by Eden Sharp
Shit.
'Was the sting originally planned for tomorrow?'
'No. Lots of the detail changed but it was always set for today.'
Deliberate?
'How about you go to IA with what Barstow told you and I talk to them too?'
'You don't get the culture. All that upholding the law stuff they teach you at the academy? There's a whole new universe here you never knew existed. You want me to try and contradict or even expose a superior officer? Even the mafia never enforced its code of silence with the amount of shit I'd be looking at. I wouldn't get any back-up, even from brass. Plus I've given you information I shouldn't have. It'd be over for me.'
'Stuart since Ortiz warned me off I've been shot at, followed, threatened with a felony investigation that doesn't exist, and my missing who was likely murdered has been dug up to dead end my case. And that supposed lead? The kid had an alibi, he was doing time. Don't you get it? They probably killed Barstow and the undercover themselves. They're dirty.'
'And there's no evidence tying them to any of it,' Kerpen said.
'So no evidence, no testimony from you?'
'No.'
Maybe Secora would put together another team of stooges for tomorrow. Or maybe he would be going to the meet himself. Either way I didn't want to meet him any time soon.
I went and turned my attention back to Rawlings. The necessary preparations weren't fully in place for a telephone transfer. It would have to be done online.
Even though the identification of my machines was layered in anonymity, I made sure I displayed an IP address located within the San Francisco area when I completed the online transfer forms. All I could do now was hope that everything went through without any roadblocks. All being well it would take up to four days for his money to appear in the drop.
Next I accessed the DMV database. Afterward, I collated together the subscription data of over five hundred of Rawlings’ fellow pedophiles, along with some additional information, and sent it all to the FBI in an anonymous email.
Two hours later, I logged into the Blacklist, entered the carder's forum, and backtracked through previous chat topics, searching through all of Neiger's posts until I had what else I needed. With everything prepared I switched on my TV, got into bed, and hoped to get a few hours of sleep before Sunday rolled over to Monday.
FIFTY-SEVEN
Pulido's house sat on a quiet street with open access to the rear yard. Neighboring properties appeared dormant, a working community whose occupants had set off on the morning commute and were elsewhere in the city earning the mortgage.
I marched up the front path like I had a right to be there, slid round the side of the house, and scanned the entry points.
A decked porch provided a means to climb up and access any potentially unlocked windows. A green plastic chair with a stained cushion offered an option for accessing the porch roof but cheap garden furniture was notoriously ineffective at weight-bearing as evidenced by blooper tapes on cheap television shows worldwide. I moved it into position, took a gamble regarding speed against force, and used it to hop up onto the porch rail which gained me access to the edge of the roof. From there I pulled myself up.
I took a cell phone out of my pocket and put it down close to the edge before spreading out my weight and maneuvering over to the window. I eased my way up to the sill and could see through the glass it was probably secured by the internal lock but I applied some pressure and tested for any leverage against the seams to make sure.
It was locked up tight so I climbed back down the way the same way I had gone up, put the chair back in place, and checked out the back door. The basic barrel lock presented an easy and obvious choice as an entry point by comparison. Keep it simple. I took out a small tool from my pocket, worked it back and forth in the lock until the pins caught and slid into alignment, and I was in.
Inside a modest-sized grease-stained kitchen, I crept across the hardwood floor shifting my weight slowly from one foot to the other in case of loose boards. Proper maintenance was clearly not high on the agenda of the property owner. If anyone was at home I didn't want my presence to be given away so easily. There was a door straight ahead of me which I figured must go down to the basement and two others, one at either end of the kitchen.
The door to my right was half-open and I could see it led from the kitchen through to an entrance hall and the main door to the property. I crept over to the door at the opposite end and saw it led through to a separate living area.
Dirty and in disarray, it was lived in but uncared for. I took my time on the hardwood flooring again until I reached a rug stretched across the middle of the floor and trotted across a little quicker, keeping low past a large window as the drapes were only partially closed. I peered around the living room door which led into the entrance hall. The downstairs layout was configured as a large circular sweep through all three areas.
I retraced my footsteps back to the door in the kitchen that I hadn't checked out. A foot away from the entrance a key turned in a lock and the front door opened so I froze.
The new arrival had three choices, go straight upstairs, come into the kitchen, or enter the living space first. I closed my eyes, fought a psychological battle against the instinct for self-preservation, and took a deep breath.
Live strong or die trying. Time to see how it played out.
I edged backwards to the sink. The drainer contained various items precariously stacked. A pan handle protruded from a pile of dishes. Upturned flatware was topped by a cup containing several pieces of silverware.
I purposefully dislodged the cup which tipped and spilled its contents. A fork and two spoons clattered into the sink.
No footsteps or sounds emanated from the hall. I had to force myself to stand still. The adrenaline had kicked in. I tried to gain control of my breathing. Nothing moved. A stalemate in the silence.
