“Naturally.” Luke couldn’t help a smile.
“Luke, it was identical to your boy. The tox screen, I mean. The dead guy was a labor union big wig, and he shot himself after negotiations went south. But the guy shot crack like your senator even though he was wealthy enough to keep two mistresses and their kids in very nice apartments and was deathly afraid of needles. No alcohol.”
Luke didn’t say anything. He got and strode to the window.
“You still there?”
“I’m here.”
“Probably worth looking into. He’s hooking me up with a copy of the reports. I’ll email them to you as soon as I get them. New Yorkers love red tape so it will be a few days.”
“You think it’s a coincidence?”
“Why are you asking me that, Luke? You know perfectly well I don’t believe in them. Why do you think I’m talking to your ugly mug right now?”
“Because you can’t stand to be separated from me,” Luke said. He saw Thad roll his eyes while pretending to study the screen. He hadn’t realized Luke moved to the window.
“Umhmm,” said Sandra, “I gotta run. If you don’t have that in a couple of weeks, it means I forgot. Call me and reminded me.”
“I will. You’re the best.”
“I know.” She hung up.
Luke mashed the end call icon and his phone went black. He crossed to the door and threw the bolt.
“Whaaat’s goin’ on?” Thad said.
Luke exhaled slowly then turned to his partner. He told Thad everything Sandra had told him. Thad’s eyes got big. “There’s more than one like Twomey?”
Luke grew solemn. This had turned into a bigger mess than he thought. “It sounds like an MO. If Twomey was murdered, we’re looking at the possibility of a professional hit.”
“Fantastic. A serial killer.”
“No,” said Luke, “A psychotic maniac did not kill Twomey. It was controlled. Surgical.”
“A hit? On an American politician?”
“Why not?”
“Why not! That doesn’t happen here. What happens if that’s true? If you don’t like someone’s politics, you just bump em off? Chaos. Our whole system breaks down.”
“It’s worse than that.”
“Sweet mother of Zeus, how can it be worse than that?”
“Cade is our only connection. His prints are all over this.”
“Americans killing Americans?”
“Americans contracting on American politicians.”
“Remind me not to run for office. You think Cade…” he trailed off trying to sift through the mud Sandra’s phone call stirred up.
“No,” Luke said, “there’s no way he’s a world class hitman. He wouldn’t get his hands dirty. Forget the phone records, I’ll take care of those. I want you looking for similar autopsy toxicology results. We’ll start on the eastern seaboard.”
“Um, on what? There is no autopsy database. Or toxicology database.”
“No, but death statistics are kept by most state health departments. You may have to backtrack to the individual police agencies from there for case info.”
“Wait. The entire eastern seaboard? You know how many jurisdictions that is?”
“Concentrate on the bigger metropolitan areas first. Larger agencies will have electronic records so it will be easier. Smaller departments will take up most of your time. Start with D.C. and the surrounding jurisdictions all the way up to New York, but focus on D.C. Narrow your search to drug positive tox screens, adult males over the age of 30 in the last ten years. Focus on suicides. I have a feeling you’ll notice anything out of the ordinary.”
“That could take months.”
“Then it takes months. It’s a place to start the investigation.”
“Is that what you call this Piñata swing?” Thad muttered as he swung back around to his computer.
THIRTEEN
“Um hm. Yeah.” Luke hunched over his desk with the phone to his ear. The fried rice beside him had cooled into a gelatinous heap. “I appreciate the call back. What’s that? Not sure yet. Might be related to a case I’m working. Great. Thanks, man. I owe you one.” Luke put the desk phone in its cradle and sat back.
“Who was that?” Thad slurped some lo mein.
“Army buddy of mine.”
“Buddy? All you did was grunt.”
It was an awkward conversation and Thad noticed. Luke should have kept better contact with the men he’d fought beside but keeping his distance was easier. “He works for Spokane PD. He’s head of the intel unit.”
“Spokane PD has an intelligence department?”
