The guy in the uniform was rapping on Driscoll’s window with his knuckles. “What’s wrong with you jerks?” the guy’s voice drifted faintly through the glass. “You can’t park here.”
Driscoll gave a wry laugh. “How many times we heard that today?”
Deal shook his head. “Valles?” Why did the name sound familiar?
Driscoll nodded, satisfied that Deal was finally getting with the program. “He was one of the guys blown to smithereens at the museum that day…along with the editor, supposedly.”
“Supposedly?”
“They found pieces of Valles. All they found of the editor was articles of clothing, some jewelry. The bomb squad figures that’s because the publishing office was ground zero. The two of them—this Valles and the editor—were supposedly up there having a pow-wow when the thing went off.”
Deal considered it. “Even so, all you have is the word of some dead crackpot who lost his job because of his theories, Vernon.”
The guy from the step-van rammed the window with the palm of his hand hard enough to rock the car. Driscoll turned, cranked the window open a couple inches. “Go around me, asswipe. I have to come out there, I’ll tear your arms off.”
The guy stood staring openmouthed as Driscoll closed the window and turned back to Deal. “Ms. Marquez was worried about the same thing, but he showed her solid evidence.”
“Such as?”
“Such as Valles’s brother used to work as the accountant for the Patriots’ Foundation.”
“The crackpot’s brother,” Deal said.
“I’m supposed to be the hard-nosed cop,” Driscoll said, waving him off. “The brother had plenty of records in his possession, according to Ms. Marquez. She had a chance to look at them before she gave her editor the go-ahead.”
The guy in the khaki uniform was still standing in the street, his fists clenched, trying to decide what to do. A Coral Gables police cruiser passed by, heading the other way up Le Jeune. Deal saw its brake lights flare up, its flashers go on.
“And there was one other independent source of confirmation,” Driscoll continued. “Valles had found some kind of spook—a guy from some version of the CIA—who’d been assigned to assist Torreno with his train-the-troops, let’s-invade-Cuba projects. The government knew these incursions weren’t going to amount to anything, but they’d thrown the Patriots’ Foundation this spook as a kind of a sop—go help them shoot their guns in the Everglades, that sort of thing.
“But according to Valles, the guy was a burnout case. He figured out what Torreno was up to and realized he was in danger. He came to Valles with the story: Torreno’s whole operation the last several years has turned into a sham, designed to keep the pot simmering between the U.S. and Cuba so Torreno can stay in place and profit off the proceeds to the cause of liberty.
“The last thing Torreno wants is normalization of relations between the U.S. and Cuba. But it doesn’t have anything to do with politics, because he doesn’t want Castro to fall either. That’s the beauty of it, you see.” Driscoll’s face was glowing in the reflection of the dash lights.
The cruiser had found a break in the median and pulled up behind the step-van, its flashers whirling. A uniformed officer was getting out, heavy flashlight tucked under his arm like a baton. The guy in the khaki uniform looked relieved now that justice was about to prevail.
“Don’t you see?” Driscoll went on, oblivious to the scene outside. “Torreno’s like all the guys at the Pentagon were when they found out the Soviet Union was really in disarray. Once the rest of the world figures out the Cold War threat is empty, then they’re out of a job, so they were busting their butts trying to convince us that we should still be scared to death. That’s Torreno’s scam. He comes on like Castro’s worst nightmare, sends these boatloads of amateurs off to ‘invade,’ then tips the Cuban government off so nothing can get out of hand.”
“That’s crazy,” Deal said.
“That’s not what the CIA guy says.”
“Who is he?” Deal said. “Where is he?”
Driscoll shrugged. “That I don’t know.” He threw up his hands.
The uniformed officer was approaching their car now. The guy in the khaki uniform was jabbering excitedly in his ear, but the cop was holding up his hand, waving him off. “Just hold on a second,” Driscoll said. He turned and got out of the car, closing the door behind him. He flipped open his wallet, showed the cop something, then pointed at the guy in the khaki uniform and back at the Ford.
