No Plan B

Chapter 11

Find a job you love and you’ll never work a day in your life.

That’s what Lev Emerson was told by his father, years ago when he was still in high school. It wasn’t an original concept. It wasn’t the result of radical new thinking. But nonetheless, the advice was sound. Old Mr. Emerson had followed it himself. He had died happy at the age of seventy-four, at his workbench, after a lifetime making ladies’ hats in the corner of a little workshop in Brooklyn. Lev Emerson walked the same talk. Just as enthusiastically. Although it led him down a path his father could never have anticipated.

On the face of it Lev Emerson owned and operated a fire safety business out of a pair of nondescript warehouses on the south side of Chicago. It was a legitimate corporation. It was in good standing with the State of Illinois. It had articles of association. Shareholders. Executive officers. Employees. Accounts with all kinds of recognizable brand-name suppliers. It had plenty of customers, most of whom were satisfied. It paid taxes. It sponsored a local kids’ softball team. And it provided cover for certain other materials that Emerson had to have shipped in from a handful of less-well-known sources.

The bulk of the corporation’s reported income came from sprinkler installations and alarm systems. There was no shortage of co-ops and condo buildings in Chicagoland, as well as offices and industrial premises. New ones were constantly going up. Old ones were always getting refurbished. The pickings were rich for an outfit like Emerson’s. And it didn’t hurt that the rules and regulations changed so frequently. Something that was up to code one year could be condemned as dangerous the next. And again a couple of years after that. Hidden interests were served. The way things had always been in the Windy City. Pockets got lined. Companies got busy. Plenty of them. Including Emerson’s. Corporate clients were its bread and butter. But that didn’t mean it turned its back on the little guys. Emerson insisted on offering a full range of services to the safety-conscious homeowner, too. That helped to broaden the customer base, which was good from a business point of view. And the steady flow of station wagons and minivans through the parking lot added to an impression of banal normality. Which was good for another reason.

Emerson’s name might have been over the door but he had nothing to do with the banal, normal side of the business. For that he hired people who knew what they were doing. Who could be trusted to keep their fingers out of the register. And he left them to get on with it. Partly because he was naturally a good delegator. Partly because he had no interest in sprinklers and alarms or anything else that helped to prevent fires. But mostly because his time was fully occupied elsewhere. He had a parallel operation to run.

The thing he loved to do.

The jobs Emerson carried out personally fell into two categories. Those that looked like accidents. And those that didn’t. The job he was just finishing would not look like an accident. That was for damn sure. It would be a thing of beauty. Unmistakably deliberate. Impossible to trace back to Emerson. Or his client. Unambiguous in its meaning. And with a signature that was distinct and unique. That way, if the recipient was sufficiently stupid or obtuse, the message could be repeated and the connection would be clear.

Emerson knew it was a stretch to say he was still actively finishing the job. The work was essentially complete. There was nothing more he needed to do. Or that he could do. His continued presence would not affect the outcome in any way. He could have been hundreds of miles away and it would have made no difference. Four of his guys already were. They were heading back to base, driving a pair of anonymous white panel vans, preparing to clean their equipment and resupply for their next project. He could have gone with them. That would have been the prudent thing to do. But he stayed. He wanted to watch. He needed to watch.

Prudence be damned.

The thing he loved to do.

Emerson was on the Talmadge Memorial Bridge in Georgia, nearly six hundred feet above the Savannah River, midway between the mainland and Hutchinson Island. The strip of land that split the waterway that separated Georgia from South Carolina. He was standing, not driving. Leaning with his forearms against the lip of the concrete sidewall on the westbound side. Graeber, his right-hand man, was next to him. He was also leaning on the wall. His pose was exactly the same but he was just a little shorter. A little younger. A little less obsessed.

Pedestrians weren’t encouraged on the bridge. There was no sidewalk. No bike lane. But back during the planning stage the architects had been fearful of vehicles breaking down or crashing into one another. The city couldn’t afford for a major artery to get blocked. Even for a short time. In either direction. So they provided a generous shoulder. One on each side. Deliberately adequate to keep the traffic flowing in emergencies. Unintentionally wide enough for suitably motivated individuals to walk or run or ride at other times. And coincidentally perfect for two out-of-towners to hang out and enjoy the late-evening view.

If Emerson had been a regular sightseer he would have been looking in the other direction. Behind him. Toward the old city. To the leafy squares and cobbled streets and gingerbread houses and domed municipal halls. A rich slice of history all wrapped up in golden light and reflected back off the swirling nighttime Savannah water. But Emerson had no interest in the tourist stuff. He didn’t care about its colonial roots or how closely the layout resembled the city founder’s original scheme. His focus was on the industrial section. The port area, ahead of him. A sprawling mess of gas storage tanks and container facilities and warehouses that littered the west bank of the river. He was concentrating on one building in particular. A storage unit. A large one, with white metal walls and a white metal roof.

