A Trace of Revenge Read online

  A Trace of Revenge

  Lyle Howard

  Copyright © 2018 Lyle Howard

  All rights reserved; No parts of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping, or by any information retrieval system, without the permission, in writing, of the author.

  Contact: [email protected]

  Contents

  Prologue

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

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  27

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  29

  30

  31

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  33

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  36

  37

  38

  39

  40

  41

  42

  43

  44

  45

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  47

  48

  49

  50

  51

  52

  53

  54

  55

  56

  57

  58

  59

  60

  61

  62

  63

  64

  65

  66

  67

  68

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Author’s Note

  Trouble in Paradise

  The Nocturne

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  For Riva, the love of my life, this one is for you.

  And to my loyal readers who have

  brought me this far, I love you all.

  Our destiny rules over us, even when we are not yet aware of it...

  - Friedrich Nietzsche

  Psychometry noun

  psy·chom·e·try | sī-ˈkä-mə-trē

  Definition of psychometry

  1 : The ability or art of divining information about people or events associated with an object solely by touching or being near to it.

  Prologue

  Coral Gables, Florida

  10:45 P.M.

  Nearly four hours had crept by, and Anthony Magnetti was getting antsy. Waiting was always the hardest part. He had passed the time with a leisurely dinner of tuna steak and hash browns, but the restaurant had been nearly empty at that late hour, and his meal had only taken forty-five minutes to consume. The waitress had been flirtatious, annoyingly so, continually questioning him as to why someone who was so good looking would be dining alone. Ordinarily, he would have seized the opportunity to charm her and leave her derriere imprint on his hotel sheets, but tonight he was preoccupied, and the waitress, much to her disappointment, would have to settle for a large tip instead.

  It was late, but he had another hour to kill. He could have gone back to his room, but that might have relaxed him too much. The mere sight of a comfortable bed after a full meal and with the sound of the heavy rain pounding on the hotel window would have been disastrous. He was in a rental car, and the tank was full, so he decided to drive.

  He hadn’t gone far before he pulled into a deserted parking lot beside a supermarket. The car screeched to a stop, the wheels begging for more traction on the rain-soaked asphalt. Flipping on the Porsche’s interior lamp, Magnetti skimmed through some of the information the rental agency had given him. He read the brief paragraph describing this little suburb of Coral Gables that was situated just west of the city of Miami. Folding the pamphlet closed, he smiled, finding something he thought might pass some more time. If the directions were correct, he would head south toward US 1 and pass right by the University of Miami campus.

  Out of a sense of nostalgia more than anything else, he turned in to the private college and drove past a few of the fraternity houses on San Amaro Drive, decked out in the school colors of orange and green. A few were already decorated with their holiday displays. A handful of Kappa Delta Epsilon brothers stood under the awning of their patio and waved admiringly with their upraised beer cans as the Porsche glided past them in the downpour. The sight of the students took Magnetti back to his own college days in New Jersey. What a strong baseball team the Miami Hurricanes always managed to field! In his senior year at Seton Hall, he remembered going three for four against the Canes and still losing the game in twelve innings. It was funny, the things that stuck in the mind.

  As he drove the campus perimeter, he saw the infamous Mark Light Baseball Stadium looming darkly through the rain off to his left. If it had been any other night, he might have stopped and taken a piss on their field, just for old time’s sake. If he hadn’t been in Miami for another reason, he probably would have stopped off for a couple of frosty beers and then spray-painted the home team dugout in Seton Hall colors with all the delight of his lost youth.

  But with thirty minutes to go, he turned onto US 1 heading north, leaving the contemptible campus to fade away in his rear-view mirror. Half an hour would give him plenty of time to spare. Crooning a heartfelt rendition of Born to Run along with the radio, he turned right off US 1 and quickly found Old Cutler Road, which wound its way through the densely thicketed streets of Coconut Grove. The rain still showed no signs of slackening, especially through the thick canopy of trees that made the narrow old roadway feel almost claustrophobic. Traffic was light at this time of the morning, and according to the GPS, his final destination lay less than fifteen minutes due south.

  As was his usual procedure upon arriving at his destination, he drove around the neighborhood over and over again until he felt like he had lived there his entire life. No chance of that though; the manicured lawns of Gables by the Sea were a far cry from the low-rent housing sandlots he had grown up in on the Jersey shore. Tree-lined and usually serene, these lush avenues had taken on a sinister pall as the thundershowers made the streetlights seem to glow with an eerie incandescence. Across the facades of these million-dollar homes, ornately manicured hedges and bushes cast menacing shadows that danced ominously over their protective walls.

