John Cotton screamed and fell to the ground, writhing in pain. “You’re crazy!” he yelled. “Help!”
Billy’s father knelt beside him and said softly, “Make one more sound, and I’ll break your other kneecap.”
Cotton stared up at him in agony, terrified.
“If my son isn’t in the game next Saturday, I’ll kill you and I’ll kill your son. Do I make myself clear?”
Cotton looked into the man’s eyes and nodded, fighting to keep from screaming with pain.
“Good. Oh, and I wouldn’t want this to get out. I’ve got friends.” He looked at his watch. He had just enough time to catch the next flight to Boston.
His hand began to itch again.
At seven o’clock Sunday morning, dressed in a vested suit and carrying an expensive leather briefcase, he walked past Vendome, through Copley Square, and on to Stuart Street. A half block past the Park Plaza Castle, he entered the Boston Trust Building and approached the guard. With dozens of tenants in the huge building, there would be no way the guard at the reception desk could identify him.
“Good morning,” the man said.
“Good morning, sir. May I help you?”
He sighed. “Even God can’t help me. They think I have nothing to do but spend my Sundays doing the work that someone else should have done.”
The guard said, sympathetically, “I know the feeling.” He pushed a log book forward. “Would you sign in, please?”
He signed in and walked over to the bank of elevators. The office he was looking for was on the fifth floor. He took the elevator to the sixth floor, walked down a flight, and moved down the corridor. The legend on the door read, RENQUIST, RENQUIST & FITZGERALD, ATTORNEYS AT LAW. He looked around to make certain the corridor was deserted, then opened his briefcase and took out a small pick and a tension tool. It took him five seconds to open the locked door. He stepped inside and closed the door behind him.
The reception room was furnished in old-fashioned conservative taste, as befitted one of Boston’s top law firms. The man stood there a moment, orienting himself, then moved toward the back, to a filing room where records were kept. Inside the room was a bank of steel cabinets with alphabetical labels on the front. He tried the cabinet marked R-S. It was locked.
From his briefcase, he removed a blank key, a file, and a pair of pliers. He pushed the blank key inside the small cabinet lock, gently turning it from side to side. After a moment, he withdrew it and examined the black markings on it. Holding the key with the pair of pliers, he carefully filed off the black spots. He put the key into the lock again, and repeated the procedure. He was humming quietly to himself as he picked the lock, and he smiled as he suddenly realized what he was humming. “Far Away Places.”
I’ll take my family on vacation, he thought happily. A real vacation. I’ll bet the kids would love Hawaii.
The cabinet drawer came open, and he pulled it toward him. It took only a moment to find the folder he wanted. He removed a small Pentax camera from his briefcase and went to work. Ten minutes later he was finished. He took several pieces of Kleenex from the briefcase, walked over to the water cooler, and wet them. He returned to the filing room and wiped up the steel shavings on the floor. He locked the file cabinet, made his way out to the corridor, locked the front door to the offices, and left the building.
Chapter Five
At sea, later that evening, Captain Vacarro came to Harry Stanford’s stateroom.
“Signor Stanford…”
“Yes?”
The captain pointed to the electronic map on the wall. “I’m afraid the winds are getting worse. The libeccio is centered in the Strait of Bonifacio. I would suggest that we take shelter in a harbor until—”
Stanford cut him short. “This is a good ship, and you’re a good captain. I’m sure you can handle it.”
Captain Vacarro hesitated. “As you say, signor. I will do my best.”
“I’m sure you will, Captain.”