The new arrival was going to make their approach from my left or from my right. Nothing left to do now but dance. I quickly flicked through the pros and cons. Choose one direction, get further away and prolong the inevitable confrontation but possibly gain some advantageous intel, or choose the other and get nearer. I chose left.
Peering through the five-inch gap around the door into the living area everything appeared undisturbed. I eased the door a fraction wider and stepped through.
A dark shape moved in my peripheral vision. Before I could react, a wrecking ball crashed into the side of my head. After a brilliant blinding flash, the horizon tilted vertical. The last thing I was aware of was feeling my mouth meet a solid floor.
I woke up and had no idea where I was. My mind scrabbled for answers, for something just out of reach, but came up empty. In the darkness I was aware of a searing pain in my head first then a burning sensation in my wrists, chest, and abdomen. I forced myself to try and think but was only aware of immediate physical sensations.
I shivered. I was cold and everything hurt. Lucidity began to kick in. I was sitting upright on a hard, unyielding chair with my wrists restrained, one to each of its wooden arms. My knees and shoulders were stiff. I tried to stretch my legs but my ankles were bound, one to each chair leg. I ran my tongue over my teeth and was pleased they were all still there. My lips felt swollen and papery and I could taste blood. I dropped my chin to my chest and rolled my head in half-circles to each side to relieve the tension in my neck.
As my eyes adjusted to the gloom I saw rough plastic ties cutting in to my wrists. The flesh on either side was raised and red. I continued to stretch out my neck muscles and as they loosened up a little I pivoted a little further each time attempting to increase my field of vision and gain more information about my surroundings.
On the wall to my right there was a large washer and a drier next to a sink. To my left, a bed with no box springs. Just a yellowing mattress on a metal frame. As far as I could tell, I was in a windowless room. The dank smell of musty fabric and the appliances told me I was in the basement. There
was another smell. Dried stale sweat. I realized it was mine.
The desire to stretch was overwhelming. I moved my toes. The ground underneath them felt rough like cold concrete. My feet were bare. Someone had taken my boots and socks. I tensed my muscles and strained against the bindings, pushed front to back and side to side but the chair was heavy and immovable.
What the hell had happened? I fought to concentrate but everything was liquid. The only image I could conjure was of a kid's cartoon, maybe the Roadrunner. A wide desolate plain with nothing but tumbleweed. That was what the inside of my head looked like. I couldn't remember being tied, entering the room, what came before. What was outside? Who had brought me here? Was it day or night? How long had I been here? What was the last thing I remembered? What was my name?
I fought to control a rising panic. Concentrate on breathing I told myself. Long and slow. In through the nose and out through the mouth. Count. One in, one out. Two in, two out. The secret to living a long life? Keep breathing.
Slowly my brain came back online and filled me in regarding preceding events. Sickness came and made an effort to clamber its way up into my throat. My mouth filled with saliva then it dripped back down into my lungs before I could swallow. I started to choke and cough. A million more pain signals seemed to switch on all over my body as I tried to clear the irritation. Then the hairs on the back of my neck stood up. Someone shifted in place behind me. A voice whispered through the darkness in a deep, flat monotone.
'You're back. You're here. With me.'
FIFTY-EIGHT
John Knox
Yesterday Knox and his brother had made lunch together for the first time in a very long time. They had spent the afternoon talking about their childhood and laughing about some of the scrapes they had gotten themselves in. Knox felt that maybe they had recaptured something. He had tried to think of options for a bachelor party but everything he thought he would like, Dan didn't. They were just too different. But somehow now it was okay.
Knox dried up the breakfast dishes and started to think about McGlynn. He shouldn't have blown his cool. They should talk. He squared things away and went and dialed her number. He listened to the rings until he knew she wasn't going to pick up. She had probably read the caller ID and consigned him to history.
He had intended to give it an hour before he rang again but it was actually under twenty-five minutes. He tried twice more in the next hour. She didn't pick up. He had either become persona non grata or she had been arrested.
He considered himself a pretty good judge of character. Had he been fooled? Or was there something bigger going on that he couldn't see? Maybe she was a good liar but part of him couldn't quite stand down from the role of platoon sergeant. His first and foremost priority had always been the safety of those he served alongside.
He thought about the cop friend. Stuart Kerpen. Maybe he should give him a call. It would be an awkward conversation to have over the phone with someone he had never met. Perhaps the best plan would be to go in person and sort things out. See where things stood. He didn't even know what the implications might be for his own situation. Maybe he would be arrested and held himself. Better to take action than know the cops might be coming for him at any time. He had learned from the military that human beings go more willingly into danger when they have a say in crafting their own fate.
He needed some kind of excuse to go fishing. Then he remembered the picture of Pulido. It would provide a good way for him to go dig around.
Knox pushed open the glass door and walked into the gray granite lobby of the Hall of Justice. He waited in line at the desk while a guy in a suit with a briefcase handed over a lot of paperwork. Maybe a lawyer. After a while Knox got bored. He wandered over to a department listings board by the elevators. One of them caught his eye and he decided to try something.
He walked back to the desk. The lawyer was gone.