  He didn’t need to recheck his watch to know that he was on schedule. Although he was always primed and ready for action, he preferred to wait for a break in the weather. Another vehicle cruised by the Porsche as it remained parked between two other cars, down the street from the Walker’s house, to avoid any suspicion. The passing vehicle sprayed a sheet of water onto the hood and windshield of the sports car, but Magnetti, who reclined out of sight in the driver’s seat, was oblivious to the incoming tidal wave, choosing instead to tread that transcendental line between sleep and consciousness.

  Maybe he should read the dossier one more time, the cautious part of him whispered in the back of his mind. Like a “stay-put” signal from a third base coach, he shrugged off the advice. There was no need to read. He had committed all of the critical information to memory. He could picture their faces like they were his own family. He knew more about them than t
hey knew themselves. To prove himself right, he ran down the dossiers in his mind...

  Primary Objective: (This was hand-stamped in bold letters)

  Name: Franklin Irwin Walker

  Born: November 30, 1965, in St. Petersburg, Florida

  (Well, happy birthday to you, Mr. Walker!)

  Attended College: Florida State University

  Graduated: 1985.

  Degree: Finance

  Past Employment: Commodities Broker 1987-2001 Smith, Grayson, and Fitch.

  Current Employer: Mason International 2002-Present. Started 2002 in acquisitions. Transferred to Finance and Accounting Department in June of 2004. Named Department head in July 2005. Promoted to Vice-President of Finance in March of this year.

  In his mind, he flipped the page to the attached photo and studied his quarry’s face before continuing...

  Secondary Objective:

  (This one spells b-o-n-u-s! Cha-ching!)

  Marital Status: Married August 30, 1990, to Elizabeth Hartnett-Walker

  Not a Factor:

  Children: One child. Matthew Barton Walker. Born March 15, 1996. Attends The Whitehall Academy, a private boarding school outside of Orlando.

  (What more was there to know? The kid was away until December, so what was the worry? The house had an antiquated alarm system from the sixties that had never been updated. Snip and bypass a few wires on the box mounted outside of the home, and he was inside. A piece of cake! Ten minutes...tops!)

  The high-beams of an approaching car flooded the interior of the Porsche, stirring Magnetti back into reality. The rain sounded like it was finally beginning to subside, so he raised himself to an upright position and wiped away the condensation that had accumulated on the inside of the windshield from his steady breathing. Everything was as he had hoped. The neighborhood was quiet except for the sloshing sounds of the occasional passing vehicle. Reaching over to the passenger seat, Magnetti grabbed for the brown paper bag that contained his ski mask. Pulling the dark knit cap over his head, he checked himself in the rear-view mirror, tucking away the last few stray curls that hung out in the back. White eyes stared back at him in the mirror like pearls on black velvet. With a tug on each finger, he tightened his leather gloves before opening the door and stepping out into the drizzle. Showtime!

  The night air was crisp and moist, and through the mouth hole of his mask, a vaporous plume of smoke erupted with every breath Magnetti took. As he walked around to the rear of the car, he patted his back pocket to make sure he had the lock-picking set and wires for the alarm box. With silent precision, he quickly popped the trunk. A dim light partially illuminated the only item in the compartment, a black rectangular carrying case. Without a second thought, he reached up and shattered the bulb with one of his keys, making a mental note to report the light as broken to the rental agency. With all the care of a father handling his newborn child, he lovingly pulled the slim case towards him.

  Every ballplayer, at one time or another in their career, has a favorite bat. Perhaps it is just a silly superstition, or maybe it is just the confidence that a particular piece of ash or maple can instill in a hitter when it feels just right in their hands. Some of these bats are well-made enough to last an entire career without ever splintering. These staffs of lore usually end up on display, exhibited as a part of their owner’s memorabilia in Cooperstown, New York.

  “Sweet Amy” was Anthony Magnetti’s pride and joy. Thirty-nine ounces of raw thunder was how he described her. He called her “Sweet Amy,” although no woman in his life had offered him such loyalty. She was nestled in her felt-lined box, tan, streaked by fine grain, lying like a calendar girl posing amid the soft red material.

  “Sweet Amy” felt more than “just right” in Magnetti’s hands; she was an extension of his arms and his soul. She was a slave to him—gratefully willing, and honor bound to do his bidding. Whether she was pooching a soft bunt that would trickle down the third base line and miraculously manage to stay fair, or when she was launching a four hundred and sixty-foot moon-shot into the waiting glove of some young fan behind the big green wall in a straight-away left field, “Sweet Amy” could do it all.

  Tonight, he would call on her once more.

  11:45 P.M.

  The hibiscus hedges that lined the street offered him full camouflage as he worked his way down the block. Moving covertly but with a determined gait, Magnetti covered the quarter mile to the wrought iron gate that barricaded the Walkers’ driveway in less than five minutes. A control box was positioned to the left side of the entrance, low enough that the driver of a vehicle could reach through their window and punch in the correct four numbers. From memory, Magnetti keyed in 1-1-3-0, and the light on the box flickered from red to green. Didn’t anyone ever use a code besides their birth date? With all the speed of a tired plow horse, the gate opened, allowing Magnetti to sprint the last hundred yards up to the house. In less than two minutes, the alarm had been disabled.

