The Crisp Poleward Sky

by Jeff Siebold

  “Did you have any trouble?”

  “No, he wasn’t there, like you said. It was just the girl,” he said. “Guess where it is?” he asked, meaning the camera.

  She waited.

  “It’s a book, with the camera in the spine and the audio device inside. Small microphone in the spine, too. I mean small, as in pin-prick small,” he said.

  “Do you have the receiving equipment? Can we test it?” asked Susan.

  “Yeah, sure, I’ve got my monitor.” Byron pulled a small video monitor from his case. “It should be working now, if she’s still in the cottage.”

  They watched as the small monitor came to life showing the inside of the cottage from a spot apparently high on a bookshelf. They could hear Aerosmith still playing in the background.

  “That’s it. I’ve got it wired into the Internet, so you can monitor it from any computer or your phone with this URL and password.” He handed her a slip of paper. “The alarm code is on there, too.”

  “Pleasure doing business with you, Byron,” said Susan. She handed him a small stack of currency. “Five thousand, correct? Parts and labor.” She knew it was.

  He nodded, put the money and the monitor in his case, stood and walked away.

  * * *

  Susan started the video over again for the third time. In it, she had watched Zeke Traynor and Tracy Johnson in their small cottage, cooking breakfast, eating, and reading a newspaper, sharing sections. They were in the open living area, Zeke sitting on the couch with his paper spread out on the coffee table, while Tracy sat cross-legged on the floor. Her part of the paper was on the ground in front of her.

  At one point, Tracy looked over at Zeke and said, “We should just stay here forever.”

  Zeke smiled at her and said, “The highs are in the thirty degree range in January.”

  The video monitor was very good quality, and the small HD camera fed it excellent images even in low light. Today, however, the sunshine reflecting on the ocean lit up the space.

  Zeke got up and poured himself and Tracy more coffee, handed the cup back to her and took his seat on the couch.

  “What would you like to do this afternoon?” he asked.

  “We should go to town, shop a little bit and then drink some wine,” she said.

  “Sounds good to me,” said Zeke. They read some more.

  Tracy said, “I’m going to change.”

  “Why?” asked Zeke.

  “I can’t shop in my pajamas, silly,” she said, laughing.

  “OK, I’ll help you,” said Zeke, and he followed her into the bedroom.

  Susan sighed. It seemed that at least twice a day the two of them found a reason to go to the bedroom, and each time they stayed there for at least twenty minutes, sometimes much longer. She flipped off the monitor, knowing that the camera would start again when it sensed their body heat.

  I’m surprised it can’t feel the heat from the bedroom, she thought with a smile.

  Over the past two days, Susan had gathered all of the information she needed to complete her assignment. There wasn’t much she didn’t know about Zeke Traynor’s routine, his relationship or his reactions.

  Now, all I need is the right opportunity, she thought.

  * * *

  They were sitting outdoors at a small sidewalk table in front of an Italian restaurant on Main Street in Hyannis. The wind was light and still warm, as they ate. Tracy was picking at the remains of a Caprese Salad, and Zeke had finished his Tuscan Chicken Sandwich. They were sipping an Italian Pinot Grigio.

  “Good food,” said Tracy. “Good company and good food and a good location.”

  “I know. I’m always sorry when you leave,” said Zeke.

  “Soon,” she said.

  “It’s probably better. We need to take care of the business here, and I’ll feel better knowing you’re safe.”

  Tracy nodded. “Do you think we’re convincing them?”

  “I do. The killer’s almost certainly watching and listening to everything we’re doing,” said Zeke. “Looking for the right opportunity to eliminate me. Since she missed in Cambridge, I mean.”

  “She’s resourceful and she’s resilient,” said Tracy, looking around on the street. “Maybe I should stay and protect you. I’m Secret Service after all…”

  Zeke smiled. “Maybe.”

  “It is kind of creepy that someone’s watching us in the cottage.”

  “It is. But they can’t see in the bedroom,” he added.

  “Good thing,” said Tracy. “I’m hardly ever wearing anything substantial in there.”

  Then she thought and said, “You’re sure? They can’t see in the bedroom?”

  Zeke smiled and nodded. “Well, you said the security system guy was in the kitchen and living area…”

  Tracy nodded. “So how do you think it’ll go down?” she asked.

  “I’m counting on a planned attack in the cottage. That’s what I’d do,” he said. “Breech the back doors, and wait until we return. There’s not a lot of space, but at night, there are several places she could hide, conceal herself until we return.”

