Chasing Clay (The DeWitt Agency Files Book 3)

by Lance Charnes

  It’s not here, it’s not here… “Why doesn’t ICE do it? They’ve got investigators.”

  Allyson doesn’t answer right away. Was that a trick question? Then she says, “Excuse me. Lipstick. I’m told that host-nation cooperation has been almost nonexistent. Your government would get better cooperation if it wasn’t so squeamish about paying commissions to foreign officials.”

  Commissions = bribes. “Allyson… is there another letter?” Shit. I called her Allyson.

  “What do you mean?” Apparently she didn’t notice, or care.

  “Another letter, offering immunity.”

  The door opens and Allyson finally emerges. Amazing. Her emerald-green, sleeveless floor-length column gown skims her bust and hips, just enough to let you know what’s there but not so tight that she looks like she’s wearing a sausage casing. Sequins cover the upper bodice’s back and sides, flashing like little green stars in the hallway light. Her outfit doesn’t show much skin, but it’s sexy as hell.

  She hangs up her day dress, bends (ohhhhhhhh) to scoop up a pair of black patent pumps, then turns to face me. The dress isn’t as modest as I thought; the skirt’s slit about two-thirds of the way up her right thigh. “No, there are no other letters for you.”

  My heart stumbles. No other letters for you. “For the agency?”

  “Why do you ask?”

  She must’ve thought of this. She’s nothing even close to dumb. “Look, the only reason the feds would want an off-books, deniable investigation is because they expect us to do illegal stuff they can’t. Information from informants is admissible even if they get it illegally. If we get caught, the feds don’t know us. If we don’t have immunity, we’re targets.” One of those sneaking suspicions sneaks up on me. “Did you get immunity?”

  She finishes slipping on her shoes and sweeps off toward the safe. “That’s not your concern. Your concern is—”

  “That’s exactly my concern.” Her non-answer tells me the real answer is yes. “If there’s gonna be line-crossing, I’m the one who’ll be doing it, not you. They know about me now. You’ll be reporting to the client, right?”

  “Of course.” She’s at the desk, rooting through little figured silk pouches for jewelry. Her freshly lipsticked lips are getting thinner.

  She doesn’t see it… or, worse, she doesn’t care. That scares me even more than the situation itself. “And he’ll hand them to the feds. They’ll have a paper trail with my name on it. If anything goes sideways and they need a scapegoat, all the fingers’ll be pointing at the ex-con.”

  Allyson straightens and plants a fist on her hip. “Be reasonable. Why would they prosecute an operation they created? They’d only embarrass themselves.”

  “They won’t be there forever.” Somehow I got to only a couple paces from her. “Look at the crazies running for president right now. What if one of them wins in November? What if they do something incredibly stupid, like fire all the USAs and put in a bunch of zealots? They’ll be looking for dirt to throw around.”

  Her lips are gone now. She folds her arms. “You weren’t worried about this in Portsmouth.” The ice is back in her voice.

  “We weren’t telling the feds about Portsmouth.” I turn tight circles on the carpet to try to vent a little steam somewhere other than in Allyson’s face. “We weren’t inviting them to watch in Portsmouth. Can’t you see it?”

  “I can see that you’ve let your paranoia get the better of you.”

  That stops me. I stare at her for a few moments. Her face is tight and closed. “Paranoia? I’m an ex-convict. A felon. Have—”

  “Interstate transportation of stolen property.” She almost sneers.

  “A felony. I still served time.” I wrestle my voice down. “Have you? Ever been to prison?”

  “Not in this country.”

  “I have. I’ve seen the system from the inside. You can’t trust these people.” I rush her, my hands up, pleading. “Please. For all our protection. Go back to them. Get immunity for you, for me, for the agency. Or walk away from it. It’s not worth the risk.”