The cop on duty glanced up briefly then away again, sorting the papers from the previous query while Knox stated his reason for being there.
'I'd like to file a report,' he said.
'What's it pertaining to?' the cop asked.
'Gang crime,' Knox said.
'Gang Task Force, room 558,' the cop said.
Through the open door Knox could see a whole wall covered in photos of various body parts: arms, legs, torsos, some faces, of both men and women. Each image an inventory of gang-affiliated tattoos and markings. Knox knocked to get the attention of two cops working inside. The one furthest from the door, a tall, wiry-looking blond guy, looked up and beckoned him in.
'Can I help you?'
'I'd like to report a gang attack, a week ago in the Mission,' Knox said. 'One guy, I remember his tattoo.'
'You see it up there?' the cop asked.
Knox started to scan the images one by one. Row by row. Taking his time.
Angela McGlynn
A man stepped into view and threw water in my face which he followed up with a vicious punch to the side of my jaw.
Under normal circumstances I have excellent reflexes and muscle memory from years of training so am better than average at blocking punches. But with my arms and legs bound I had no means of doing so. No matter. I wasn't going to let a few head shots intimidate me. After all my experience of sparring, the shock value no longer applied. I shook it off and ran a tongue over my teeth again, still glad to find none were missing.
The man I recognized as Lorentz Pulido put down a large plastic pitcher and leaned forward with his hands resting on his knees. His face was only a few inches from mine. I stared straight back at him.
'You look like you can take a beating. We gonna have some fun,' he said.
He expended his breath in short, jerky spasms. My nostrils filled with the scent of it along with my own stale sweat.
'This where you brought Amber Grigson?' I said, trying to keep my own breathing even and my heart rate in check.
Maybe he didn't recognize the name.
'The girl you located by tracking her cell phone. You may not have known her real name. You only knew she wasn't Jaime Secora.'
He smiled and turned away. He walked behind me then reappeared holding my own cell phone in front of me.
'You might know something. And setting this to record was cute but it ain't no good down here.'
An arrogance flashed in his eyes.
'No signal.'
He passed it from one hand to another, like a magician engaging in a staged misdirection, turning it to reveal the battery and chip had been removed anyway.
He obviously had no clue that an illegal recording would be inadmissible in a court of law. But I was way past gathering evidence. The law might require it. Justice did not.
'Who else knows?' he asked.
'That's it, straight off the bat? You need to brush up on your interrogation techniques,' I said.
He shrugged his shoulders.
'Then let's start the party.'
He picked up the pitcher then moved away behind me out of my line of sight again. For a moment there was silence. Maybe he'd read a manual on trying to unnerve people. He was doing a pretty good job. I heard a squeaking faucet being turned then the drumming of water hitting plastic.
From behind he yanked my hair backwards. I heard a cracking sound in my neck as a gas bubble popped in my cervical vertebrae. A sharp pain stabbed my tongue as he rammed a hard plastic funnel into my mouth. I felt the pulse in my neck under his forearm as he gripped my head back in an arm lock.
Water poured into my mouth and straight down into the back of my throat. He held me still. I twisted and contorted trying to free myself, panicking and unable to breath, but the plastic cuffs just cut deeper into my flesh.
Finally, it was over and I sat gasping for air. I felt my stomach revolt and my throat constrict then a jet of water spewed from my mouth in a wide arc.
'Who else knows?' he repeated.
I waited for the spasms in my diaphragm to subside.
'I w
ork alone,' I said.
'What about the guy?'
'What guy?'
He stared at me smirking. Didn't say anything.
I tried to sound like I was panicking. It wasn't difficult.
'You mean Andrews?'
'No.' He started to walk back to the sink. 'I don't know any names,' he said.
But there had been a definite pause. He'd already answered in the negative. So the real question was what did he know and more importantly how? And I already had the answers.
I heard the faucet turn. The water filling up the pitcher.
Logically I knew that to panic when drowning meant consuming more oxygen. That a build-up of carbon dioxide would stimulate an involuntary intake of breath. That this would result in more water being ingested and once it made contact with the lower airways, the throat would spasm in an attempt to seal off the path to the lungs.
Presently, with nowhere else to go, the water was finding its way into my stomach. A loss of concentration or consciousness however would mean my throat relaxing, leading inevitably to death.
He yanked my head back again. A little rougher this time. I thought my neck was going to break. He forced the funnel so far down my throat I started to gag. I told myself all I needed to do was hold on.
I thrashed around and tried to empty my mind then I was spewing water back over myself. My clothes were soaked. I coughed and choked and couldn't speak. My throat burned. My eyes stung from tears and I couldn't see. Perversely I was thirsty and dehydrated. I had an irresistible urge to scratch my nose.
Pulido was no longer in front of me and I was unaware of what he was doing. Trying to cough up the last of the water, get rid of the irritation and calm down, was an immediate priority so initially I didn't even care. What I really needed to do however was to get out of the basement. More importantly, get him out of the basement.