“Unit. It’s him, a secretary and a filing cabinet. He knows his shit though. Local and federal law enforcement are the only ones doing anything about human trafficking these days. It doesn’t fall under the military intelligence umbrella.”
Luke stretched in his seat and propped his feet on the desk. The last few days had blurred together. The rain was only now letting up. For hours on end, the only sound in the broom closet was rustling paper. Thad had made hourly runs to the break room for coffee and, Luke suspected, a quick conversation with Susie.
He was itching to be outside. Nothing reset a stuffy brain like a hard, outdoor workout, and if it didn’t dry up he’d have to do it wet. Savannah had nicer scenery than Atlanta, but they had terrible weather.
“He didn’t seem surprised when I told him about the trafficking,” said Luke, shaking off the distraction.
“Oh yeah?” Thad stabbed some lo mien between his chopsticks and slurped it.
“Can you not do that?” Luke snapped. Thad dropped the chopsticks and fished a fork out of the plastic bag as Luke continued. “Nobody gives a rat’s ass about human trafficking. Chad’s been trying to get his own agency to step up their enforcement, but nobody wants to spend the money. Nobody will throw the resources at it. Especially not cash strapped state and local agencies.”
“Why not?”
“Doesn’t affect them enough. More accurately, it doesn’t affect the average citizen enough. The money gets funneled where the people cry foul the loudest. I’m not saying that’s wrong, just how it is. Everybody’s too busy making ends meet to care about some girl being forced to have sex in gas station bathrooms. It’s not even on their radar.”
Thad shuddered and put his fork down, appetite gone.
“Even the FBI has a single thirty-five-man unit devoted to a problem that involves over four million people in a given year. Four million within the United States alone. It’s more prolific outside the U.S.”
“I find that hard to believe.”
Luke shrugged. “Chad said the numbers aren’t a secret. They’re common knowledge.”
“Wow,” said Thad.
“Inside the states, it’s mostly pimps whoring out runaways. But cartels are starting to deal in flesh as much as they deal in drugs. Diversifying their income streams. Most of the massage parlors in America run on cartel provided labor. Chad’s brought down ten of them in Spokane alone over the last couple of years.
“Okay. That’s all fascinating and,” Thad held his palms up, “frankly terrifying. But what does it have to do with our case?”
“When I brought up trafficking around military installations, he didn’t skip a beat.”
“What? He knew about it?”
Luke slumped back in his seat and scooted his Styrofoam container into the trash. “The government pays out billions in defense contracts every year. More during wartime. A huge chunk of the DOD budget goes to the administration of bases, both here and overseas.
“To maintain these bases, most of the auxiliary work is done by civilian contractors, not the DOD. Staffing stores, cleaning toilets, cutting grass and digging ditches. Stuff like that. When these government contractors land the deal, if nothing in the contract prohibits it, they turn around and hire out the job to subcontractors. It’s common practice. The DOD contractor subcontracts to the lowest bidder and pockets the rest. Nobody cares
who’s scrubbing their toilets as long as they get scrubbed. Lowest bidder always gets it.”
Thad sat frozen, listening.
“Turns out you can put in a pretty low bid if you’re using forced labor. Most people think of human trafficking in the sexual context. But Chad says the use of illegal immigrants for manual labor is just as common, maybe more so. A lot of these subcontractors are nothing more than organized crime rings posing as legit companies. Most of them have ties to known crime cartels the world over. The new black market is in flesh.”
“It’s not exactly new,” Thad muttered.
“The beltway bandits waltz off with millions for cleaning military crappers without even owning a company that cleans toilets. It’s the perfect scam because it’s legal. It's accepted practice.”
“How do they keep them there? The people, I mean. If it’s so bad why don’t they leave?”
“Most are illegal immigrants that got suckered by a sales pitch. Jobs and opportunity. They were promised freedom and a new life if they pay a certain amount. They get to their final destination, and their handlers take away their ID’s and tell them the police will deport them or throw them in jail. Usually, these people are the poorest of the poor, and there is zero chance any of them speak the language of their new country.
