HABIT: a gripping detective thriller full of suspense

by T. J. Brearton

  But then, just as it had all formed so quickly in his mind, this conspiracy theory evaporated like dew. The web disappeared.

  His heart was thumping in his chest. He keyed the ignition and then backed out of the driveway.

  * * *

  Interstate 90 was clogged with traffic by the time he neared Albany an hour and a half later. It was after seven, but apparently there were still plenty of commuters on the way home. Then, at seven-fifteen, they all seemed to magically disappear, and he had the road almost to himself. In fifteen more minutes, he was making the exit onto Western Ave. Within another minute and Brendan was turning into the University of Albany campus.

  He followed Heilshorn’s verbal instructions, and drove around the campus to the other side. There sat the building under construction; Albany’s new School of Business.

  He had asked Heilshorn why in the hell Forrester would be holed up in a building being built for a state university. Heilshorn told him he would understand when he saw the signs out in front.

  Brendan swung the Camry down an access road a few moments later. A giant crane sat next to the incomplete three-story building. Next to the crane was a sign declaring the building contractor. Brendan’s breath caught in his throat. The company that had been awarded the thirty-five million dollar contract to erect the school’s new building was called “Titan Construction Management, LLC.” The emblem beneath the name was a heraldic lion with a long, snaking tongue.

  It’s like they are boasting about who they are, Brendan thought.

  But who would ever link a general contracting business to a porn business? Still, it was audacious. Brendan imagined that the organizers behind the escort service had to have a front to funnel their money and clean it for the IRS. He had previously thought that the erotic videos would have taken care of that. The IRS didn’t judge the morality of one business or another, it just wanted accurate bookkeeping. So maybe the escort service was taking in so much money that even porn video sales through the roof weren’t enough to be convincing. Brendan had believed that the situation with the escort service had been significant, but now he was sure that it was even bigger than he’d first suspected.

  He remembered what Heilshorn had said. My sources have linked Forrester’s name with Titan, which protects the interests of black markets. One of Titan’s jobs could have been to launder the money made by XList.

  And the fact that they were flaunting it, right here, in the middle of a state university, in plain public view, that was just incredible.

  This company that serviced government officials with prostitutes was a chameleon, with a dozen different identities that continually shifted. XList was just a face, a mask. XList probably doesn’t even exist now, not on paper, not on the web, not anywhere. Not with this very investigation ongoing.

  He also thought of Heilshorn saying that Brendan must still be alive for a reason. Brendan didn’t believe in a god that manipulated the world, and he didn’t think Alexander Heilshorn did either. While he had reached the limit of his scientific patience and adopted a faith in a higher power, he was still sure that people were the manipulators, not God Almighty.

  If he was alive, it was because he had survived.

  And if anything, God was passive-aggressive.

  Brendan smiled. At the same time, he killed his headlights as he drifted past the construction sign, towards the hulking crane and the dark, unfinished building looming ahead. The crucifix Argon had given him hung around his neck.

  * * *

  He parked near some other vehicles which looked like typical construction-worker trucks and cars. A tool bin was in the back of one pick-up truck, which was next to a beat-up looking Honda Accord. Another truck sat in the distance, out of the throw of lamplight. He wondered if there were workers inside, now. He scanned the four-story building and found that there were no discernibly lit rooms, only a glow in most windows from what were likely the hall lights. It was slightly brighter in some windows than others, but they were definitely not individually lit rooms.

  Then a thought struck him: Forrester was working for the company. This was his day job. By night he robbed prostitutes of their babies, in order to keep them in the game or to keep their mouths shut about the congressmen and senators they serviced. By day he wore a tool belt and swung a hammer, listening to CCR on a battered radio.

  And somewhere in there was he keeping a child? How exactly would that work out? A man like Forrester wasn’t capable of keeping a small child healthy and cared for, let alone concealed, especially if he was working a day job and moonlighting as an enforcer for a black market organization. There had to be an accomplice. He had to be working with somebody.

  Brendan glanced at his phone. There had been two missed calls. One was from a half an hour before, the other thirty-one minutes ago. He realized that, in his nervousness and haste, he hadn’t activated the ringer on his phone. He usually kept it on silent – nothing was more disturbing to an interview with a witness or in the middle of a forensic investigation than a ringing phone.

  Both calls were from Colinas.

  Still sitting in his car and looking up at the building, he listened to his voice messages.

  “Healy? Where the hell are you? Boy, you know how to ruin a surprise. We’ve been at your house for ten minutes now, dude. Oh, I see I got a call from you. Alright, let me check it.”

  Brendan scowled in the dark. Ruin a surprise? What in the hell was Colinas talking about? He said “we’ve been at your house.” Who was “we?” Why were they . . . ?

  And then Brendan realized. Today was his birthday. He was thirty-five. It had been his goal to quit smoking by today, he also remembered.

  He hadn’t had a cigarette in more than forty-eight hours.

  He closed his eyes and breathed through his nose. He couldn’t help but smile and shake his head. The next message wiped the humor from his face.

