Threat Level Black af-2

by Jim DeFelice

  “Just in time,” he told her.

  “I’m sorry. I had to clean the cup.”

  “Shouldn’t have bothered,” said Fisher. “Scum adds flavor.”

  Fisher took the coffee and went into the interrogation room, where the other detective was speaking in the low, confidential tones that were considered de rigueur for the nice-guy part in the play.

  Fisher had never been much of a fan of good-cop-bad-cop. It seemed to him that anyone stupid enough to fall for it wasn’t much of a source to begin with. Sure, it had worked for Eliot Ness, but Fisher suspected the brass knuckles Ness’s sidekick got to use in the back room were more responsible for success than the crumpled cigarette Ness stuck in a suspect’s mouth.

  But you had to go with what you had. Fisher tossed a pack of cigarettes on the table, along with some matches.

  The man looked up at him. “I don’t smoke.”

  Fisher pushed out the chair and sat down, thinking they just didn’t make goons the way they used to.

  “You’re with the Genovese family, right?”

  “Huh?” said the man.

  “Genovese. He’s trying to muscle into the D.C. area,” said Fisher, pulling over the cigarettes. He punched one out of the pack.

  “What do you mean?”

  “What I said. You’re on DiCarlo’s crew, right? You guys clipped some poor fuck by the river two weeks ago.”

  “I had nothing to do with that,” said the man. “And I’m not with the Genovese family.”

  “They don’t call it Genovese anymore, right? Those New York guys — that would be like calling it omertà or Our Thing or something, right? I mean, even the word mob, that’s no good.”

  “I ain’t with fuckin’ Genovese, right? I’m not from New York. I ain’t with those guys.”

  “Word is, you are.”

  “What word?”

  “Word I hear,” said Fisher. He took a long pull from the cigarette, held it a tick, then let it out. “Word that’s going around the street. And the jail.”

  “Hey, screw you. Who are you?”

  “Andy Fisher. FBI. I was doing some checking inside. You’re with Genovese.”

  “I’m with Sammy Gorodino.”

  “Sammy the Seal?” said Fisher. “No way.”

  “Hey, bullshit on you, asshole.”

  “So, what’s the story on Howe? He owes your boss money?”

  The goon glanced at the Virginia detective, then back at Fisher. “You for real?”

  Fisher shrugged.

  “I just do what I’m told. Sammy tells me what to do and I do it.”

  “Sammy’s where?” said Fisher.

  “Oh, fuck you. I’m not telling you that.”

  Fisher took a sip of his coffee. It occurred to him again that it might have been much better if the cup hadn’t been washed.

  “I can find Sammy,” said the detective next to him. “He owns a restaurant in a strip mall out near Circleville.”

  The goon’s face twitched ever so slightly.

  Fisher pulled out his satellite phone and slid it across the table.

  “Call him,” he told the goon. “And tell him you’re going to be released on your own recognizance this afternoon. Tell him there are some rumors going around that he ought to know about, rumors that you were talking about his auto parts business. False rumors, and you don’t want him getting upset. Because you told that asshole FBI agent nothing, and the raid that’s coming had nothing to do with any sort of information you gave out. And you’re being let go free was just some sort of trick by this jerk Andy Fisher.”

  The man looked at Fisher, then at the detective, then at the phone.

  “There’s a bowling alley,” he said. “It’s over by Kirdwood Park.”

  Chapter 20

  Alice looked much younger asleep. She had pulled her hair back and tied it so the doctors could treat the small cut on the right side of her mouth. The strands at the top of her forehead looked like the fine threads at the edge of a scarf.

  Howe gazed at the down in front of her ear, a shade lighter than the trio of freckles beneath it. Her lips were a soft pink, loosely pressed together; her body moved upward gently with her breathing.

  “Who were they?” she said without opening her eyes.

  Howe stooped down. “ Alice?”

  “Who were they?”

  Her left lid opened slowly.

  “I’m not sure,” said Howe. “They were after me. I’m sorry they hurt you.”