The cop nodded, unhinged his flashlight, and used it as a pointer for the guy in the khaki uniform, directing him back to his step-van. The guy made some protest, but the cop’s jaw hardened, and the guy went along.
Driscoll turned and got back in the Ford, stopping to wave his thanks to the officer.
“I could call a tow truck if you want, Detective,” the cop said.
“Thanks anyway,” Driscoll said. “Just a vapor lock. She’s all right now.” He got in, slammed the door.
“The thing is, Valles is dead, the government spook is who knows where…“—Driscoll paused, grinning at him—”…but I do know where Valles’s brother is. And that’s where I’m headed. You interested in coming, or not?”
Deal sighed. “I still don’t see what all of this has to do with me, Driscoll.”
Driscoll paused. “That’s the part we’re working on, Johnny.” He put his meaty hand on Deal’s arm. “It was the same people did your place and that art gallery. I get my hands on them, we’ll find out the why of it.”
Deal hesitated. He remembered Janice’s hand on his cheek, her tired voice. She was right, wasn’t she? What good would all this do, what purpose would be served, other than to cater to the whims of a retired cop who never got the bad guy he had traced for the last half of his career? So let Driscoll go off on his wild-goose chase. If something really came of it, Deal would find out. Meantime, he had to get up in the morning, he had jobs to resume. And still, something held him. That faint possibility, that slimmest of chances, if Driscoll was right, if he was on to something, if someone, never mind who, had done what had been done to Janice, to his family, to him, intentionally…
He turned to Driscoll then, nodding his head, as he had somehow known he would all along. “Let’s go see this brother,” he said, and felt his head rock back as Driscoll grinned and floored his Ford.
Chapter 29
Driscoll took them through a maze of cross streets to a section of the Gables close to US 1. They cut down a narrow lane between two shuttered warehouses, pulled up before a row of shabby apartments done up in a false Tudor style. Some of the facing boards had warped, exposing crumbling plaster underneath, and most of the east-facing units featured aluminum foil in the windows to block out the morning sun. There was an old Chevrolet Vega parked in some knee-high grass just over the curb. A Gables address, all right, but a far cry from the likes of Ms. Marquez’s digs.
Driscoll checked something on his little notepad and nodded at Deal. “This is it,” he said, motioning Deal out.
Except for the hum of traffic drifting over from the highway, the area was quiet. Deal glanced at a sign hanging from one of the warehouse fences: PATROLLED BY ATTACK DOGS, it read, but there were no dogs in sight.
He looked at the apartment building again: six units, maybe more. But no cars at the curb, no TV or radio noise seeping out, no kids in the street or in the tiny, treeless yard at the side of the place. It didn’t seem as if anyone had lived there for years. And who would want to, he mused. A gauntlet of warehouses to run on your way home, invisible attack dogs in your front yard, what looked like a lumber-storage compound in the back.
“Doesn’t look too promising,” Deal said.
Driscoll nodded. He checked the address again. “We could be getting the runaround,” he said. “Let’s find Unit Two.”
They discovered an entryway in the middle of the building, a short gloomy hallway that gave on to
an airless courtyard: There was a battered set of mailboxes recessed in the wall, all nameless, four paint-peeling doors downstairs, each odd-numbered, an iron staircase leading up. Ancient advertising circulars littered the corners of the courtyard.
Driscoll glanced at him. The air was stifling, the quiet intense. Deal thought he could hear the far-off sounds of locusts buzzing, but it hardly seemed likely in this barren neighborhood. “Nobody lives here, Vernon.” Deal glanced back down the dark hallway. He felt a sudden wave of claustrophobia, a yearning to make a dash toward the dim square of light that marked the street.
Driscoll shrugged. “We’ve come this far.” He turned and started up, his footsteps thudding on the metal treads.
Deal took one more look around the courtyard, feeling the hair rise on the back of his neck, then hurried after him. He found Driscoll at the top of the stairs, poised before a door that listed ajar. A brass “2” dangled sideways on the frame, hanging by a single tack. A doorknocker’s ghost was outlined in old paint on the door front.
