Man Down

by John Douglas

  Several places had squid, dark and alien. Next to them were coral-colored octopuses, flaccid, draped over the contours of crushed ice. I glanced at my watch. I was early by ten minutes. But I knew Callahan was early, too, checking the crowd for anyone who looked to be hunting rather than fishing.

  I went from one squid counter to the next, trying to look inconspicuously conspicuous. I had on a light suit jacket, hot in August, but I needed something to help cover the cannon. I was so used to carrying the Smith that the .45 began to feel like twenty pounds of dead weight in the sling. John Browning didn’t design this weapon as a comfortable carry. He had other virtues in mind.

  I looked at my watch again. It was three o’clock, straight up. No one in the crowd around me looked to be doing anything other than buying and selling fish. I saw dozens of people with laptops, but no one approached me.

  I walked away from the barges and into the small collection of shacks set up by the parking lot. No one looked my way, so I strolled across the grass toward the marina. There, boats worth my first eight years’ pay as a special agent were tied up gunwale to gunwale with houseboats and day sailers. It was early and many of the slips were empty, the boats still out on the river or south on the Chesapeake. Nothing to see.

  Back at the crab stand, a serviceman pointed and ordered twelve to go. He was a navy officer, an ensign. I wondered where I’d heard his voice before, and as he turned to look at me, I knew it was Callahan. Look for the squid, he’d said. And just as a marine is always ajarhead, a sailor is always asquid.

  Without looking at me he said, “You’re slow for someone’s supposed to be so smart.” He nodded toward the man with the clams. “Cherrystones are always good. You like clams?”

  “Yeah,” I said.

  “I like oysters. All the beds are going to shit, though. Didn’t used to be you took your life in your hands when you ate an oyster.”

  “What are we doing here, Callahan?”

  “I’m buying dinner. It’s on me.” He took his bags, paid for them. “You know what you’re getting? With the laptop, I mean?”

  “No. I don’t know.”

  “The only reason I’m giving you this is you seem like an honest guy. I’m not sure what that Rush asshole had figured out, but it was something big. That’s what Janice said.” Callahan stopped and his voice softened as he talked about his ex-wife. “Janice said she was going to be rich. Said they’d all be rich.”

  “So where is it?”

  “It’s coming. You know, the only reason I have it is security at RDU wouldn’t let her board with it. Isn’t that funny?”

  “Callahan, you have to turn yourself in.”

  Callahan laughed. “Oh, yeah. That’ll work.” He turned to go and stopped. Without looking at me he said, “I’m going to assume you didn’t have anything to do with this.”

  I looked in the direction of the parking lot and watched two uniformed Metro cops get out of an unmarked car. The driver was young, black, and nervous. He scanned the crowd, the way any cop would, but it wasn’t with confidence. A cop’s got to own the room, it’s what gives him that roll and swagger, aside from the thirty pounds of hardware on his belt. But this kid’s belt was so new I didn’t have to hear it to know that it squeaked.

  His partner looked like three of Nebraska’s five front linemen and carried his weight on tiny feet pinched into black Corfam shoes. You could stroll through a pig yard in a pair of Corfams and they’d still hold a shine. They’re popular footwear among the deskbound, but here on the street, in August, in D.C., they’d bake your feet like Virginia hams in ten minutes, flat.

  “Just walk away, Callahan,” I said.

  “Roger that.”

  Callahan casually strolled toward the marina. For a man wanted in two states for murder, he didn’t seem to be in any hurry. I had to admire his cool.

  The rookie said something to his partner. The two came toward me, the crowd parting like the Red Sea. The rookie hung back and watched Callahan. The side of beef with the badge said, “Donovan?”

  “Good afternoon, Officer.”

  “We’re your backup.”

  “Who sent you?”

  “Headquarters.”

  “Who at headquarters?”

  The rookie jerked his attention toward me. “Hey, man, we’re just following orders.” His partner gave him a look that said shut up, and the kid did.

  The Metro PD must have been stretched pretty thin by the terrorism alert to accept these two on the force.

  The big guy eyed the crowd again. “You just point out the suspect and we’ll take it from there.”