  Fisher had told Howe that the goons had probably started following him sometime the day before and seen where Alice lived. They probably had left someone there to watch her as a backup.

  “They thought I was your girlfriend.” Alice pushed her legs off the bed and sat up.

  In the hallway Howe heard the footsteps of the detective and FBI agent who’d been waiting to see her.

  “You going to be okay?” Howe asked.

  “I’m okay.” She was still in her jeans and the T-shirt she’d been wearing earlier. Aside from a bruise where one of the thugs had squeezed her arm, she was unhurt.

  One of the investigators pushed back the curtain behind him. “Uh, Colonel Howe,” said the woman. “Excuse us, but we’d prefer if you didn’t talk with Ms. Kauss until we’ve had a chance to interview her.”

  “Protocol,” said the other detective.

  “Yeah, I’m sorry,” said Howe. He looked at Alice as he spoke. “I just wanted to make sure she was okay.”

  “I’m okay,” she told him.

  “I guess we have to reschedule,” he said.

  “Call my office.”

  “I will.” He nodded. He couldn’t tell how angry she was with him, though he figured she must be very angry. “Okay,” he said, leaving.

  Chapter 21

  Fisher had never quite gotten the point of bowling. Maybe it made sense as a metaphysical exercise, the round sphere of the life force laying low the solid pins of orthodoxy, but the people who played it regularly didn’t seem to be the metaphysical type. Most of them seemed to be in some sort of pain: They unleashed the ball, stared as it rolled down the alley, then cringed as it toppled its targets. A few did odd dances, as if calling on the gods of thunder to be merciful, and even those who emerged from the process with smiles on their faces set off immediately to handle the paperwork.

  Not much sense in it that he could see.

  Fisher walked through the alley, turned past the shoe rental register — another activity he didn’t understand — and through the double doors that led to the lounge. He went to the bar and pulled open his coat, removing his Magnum to the wide-eyed stare of two rather large men standing a few feet away.

  “There’s six bullets in that, and I’m counting them when I leave,” he said, placing the long-barreled gun down. He walked over to the table where Sammy the Seal was sitting with a few of his bodyguards.

  Sammy was only thirty-three, but Fisher’s sources on the local organized-crime task force had him pegged as an old-line mob type too dull to make the transition to semi-legal activities like the movies or stock market. He relied on muscle and wits to keep afloat, which meant he’d be a prime candidate for the federal Witness Security Program in a few months. Fisher appreciated this, actually: There was something admirable about a man too dumb to be successfully dishonest.

  Fisher sat down and tossed the thin wallet with his Bureau credentials on the table.

  “FBI,” he told Sammy. He glanced up at the two bodyguards clutching their chests behind him. “Don’t have heart attacks, guys. I’m here to talk. And not about auto parts, prostitution, or the movies. Though I might mention that the coffee you serve in your pizza parlors is class A heartburn material, a plus in my book.”

  “Who the hell are you?” said Sammy.

  “Andy Fisher. I picked up a couple of your people earlier today. They should’ve called by now.”

  “I don’t have people.”

  “Well, I didn’t bother to run DNA tests o
n them,” said Fisher, taking out a cigarette, “but they looked human. Walked and talked.”

  Sammy looked at his cigarette.

  “Mind if I smoke?” Fisher asked.

  “I do mind, yeah. It’s against the law in this county.”

  Fisher lit up anyway. “Maybe you can use the charge for a plea bargain.”

  “Why are you here?”

  “Somebody hired you to freeze William Howe. Problem is, they didn’t tell you Howe was a national hero.”

  “He’s no hero,” said Sammy, making a face.

  “You look at his résumé?”

  Belatedly realizing he had said far too much, Sammy shut up.

  Fisher leaned forward. “All I want to know is who hired you? Between you and me.”

  “You think I’d screw a client like that?”

  “I hope so,” said Fisher.

  Sammy laughed. “Get out before I throw you out.”

