Unknown Remains by Peter Leonard Page B

were hunting white tail. Cobb always said it to himself, trying to psych up.
    There was a paneled room with a desk. He sat, opening drawers, used the penlight to identify the contents, looked through stacks of envelopes, bank statements, an insurance contract, phone bills—everything in the name Joseph R. Sculley. Cobb found an address book in the second drawer, took it out and opened to M, went down the names till he came to McCann. Jack’s cell, office, and home phones were listed, and his address in Darien.
    Sculley, it appeared, also had an apartment in the city. Cobb copied the address on a Post-it. He took off the money belt that held the tools, removed the sap and put it in his pocket, and left the belt on the desk.
    The living room was thirty feet long with a big fieldstone fireplace at one end. Cobb walked across the room to the stairs and went up, gripping the gun, wood steps creaking under his weight. He should’ve been nervous, but he wasn’t. It was called believing in yourself. For some crazy reason, he liked situations like this, bust in a house, get the lay of the land, and scare the shit out of the occupants. Wake a guy up with a gun pointing at him, see what he’d do. Ninety-nine out of a hundred people went subservient in a nanosecond, did exactly what they were told.
    There were four bedrooms. Three of the rooms had beds that were made. In the master, he could see two shapes under the covers of the king-size bed. The man, who had to be Sculley, was snoring. Cobb held the Ruger, moving toward the bed when the phone rang, and God almighty it was loud. He ducked into the bathroom and listened. It rang four times before he heard a man say hello.
    And a woman say, “Joe, who’s that calling in the middle of the night?”
    â€œThe police. They’re here.”
    â€œWhat . . . ?”
    Cobb looked out the window and saw a cop car in the driveway, two cops getting out with guns and flashlights. He glanced at the counter where the sinks were and saw a cell phone in a charger. He grabbed it and slipped it in his pocket. Now Sculley came in the bathroom, reaching for the light switch, and Cobb hit him on the side of his face with the sap. Sculley fell back against the wall and went down on the tile floor.
    Cobb stepped over him into the bedroom. Sitting up in bed, Sculley’s woman screamed like a veteran of horror films. He ran out of the room and down the stairs, looked out the window. One cop was knocking on the front door. He ran through the kitchen to the dining room and saw the second cop coming around the side of the house with a flashlight.
    Cobb opened the French doors and ran for the woods, crouching just inside the tree line. Flashlight beams swept over the back of the house, and then the cops started coming in his direction. Cobb moved deeper into the trees and got down as low as he could. The leaves were dry, and if he ran, they’d hear him for sure. He froze as the flashlight beams swept over him.
    In a few minutes the cops gave up and went back to the house.

FIFTEEN
    Marquis Brown called and asked Mrs. McCann to meet him at the San Marino Equity office in Little Italy, and be sure to bring the contract with her signature on it. “I want to show you something.”
    Mrs. McCann arrived by taxi an hour later and called Brown’s cell number. He told her to come upstairs. He was standing outside the office as she approached and said, “Did you ask them about Jack?”
    Marquis, wearing a Borsalino and a black suit, opened the door, motioned her inside, and watched the look of surprise on her face as she walked in the room and looked at him. “Where’d they go?”
    â€œYou say your husband borrowed money. When was this?”
    â€œI didn’t say he borrowed money; the Puerto Rican did.”
    â€œThe PR say who he worked for?”
    â€œNo, he didn’t give his name or anyone else’s.”
    â€œYou bring the