“Their handlers keep them sequestered from the rest of the world and make them pay exorbitant prices for things like toilet paper and toothpaste or room and board. Any pittance they’re ‘paid’ goes straight back to their handlers to cover basic necessities on top of their smuggling debt. They end up deeper in the hole and the cycle continues. At that point, physical violence and intimidation are all it takes to keep them in line. Six-year-olds sold for sex is only half the story.”
“This happens in America too?”
“It’s more prolific at foreign installations, but yes, it does happen here.”
Thad looked sick, but Luke could see the wheels turning. “Your friend claims this is common knowledge. How did Twomey pull off a blackmail scheme with something that anyone with internet access and a morbid curiosity could tell you?”
“It wasn’t common knowledge ten years ago. Awareness of human trafficking is only now beginning to gain any traction. Maybe the last five years or so.”
“Cade found out about the trafficking at American bases and blackmailed Congress into his sweet deal? And then Twomey found out about this blackmail and blackmailed Cade with his own blackmail? My brain hurts.” Thad shook his head.
“I don’t think so,” said Luke.
“You don’t think what?”
“If that’s what Twomey had, why wouldn’t One World just deny knowledge, then make a show of investigating until it blew over? Congress would definitely plead ignorance. No one would be able to prove otherwise. Hell, they do that when someone finds the smoking gun in their glove box. But it’s possible that most Congressmen don’t know about the trafficking. Certainly not enough for Cade to pressure the Chairman of the Ways and Means committee to bow to his will.”
Luke slammed a palm into the desk making the computer rattle. He jumped up and spewed a string of profanities when he hit the wall trying to pace.
“Boss?”
“You said the other word on Twomey’s hand was a reporter?”
“Yeah.”
“You said this guy died in Iraq when? The same time Cade made his deal?”
“Six months before. Give or take.” Thad’s eyes got wide. “Oh shit.”
“Then he ends up written on a dead man’s hand. And we’re looking into trafficking around military bases. Was he at Doha?”
Thad shook his head. “I don’t know.”
“Cade didn’t find out about the trafficking. He found something else. Something nuclear.” Luke propped his hands on the windowsill, letting his head fall between his hunched shoulders. “What if Chaudhry was the one who found out about the trafficking? It would have meant much more than embarrassment. The war was at the height of its unpopularity. It could have meant a lot of money to the Washington elite. Billions maybe. If Chaudhry was about to break a story like this…”
“Luke, don’t.” Thad sounded hoarse. “Soldiers died in that attack.”
Luke looked at Thad, then back out the window.
“Are you saying someone killed American soldiers to cover up the death of a reporter? Is that even possible? You think that’s what Twomey found out?” Thad was almost whispering.
“That would explain some things. The powerful protect their interests,” said Luke, his voice hard.
“Protect it how?” Thad said.
Luke knew he asked the question to keep from admitting the answer himself. Thad wanted to hear it from his older, more experienced partner. As if that would make the admission less horrifying.
Luke turned to his young partner. “We’re going to find out.”
Several hours later, Luke pushed away from his computer and rubbed his eyes.
The attack on the embedded reporter and his squad had taken place between the allied controlled airport, and the so-called Green Zone in Baghdad. It was only one of many insurgent attacks in 2008. He hadn’t heard of this particular attack, but there were too many to count. In those days, insurgent attacks had been clustered in the busier northern area of Iraq where he’d been operating at the time. Insurgents on a large scale that far south was unusual, but not impossible.
Luke yanked up the phone. He’d gotten all he was going to get from Google. Not every secret stayed in the sand. It was time to contact a more reliable resource. He needed to talk to Frank.
FOURTEEN
Commuter thought had turned to beating the traffic by the time Luke got there. Three hundred yards off Constitution Avenue, he leaned against an elm and pretended to scroll through his phone surveilling the rendezvous point.
