Page 112 of Deathmarch
“Do you know who installed the safes? In twenty sixteen specifically.”
“You gotta be freaking kidding me.” He hacked. Big dreams for a baseball career or not, he’d been a smoker for as long as Harper had known him. “Let me think. You woke me up from a sound sleep.”
“Think fast. It’s a matter of life and death.”
Brandon hacked again. “I need a cigarette.”
“Have one later.”
“All right. All right. Jack freaking Lowry did safes. Who else?” He paused. “Dusty… Damn, he only worked for Donovan for a year. What was his last name? Lives in Avondale.”
“Dusty Chotkowski.”
“That’s it. Snooty little hippie shit. Thought he was better than the rest of us because he recycled.”
“Anyone else?”
“Brian Kaplan, but only if everyone else was busy. He didn’t like working with the welding machine. Always thought he was gonna get burned. Chickenshit.” Brandon hacked. “That’s it, man.”
“Any chance you remember who installed the safe at Old Man Lamm’s house?”
“Christ, you gonna drive me to drink. In the middle of the night, you want me to remember who did a job back in twenty sixteen, at a company I haven’t worked for in years?”
“Life and death, buddy. Think. Your next speeding ticket’s on me.”
“I take it this has to do with Lamm’s murder? What’s the rush? Old bastard’s already dead.”
“Related kidnapping.”
“Who the hell was kidnapped?”
“Allie Bianchi.”
“Word is you’re porking her.”
“I swear to God, Brandon—”
“Dusty!” the idiot yelled, deafening Harper for a second. “Dusty, the little hippie shit. Only reason I remember is ’cause he complained about it for freaking weeks. He called the old man…an environmental disaster.”
“Meaning what?”
“Damned if I know. We never really hung out. That’s all I have. I swear.”
Harper thanked him before he hung up. Then he took a picture of Dusty’s address on the laptop screen, thanked Chad, and took off running.
As soon as he was in his car, he used the radio to share the address with the team, requesting all available units. And then he drove like they just waved the starting flag at the Indy 500.
Chapter Thirty
Allie stood under the open window and listened to the man moving around inside the house. When she heard a door open, she held her breath. But he wasn’t coming into the garage. Footsteps thumped down a different set of stairs. Sounded like he was descending into the basement.
Then scraping noises. He was dragging something up.
Suitcases? Maybe he planned on chopping her up and hiding the pieces in luggage.
That thought gave her the motivation to push harder and not pause when the window scraped some skin off her waist where her shirt rode up.
This time, she made real progress and didn’t slide back. With the top half of her body outside, the rest was easier. She wormed forward, then curled her body up so she could hook a hand on the windowsill, righting herself because she didn’t want to fall on her head.