Emerson knew that aside from a crude office nibbled out from one corner, the building had no internal walls. He knew that most of its volume was filled with sealed wooden crates. He had been told they contained kids’ dolls, imported from China without the correct paperwork. He believed the part about the paperwork. But he figured the last thing he would find in the crates would be kids’ dolls. From China or anywhere else. But he didn’t care. He’d been given a detailed chemical analysis of the alleged dolls’ components and a sample crate, fully packed, identical to the ones in the unit, for him to test. Which he did. Thoroughly. Though he didn’t look inside. He wasn’t one for taking unnecessary risks. There are some things it’s safer not to know.

Emerson’s knowledge of the building and its contents wasn’t all theoretical. The previous two days had been spent on close observation. First, to gauge its security measures. And second, to ensure that the place was unoccupied, as stipulated. The first was a practical thing. The second, business. If the body count went up, so did his price. It was a basic principle. He wasn’t in the game for the money but he was the best, and that had to be recognized. That was only fair. Plus he had a wife at home. And a son. The kid was in his twenties now but he was still a liability. Financially speaking. Emerson had all kinds of expenses to take care of. Cars. Food. Clothes. Medical bills. More than a quarter of a million dollars in the last year alone. And one day soon there would be college to pay for. If the kid ever got his act together. Life didn’t come cheap for Lev Emerson.

After forty-eight hours Emerson concluded that there was no reason to abort and no cause to demand more money so that morning, before sunrise, the implementation phase had begun. First the alarms were disabled. Intruder, smoke, and temperature. The sprinklers were deactivated. Equipment was brought in. So were the chemicals, formulated specifically for this job, safe in their special containers. Cables were laid. Control mechanisms were installed. Measurements were taken. Calculations were carried out. Predictions were made regarding airflow and heat gain. Holes were cut at strategic positions in the walls and the roof. Crates were moved to optimize circulation. The calculations were repeated. They were checked, and checked again. More adjustments were made. And finally, when Emerson was happy, the site was evacuated. His creation was set and primed and activated. The doors were closed and locked for the final time. The panel vans departed. Emerson and Graeber grabbed a bite to eat and prepared for showtime.

The thing he loved to do.

Graeber nudged Emerson’s arm. The first whisper of smoke had curled into view. It was rising hesitantly through one of the new gashes in the storage unit’s roof. Still delicate. Pale. Insubstantial. A hint of what was in store. A promise. Emerson felt a flutter in his chest. He was like a music lover hearing the first gentle notes of a favorite symphony. The anticipation was exquisite. Almost too much to bear. The plume thickened. Darkened. Began to twist and twirl and dance. It climbed faster and spread and…

Emerson’s phone rang. Which shouldn’t have been possible. He wrenched it from his pocket and glared at the screen. It said, Home calling. Which meant his wife. Who should have known better. He’d outlined the timetable to her, like he always did. He’d been clear. And she knew not to interrupt him during the finale of a job. So he jabbed the button to reject the call. Shoved the phone back into his pocket. Turned back to the storage unit, which now had smoke billowing from five vents. Tried to control his breathing. And waited for the flames.

Thirty seconds later Graeber’s phone rang. He checked it, then stepped away and answered. He spoke for more than five minutes. When he returned to Emerson’s side his face was pale. His hands were trembling. But Emerson didn’t notice. He only had eyes for the inferno. The storage unit’s roof was gone now. Its walls were buckled and warped. The flames writhed and flailed and tormented the sky. The dark void was now bursting with color, vivid and bright, fluid and alive. Fire trucks were approaching. Racing closer. There was a whole convoy. At least half a dozen. They were using their lights and sirens. Emerson smiled. They shouldn’t have left their firehouse. They were pointless. Impotent. They had more chance of blowing out the sun than dousing the fruits of his labor. Any time in the next few hours, anyway.

Graeber lifted his hand. He stretched out, slowly, like he was pushing away a heavy, invisible object. He reached Emerson’s arm. Took hold of his sleeve. Gave it a cautious tug.

Emerson ignored him.

Graeber tugged again, harder. “Boss. You need to call home.”

Emerson didn’t turn his head. “Later.”

Graeber said, “No. Now. I’m sorry. But trust me. It can’t wait.”

“What can’t?”

“It’s about Kyle. Your son.”

“What’s he done now?”

“Boss, I’m so sorry. Kyle is dead. He died an hour ago.”