Tucked away in the National Mall was a small man-made island in a shallow pond. Rows of granite stones carved wide grassy terraces stepping down to the water. Thick compact trees blocked the mid-afternoon sun for the few locals that knew about this place. Tourists never came to this empty corner of the mall.
It was unlikely he was followed. Still, there was a reason this meeting wasn’t an email, so he took no chances. He took his time evaluating every ingress and egress just in case. Frank’s meeting place wasn’t tactically sound, but it was quiet.
He crossed the wooden footbridge and picked a spot away from the other occupants that allowed a clear field of view in every direction. To his left, the George Washington monument dominated the tree line. The roof of the Lincoln Memorial rose above the trees on the right. It was particularly balmy for late June. He took a deep breath and felt calm despite the angry honking on Constitution behind him.
He always liked Washington. Big enough to get lost in without the claustrophobic feel of the bigger cities. After ten years in the military, he’d spent two more haunting the streets of DC trying to find somewhere to belong. Which usually meant a bar filled with men as messed up as he was.
His cramped Atlanta apartment and his home state sprang into mind. Maybe it was time to request a transfer and finally go home. At least in Colorado he could disappear into the mountains whenever he wanted.
A strong hand clapped him on the shoulder. “How you doing, you old bastard?” The voice was steely from a lifetime of leadership and gravely from two packs a day.
Luke smiled before he turned. “Frank.” Luke stood to greet the older man and stuck out his hand. Frank clasped it and pulled Luke into a hard hug. “How the hell are you?”
Frank’s polo and khakis were crisp and sharp even at the end of the day. He made no effort to sand down his overt military bearing, from his graying high and tight to his rigid posture. The only thing that changed over the years was the amount of grunting as he sat on the rock beside Luke.
Frank rubbed his knee. “Wouldn’t have anything to complain about weren’t for this damn rain coming,” Frank eyed the clear blue sky. “How are the peaches?”
Luke pulled a face. “Soggy.”
“I have to admit I was surprised to get your phone call, Son. Been a long time.”
“I know, Frank. I’m sorry.”
“You up an’ disappeared on me, Son. By the time I saw your discharge paperwork you were on terminal leave,” Frank said. He pulled a pack of unfiltered Marlboros from his shirt pocket, tamped them against his palm and stuck one between his lips. “Couldn’t find you after that until you joined the dark side. How’s that been for you?”
Luke shrugged. “Getting older.” He tried to steer the conversation away from himself. “You?”
Frank obliged and perked up at the question. “Damn knee gave out on me. Had to get another one. Got five grandkids now. Them daughters of mine won’t stop popping ‘em out. Love those little crumb snatchers. Keep me young.” Frank lit up and took a long drag.
Luke chuckled and shook his head. “I have a hard time picturing you playing Santa.”
“I had to explain why Santa smelled like cigarettes to the oldest one last year. I think she’s gettin’ suspicious.” Frank laughed and took another puff.
Retired Colonel Frank Longer had been a Captain in the intelligence battalion that Luke was assigned to as a butter bar fresh out of West Point. They met again five years later. By then, Frank had made full bird colonel, and Luke had been an operator for three years. Frank took command of Luke’s Delta Force counter terrorism unit and became a mentor and a friend. There was no human being on earth Luke trusted more.
Military ran through Frank’s veins. A member of the Longer family served in every conflict since the Revolutionary War; a fact he was fiercely proud of. As a young Lieutenant in Vietnam, a round shattered his knee. He could have stayed home like everyone else with a severe injury, but he charged back into the jungle as soon as he could walk. Even a bum knee riddled with arthritis couldn’t slow Frank Longer down.
In his civilian reincarnation, Frank ended up at the Defense Intelligence Agency. Unwilling to let a man with Frank’s expertise go, the SECDEF recruited him to head up the Joint Intelligence Center. Frank, unwilling to accept that the glory days were over, accepted.
The Last Innocent Page 11
