by Barry Eisler
The moment the briefing was done, Livia headed into the corridor and toward the elevators. She checked her phone—three calls from Diaz. Shit. She was about to call back when the screen lit up with an incoming Blocked Caller.
She answered, simultaneously hoping and afraid it might be him. “Hello?”
“Hey, darlin’. It’s me and I’m so sorry to bother you. Can you talk?”
At the sound of his voice, her heart started pounding. His voice, and his way of talking to her—the solicitousness, the gentleness. It was good when they were together. Why couldn’t she just accept that and not overthink it? Why did it always also make her so afraid?
“Where are you?” she said.
“Well, that’s why I’m calling. You see—”
Fifty feet ahead, the elevator doors opened. Chief of Police Charmaine Best emerged and turned left. She saw Livia and nodded. The nod felt like more than a greeting. It felt like an I want to talk to you.
Livia barely had time to think Shit. She returned the nod and said softly into the phone, “Call me back in fifteen. And fifteen after that, if I don’t answer. Keep trying.” Then, louder, “Okay, good talking to you. Bye.”
She clicked off and pocketed the phone. “Chief Best. Hi.”
Best gave her a quick once-over, as though she might spot some incriminating evidence. “How was the briefing?”
Ordinarily, the chief summoned people she wanted to see. If she had come to talk to Livia—and Livia sensed she had—it would be in the nature of an ambush, an attempt to deny Livia time to prepare.
But prepare for what?
Livia shrugged. “The usual. Other than a big shooting in Freeway Park.”
“Yes, the preliminary findings are certainly unusual. Six victims, five men and a woman. All carrying untraceable firearms and none carrying ID. Phones all burners, used only to call other burners.”
“We were briefed on the same. Not gangs. Likely some sort of professional operation.”
“That had the misfortune of running into someone even more professional. What do you think, Detective Lone? Was this really aimed at AUSA Diaz?”
“I was just briefed myself,” Livia said. “I don’t know.”
“Of course. Still, I was hoping you might have some insight.”
“Insight?”
“Well,” Best said, with a smile she might have intended to be disarming, but that for Livia had the opposite effect. “That attempt on you at the martial arts academy. Those snipers across the river from your apartment. And those operators who came at you in Utah, and the ones shot to death at the Salton Sea, before your heroic rescue of Sherrie Dobbs. You just seem to have a nose for this kind of trouble.”
Livia realized she should have seen this coming. She had been mixed up in too many messes, had too many convenient excuses, and had emerged with too many medals. Best was a good cop and respected her results, Livia knew that. But a chief was at least fifty percent politician, and the politician in Best was perennially troubled by Livia’s mysteries and determined to solve them. The problem was, what the woman thought she knew was bad enough. What she didn’t know was significantly worse. And if she ever grabbed on to a thread and started pulling, the entire tapestry could come apart, leaving Livia exposed beneath it.
“Do you want me assigned to this?” Livia said. “I know Alondra. She takes my women’s self-defense class. If she’s at risk, I’d like to—”
“No, I don’t want you assigned to this. That would be Lieutenant Strangeland’s call, in any event. And besides, I don’t imagine you need to be formally assigned to be involved.”
Livia didn’t mind the passive-aggressive jibes. She recognized them as a pressure release, an outlet for Best’s frustrations. The real worry would be if they stopped.
An elevator opened and several detectives got off. They nodded nonchalantly to the chief while doubtless gleaning whatever they could from the fact of her corridor conversation with another cop. Instinctively, Livia waited to say anything until they were out of earshot.
“Well, do you want me to—”
“What I want,” Best said, “is that nothing should happen to AUSA Diaz, do you understand me? What I want is for that predator Schrader to not be able to bribe or bully or God knows what his way out of justice. That is what I want. And I’m not particularly concerned about how. So if you know more than you’re letting on here, and of course you do, that’s fine. By now I’m used to it. I just want to know we’re on the same page.”
