cheap, and if not completely satisfying, it would at least keep Richards within his sights. He would have someone drop by the tavern and spend a couple of hours inside, to see if Richards was there, to monitor his movements, and to observe the men and women he interacted with. No tape recorder, no camera… just old-fashion cop observation. Eyes on the prize.
Two nights ago, Bruce Rawlinson was the observer, arriving at a little past eight and staying until eleven. He reported back that Richards remained seated on a stool at the end of the bar for much of the night, drinking very little, and only rarely interacting with the clientele. On a couple of occasions, he worked the bar while the bartender took a bathroom break. At nine-thirty, he left the bar, went upstairs, and was gone for approximately twenty minutes before returning to his stool.
According to Rawlinson, Richards “acted normal, just like you might expect a tavern owner to act.”
Last night, Dantzler dispatched Laurie to the tavern, telling her to stay as long as she felt comfortable. He also recommended she not go alone. A woman as beautiful as Laurie would need help fending off the many drink offers and Big Bubba advances he knew would come her way. For women frequenting a dive like Johnny’s Tavern, there was always strength in numbers. Laurie agreed, taking Annie Westrom, her old colleague in the Missing and Exploited Children’s Unit, with her. They stayed for almost two hours, each one nursing a beer, while politely declining the dozen or so sent to their booth by hopeful suitors.
Laurie’s report differed little from Rawlinson’s. Richards spent the entire two hours perched on a stool at the end of the bar, reading a magazine or newspaper. He had one drink-Jim Beam, straight-briefly spoke to a couple of men, nodded at several women, and helped out once when the bartender took a break. All perfectly normal actions for a bar owner, Laurie concluded.
Although nothing noteworthy had been gleaned from the visits, Dantzler was satisfied he had made the correct decision sending his undercover snoops into the bar. Based on their reporting, he was now sure of two things- Johnny Richards was still in town, and he had no inkling that he was on their radar.
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
Johnny Richards closed
Besides, he had more important things to do than engage in conversation with a vodka-soaked floozy like Patty Morris. Far more important things. Like deciding what course of action to take next.
He had spent the past hour alternating his attention between studying the fillies running at Churchill Downs tomorrow and the two fillies seated in the middle booth next to the wall. He circled his picks on tomorrow’s card, noting his wager amount next to each one. But as much as he loved handicapping the ponies, the two-legged fillies dominated his thoughts.
The one seated in profile, the one with short blonde hair and cute turned-up nose, he had never seen before. He had a gift for remembering faces, and hers wasn’t one he had run across. She was completely unfamiliar to him. Not so with the other filly, the one he could see dead on, the beauty with the long brown hair and classic movie star beauty. Her, he was familiar with. Her, he had seen before. Twice, in fact.
The first time was the night he sat parked on the street across from Dantzler’s house. He had gotten a good look at her face when she stepped onto the well-lighted porch. Her unexpected arrival had forced him to alter his plan to kill the detective. She had no way of knowing it, but she had saved her lover’s life. A lucky break for Dantzler. He wondered how she would feel about it if she knew.
The second time he saw her was immediately following the gunfight between Rocky Stone and the detectives. She arrived shortly after the shooting stopped, flashed her shield, spoke briefly with Dantzler, then began interviewing witnesses. Very thorough, very professional, very cop-like.
And now here she was, this detective, this beautiful filly, sitting in his bar, acting all cool and remote and nonchalant and superior. Hanging with her gal-pal, two fun-loving chicks out for a few drinks, having a nice, innocent time in the bar.
His bar.
Tonight.
Coincidence? He didn’t think so.
They were here for a reason, and he knew what the reason was-to keep an eye on him. They had been sent by Dantzler to monitor his comings and goings. To keep him within grabbing distance.
Okay, he thought, so now we all know the score. You have me in your sights. No big deal… I’ve been there before.
He grinned.
Let the games begin.
An hour after the two lady cops departed, Richards climbed the stairs to the small apartment above the bar, opened the safe, and began filling a duffel bag with stacks of cash. Close to a million dollars, all in hundred dollar bills. Emergency funds he had accumulated over the years. Get away money.
After the bag was filled and zipped shut, he sat at the wooden table and assessed his situation. He did this without any sense of panic or fear. Those two emotions simply did not exist within him, and never had. From the very start of his career as a killer, when he was still a teen, he had earned a reputation for being cool, calm, and totally in control of his emotions. Sam Giancana once famously called him “the original Ice Man.”
If the men he had worked for and against in those bloody days hadn’t scared him, a cop like Jack Dantzler sure wasn’t about to.
But Dantzler was, he knew, a damn good cop. One of those bulldog types who doesn’t know the meaning of the word quit. Who keeps digging until he gets what he wants. No, he thought, Dantzler might not be a man to fear, but he was a man to be respected.
Giving this much thought to a cop, even one with Dantzler’s skills and reputation, was out of character for him. He was not a man given to introspection or reflection or self-recrimination. He didn’t second-guess himself, either for actions taken or not taken. Beating yourself up served no useful purpose; it only made you weak. And being weak made you vulnerable. Being vulnerable got you killed.
He had never been weak, nor was he a whiner. Whatever happens, happens. He had always understood and accepted this. And regardless of the outcome, you deal with it like a man. Like a
Richards saw himself as a man with a violent past and a man with no past. Such a dichotomy made him prey on two fronts-those who knew and those, like Dantzler, who sought to know. Falling victim to one meant death, the other meant prison. Neither option was acceptable.
Fully aware that the day might arrive when he would find himself in someone’s cross hairs, he had long ago mapped out an escape plan. First, he had to put together a large amount of cash; any escape plan required sufficient funds. He had the money, more than enough, in fact, to get safely out of the country. To elude the predators who aimed to bring him down. With this much cash, he had plenty of options to choose from. Perhaps he would go to Costa Rica or Mexico and buy a small house or villa. Some place warm, close to the ocean.
Second, he would have to destroy the bar, a most regrettable but necessary requirement. He couldn’t risk leaving anything behind, not a single note, not an inventory entry, not a trace or shred of anything the authorities