Driscoll held up a cautioning hand as Deal joined him. The excop rapped on the door frame sharply with his knuckles, the sound jarring in the silence. There was no response.
Up there, the buzzing sound was louder. “You hear that?” Deal asked.
“What?”
“It sounds like locusts,” Deal said, trying to home in on the source. “Or maybe radio static.”
Driscoll shook his head. “My wife was always doing that,” he said.
Deal stared at him blankly. “Doing what?”
“Hearing things I couldn’t.” Driscoll shrugged and lumbered on.
Deal searched the catwalk that connected the four top units. The others seemed similarly neglected. The skeleton of a potted ficus leaned by the doorway opposite. Deal was sure now that the place had been evacuated after the hurricane. There’d probably been some major roof leakage and the tenants had taken the opportunity to find greener pastures. He and Driscoll were just wasting their time there.
And that noise. Whatever it was, the sound was giving Deal the creeps. He glanced over the railing, but the courtyard below was empty.
“Look here,” Driscoll said, behind him.
Deal turned. Driscoll had nudged the door to Unit Two open with his toe. The door swung back, giving them a view into a darkened apartment. The buzzing sound was distinctly louder.
Deal peered in over Driscoll’s shoulder, squinting. There was a clear zapping sound and a sudden flash of light.
Driscoll looked back at him, then reached inside, flipped a wall switch, but nothing happened. He flipped it again, and the same flash of light came again, accompanied by the angry snapping sound.
Driscoll reached into a pocket of his rumpled coat and withdrew a tiny flashlight that gave off a surprising amount of light. They stared down its beam at a hallway that was lined with books. Or had been.
The shelves were empty now, except for a volume tossed askew here and there. Most of the books had been swept to the floor where they lay in mounds, spines cracked, pages adrift. The storm, Deal found himself thinking. Just like the messes he’d seen in half a hundred homes ripped apart by the hurricane. But something was wrong there. There was no overwhelming smell of decay and mustiness, no stench of ruined carpet, spongy plasterboard, soggy furniture.
He bent down, picked up one of the books, ran his fingers across the dry pages. He heard the angry crackling noise again, glimpsed another pop of light.
“Lookit,” Driscoll said, directing his attention with the little pocket flash.
Deal followed the beam down the hallway. There was an old floor lamp there, its bulb sputtering on and off. He got a glimpse of the rest of a living room as if in strobe flashes: upended furniture, shattered lamps, a wild swirl of papers tossed everywhere.
Driscoll moved past him, picking his way down the hall over the mounds of books. “Stay back,” he whispered to Deal.
Deal waited a moment, then followed after the big man. They were in the tiny living room now, Driscoll’s light sweeping the wreckage. Deal got a glimpse of the windows. Heavy red curtains tied back, yellowed blinds pulled down to the sills. No hurricane had torn this room apart. The sound he’d been hearing was distinct now, an angry buzz that waxed and waned with the sputtering light that the floor lamp threw.
Driscoll led them to a doorway off one side of the room, threw his light into a small bedroom. The wreckage there was similar. Clothes tossed from a closet, dresser drawers dumped, the mattress shredded.
“This is one lousy housekeeper,” Driscoll said. He swung his light into a bathroom, where the medicine chest door dangled by one hinge, its shelves swept empty except for a blue box of Polident. Deal felt an unaccountable wave of sadness. Someone’s common, everyday life, torn open before his eyes.
They picked their way back across the littered floor, and for a moment Deal thought they were on their way out. Then Driscoll veered off past the sputtering floor lamp and through another doorway.
“Mother of God!” the ex-cop called. He was backpedaling as Deal hurried after him, his big head cracking into Deal’s chin. Deal staggered back, catching the door frame to steady himself.
“Holy mother of God!” Driscoll called again.
Deal stared over Driscoll’s shoulder, holding his throbbing chin. The crackling noise was intense now. He blinked away the tears Driscoll’s blow had put in his eyes…then stopped, stunned.
