“How old were you?”
“Twenty-four, twenty-five. The company offered decent pay and benefits. It seemed like the right move.”
Still not knowing how much he would tell. Surprised to find he was happy to be sharing it. This is your son, he thought. You hardly know him, and he hardly knows you.
“What did you do for them?”
“Whatever was needed. Mostly training and assisting indigenous troops, in Central and South America, West Africa, places like that. We took contracts from the U.S. government too. Once we spent a month blowing up cocaine-manufacturing plants in Honduras.”
“That’s crazy.”
“It was, sometimes. Mostly what we did was advise the locals on tactics, weapons, that sort of thing. A lot of chalk talk. They did most of the actual fighting.”
“How long did you do that?”
“A few years. It paid well, so I was able to sock some money away.”
“Were you in Iraq?”
“No, I was just about out of it by then. Guys I worked with went over, though. Some of them did all right.”
“Why’d you quit?”
“I don’t know, just tired of it. And it wasn’t easy to know where you stood sometimes. In some of those places, you needed a scorecard to know who was fighting who, and why.”
“Where did you get hurt?”
Devlin looked down at his half-eaten sandwich, knew he was done with it. The coffee was like acid in his stomach.
“I picked up a few bangs and bumps along the way. Everybody does. Only time I got seriously hurt was in South America. That was the last real field duty I had.”
“What were you doing there?”
“It was a small country next to Venezuela. They had oil fields, should have been rolling in dough, but the president and his pals in the government were stealing most of the money, hiding it in offshore accounts. A lot of people were hungry, the economy was a mess. Some of his military men wanted to launch a coup, drive him out of office. They hired the company I worked for to help train their men, provide equipment, give them a leg up in the fighting.”
“You went down there?”
“We did what we could. I didn’t half understand the politics at the time. And I guess we didn’t really care. It was a job. The president was a die-hard left-winger, so Washington was happy to see him go. The whole thing was over in a couple months.”
“Who won?”
“No one did.” He slid the plate away. “They ended up trading one bad man for another.”
“What happened to the president?”
“He tried to flee the country, but got caught before he crossed the border.”
“They kill him?”
“They did.”
“Were you there?”
“No, I’d been medevaced back to the States by then. I followed it in the news.”
“What happened to you?”
“My jeep hit a mine. They were all over the place then, probably still are. For all I know, it was one of the ones we planted. Knocked me ass over head. I had some broken bones, caught some shrapnel. It could have been a lot worse.”
Leaving out the rest, the roadblock, the village.
“Did you almost die?”
“Nah. They shipped me home, and I spent a few weeks in hospitals here. That’s where I met your mother. She was a nurse, just out of school. I pretended to be more helpless than I was, just to get her to spend more time with me.”
“Did you like it, the Army?”
“I liked the discipline, the purpose. I miss that now sometimes. Why, are you thinking about it?”
Brendan shrugged. “I don’t know.”
“Go to college first, then decide,” Devlin said. “Get that under your belt, and it opens up a world of choices.”
“You didn’t.”
“And I regret that.”
“What happened with Mom?”
Devlin looked out at the parking lot, the traffic passing on the highway.
“Turned out I wasn’t a very good civilian. I started drinking too much, and I was still having a lot of physical problems. I was just a kid when I went into the service, not much older than you. I didn’t know anything about civilian life, really. I’d missed out on a lot. When I married your mother, I was still in a bad place. I wasn’t handling things well, and eventually she got tired of it. Then you came along, and, for a while, things were good. We were happy. I had everything I wanted. And then I threw it all away.”
“Why?”
“Because I felt like I didn’t deserve it.”
Brendan picked at his sandwich. Devlin knew he had more questions, was holding back.
“Anything else you want to ask me?”
Brendan shook his head.
“We should finish up and get going,” Devlin said. “I don’t want to cause you any problems at work.”
“What I don’t get,” Brendan said, “is why did it take you so long to tell me all that?”
“I don’t know. Time never seemed right, I guess.” Wondering if he should tell him what he’d told Vic. Decided against it. It would only worry him. He’d laid enough on him for today.
The waitress set down the check. Devlin got out his wallet. “So, college. What are you planning on studying?”
“I don’t know. Business, maybe. Or something else. Not sure.”
“Only problem with not knowing where you’re going,” Devlin said, “is eventually you get there.”
“You speaking from experience?”
Devlin grinned. “Kid, I am the poster boy for cluelessness.”
On the way back, Brendan said, “What are you going to do now? You going back to Florida?”
“I think so.”
“I’m glad you came.”
“I am too.”
“Living on a boat, that must be cool.”
“Not really. It’s cramped. And expensive.”
“If I come visit, can we go out in it? Take a trip or something?”
“Sure,” Devlin said, and meant it.
Fourteen
Is that Roarke?” Tariq said.
They were parked a half block down from the address they’d been given, a redbrick apartment building off Chestnut Street. Lukas was at the wheel. Quarter to seven in the morning and gray as dusk, no sign of the sun.