For a moment, Livia was taken aback. Had she misread Best’s intentions? Was this . . . détente?
“I . . . want those things, too.”
Best nodded. “Then do what you do, Livia. I don’t need to know the details.” She paused, then added, “And maybe I don’t want to.”
chapter
twenty-three
DELILAH
Delilah was with John in Little Red Door, a bar they liked in the Marais. Like so many things in their life these days, it was a compromise, though not a bad one. They spent part of the year in Kamakura, and part in Paris. They frequented places that were lively, for her, and more serene, for him. She preferred dinner late, so evenings out often began with a cocktail on the earlier side. Which was fine because early meant uncrowded, and uncrowded meant a seat facing the entrance—one of the areas about which she knew John would never compromise, not even for her.
But facing the door was fine. It was no more than common sense, really. The other habits—the ones that had been gradually waning—were much more extreme. The insistence on varying routes and times. Never making a reservation. Always reconnoitering the exterior of a place before going in—and then doing a thorough scan inside, as well. There were still vestiges that would occasionally reappear, moments when the old John would seem to startle awake before realizing that all was well and it was safe to return to sleep. And while she knew that some of his newfound demeanor was an organic consequence of increasing distance from the life—obsolete reflexes growing dull from lack of stimulation, old neural pathways being rerouted, replaced, rewired by new ones—she also understood that some of it was deliberate. A thing he did for her.
Of course, she could make an argument that he owed her. He had wanted out of the life before she had been ready, when she was still in the grip of a one-way allegiance to her birth country, Israel, and her employer, Mossad. He had given her an ultimatum that backfired. And out of stupid male pride had disappeared from her life for years afterward, before finally coming to his senses and crawling back.
He took a sip of his drink, something called a madre de dios. Watching him in profile, she felt a wave of affection. She knew she could be difficult with him. Partly because he put up with it. Once, she’d told him she recognized the dynamic, that she was grateful for how he had learned to stay cool even when she was running hot. He had laughed and told her it was all about survival. She’d mock-punched him for that. And, then, more seriously, he had told her it was something called amaeru.
“Which is what?” she had asked.
“A kind of . . . relationship glue. All humans have it, but it’s more central in Japan. Which is why they gave it a name.”
She was intrigued. John rarely talked about the Japanese half of his heritage, and when he did, it was always as they, never we. Though in fairness, he never talked about America as we, either.
“All right,” she had said. “Tell me about this glue.”
“It’s . . . when you want to test whether someone really cares about you. And foster that caring, too. You behave a little selfishly. Even childishly. And the other person puts up with it. Because he loves you.”
“Is this your way of telling me that I’m selfish and childish?”
He had smiled at that. “Or that I love you.”
She glanced around the bar. She cherished this place—the exposed stone-and-brick walls, the eclectic upholstered seating, the subdued lighting. The feeling of being here with this man she loved. This thing
they had, which he had once called a nation of two.
He looked at her. “What are you thinking?”
She took a sip of her drink—an Art Deco, another of the bar’s specialties—and smiled. “I was thinking I like that it’s whisky in Kamakura, and cocktails in Paris.”
“Is that really what you were thinking?”
There were several ways she might have answered. But the most eloquent was also the one she most wanted. She kissed him. She knew he liked when she did that, liked how physical she was with him, even in public. It had taken a while for him to become comfortable with it, to trust how much she enjoyed touching him. Once upon a time, her specialty for Mossad was honeytrap operations, and some aspect of John’s survival instincts, or maybe just his cynicism, had clung to the suspicion that she might be playing him long after she no longer was.
She felt her phone buzz. It was another compromise between his distrust of cellphones and her insistence on real-time accessibility. She took it from her purse and glanced at the caller ID. “Blocked,” she said. She didn’t get many calls, and she could feel his instant unease.
It buzzed again. “Go ahead,” he said. “Otherwise, we’ll just be in suspense.”