  The big guy was definitely crowding my personal space, not unusual for a street cop. Anyone who has to confront hard guys every day and make them think twice about starting trouble develops an attitude not endorsed by the etiquette guides. But something was wrong with the way he stepped in, and it took me a moment to get what it was.

  Street cops get in a guy’s face to throw him off-balance. But, they get too close and they’re liable to lose a gun. So when a cop steps in, he fronts the side opposite his weapon, his arms loose, ready to do whatever’s necessary to discourage the suspect.

  This guy had his arms crossed, his gun side to me, six inches from my hand. I looked at his service pistol. It was a stainless-steel Desert Eagle.

  That’s when I knew. This wasn’t a cop’s gun. And these guys weren’t cops.

  The rookie pulled a photo from his shirt pocket and looked at it. “Hey, Ronnie, I think that’s him. That sailor guy.” The rookie pointed at Callahan, who was near the marina, his bags of oysters and steamed crab still in his hands.

  The side of beef went for his gun.

  But I’d beaten him to it. I had the Desert Eagle in my hand, all the blinding light in the universe bouncing off its stainless-steel frame.

  “Hey,” the side of beef said.

  I backed away and held the pistol up, not pointing at anything lower than the Fourteenth Street Bridge. “If you don’t mind, I like to see some ID.”

  People in the crowd gasped and the ripple went outward from the gun.

  The rookie pulled his own pistol, a Pacific Rim bargain piece that’s no bargain when you need it. Panicked, he looked from me to his partner. “He’s got your gun.”

  The beef said, “I know he’s got my gun, you fucking idiot. Shoot him.”

  The rookie looked at Callahan. “That’s the man we supposed to get. And he’s getting away.”

  “We’ll get him. But first you have to shoot this guy.”

  “I can’t shoot him. I’ve seen him on TV.”

  The big man was quicker than I expected, and he grasped the barrel of the Desert Eagle and started to twist the gun from my hand.

  His partner danced from foot to foot, pointing the nine-millimeter in my direction. “Oh, man, what’s this shit?”

  The big man said, “Go get the sailor.” The veins on his neck were as thick as my little finger. “I’ll take care of this.”

  The rookie ran off toward the marina.

  I stood face-to-face with the beef. He smiled. “You ain’t gonna win this one, Hollywood.” He tightened his grip on the big pistol.

  What he hadn’t seen was my father’s .45 in my free hand. I jammed the muzzle into his ribs. “As a police officer, I would advise you to let go of the gun and back away with your hands in the air.”

  He looked down at the .45.

  “You don’t let go, I’m going to have to get blood all over my shirt.” I poked him again.

  He relaxed his grip.

  “Now let go, back away, and put your hands behind your head.”

  He did as he was told. I took the cuffs and keys and backed him up to a bicycle rack. The crowd watched, stunned, as I cuffed him to the rack.

  A man in a brown security guard’s uniform said, “Aren’t you Jake Donovan?”

  “Yes, I am.”

  He smiled, bright as sunlight, just as if we’d met on the street rather than over a c
uffed and swearing uniformed cop.

  “I’ve read all your books. I love your work.”

  “Thank you.” I held out the Desert Eagle. “Do you know how to use this?”

  “Yes.” His eyes were fixed on the pistol.

  “Do you know what it is?”

  “It’s a Desert Eagle, fifty cal.”

  I handed it to him. “Right answer. Watch this guy and shoot him if he moves.” The guard hesitated. “He’s not a real cop, either.”

  “Oh,” the security guard said. “That’s okay, then.”

  I ran off toward the marina. Callahan and the other fake cop had disappeared. When I rounded the corner, I saw standing open the gate in the chain link that separates the boat owners from the tourists. At the end of the pier I saw the rookie cop creep down the row of boats, looking one way, then the other.

  I ran down the steps and through the gate. “Hold it,” I hollered, and leveled the .45 at him.

  He turned, the gun still in his hand. He saw me and looked for a way out. But the only dry way out was through me.

  I didn’t like the look in his eye. “Don’t do it.”

  Slowly, as if underwater, he started to bring his gun around.