  Allyson’s arms are folded tight enough to leave bruises. Her neck and ears are turning scarlet. “Do you think I would walk away from this after everything I went through to secure this project? To get that—” she stabs a finger toward the file in my hand “—for you? How many thousands of dollars it cost to bring you here so I could tell you about this personally, thinking you might be grateful? There’s no renegotiation, Mr. Friedrich. No going back for more. The deal is what it is.” She closes the gap between us, radiating heat, and glares through my skull. “You can let me pay you a lot of money and regain your freedom. All you have to do is complete the project.” Her fingertip bores a hole through my breastbone. “Don’t you dare tell me it’s not enough.”

  She’s not listening. I give it one more shot. “If the feds decide to take me down, I’m going back in the hole. This time, it won’t be a nice, safe prison like Pensacola. They’ll put me in with the animals. I won’t survive that. Fourteen months in stir with crooked execs almost drove me nuts. Drug dealers and mobsters? I can’t do it. I won’t.”

  Allyson sniffs and shakes her head. “You’re scared?”

  “I’m terrified. This setup terrifies me. Yeah, great upside… but the downside’s a bitch.”

  Her eyes slash my face. Her knuckles are white. I’ve never seen her so angry. “You refuse to do this?” Her voice is low, like the growl a panther makes before it bites through the neck of a deer.

  Think hard. Think fast. “Unless there’s immunity—”

  “There is no immunity.”

  “No. I won’t.” God help me. “I like breathing. I like being outside. I can’t risk that.”

  The points of her jaw glow white. I expect to hear teeth breaking.

  Shit. I can smell the freedom that letter can give me, but I can also smell prison disinfectant. What’d I just do?

  “Coward.” She thrusts a loaded finger toward the door. “Get. Out. Of my room.”

  Chapter 3

  It gets real dark after the limo passes the west edge of Vail. Scattered window lights here and there, mostly on the south side of I-70, like square yellow stars. The moon’s not even out yet, or it’s behind a mountain.

  It’s dark inside me, too.

  Did I totally fuck up, or dodge a bullet? Or both? My brain’s been going back-and-forth on that since I walked out of the Sonnenalp. I can’t even tell anymore if I was right. Was all that me being paranoid? Was it me being smart for a change?

  Smuggled pots. How bad could it be? I don’t know how that trade works in Vietnam, Cambodia, wherever. In southern Europe, a lot of the trafficking goes through one mafia or another. If it’s that way in Southeast Asia, I could end up doing deals with some seriously bad dudes while one of our endless number of police agencies looks over my shoulder. Thailand’s got a military dictator now. Myanmar’s full of ethnic militias that double as drug gangs. There’s been a guerrilla war going on in the southern Philippines for about a century. Some descriptions of the corruption in the area include “endemic,” “all-pervasive,” “spectacular,” and “inescapable.” Is there a line for bribes on my expense report? Do I have to report kickbacks? I should check that out.

  The short answer: it can get pretty bad. At best, I’ll be papering the place with bribes; at worst, I’ll be playing games with mobsters and drug runners. And if I pay off the wrong person (or don’t pay off the right one), I end up in a hellhole Third World prison where I’ll be the protein supplement for dinner.

  Maybe I dodged a bullet.

  But… early termination. Freedom.

  I’ve been in the system one way or another for five years. They’ve controlled my life even when I wasn’t in prison. If you’ve never experienced it yourself, you have no idea how demeaning and infantilizing it is. It’s like having World’s Strictest Parents, except they can ground you for real.

  What woul
d I do differently if they cut the cord? I don’t know. Maybe nothing. Just knowing that Big Brother isn’t watching anymore might be enough. I won’t have to get Len’s permission if I decide to change jobs, or if I manage to develop a girlfriend and want to spend time at her place. I could travel more for the agency and not be scared out of my wits that TSA’s going to throw a flag on the play. Skip the crazy spy-vs.-spy shit I do on projects to keep from violating out.

  The agency. Allyson.

  I’ve pissed her off before, but never this bad. The look on her face when she threw me out won’t stop looping in my head. Do I even still work for her?

  Why’s she so hot to have me do this? She’s gotta know we didn’t do ceramics at the gallery. The closest we ever got to Asian art was a few Russian Impressionist canvases we sold. The antiquities market was too dirty even for us.