She answered. “Allo?”
“Delilah. Am I catching you at a good time?”
She recognized the voice instantly—gravelly, like the shake of a rattlesnake’s tail.
“Daniel. It’s good to hear your voice. Is everything all right?”
She could feel John’s unease increase at her mention of Larison’s name. He was probably worried it was something about Dox. For that matter, so was she.
“Everyone’s fine,” he said. “I’m not calling too late?”
“No, it’s evening where we are. You’re sure everything is all right?”
She saw John do a quick sweep of the room—the entrance, the hotspots, the other patrons with backs to the wall. Stimulus, response.
“All right enough. Dox and I took on a little job that turned out to be not as little as expected.”
“I see.”
“He didn’t want to bug you guys. But I think we could use backup.”
Alongside her worry, she felt a surge of irritation. “Daniel. What is wrong with you two? You don’t need the money. You have a good life, a person who loves you.”
“Stop. I already feel guilty.”
“Not guilty enough.”
“Can we talk about my feelings another time?”
“I wish we had talked about them sooner.”
“I wrote up the details on the secure site. I don’t know when you’ll be able to check it, but in the meantime, read the news out of Seattle. That was Dox and me. And the gist of it is, we think there’s more where that came from.”
The irritation escalated to an adrenaline rush surreal in its familiarity. “What’s the plan?”
“I’m not sure yet. Other than my sense that we’re not going to resolve this playing whack-a-mole. We need to figure out where the problem is coming from and take it out.”
John was looking at her. She knew he wanted the phone. But he was the one who refused to carry one. And besides, she wasn’t done. “What about Tom?” she said. “Can he help?”
“He’s the guy who hired us. He’s finding out what he can.”
“Is Livia involved with this?”
“No. Well, not yet. Dox is going to see her.”
She tried to suppress her resentment. “Of course.”
“Is John around?”
Her resentment worsened. “Yes, he’s right here.”
“Listen, I really am sorry to bug you. But if the two of you were thinking about visiting the States, now might not be a bad time.”
chapter
twenty-four
DUNLOP
Dunlop didn’t recognize the two FBI agents who were there to escort Schrader to the local Bureau field office. That didn’t concern him. The marshals who routinely shuttled prisoners to and from the courthouse, everyone got to know. But no one could keep track of Bureau business. Probably not even the Bureau itself.
He squinted at the court order again. There was nothing wrong with it. It was properly filled out and stamped, and signed by District Judge Ricardo. And the agents’ IDs were legit, too.
But still, a day pass for an off-site interrogation was unusual. Plus Schrader was the FDC’s premier celebrity guest. That nice prosecutor, Alondra Diaz, had been by to meet with him not thirty minutes earlier. It all made Dunlop feel a little . . . twitchy. He wondered if he should maybe contact her. But no, a court order was the last word, and if Diaz objected, there would be nothing he could do and all he would accomplish would be to get her pissed at him. Dunlop had been with the Bureau of Prisons for eighteen years and had never made a major mistake, and all he cared about at this point was keeping it that way so he could enjoy his pension while doing nothing but drinking beer and catching fish and watching football. So no, no sense calling Diaz. But if there was an i here that hadn’t been dotted, he was damn well going to make sure it wasn’t his ass that got bitten for it.
“How come you guys didn’t call ahead?” he said, looking up from the court order. “Usually people call ahead when they’re going to pick up a prisoner. Sometimes it takes us a while to locate them, believe it or not. Unless they’re in the SHU, which this guy Schrader is not.”
The two agents glanced at each other. Both white guys, both early thirties and fit-looking, both with that cocksure Bureau attitude that rubbed everyone the wrong way. “You gotta be kidding,” the taller one said. “They were supposed to call ahead. Like an hour ago. Jesus. How long is it going to take to locate this guy . . . What’s his name? Schrader?”
“Well, I don’t know. He’s probably back in his cell now. We had him out just a half hour ago to meet with the prosecutor. But say, Agent . . .”