  “Healy, are you fucking nuts? Listen, I’m here with Taber and Bostrom and Lawless, man. We came by to give you a fucking box of donuts, dude. I . . . you’ve put me in a tough spot, here, Healy. You’ve got to be fucking kidding me. Call me back. I don’t know what I’m going to tell these guys.”

  Colinas had hung up.

  Brendan pulled the phone away from his ear. He suddenly felt cold and nauseous. Every instinct that had told him he ought to be here, was now gone. He looked at the flat, characterless Business School building and felt a shudder. Colinas was right. He was fucking nuts. He needed to back out of the parking lot right now, turn around, and get the hell out of there. This was a job for a SWAT team. At least, it was a job to be commanded by men with far more field experience than he had.

  The Camry was still running. He reached the shifter and was preparing to put it in reverse when one of the lights in the building winked on.

  Brendan froze. He leaned forward and peered through the windshield. At the far end of the building, on the third floor, a light had indeed come on in one of the rooms.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE / MONDAY, 8:19 PM

  Brendan was walking towards the building when his phone rang. This time, he felt the vibration in his pocket and pulled it out. The incoming call was a number he didn’t recognize.

  “Hello?”

  “Mr. Porter?”

  “Who is this?”

  “This is Jerry with Titan Inc. We’re the parent company to XList. Is this a bad time?”

  John Porter was the name he had used to email XList.

  Brendan froze. Instinctively, he looked around the parking lot. A dozen light towers with buzzing arc-sodium lamps glowed over a vast and mostly empty tarmac the size of a football field. The air smelled like construction – sawdust and burnt metal. In the distance, a single car was tracking along the service road off of Western Ave. It was headed his way.

  “I’m sorry for taking the liberty of calling, sir. I just wanted to follow-up and see if you were still having any trouble with your XList order.”

  Brendan’s lips were pre
ssed together. He watched the car approaching. Suddenly, its lights winked off.

  Though the evening was humid and only in the fifties, Brendan felt cold. He licked his lips.

  “No, I think I was able to find what I’ve been looking for.”

  “That’s good to hear, sir. We can take the order over the phone, if it’s convenient.”

  Brendan glanced at the phone. The incoming call on his display read BLOCKED. That didn’t help. But he could swear he heard an engine in the background – hard to tell if it was coming through the phone or from Western Ave, though.

  “No, actually it’s not convenient. I’m not . . . I can’t get to my credit card right now.”

  “Very good, sir. Again, I apologize for calling you like this. We just like to reach out to our very special customers.”

  “What makes me so special?”

  “Well, you’re interested in Danice. Anyone who’s interested in Danice arouses our interest, if you’ll excuse the phrase.”

  This was no punk getting paid seven bucks and hour to cold call potential porn customers, Brendan was sure now. The person calling himself “Jerry” was clearly involved in all of the rest of it. Brendan looked for the approaching vehicle. He glimpsed it beneath a streetlight on the service road, and then lost sight of it again. It was almost at the parking lot.

  He thought he’d even heard the name Jerry before, and racked his brain.

  “I’m going to find you,” said Brendan. “I’m going to shut you down.”

  Jerry laughed. “You really got your bell rung, didn’t you? I don’t believe you’re thinking straight, Detective.”

  “Meet me. Name a place and meet me. I’ll show you how I’m thinking.” Brendan felt the hairs rising on the back of his neck. He now stared at the lighted window on the third floor as he spoke. Was “Jerry” waiting for him up there? The voice on the phone was gravelly, sadistic. Who were these people?

  In a burst of adrenaline, Brendan started heading for the front doors of the Business School.

  “Come open up. Let me in.”

  “Little pig, little pig, let me in,” said Jerry.

  “You guys think you’re so smart with your Titan Construction company. Your big sign right here, right under everyone’s nose.”

  “The thing under everyone’s nose is you, Detective Healy.”

  “You weren’t on to me until I got in touch with you, Jerry.”

  “Yes. From your sick bed, after we ran you over, if memory serves.”

  Brendan reached the door. He had built up a good stride by the time he got there, the pain in his hip either forgotten or suppressed by the meds. He was using only one crutch, and now he tossed it aside and grabbed the handle of one of the glass front doors. He pulled, and the door swung open.

  For a moment, his heart seemed to stop. He realized he’d been expecting the place to be locked up. He’d thought his mind was playing tricks on him; that the person in the far window was just a carpenter working late, and that the rest of the crew had locked up hours ago.

  The door was open in front of him, leading in to a glass vestibule. There were another set of double doors just beyond.

  “What do you want, Detective? What do you think you’re going to achieve with this? You couldn’t get to the bottom of a pool with a concrete block wrapped around your ankle. You’ve got nothing on us. Better men than you have tried and failed.”

  “I won’t fail.”

  “Yes you will. Ultimately, you will. Men like you always do. And we will continue to be here, just like we’ve always been here.”

  Jerry hung up.

  Brendan paused and glanced at his phone. He was sure that even if he was able to uncover the blocked number, it wouldn’t connect him anywhere. Or, to a pay-as-you-go phone. Still, he would try it later. For now, he slid the phone into the pocket of his windbreaker and opened the next set of doors.

