Road Rules Online

Once they had the car off the jack, Mike took the keys and went to start the motor.  Stan started to tighten the lugnuts when he looked at the crate once more.  There had to be an angle to work here, but what?  He decided not to cut Mike out of it.  Not if he learned what the crate held.  Until then, Stan had time to plan.  Maybe he could soak Andre for a few more bucks.  Or maybe the buyer.  Or maybe the Church.

Or maybe he would split the reward with Mike.  God knew the guy deserved a break after the last six months he’d had.

The sound of a police siren made Stan jump and drop the lug wrench.  He froze, looking back up the highway.  Sure enough, a State Trooper crested the last hill and headed straight for Stan’s position.

“No,” he said aloud and watched his impending doom careen at him, sirens wailing, lights flashing.

He watched as it blew by the Cadillac and disappeared over the next rise, whipping around semis and minivans.  Stan let out of sigh of relief.

“Fuck this,” he said to himself.  He did a quick job on the lugs and tossed the jack in the trunk.  He then hoisted the crate back up and slammed the trunk lid when it was inside.

“Let’s roll,” he said as he climbed into the passenger seat.

“Where do you want to stop for lunch?” asked Mike.

“Charleston.”  Stan couldn’t help smiling.  “I know this place north of the city with decent food and a few other…  attractions.  It’ll do you some good, my man.”

Mike put the car in drive and eased it back onto the freeway.

Sharon could kick herself for being so stupid.  During her mad dash to get showered and fed, she picked up a six-pack of bottled water in case this turned into a day trip.  A healthy decision, she knew, but also one bad for long-term surveillance.

The pressure in her bladder began somewhere around Canton and grew steadily until, somewhere a few miles north of I-70, it threatened to explode into her pants unless she pulled over.

The rest stop appeared at the perfect time.  Unfortunately, the Cadillac didn’t stop.  She had no choice.  She ran into the ladies room, slammed the stall door shut, and groaned loudly as she let loose.  By the time she’d finished, she knew, the Cadillac would be halfway to the Ohio River.

She sat for a few more minutes in the stall and cried.  This was not worth it.  She’d go home and start the process of job hunting.

Or maybe she’d curl up with a pint of chocolate fudge nut ice cream and worry about the job situation Monday.

Then again, this was a 1962 DeVille.  The thing had to get something like twenty feet to the gallon.  Yarazelski would have to pull over soon and gas up.  If he did that, she might catch him.

Heading back out to her car, she decided to give herself until she reached the Ohio River before turning around.  At that point, it would be a lost cause.

Red and green jewels glittered inside the crate, set in a gold trimmed wooden box.  The box had words carved on it, words in Latin and Polish, neither of which Stan could read.  He could, however, make out a name on the silver plate:  Jakob Drazdauskas.  A date below it read 1844-1892, and below that, Danzig, Prussia.

“Holy shit!”  He closed the lid quickly.  What the hell did Andre have him hauling?  Was this that thing CNN said someone lifted from St. Jakob’s last night?  Did Andre lift it?  Should he return it?  It’d been less than twenty-four hours since the Chest had disappeared.  What was the Church offering?  Two million?  Five?  It was like hitting the lotto, only with the police chasing him.

He looked up at Mike, still sitting in the car listening to the radio.  No, Stan wouldn’t say a word.  If he returned it, he’d have to split the reward with Mike.  And if he kicked Mike out now, he might get suspicious, maybe call the cops.  Walking away with… Five million?  Walking away with half of that didn’t sound bad at all.

Another knee-capping – or worse – at the hands of Andre Koradovich, however, sounded very bad.

The passenger door opened, and Mike started toward the back of the car.  “What’s that?”

Stan jumped and let the lid slam shut.  He hoisted the crate and sat it on the other side of the guard rail.  “Nothing.  Just that thing the buyer wants.”

“And you decided to take a peek.”

Stan moved back to the car.  “I just got the trunk cleared.”  He reached in and grabbed the lug wrench.  “Here.  Loosen the lugs.  I’ll fish out the jack.”