  I gripped the .45 in both hands, aimed at center mass, and tightened my finger on the trigger. “Don’t do it.”

  Callahan jumped from the deck of a large powerboat and brought the sack of oysters down across the kid’s head. The bag broke and the kid fell, surrounded by tumbling blue-points.

  Callahan scooped up the kid’s pistol and aimed it at the kid. Then he aimed it at me.

  I approached slowly, keeping Callahan in my sight picture. “Don’t do this, Callahan. I don’t want to shoot you.”

  Callahan tossed the pistol into the water. “I guess I’ll eat takeout.” He turned and walked to the end of the pier where a small outboard was tied up next to a thirty-foot sloop.

  I followed, my pistol still on him. “Callahan, I can’t let you go.”

  “And you won’t shoot me. Looks like you have a dilemma, Donovan.” He climbed into the boat and started the motor. “Untie me, would you?” He waited, his hand on the tiller.

  “What about the laptop?”

  “It’s coming. As soon as I’m gone.”

  I nodded. “And if I keep you here?”

  He shook his head. “Won’t happen.”

  I untied the line and tossed it into the boat.

  Callahan began to push off, but stopped. He looked up at me. “I want you to find who killed Janice. That’s first. And I want you to make them pay for what they did.”

  “I’ll do my best.”

  “And if any money does come from that thing, I mean once all the smoke’s cleared, maybe I’ll get some of that. It’s about time something really good came my way.”

  “Turn yourself in.”

  Callahan shook his head again. “No can do, Donovan. You find out who killed Janice and maybe I won’t have to.”

  We both picked up the sirens.

  “Gotta go, Donovan. You enjoy those clams.” He pushed off, turned the tiller hard to starboard, and headed into the channel.

  For the second time in two days, I was questioned by the police, although this time, I was the police. The gold shield and support from above made the interrogation short and painless. The witnesses corroborated my story, and the two men impersonating policemen were taken into custody. This time, I got my gun back.

  As I walked toward my Land Rover, a young man caught up to me, carrying a small crate. “Mr. Donovan? Don’t forget your clams.”

  “What?”

  “Before”—he nodded toward the shop—“you ordered a bushel of cherrystones.”

  “I did?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  I reached into my pocket. “Okay, how much?”

  “They’re paid for, sir.” He smiled.

  “You a friend of his?”

  “Yes, sir. Served with him on theEnterprise.”

  “Tell him to keep in touch.”

  “Yes, sir, I will.”

  I opened the back of the Land Rover and the young man put the crate inside.

  26

  It took me a while to get Jerry to take the clams. I’d caught him in the middle of an experiment with different types of perfume.

  “So far I’ve identified forty-seven different brands by their chemical components.”

  “Jerry, you’re the only man I know with a gas chromatograph in your kitchen.”

  “Really?”

  Distracted by the news that not every home had a lab, he didn’t quite catch the significance of the cherrystones.

  “But I can’t eat clams.”

  “Feed them to your cat.”

  He considered it. “But I don’t have a cat. I could get a cat, I suppose. Unless there’s something in the lease—”

  “Jerry, I can’t lift them out of my car.” I held up my wing in a sling.

  “I don’t understand. Why are you giving them to me?”

  “Because—”

  “You know I’m allergic. My throat closes up.”

  “Yeah. I know. But inside—”

  “I couldn’t even eat clam chowder in Boston,” Jerry said, as if being denied clam chowder in Boston was the greatest injustice that could be visited upon man.

  I gripped Jerry’s shoulders and forced him into the here and now. “Jerry?”

  He blinked. “Yeah?”

  “Janice Callahan’s laptop is inside the bushel of clams.”

  Jerry refocused. “Oh. Oh.”

  “You have a friend at Langley?”

  “Oh!” Jerry held up his finger. “Right.” He looked at his finger, was surprised to see it there in the air, and put it back in his pocket.

  “So, can you get the clams out of my car?” I tossed him my keys.

  “Right.” He nodded.

  “And, Jerry? Don’t tell anyone about this. Someone knew I was meeting Callahan today, so let’s just keep this between us.”

  “What about Dominic?”