  “Flip on the news,” said Fisher. “Put on CNN. See what kind of shit you’re in.”

  A dim light began to shine somewhere in Sammy’s brain. He called over to the bartender and told him to turn on the television.

  “And bring a round of drinks. What are you having?”

  “Coffee,” said Fisher.

  “Coffee’s old.”

  “Can’t be any worse than the crap they have over at police headquarters.”

  Sammy frowned. The station came back from a commercial. A picture of Howe flashed on the screen. Sammy stared at the television, doing a rather convincing impression of Paul on the road to Damascus. If his jaw hadn’t been attached, it would have been part of the rug.

  “Guy told us what hotel he was in, had a name, that was it. We didn’t know, I swear to God,” said Sammy. “I swear. Off the record. ’Cause you ain’t read me my rights or anything, and you can’t use this.”

  “Oh, yeah, way off the record,” said Fisher. “So, who hired you?”

  “A Chink,” said Sammy. “Guy named Sin Ru Chow. We do some deals sometimes. He’s who you want to talk to.”

  “That’s the best you can do?” Fisher.

  Sammy was too distracted to answer, absorbed in the television broadcast. Every one of his limited brain cells was now devoted to trying to figure out how to extricate himself from this very serious mess.

  “If you happen to think of something,” said Fisher, pushing a card to the middle of the table, “call that number.”

  He picked up his credentials and took his gun from the bar. Outside, the SWAT team was just getting into place for the raid.

  “Short guy with the dumbstruck look on his face in the lounge,” Fisher told the commander. “You can’t miss him.”

  Chapter 22

  “Howe.”

  “Colonel, stand by for Dr. Blitz.”

  Howe held the cell phone away from his body. He was sitting at the side of a desk in a large room that filled most of the second story of the Circleville police station, going over the incident with one of the detectives for the third time.

  “I have to take this, and it’s kind of private,” he told the man.

  “My part is wrapped up just about anyway,” said the detective amiably. “I’m going to go get a Coke. When you’re off the phone, we’ll go talk to my boss, okay? Back in room two downstairs?”

  “Yeah, okay,” said Howe as the detective got up.

  “Colonel, I hope you’re okay,” said Blitz over the cell phone.

  “I’m fine,” said Howe.

  “I understand the FBI caught some of the people involved.”

  “Yes.”

  “I have some other news.” The national security advisor paused for a moment; Howe could hear him murmuring something to one of his assistants before coming back on the line. “Your clearance has been restored. The CIA people made a mistake.”

  “Okay.”

  “I’m wondering if you could come over to my office and look at some photos we have. We want to confirm they’re the UAVs you saw in Korea.”

  “All right. It may take a while. I’m at the police station, making a statement,” said Howe.

  “Understood. But the sooner the better.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Chapter 23

  Sin Ru Chow, whose status as lowlife was attested to by all and sundry, had vanished, and not even the experts on lowlifes at the Washington, D.C., Police Department could locate him. Fisher told the detective he talked to there that they could remove the underworld thug’s photo from their rogue’s gallery; it was a good bet that the next time he was seen, it would be on a mortuary slab.

  With the safety pins holding his pants together beginning to chafe, Fisher returned to his apartment for a fresh suit. The phone rang as he was coming through the door; he answered it, hoping it was someone trying to sell him vinyl siding.

  “Andy, where are you?” asked Cindy Malone, Jack Hunter’s secretary. “Jack’s been trying to get ahold of you all day.”

  “Shouldn’t cost more than a few thousand to repair,” Fisher.

  “A few thousand for what?”

  “Which?”

  “Don’t be smart, Andy.”

  “That’s what they pay me for, isn’t it?”

  “What did you break this time?”

  “I’m not telling you until the bill comes in,” said Fisher. He’d been thinking of the warehouse roof; the repair bill for the bullet holes in the helicopter would undoubtedly hit five figures if not six.

  “Jack is having a press conference first thing in the morning and he wants you there,” said Malone. “Since you rescued Howe.”