Driscoll’s flashlight beam was fixed on a man tied to a kitchen chair. His head was thrown back, his tongue lolling out, his mouth twisted open in a gesture of agony. Someone had slashed the power cord from the air-conditioning unit above the Formica table, stripped away the insulation, twisted a foot of bare copper wire about each of the man’s hands, then turned the electricity back on. Instead of flowing to the air conditioner, however, the power had surged into him. Thin skeins of smoke were still rising from his fingertips. His whole body seemed to tremble in time with the crackling and snapping sounds that filled the room.
“The box,” Deal said numbly. “The goddamned fusebox.”
Driscoll turned to him, uncomprehending. Deal snatched the flashlight from the big man’s hands, swept the beam over the kitchen walls. He found it between a plaster crucifix and a cheap reproduction of the Adoration, its little gray door still waving open.
He ran across the room, glanced at the exposed electrical panel. An ancient one, full of fuses that glinted back at him like blind eyes. He reached out, hooked his finger into the bright ring of one main, yanked it free, then tore out the other.
The angry buzzing stopped. The man in the chair seemed to relax, his head lolling forward on his chest. For the first time, Deal became aware of the terrible smells in the room: the cloying sweetness of feces, the choking odor of burned flesh. He felt his stomach heave.
“Fucking A,” Driscoll said, staring at the dead man.
Deal bit his lip, fighting the nausea, stumbled past Driscoll out of the tiny kitchen. He made his way down the narrow hallway, his feet plowing through drifts of books. It was like a bad dream. He was a kid again, fighting his way through snowdrifts, his feet leaden, while something terrible rushed up from the darkness at his back.
He made it to the railing outside the door of the apartment before he lost control and vomited into the courtyard below. He stayed bent over for a moment, rolling his forehead against the cool iron of the railing until Driscoll stepped out to join him. He straightened then, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. “Is that the guy we came to see?”
Driscoll nodded, held up a battered wallet. “Alberto Valles. Forty-two dollars, an Amoco card, a Discover card. I don’t suppose that’s what they were after.” He turned back toward the apartment, let out a long breath. “The poor sonofabitch.”
Deal stared after him for a moment. “I’m sorry, Vernon,” he said.
Driscoll gave him a look. “What are you sorry about?”
“About not believing
you,” he said, gesturing at the open door of the apartment.
Driscoll shrugged. “You could’ve been right. I wasn’t sure myself.” He pointed inside with his thumb. “Until now.”
Deal shook his head in disbelief. “He must have had some kind of proof.”
Driscoll nodded. He bent down, picked up a copy of the Aeneid that had tumbled out onto the catwalk, riffled through the pages. “At least they thought he did.” He tossed the book back into the clutter of the hallway. “Files, a copy of his brother’s book, who knows?”
“Does anybody have a copy of this book?”
Driscoll shook his head. “Everything went up in the blast,” he said. “That’s what Ms. Marquez says.” There was a pause. Their eyes met. “Where is she?” Deal said. “In deep shit.” Driscoll nodded. And then they were pounding down the stairs.
Chapter 30
“Slow down, Driscoll. You’re not a cop anymore,” Deal said. He had to raise his voice over the roar of the Ford’s engine. They were barreling down an I-95 exit ramp, then fishtailing eastbound onto 79th. An old black man, waiting to cross the street on a three-wheeled bike, stood staring as the Ford slid through the intersection. Deal’s gaze locked on to the old man’s for an instant. “Poor fools,” the man’s expression said, and there wasn’t a chance to disagree.
“Yeah, there are certain benefits you miss,” Driscoll said. He wrested the wheel to the left suddenly, roared past a half a block of stalled traffic, using the opposite lanes. He made it back onto their side, swerving away from an oncoming bread truck at the last moment.
“We’re going to get pulled over.” Deal was clutching the armrest, trying to keep himself upright. Driscoll slowed as they approached a red light, glanced to the left and right, then floored the accelerator.
Deal closed his eyes, steeling himself for impact—beer truck, eighteen-wheeler, speeding low-rider—but there was only a teeth-cracking jolt as they bottomed out in the crosswalk, on the far side of the intersection. He thought he heard a wail of sirens somewhere behind them but realized it was only the receding blare of horns.
Raw Deal Page 22