Mike crouched down and began working on the flattened tire.

This could not be happening.

Mason sat on the berm of I-77, the Pro Football Hall of Fame to his right, its football-shaped dome glittering in the sunlight.  Behind him sat an Ohio State Highway Patrol cruiser, lights flashing.

A six-foot plus trooper erupted from the cruiser and swaggered up to Mason’s car.  Mason already had out his license, registration, and proof of insurance.  He also had out his business card.  The trooper leaned into his window, letting Mason check his reflection in the man’s sunglasses.

“Good afternoon,” said the trooper.   “Do you know why I pulled you over?”

You have a quota to make? Mason handed the officer his papers.  “I know I was going a little fast, but…”

“Wait here.”  The trooper headed back to his cruiser.  Mason could see him talking on the radio.  All he could do was sit and fume.

Stan Yarazelski.  Stan fucking Yarazelski.  How in the hell could Koradovich trust that moron?  Why would you give a priceless artifact to a man who raped a snowman in front of Buckland High School for the whole student body to see?  You wanted ganja?  You went to Stan.  You wanted a car stolen?  You went to Stan.  You wanted to move something expensive and irreplaceable, but hide it from the authorities?  You were better off calling FedEx and asking for a police escort.

Mason had to get out of there.  He had to make it clear to the trooper this was an emergency.  He had to save this fucking deal before one very pissed-off Cuban came looking for him.

The trooper returned.  “I’m citing you for doing over seventy-five, Mr. Mason,” said the trooper.  “I clocked you doing eighty-three, but your record’s clean.  I don’t think giving you reckless op will accomplish anything except jack up your insurance rates.”

“I understand,” he said.  “Did you read my business card?”

“Yes.  You’re some claims guy for Walden Insurance.  Why?”

“Because I happen to be on the trail of the Chest of St. Jakob.  Have you seen the news?”

“Is that that box with some guy’s bones in it?”

“Yeah.”

“And your company insured that?”

“Exactly.  So you see, I had a perfectly good reason for doing eighty-three today.”

The trooper tore the ticket off the pad and shoved it at Mason.

“What’s this?” Mason asked.

“It’s your ticket.  See, I work for the Canton Highway Patrol Post, and I’m on the trail of arrogant white boys who think they can bullshit me about doing eighteen miles over the speed limit.”

Mason took the ticket.  “But…”

“You have a nice day, Mr. Mason.  And next time?  Come up with a better story.”  The trooper swaggered back to his car and waited for Mason to pull back into traffic.

Grudgingly, Mason kept his speed below 65 until he reached the next county line.

“Hello, Koradovich,” said Estevez.  Behind him stood Simmons, with two uniform cops further back.

“Yes?” said Koradovich.  “May I help you?”

Estevez reached into his pocket and shoved a card at Koradovich.  “Carlo Estevez, Major Crimes Unit, Cleveland Police.  This is my associate, Detective Charles Simmons.  We’d like to ask you a few questions regarding a company you own.”

Koradovich spread his hands and looked around.  “As you can see, this is my company.  Andre the Giant’s Clean Used Cars.”

“Are you sure about the clean part?” asked Simmons.

“Kiss my ass, Detective.”

“Has it sat in one of your cars?”

Estevez glared at the young detective.  “Simmons.”  He turned back to Koradovich.  “We weren’t discussing your primary business.  No one questions you own a buy here/screw here lot.  I’m here about another business, one you have a silent partnership in.”

“And that would be…  what?  Is someone selling drugs out of one of my apartment buildings?  Or my bar?  What, Lieutenant?  I’m a busy man.”

“You are a partner in a firm that in turn is a partner in a company called Cossack Holdings.  In fact, you seem to be the only partner worth mentioning.”

Koradovich leaned back and laced his fingers behind his head.  “Probably.  Who knows? My accountant does a lot of things for tax purposes.”

“Like launder money through nail salons on the east side?” said Simmons.

“What’s your point, Lieutenant?  I’ve got a business to run.”