  I think back to something she said at the hotel: after everything I went through to secure this project. What was that exactly? Why did she work so hard to get this? Or… was this done to her? Did some spooky agency put the screws to her? The Mob?

  I shake my head hard to derail that train of thought.

  Freedom. Yeah. Think about that.

  Freedom.

  There’s nothing outside. No lights, only the dark shapes of hills or mountains blocking the stars. I close my eyes and let my head fall against the headrest. My brain throbs from the fight and the tension and all the questions.

  Do I play, or do I sit it out?

  Even if I want to play, will Allyson let me, or did I slam that door?

  Those questions have a cage fight in my head for I don’t know how long. Along with my headache, my stomach starts to tie itself in knots. Make a decision, idiot.

  My work phone rings. Allyson calling to say sorry? Yeah, right. “Hello?”

  “Matt? Carson.”

  Carson was my partner on two of my three projects. She’s a tough, smart Canadian ex-cop who’s built like a Bengal tiger and has roughly the same disposition. We’re past the I-hate-you stage and we get along okay… but not okay enough for this to be normal. I open my eyes and sit up. “Carson? Why are you calling?”

  “What. The fuck. Did you do?” This buzzsaws through my ear. “Allyson called. Almost fucking melted my cell. What’d you say to her? She wants to kill you.”

  Seriously? I mean, I know it’s usually a figure of speech, but with Allyson… does she do that? “Why’d she call you?”

  “She thinks you listen to me. What happened?” Her voice is flat Midwestern vowels with a little Canuck twist.

  The thing is, Allyson’s sort-of right. I do usually listen to Carson. When I don’t, I often regret it. “What did she tell you?”

  “You turned down a project. An important one. Says she busted her ass to make it good for you. You said no. What the fuck?”

  There’s lights ahead to the left. A green highway sign zooms past: “Eagle 1 Mile.” We’re almost at the airport. I lean forward to ask the driver, “Can you stop?”

  “On the highway? No. There’s an exit up there. That okay?”

  “Yeah.” I pull the phone away from my chest. “Hold on a sec. I need to get rid of the audience.”

  “Where are you?”

  “In a limo in the middle of the Rockies. Hold on.”

  A minute later, we pull off the freeway and turn right into a gas station and convenience store called (I kid you not) Kum & Go. I bail out of the limo as soon as it stops. It’s freaking cold out. I button my coat while I un-mute my phone. “Still there?”

  Carson growls, “Still waiting.”

  I tell her the story. The whole thing, start to end. Just having to put it into words brings it into focus, though I still don’t have a solution.

  Carson listens without interrupting until I’m done. She mutters something I’m sure I don’t want to hear clearly. Then, “Doesn’t matter.”

  “What?”

  “Doesn’t. Matter. That letter real?”

  “I’m pretty sure. I’ve seen enough of them.”

  “Know what that is? A fucking gift. You get one of those a lifetime.” Her voice singes the hair around my right ear. “You blew it off? You fucking idiot!”

  “Whoa! Wait. Did you listen to the rest? ICE? No immunity? Paper trails? Did—”

  “Shut up and listen.” She takes a very audible deep breath. “Never heard of Allyson doing so much to make a project look good to one of us. For us? She forks over the shit sandwich, tells us to eat. You? She covers it with candy. Lights a candle. Don’t know what you got on her, but…” Carson breathes hard a couple times. “Know what I’d do to get one of those? What I’d give to get kicked loose from Rodievsky? Anything. I’d do anything, doesn’t matter.”

  Rodievsky’s her other boss, a Russian mafia don or whatever they’re called. Carson owes him a scary lot of money. When she’s not working for Allyson, she works for him. “Would you really? If you got thrown back to him, he’d kill you.”

  “Think I don’t know that? Still worth a try. What’s your excuse? Your feds get you, they put you in jail. Boo-hoo. You’ve been there.”

  “They’ll put me in with the freaks this time. I won’t come out.”

  “Don’t fuck up, then.”

  “What’s so hard about immunity? The feds give that out like parking validations.”

  “She say she doesn’t have it?”

  “She said I don’t.”