  * * *

  Once through the entrance, Brendan was in a short, wide corridor. Within a few paces, he came into a lobby. It was an impressive room, with the ceiling three stories above a marble floor. A large mahogany desk sat in the center. There were two tremendous potted plants flanking the front desk – they were ficcas, perhaps. To the right, a set of scaffolding was stacked four-high almost to the ceiling. There was plastic around its feet. The room was lit with tungsten sconces along the wall – two behind the front desk, one on either side, beneath what became an overhang for the second floor. He spied two emergency lights boxes beneath these cantilevers as well.

  He walked up to the front desk and looked around. The wood was coated with a patina of sheetrock dust. Seeing nothing of use, he walked around the desk to the back wall where there were two elevator bays. Between the bays was a plaque showing a map of the building. The layout was pretty simple: Four floors, a north wing and a south wing, mostly classrooms, but with three lecture halls, a conference center, cafeteria, and a full gymnasium on a sub floor, including racquet ball courts. A student would never have to leave.

  After absorbing this, Brendan turned and limped hurriedly back to the front doors. As he neared them, he put his back to the wall and he slid more slowly towards the glass. He peered out into the dark parking lot. He reached in his jacket and felt the butt of his gun.

  He waited for what felt like an eternity, but was, according to his phone clock, only five minutes. No one was coming from the parking lot to the front doors. If they were from Titan, likely they knew a more discreet way into the building anyway.

  He decided it was time to go and see who was on the third floor. His phone buzzed in his pocket. He glanced at the screen and saw that it was Colinas. He answered it in a low voice.

  “Yeah.”

  “Where are you?”

  “UAlbany. New Business School building.”

  “What the hell are you doing there?”

  “You can’t tell anyone I’m here.”

  “What?”

  “I’m going after Forrester. But there’s a chance that people could get hurt if Forrester knows we’re onto him.”

  “You’re nuts. Get out of there.”

  “I can’t.” Brendan thought to say more, but he stopped himself. “I’ll call you back in one hour.”

  Brendan hung up. He turned his phone off. If I’m alive in an hour, he thought.

  He was terrified by the notion, but at the same time, felt a kind of peace with it; it was a paradoxical emotion that resided within him.

  He continued to the stairs and opened the door quietly and began to ascend.

  Once on the third floor, he drew his weapon and entered the corridor cautiously. He had a flashlight in his pocket which he pulled out and brought into a grip beneath the weapon. He kept the light off for now. The same soft, ambient sconces lit the hallway. Overhead were fluorescent light panels, dark.

  He looked down the corridor one way – towards the north wing. He was closer to the south wing, and he started that way. He passed by three rooms with the doors closed before reaching a set of double glass doors which marked the entrance to the south wing. He found the doors unlocked and went through silently.

  He started down the corridor again. This time the rooms were open – no doors had yet been hung at their entrances. He looked in the first room, his gun in front of him. He clicked his flashlight on to reveal construction items on the floor – plastic, tools, scaffold. A quick inventory indicated that the construction crew was in the process of mudding the walls – covering over the sheetrock to make it smooth and ready for paint. It didn’t look like anyone had been at it today, however. There was a sense that the dust coating everything was old. The air was stale. No smell of drying caulk, mudding, or sawdust.

  He exited and turned down the corridor in the direction he’d been going.

  When he emerged, he saw a man standing in the hallway further down, pointing a gun at him.

  The man fired.

  Brendan cried out and dove back into the room as a bullet punched through the air inc
hes from his ear. He crashed into some scaffold, and his gun and flashlight clattered to the ground.

  He found his footing quickly and bent and scrabbled for the lost items. He found his gun. He couldn’t locate the flashlight right away. His heartbeat thudded in his temples as he dragged his fingers over the gritty bare floor, looking for it. The man who’d fired could be coming down the corridor right now, ready to jump into the room behind Brendan and finish what he’d started. There was no time to keep searching for the flashlight.

  Brendan turned and aimed at the door to the hallway. He started towards it in a crouch. His blood roared in his ears. He took huge, gulping breaths. He needed to steady himself. It was no use – his body shook terribly. He reached the door and quickly left the room and swung into the corridor, prepared to drop prone to the floor and fire.

  There was no one there.

  The corridor hooked right further down, past four or five more rooms like the one he had just come out of. The man who had fired at him was either in one of those rooms or had turned out of sight down the hallway.

  Brendan started after him, slowly, limping, trembling, biting his lip, willing himself to calm.

  Then the lights went out.

  * * *

  His first thought was to get out. To finally come to grips with reality – that he was in way over his head, well outside of the boundaries of proper police procedure, and in no physical shape to continue on. The place was nearly pitch black, with only scant light filtering through the windows in the classrooms from the parking lot outside, and some meager illumination from the city beyond. It was barely bright enough to see the edges of the hallway, and his hands in front of his face. Time to go.

  He started backing down the corridor the way he’d come, and then stopped. He cocked his head, listening.

  Brendan thought he could hear a child crying. Just a baby, by the sound of it. It was faint and muffled, but it was there.