The man who’d come out the front door was big and bearded, wore a down vest over a flannel shirt, jeans, and a wallet chain. Lukas recognized him from the pictures. Older, heavier, but the same man. “That’s him.”
“This isn’t good, working in the same city twice. It’s too soon.”
“I’m not crazy about it either,” Lukas said. “But it is what it is.”
“He have something to do with the other one?”
“Farrow says no.”
“You believe him?”
Lukas didn’t answer.
Roarke went to the parking area beside the building, climbed into a red pickup, and drove out of the lot, exhaust puffing white. Lukas started the engine, pulled out after him.
It was a short drive. Lukas stayed far back, just close enough to keep the truck in sight. It turned into a fenced-in parking lot beside a dark bar. There were people waiting outside, one of them in a wheelchair. Lukas drove by without slowing.
He circled the block, taking his time. When he came around again, the bar’s lights were on, the sidewalk empty.
“This is good,” he said.
The streets were deserted. On one side of the bar was a closed store, riot gate in place. On the other, past the chain-link fence of the parking area, was an empty lot. Across the street, an abandoned factory took up the whole block.
“We should go back to his apartment,” Tariq said. “Wait for him there. We can get him alone and talk to him, find out something about the others. Maybe they’re even there.”
“Too risky.”
“What are you thinking?”
“I’m thinking we got lucky.”
He turne
d left down a side street of warehouses and storage units, then left again into a wide service alley that ran behind the factory. He drove slow, looked for security cameras on buildings or light poles, saw none. There was nothing worth protecting here anymore.
Halfway down the alley, at the rear of the factory, was a loading dock. A concrete ramp led down into it, the bottom filled with trash. He swung the Crown Vic around, reversed down the ramp, shut off the engine, and popped the trunk.
“What are you doing?” Tariq said. “You want to go in there now?”
“Why wait?”
“There are people in there with him.”
“That’s the point,” Lukas said. “This way is good for us, how it’ll look.”
He got out, went around to the back of the car. Tariq followed him. “We even know why we’re after these men?”
“Doesn’t matter now, does it?” Lukas said. He flexed his fingers inside his gloves, raised the lid. “Could be some beef from way back. Who knows?”
He pushed aside the spare tire, pulled back the carpet beneath to expose the panel set flush there. When he pressed it, the lid clicked and rose up. He lifted the gear bag out of the compartment below, set it on the spare, and unzipped it.
“I still think we should wait at the apartment,” Tariq said.
“You want to walk? Say the word.”
“Not what I meant. I’m saying there are better ways to do this. Without other people around.”
Lukas drew out the pistol-grip shotgun. The blue-steel barrel had been cut down just past the pump, the edge showing silver where it had been sawn.
“We’ve got him now, we know where he is. A day, two days from now, that might not be the case. We can’t take the chance he rabbits. Now’s the time.”
He took the silenced Ruger from the bag, held it out. Tariq looked at it for a moment, then took it. He eased back the slide to check the chambered round, then tucked the gun into his belt beneath his jacket.
Lukas turned the shotgun over, loaded it with loose shells from the bag. He worked the pump to chamber a round, thumbed in another shell to replace it. It was a messy weapon, but it would look right for this.
He took two dark ski masks from the bag, gave one to Tariq. “I doubt there’s cameras inside. But there might be one on the street we didn’t see.”
“What about the man in the wheelchair?”
“What about him?” Lukas set the shotgun atop the spare, pulled on his mask, adjusted it.
“That doesn’t bother you?”
“What difference does it make?” He picked up the shotgun again.
Tariq put on his mask. Lukas took a thin blanket from the trunk, draped it over the shotgun. It was cover enough. It would be a quick walk, around the corner of the factory, straight across the street to the bar.
“You ready for this?” Lukas said. Tariq nodded.
Lukas shut the trunk lid.
“This man Roarke,” Tariq said. “He used to be a bad-ass once, right? Back in the day?”
“That day’s over,” Lukas said. “We’re the bad-asses now.”
Lukas went in first. He shouldered open the door, heard chimes ring above him, let the towel drop, and brought up the shotgun. Tariq came in behind him, moving fast to his left, the Ruger out.
Behind the bar, Roarke looked up from a newspaper. Lukas pointed the shotgun at him. The man in the wheelchair saw them, but the ones at the bar had their backs to the door. Lukas counted them quickly. One man missing.
Roarke raised his hands. “Easy, now.”
They heard a toilet flush. A thin man in a Phillies cap came out of a door behind the pool table. He saw them, stopped.
“Get over there,” Lukas said to him. The men at the bar turned then. The television droned on above them.
The thin man looked at them, didn’t move. No fear in his eyes.
“Now,” Lukas said. He swung the shotgun toward him.
“It’s okay, Captain,” Roarke said. “All they want is the money. Everyone’s gonna stay calm.”
The thin man came forward.
“There’s good,” Lukas said. Then to Roarke, “Register.”