“Cossack Holdings…  Nice name, by the way,” said Estevez.  “No one would ever suspect a guy named ‘Koradovich’ as one of the partners.”

Koradovich waved his hand in a circle at Estevez.

“Anyway, Cossack Holdings owns a warehouse.”

“Allied Staging,” Simmons added.

“Allied Staging,” said Estevez.  “Out in the valley off 480.  Know it?”

A low bubbling sound came from under Koradovich, followed by a smell best described as organic.

The uniforms both covered their mouths and noses.  Estevez waved his hand in front of his face.  “Can I take that as a no?”

“It’s no crime to own a warehouse, Lieutenant,” said Koradovich.  “Lots of people own them.  We Ukrainians call that ‘investment property.’  Familiar with the concept?  I guess on a cop’s salary, you wouldn’t be.”

“You’re right, Andre.  It’s not a crime to own a warehouse.  It is, however, a crime to aid and abet grand larceny.”  He perched on the edge of Koradovich’s desk.  “See, Allied had been contracted to store and secure a very rare artifact, The Chest of St. Jakob of Danzig.  Perhaps you’ve heard of it?”

At Koradovich’s elbow sat the morning’s Plain Dealer, the headline proclaiming the police “baffled” in locating the stolen relic.  “The media seems to think you can’t find your own dicks if you unzipped your flies.  That why you’re harrassing me?”

“I’m here,” said Estevez, “because you own the property where the Chest was stolen.  Among other things we can discuss downtown.”

“Maybe it was stolen during transport.”

Estevez shook his head.  “It came from the airport by armored car and left by police escort.  Both transport companies can account for their time.  Your warehouse manager seems to have a problem accounting for his.”

“So what do you want me to do about it?”

Estevez smiled.  “I want you to come downtown and answer a few questions.”

“And if I don’t?”

“Well, you have a right to refuse.  I’m sure you already knew that.”

“I also know I have a right to an attorney.”

Estevez motioned to the two uniforms.  “Help Mr. Koradovich to the car, boys.  Handcuffs won’t be necessary.  Just a friendly chat.”  He turned back to Koradovich.  “Ain’t that right, Koradovich?”

“Yeah.  Friendly.  Let me call my friendly lawyer so he can give you a friendly reminder in what my rights are.”

Chapter 7

Canton looked like a rejected location for Blade Runner, with an oil refinery and a dying steel mill dominating the landscape.  Once Stan passed the Pro Football Hall of Fame, however, heavy industry gave way to suburban malls, franchise food, and discount carpet places.  Suburbia gave way to small towns and an increasing number of farms.

By nine that morning, Stan and Mike had crossed I-70 into southern Ohio and into the hilly section of the state.  Not long afterward, as they passed through a little town called Cambridge, something fell off a semi in front of them.

And rolled under the Caddie.

“Shit,” said Stan, swerving to miss whatever it was.  The back corner of the Cadillac bounced once, then began shaking.  “Uh-oh.”

“What’s that?” said Mike.

“It was bad,” said Stan.  “It took out a tire.”

“We have a spare, I hope.”

“I’m sure we do.  Otherwise, we ain’t getting to Miami by tomorrow morning.”

Stan pulled the car off to the berm and killed the engine.  “Wait here.  I’ll take care of it.”

He got out and popped the trunk.  Inside sat a wooden shipping crate just small enough to fit in the average sedan’s trunk.  Someone had thoughtfully attached two leather handles on the side, for which Stan was grateful.  While the crate left plenty of room in the trunk, it still blocked the spare tire and jack.  He hoisted the crate out and set it off to the side, away from the highway in case some jackass plowed into the back of the car.

It wasn’t locked.  Stan noticed that, as soon as he dropped it, the lock hinges bounced and rattled.  It couldn’t have been more than forty pounds, whatever it was, but it also wasn’t locked.  Someone had jimmied it at some point.  That wasn’t good.  If they had helped themselves to the crate’s contents, Koradovich wouldn’t bother asking when Stan noticed the lock was busted.

He lifted the lid just enough to see inside.

“Holy shit!”