  “Bet she does. That’s how she rolls. Get over it. Another thing. You spit in Allyson’s face. You don’t make it good, you never get another project. Good luck paying off your tab.”

  I haven’t even thought about that. My past sins left me with over $500,000 in mostly non-dischargeable debt: restitution, student loans, interest, and my ex’s credit card and medical debts. At $10 an hour at Starbucks, I’ll be dead before I dig out. It goes faster at €1500 a day.

  My driver’s smoking by the limo’s nose. I watch a trickle of cars fill up under the flat canopy over the pumps. I’m getting seriously cold out here, but I can’t move. “I don’t know what to do.”

  Carson sighs. “Sort it out. Told you what to not do. You throw this away, I’ll never talk to you again. I don’t talk to fucking idiots.”

  Great. “You’ll come visit me in prison?”

  She snorts. “Go inside for something you do for Allyson? You got a job when you come out. She’ll square it with you. Seen her do it. Look. You’re smart—use it.”

  Then she’s gone.

  I drift between the store and the mini-carwash out to the sidewalk at the edge of the slope above the freeway. Headlights and taillights streak by below me, though I don’t really see them.

  Listen to Carson, or listen to myself? She knows how Allyson’s system works, but I know how the criminal justice system works (or doesn’t). Which do I trust less?

  As an ex-con, my job with the agency is my only way to earn enough money even semi-legally to get out of debt. But if enough of Allyson’s people get convicted for her to have a policy for what to do with them when they get out? No. Not going there.

  I wake up my phone to tell Olivia I’m out. There’s a missed call and a voicemail waiting for me. Len’s number. The timing doesn’t give me a good feeling. I reluctantly tap the “play” triangle.

  “Friedrich? Len. Where the hell are you? Some woman called, said you left the state. Your roomie doesn’t know where you are. Call me ASAP or the flag goes up.”

  Allyson called my PO. I didn’t see that coming. That’s like calling SWAT on my house for a fake hostage situation.

  It’s a warning.

  Chapter 4

  It’s a long wait. Over two hours. I’d go to dinner, but the thought of eating makes me sick. So I sit and watch the numbers change on the digital clock in Allyson’s room. Call my boss at the store, tell her I won’t be in tomorrow. Try to rehearse my lines.

  The door clicks open at ten. Allyson stands there, silent,
her right hand holding the door open, her left gripping a beaded clutch that matches her gown. She stares at me for a long time. As usual, I can’t read her, and I’m pretty good at that with other people. Normal people.

  She finally paces slowly through the hall, sits decisively in the armchair against the wall opposite me, throws her right leg over her left. The dress falls open at the slit. She lets me look for a few moments, then flips the skirt over her knee.

  There’s a long, long silence.

  I swallow. “I’m sorry.”

  Allyson’s left eyebrow ticks up a notch. “That bought you ten minutes.” How a voice like hers can be arctic, I don’t know, but it is. “Use it well.”

  Another great thing about the Citation is that it has real tables, not those useless folding things in airliners. That means I have room for my Burger King dinner while I go over the project description on my laptop.

  It’s all about pottery.

  Your mom’s china vase is a tchotchke. Your great-grandma’s favorite stoneware urn’s an antique. Your great-great-etcetera-grandma’s best earthenware amphora is an antiquity. The same general arrangement of baked mud goes from garage-sale reject to priceless cultural heritage object after a couple millennia. And while you might not be able to give away mom’s vase, you’re not supposed to sell great-great-etcetera-grandma’s amphora—it’s illegal.

  In general, I approve of this. Some of the poorest places on Earth are the richest in cultural heritage goods. But think about how the world works: if a poor country has something a rich country wants—oil, timber, minerals, labor, women, art—the rich country just swoops in and takes it. Sometimes richer people in the poor country organize this—the government, a warlord, a mafia (often all the same thing). Maybe a few locals get paid a couple bucks to dig up or cut down their own savings account; otherwise, they get nothing. All the upside goes to well-off people selling the loot to richer people in rich countries.

  It’s a global industry. One expert I read said that 90% of the antiquities in private hands in the U.S. are looted. The client’s in good company.