“Robinson,” the tall one said.
“Right. Agent Robinson. The thing is, this is an unusual request. I’m just going to call the ExA—the executive administrator—and make sure it all checks out.”
“Do what you gotta do,” Robinson said. “Sounds like we’re already going to be late and it’s none of our faults. It’s the idiots who didn’t call ahead.”
Five minutes later, the ExA, a pencil neck named Nulty, was out front, personally reviewing the court order and the agents’ credentials. Nulty would understand that Dunlop had called him to cover his own ass, of course. But that was fine. He’d also understand that the ass at risk now was his own.
“Everything seems to be proper,” Nulty said, still staring at the paperwork. “Have you checked to make sure it’s in PACER?”
Shit. Dunlop hadn’t thought of that. “Uh, no. Give me just a minute.”
He logged on, but couldn’t find the order. “Nothing by case number. Nothing by Federal Register Number. And . . . nothing by name. It’s not entered.”
“Huh,” Robinson said. “Maybe they haven’t gotten to it yet or whatever. Can you call the court?”
Nulty nodded. “Sure, we can do that.” He glanced at Dunlop to indicate that by we he meant you.
“Just do me a favor,” Robinson said. “On the assumption everything checks out, which it should, can you bring out the prisoner so we can get a move on? We’re on bullshit detail all day, and this isn’t our only stop.”
Dunlop looked at Nulty. Nulty nodded. Dunlop called the SCO. “Bill. We got a court order here and a couple of feds waiting to transport prisoner number 45047-177. One Andrew Schrader. Yeah, I know, he’s popular today. Can you bring him up front ASAP? The chief’s waiting, too.”
He hung up, got an outside line, looked up the court number, and dialed. A woman’s voice answered: “United States District Court, Western District of Washington. How may I direct your call?”
“This is Fred Dunlop calling from the SeaTac FDC. I’m trying to confirm the presence of a court order that hasn’t been entered in PACER yet.”
“That would be the clerk of court. H
old, please.”
Dunlop heard a click, and the line went over to Muzak. Why people felt the need to torture you while you were on hold, Dunlop would never understand.
The Muzak stopped and a different woman’s voice came on. “Clerk of court, Western District of Washington. How may I help you?”
Dunlop repeated the request. A moment went by, and the woman said, “Yes, temporary release order for prisoner number 45047-177, Andrew Schrader. Signed by Judge Ricardo this morning.”
Dunlop looked at Nulty and nodded. “They’ve got it.”
Nulty returned the nod. Dunlop thanked the woman and hung up.
“Looks like you were right,” Nulty said, turning to Robinson. “Just hadn’t been entered yet.”
Robinson rolled his eyes. “I’m surprised they even had a copy of it. Half the time the left hand doesn’t have a clue what the right is up to.”
Nulty laughed. “Tell me about it.”
Something still felt . . . off to Dunlop. But if the chief was okay with it all, it wasn’t Dunlop’s problem. He printed out the release paperwork and slid it over to Robinson with a pen.
Robinson glanced at the other agent. “Look over the paperwork, will you? Make sure it’s in order.” He looked at Dunlop. “No offense. Just don’t want any more glitches.”
Dunlop shook his head. “None taken.” Which wasn’t exactly true. But whatever.
A few minutes later, a klaxon sounded, an electronic lock clacked, and the barred door to the prisoners’ area slid open with a mechanical whine. Two guards brought out Schrader, hands and ankles regulation-manacled.
Schrader looked at the two agents, then at Dunlop. “What’s going on?”
“Court order,” Robinson said, bending to sign the release paperwork. “Your presence is requested at the Seattle field office.”
“Why?”
Robinson didn’t even look up. “You’re asking the wrong people. We just drive the car.”
“Does my lawyer know?”
“You’ll have to ask her. Come on, guy, we’re already behind schedule. Let’s go.”