  The Walker residence was 11,500 square feet of creature comfort. It sat on a three-acre crest of land that leveled off behind the house to where the property line met Biscayne Bay. Post-modern in architecture, the concrete and glass-bricked edifice was an impressive landmark for the curious onlookers who periodically cruised by on their boats. During better weather conditions, it had been photographed for countless magazines and television shows; but now, in the early morning drizzle, the house stood gray and somber, water dripping from the rain gutters, puddles gathering in great pools on the front lawn.

  Magnetti knew the floor plan as though it were his own home. There were fifteen total rooms. Well, except for the fourteen extra rooms, it might have been. The estate included five bedrooms, three bathrooms, one den, a sewing room, dining room, living room, kitchen, billiards room, and, of course, a study. Who doesn’t need a special place just to study in? No live-in servants to account for, and only one sentry supplied by a security company who made rounds through the neighborhood every two hours like clockwork.

  With Sweet Amy propped over his shoulder like he was waiting on deck, Magnetti pulled out a pass card and slipped it into the electronic lock in the front door. With a barely audible click, the deadbolt slid open. Silently, he slipped inside, holding his finger over the bolt so it would shut without that incriminating sound. Seconds later, he was standing in the foyer of the majestic home, marveling at his exquisite surroundings. Cathedral ceilings, teakwood floors...he wondered how many seasons he would have to play to afford this kind of place. A wistful dream that assumed he ever possessed the discretion to bank away part of his salary.

  Even bathed in the pale glow that filtered in through the skylights, Magnetti could discern fine art when he saw it. He figured that just one of the paintings that hung on the walls, or one of the sculptures that graced the living area, could have easily paid his mortgage for three years. You didn’t have to be some snooty art maven to tell that these were the genuine goods, not some reproduced lithographs or ceramic counterfeits. Just one of these pieces would have probably satisfied even the most discriminating of collectors.

  Pulling a penlight out of his pocket, he made his way across the living room. Pausing for a brief moment, his eyes narrowed with speculation. He wondered if, in the aftermath, anyone would even notice if one of the smaller pieces had somehow vanished from the inventory. As he silently moved across the house, he shook off the wishful thinking like a bad sign from his third base coach, tapping the business-end of Sweet Amy against the side of his head for even letting himself entertain such a preposterous notion. He had to stay focused; fantasies of his own dingy pad enhanced by one of these exquisite objects d’art were not the reason he was here....

  12:15 A.M.

  Matthew Walker had dreams like any other nine-year-old boy. In the sanctuary of his own darkened bedroom, his eyelids fluttered as he shifted the pillow under his head. In the shallows of his restless slee
p, a blur of festive colors filled his mind’s eye. Streamers and balloons, confetti and horns; all the things that would make a birthday party seem so wondrous to a young child.

  Even though the bed he tossed and turned on was fashioned after an Indy race car, there would be no dreams of taking the checkered flag this evening. Tonight, all of his thoughts were caught up in the excitement of his father’s upcoming birthday celebration.

  It was strictly to be a family affair, organized by his mother and attended only by the immediate family and a few of their closest friends. His father wasn’t aware that he had flown in a day early for the party; his bedtime was long before his father came home from the office. His mother wanted it to be a surprise. His dad tended to work long hours and travel a lot, but when his father woke up in the morning and saw Matthew, it would be his best birthday gift ever!

  His mother had it all planned out. She’d phoned the school administrators telling them that there had been a death in the family, having tipped Matthew off to her scheme beforehand. The school was pretty strict about allowing kids to leave right before midterm exams, and you needed a perfect excuse. Although he tried to look sad as per her instructions, he never was a terrific liar. In retrospect, he probably shouldn’t have waved and giggled back at the Dean of Boys who’d suspiciously watched Matthew scurry down the boarding ramp that lead to his waiting flight.

  But every silver lining has a cloud, and for Matthew, it was leaving his friends and classmates back at the Whitehall Academy. Even though he knew it would only be for the weekend, he would still pine for Hope Jannick. Over the past few months, Matthew had suddenly grown very popular with the girls, and although he wouldn’t admit it—even if you gave him an Indian burn to his wrists—he kind of enjoyed all the attention. It might have been his tight blonde curls or his emerald green eyes that were unexpectedly stimulating the blossoming hormones of the opposite sex, but it wasn’t like that with Hope. He just cared about her more than the rest of the girls. Maybe it was because he had known her the longest, since their fathers both worked for the same company. Whatever the reason was, he just knew he liked her better, and that was all he would ever say about that.