  “Dominic’s fine. But just Broken Wings. Okay? And if you do say anything, make sure to watch your security.”

  Jerry smiled. “Cone of Silence, huh, Jake?”

  “Yeah, something like that.”

  Jerry took the keys and left the apartment.

  I watched from the window just in case he got lost. While I was watching, my cell phone rang.

  “Jake?”

  It was Toni, and her voice sounded strained, almost a whisper. From the ambient noise I could tell she was in the car. “What is it, Toni?”

  “I’m being followed.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes, I’m sure,” she snapped. “I went back to the house to pick up some things—”

  “Toni, you shouldn’t have—”

  “I know that now.” To an outsider, Toni might have sounded impatient, but I knew it was fear. “I just wasn’t thinking.”

  “Where are you?”

  “I’m in Fairfax.”

  “Don’t go to the safe house.”

  “I’m not stupid.”

  “Do you know where the police station is?”

  “No.”

  “Okay. I’m at Jerry’s place in Vienna. It’s only a few minutes away. How far are you from the Korean restaurant?”

  “I don’t know. Which Korean restaurant?”

  “Where Trevor took us for dinner last year? The kids thought it was gross?” When she couldn’t remember, I gave her the best reminder I could think of. “It was in that shopping strip where you bought those expensive boots.”

  “Those boots weren’t expensive. Those were Manolo Blahniks and I got them on sale.”

  “Fine. You remember where that was?”

  “Yes, I remember. I’m about ten minutes away.”

  “Good. Go inside and call the police. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

  We hung up and I ran to the car. Jerry had the bushel of clams on his shoulder, the ice me
lt soaking his shirt. I grabbed the keys. “Call me when you hear something.”

  “About what?”

  “About the computer, Jerry.”

  “Oh, right. I will.”

  The traffic was a mess, as usual. I took chances passing and ran every yellow light. I passed on the right, on the shoulder. I didn’t care about picking up a cop; in fact, I welcomed it.

  What should have been a ten-minute trip took twenty, and when I pulled into the parking lot I searched for Toni’s car. It was parked about fifty yards from the Korean place. Twenty yards from the car was a white van. I could see one man inside.

  I pulled to the far side of the van and wrote down the license number. I called Toni’s number, and when she picked up, I said, “Are you in the restaurant?”

  “No. I’m in the shoe store.”

  “Why didn’t you go to the restaurant?”

  “I wasn’t hungry, Jake.”

  “Did you call the police?”

  “I did. They said it would be a while. There’s an accident on Sixty-six.”

  “Did you tell them it was an emergency?”

  “Yes. They still said it would be a while. They told me to stay where I was. Which is here.”

  “Okay.” We hung up, and the longer I sat there staring at the rear of that van, the angrier I got. In a few short days my family had been threatened; a punk had blown up my Aston Martin; I’d been shot, pulled from the terrorist case, lost my funding, federal authority, and girlfriend; two guys in rented uniforms had tried to kill my witness; and now I had some pervert or worse stalking my wife. My ex-wife. All in all, it had been a bad week, and I just got this feeling that I wanted to take it out on somebody.

  I got out of the Land Rover and approached the van from the rear. I put my hand inside the sling and gripped the .45. As I approached the driver’s side, I could see the man’s face in the rearview mirror. He looked up, saw me, and immediately registered shock. I saw him reach for something and then I was on him, the gun drawn. I jerked the door open and screamed at him to get out and get down on the ground.

  Hands in the air, he got out and dropped to his knees.

  “All the way down,” I screamed, and pointed the pistol at his right eye. He dropped to his face and locked his hands behind his neck.

  The van rocked and the rear doors burst open. I was there before the skell’s accomplice could clear the bumper. All I saw was a man’s head, and his hand, and in his hand it looked like a weapon. It could have been a knife or a gun, but it was happening too fast to be sure. I kicked the van’s rear door. It swung in and caught the guy half in and half out. He fell back and slumped to the pavement. The first thing I did was kick the weapon from his hand. But it wasn’t a weapon. It was a microphone. Inside the van were racks of cables, mike stands, tripods, lights, and a camera. No perps, pervs, or killers. Just TV equipment.