  “No, thanks. I have to get up to New York. Listen, if you want my advice, tell him not to hold a press conference.”

  “Why not?”

  “We haven’t broken the case yet.”

  “But Howe’s okay. The press wants a hero.”

  “Or a goat,” said Fisher. “Tell Hunter to hold off.”

  “But, Andrew, please.”

  He hated it when she said please.

  “I’m telling you, Cindy, we haven’t figured it all out yet.” He glanced at his watch. “What are you still doing in the office? It’s after eight. You’re missing your Wheel of Fortune reruns.”

  “I had to stay until I got you.”

  “Well, now you can go.”

  “Please. The press conference is already scheduled. It’ll make Jack very happy. And problems with your expenses are much easier to smooth over when he’s happy,” she said. “Tell you what: You do this, and I’ll get him to sign some blank vouchers right when he’s smiling for pictures. How’s that?”

  “I have more important things to do than press conferences,” Fisher told her.

  “Like what?”

  “Like putting on my pants,” he said, hanging up.

  Part Five. Grasping at Straws

  Chapter 1

  Fisher stood at the window of the Scramdale-on-Hudson train station, gazing out at the parking lot as it filled with morning commuters. There were more luxury SUVs per square inch in Scramdale-on-Hudson than anywhere in the universe. This was no doubt a function of the difficult terrain, where investment bankers and entertainment lawyers daily negotiated such dangers as overfertilized lawns and exotic clematis.

  The parade of Mercedes and BMWs up to the station was broken every so often by a Volvo wagon, undoubtedly driven by renegade hippies struggling to get by on trust fund money. It was a good bet their nannies lugged D. H. Lawrence in their diaper bags rather than the de rigueur Shakespeare to read aloud at naptime.

  Fisher lit a cigarette as a Crown Vic appeared in the parade. The car was stopped twice by the lot attendants, trying to enforce local regulations against riffraff. Fisher ambled down the steps as the car finally pulled up. He tossed his cigarette to the curb and got in.

  “You better pick up the butt or they may give you a ticket for littering,” said Macklin, who was behind the wheel.

  “If you drive out to the end of the lot you can cut ov
er the dirt and get onto the highway.”

  “That’ll get us going back toward the city,” said Macklin.

  “That’s where we want to go.”

  “Why?”

  “I want to talk to Mrs. DeGarmo again.”

  “Faud’s landlady?”

  “Yeah. She’s the only woman in Queens who knows how to make a good cup of coffee. The stuff they have at the station is atrocious.”

  * * *

  Mrs. DeGarmo remembered Fisher a little too well.

  “It’s about time you come back,” she said, laying on the bad grammar and Italian accent for effect when he and Macklin rang the bell. “The leak, she still leaks.”

  “I was afraid of that,” said Fisher. “This is my assistant,” he added, gesturing to Macklin. “He’s an expert in leaks.”

  “Where’s your tools?” asked Mrs. DeGarmo.

  “We investigate, then we get the proper tools,” said Fisher. “Is that coffee I smell?”

  She eyed Macklin suspiciously.

  “I brought more doughnuts,” said Fisher, holding up the bag.

  “All right, you come in,” she told Fisher. Then she turned back to Macklin. “You, I don’t know about.”

  “Mrs. DeGarmo, we’ve met before,” said Macklin. “I’m with Homeland Security. Remember?”

  She squinted at the ID card he produced.

  “Oh, okay, come in,” she said, waving her hand. “If Andy says.”

  “He’s good with a flashlight,” said Fisher, who was already in the hallway.

  Fisher went into the bathroom, taking off the top to the toilet tank.

  “It’s already been searched, Andy,” said Macklin, coming in. “I keep telling you. Faud Daraghmeh’s probably back in Egypt.”

  “He’s from Yemen.”

  “Whatever.”

  Fisher searched the bathroom carefully, discovering that Mrs. DeGarmo had changed her denture cream. He asked her for the key to Faud Daraghmeh’s apartment, which had not yet been rented out.