Roarke took off his glasses, let them dangle from a cord around his neck. “Not much in there this time of day, boys. You should know that.”
“Open it. Give us what you’ve got.” He took a step closer to the bar. With the barrel cut down, range would be a factor.
“Okay. Take it easy. No one’s going to give you any trouble.”
“Put it on the bar.” Lukas could see himself in the back mirror, a masked figure with a shotgun, Tariq to his left, covering the others.
“Hardly worth the aggravation,” Roarke said. “We’re talking about forty dollars here.”
Lukas leveled the shotgun at his chest, finger tightening on the trigger. Roarke saw it.
“It’s yours,” he said. “Just watch how you handle that thing.”
“Do it.”
Roarke sidestepped to the register, away from the drinkers, punched buttons. The cash drawer opened with a soft ching. Roarke turned to face him again, and Lukas met his eyes, saw it all there, knew what was about to happen. He felt a pulse of excitement that was almost sexual, wondered if Roarke could tell he was grinning under the mask.
Roarke’s hand went beneath the bar, as Lukas knew it would. It was all happening as he had visualized it, from the moment he’d first looked into Roarke’s eyes. Like something from the past they were acting out again.
When Roarke came up with the gun, Lukas fired.
Fifteen
Four police cars this time, two of them parked sideways across the street outside Dugan’s, blocking it in both directions. A crime scene van and Dwight’s unmarked inside the cordon. All he had told her was there’d been a shooting at Dugan’s. The scanner chatter had been cryptic, the dispatcher telling the responding officers to stay off the air, use their cellphones instead.
Half the block was marked off with crime scene tape. The door to Dugan’s was propped open with a cinder block, two uniforms standing watch outside.
She parked across the street outside the old textile factory, hung her laminate around her neck.
The two uniforms watched as she approached. One of them went inside. A moment later, Dwight came out, went to the tape, lifted it for her.
“Thanks for the call,” she said.
“You may not feel that way in a minute.”
He took her aside, away from the two uniforms. It was then she caught the familiar scent coming through the open door—the rusty smell of blood, a whiff of human waste. Under it all, the tang of gunpowder.
“You knew the owner here, right?” he said. “Colin Roarke?”
“He was a source on a story I did. Did something happen to him?”
“Just so we’re clear,” he said. “Anything I say to you right now is off the record. Assume you’re good with that. You can make whatever phone calls you need to make after we’ve talked.”
“What happened?”
“You good with it?”
“Yeah,” she said. “For now.”
She tried to get a look inside, her eyes adjusting to the dimness. Camera flashes lit the scene. She saw shapes on the floor by the pool table. Closer to the bar, a wheelchair lay on its side. Another flash from a different angle, and she saw the shapes were bodies, facedown, dark patches of blood spreading out from where they lay.
“Roarke?” she said.
“He’s one of them. How well did you know him?”
She tried to remember the last time she’d talked to him, couldn’t.
“Not well. He was a source, that’s all. Are you the primary on this one too?”
“Yeah, I was up. Mendoza’s canvassing. Captain’s on his way. It’s going to be a clusterfuck here in a minute. If he finds out I called you, he’ll have my ass.”
“Then why did you?”
“Two reasons: professional courtesy. And this.” He took a glassine evidence envelope fr
om a jacket pocket, held it up with a blue-gloved hand. Her business card was inside. “Next to the register, tucked under the phone. You talk to him recently?”
“Not for months.”
“Looks like you were on his mind. You sure he hasn’t tried to reach out to you at all?”
“If he did, I never got the message.”
More flashes inside. She saw that the mirror behind the bar had been shattered, patches of gray backing showing through.
“Robbery?” she said.
“Looks it. Register’s open.”
“When did it happen?”
“Haven’t pinned that down yet. Couple hours ago, best guess. Two night-shifters from the Goodwin plant came in for a beer, called 911.”
“Where are they now?”
“At Race Street, being interviewed.”
“How many vics altogether?”
“Six. Five in the back there,” he said. “Roarke behind the bar. At least we’re assuming it’s him, from his ID. Hard to tell. Shotgun wounds. It’s not pretty.”
“Two shooters?”
“At least. We’ll have a better idea once we process everything. We’ve got Roarke’s cell. We’ll go through it, check his recent calls. Will I find you on there?”
“No. I already told you that.”
Al Donovan came out, camera around his neck. “Hey, Tracy. Hell of a way to start the day.”
“What happened in there?” she said.
He looked at Dwight, who nodded.
“Looks like they herded them in the back,” Donovan said. “The one in the wheelchair must have been dragged. Made them all lie down, then took their time. Pop, pop, pop. All head shots, behind the ear or base of the skull, with a handgun, at close range. They weren’t taking any chances.”
“What about Roarke?”
“He probably got it first, soon as they came in the door. Shotgun blast to the chest, another to the head after he went down. Again, close range. They walked right up to him before they fired the second time.”
Some Die Nameless Page 10
