CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

SKULL

 

 

 

 

 

 

Leaning against a tree, a narrow man in ratty black jeans and a hoodie watched the door of the Walworth County Judicial Center. With the sleeves ripped off his sweater, his tanned arms were bared to the sun, along with his favorite tattoo—the rose-schadel, a skull with a rose painted on its cracked white temple.

He checked his watch. The sentencing hearing couldn’t take more than a few minutes. There had never even been a trial. No need. Baron had confessed to everything, leaving the judge nothing to do but decide how long to lock him up and how big a fine to leave for his rich-ass dad to pay.

The glass doors swung open and the man of the hour strode through. Baron Hackett walked tall and proud, dressed in a two-piece suit but flanked by sheriff’s deputies. The boy’s hands were cuffed behind his back. It was only a short stroll from here to the waiting squad car and a short ride from Walworth County to the juvenile detention facility in Racine.

As Baron and his guards passed, Skull tilted his head over a cigarette and lighter, letting his cupped hands and his hood conceal his face. Over his fingers, he glanced at the kid. They exchanged a look, nothing more. But in the brief moment their eyes met, Skull sent his thanks.

Their scheme had worked. The boy was taking the fall. Skull was going free. Baron hadn’t done a thing besides lift his cousin’s key card. Well, that and devise the alibi, the whole Stubbs-Holland angle. Genius bit of work, that was. We’ve got to throw them a bone, Baron had insisted. Divert attention from what we’re really after. Lucky thing the kid had an inside scoop on that old, forgotten murder case. It was just the thing they’d needed. Skull had rifled the Stubbs-Holland papers while leaving the ones they were really after untouched. The original documents were safe and sound back at the police station, but their information locked away in Skull’s brain.

Skull was free to move forward with the plan now. Meanwhile, Baron could assume all responsibility for the break-in while still looking like a bleeding saint. The incident with the police dispatcher had been an unlucky complication—Skull had seen no other way of escape but to crack her in the back of the head with one of the boards leaning against the wall. But Baron had managed to smooth even that one over, framing it as an accident. The kid was confident he wouldn’t be behind bars long. He’d win the system over with his impeccable good behavior. Skull wasn’t sure if the boy was brave or just stupid. Either way, Baron’s sacrifice served his purposes.

And The Man’s.

After all, it wasn’t Skull whom Baron was trying to impress.

The sheriff’s deputies tucked Baron away in the back seat, reminding him to watch his head. They got in the front. Closed the doors. Took off down the street in the direction of Racine.

Skull pulled his phone out of his pocket. He dialed a number he didn’t keep in his contacts. A number he’d erase from his call history as soon as the conversation was over.

It rang once. The Man picked up. “Yes?”

Skull savored his anticipation. Took a drag from the cigarette. “It’s all taken care of.”

“You have the information?”

“Yep. You were right. The cops had a whole folder on the Markham Ring.” Seventeen years ago, the Ring had gone down in a blaze of glory. Bobby Markham and his boys were caught red-handed in an alley behind the last bank they ever broke into, right in their home town of Lake Geneva. Bobby never lived to see the morrow.

“And?” The Man prodded.

Skull took another deep breath through the cigarette and blew a long column of smoke. “I know where to find Fritz.” He let the words hang, knowing The Man’s eagerness was coming into full blossom on the other end of the line. “The Plan can move forward.”