  “Then pop up with a gun and take you out?” asked Tracy, sweetly.

  “Or a knife. Or more battery acid.”

  “Yeah, that was pretty creepy,” said Tracy. “So, do you have a plan?”

  * * *

  It was after dusk when they made their way back to the cottage. They’d spent the late afternoon wandering in and out of Main Street shops on the Cape, and eventually returned to their car and pointed it south toward the ocean.

  “This really is a romantic spot,” she said. “The moonlight is just right.”

  Zeke smiled.

  In a couple of minutes, they pulled into the cottage driveway and Zeke hopped out and opened the passenger door.

  “Thank you, sir,” she said, and gave him a small kiss on the cheek.

  Together, they walked the short distance to the front door, shopping bags in hand. Zeke pulled out the keys and unlocked the entrance and opened the door. They stepped inside and Zeke set down his bag and said, “I’ll be right back; I need to use the restroom.”

  As he walked across the small living room a shadow shifted by the window behind him. A woman’s silhouette was visible in the moonlight that splashed into the room from the porch. She was quick and silent and all business. Her shadow was sleek and efficient in the small space. She leveled her handgun at Zeke’s retreating figure.

  Suddenly, without warning, the handgun flew into the air, immediately followed by a loud explosion. The woman grabbed her right hand and cradled it in her left, bent over at the waist in pain.

  Kimmy hurtled the small couch and knocked Susan Del Gato to the ground, cuffing her hands behind her despite the blood and the visible muscles and bones in her right hand. “I should let her bleed out,” she said to no one in particular.

  * * *

  Kimmy had brought a small team of specialists with her from The Agency in D.C., and they were able to clean up the mess quickly. Susan was bandaged and secured and loaded into a black SUV that immediately headed south toward Washington, an eight and a half hour journey, mostly on Interstate 95. The FBI in Washington was awaiting her delivery.

  “That went well,” Kimmy said.

  Zeke nodded. “I thought substituting you for Tracy might be the right move,” he said. “You’re deadly from that distance, and deadlier any closer.”

  Kimmy smiled and wandered around the room. “Nice place, Zeke. I see why you hang out up here.” She turned on the CD player and a Jason Mraz song started playing.

  “Thanks,” said Zeke. “What it lacks in size, it makes up for in views.”

  “Sure does,” said Kimmy, looking out the windows at the churning ocean, visible in the cottage’s outside lighting.

  A technician from The Agency knocked on the front door and opened it. He stuck his head into the room and said, “I’m Allen, and I’m here to get the bugs out.”

  * * * />
  “I’ll be heading down to Washington tomorrow,” Zeke said. He was talking to Clive Greene on the phone in his Cape Cod cottage. Agency people had come and gone all evening, but the place was thinning out.

  “Very well,” said Clive. “Let’s plan to meet over lunch.”

  “Somewhere with British food?” asked Zeke, innocently.

  Clive ignored the comment. “We may have a lead on the human trafficking organization,” he said. “We’re getting close.”

  “Good,” said Zeke. “I put Tracy on an airplane yesterday. She’s back in Atlanta. I’ll fly down to see you tomorrow morning.”

  “We’ll be here,” said Clive.

  * * *

  The restaurant was small and local, and Clive was immediately recognized and treated as family when they entered. Zeke looked around the room and picked a table that allowed unobstructed views of the front and back of the house. A long bar ran half the length of the restaurant and the ceiling was painted a bright red.

  The young waitress followed Zeke and Clive, and as they were sitting, she said, “Welcome to the Irish Channel. Can I get you something to drink?”

  “An Irish pub in Chinatown,” said Zeke, shaking his head. “Go figure.”

  “How about the red ale,” said Clive. “A Smithwicks.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  Zeke said, “I’ll have a Harp, please.”

  When the server had left, Zeke said, “What do you have on the human trafficking?”

  “Yes, well, now that Ramirez isn’t running interference for Diaz, Clark Hall has asked us to continue our original investigation,” said Clive.

  “You mentioned a lead?” asked Zeke.

  “Yes, well, it appears that one of the killers, one of the Mara’s that tried to kill you—sorry, kidnap you—in Phoenix, changed his mind and is suddenly talking to save his skin,” said Clive. “It could be an opportunity to derail Diaz’s operation.”

  “What made him change his mind?” Zeke asked about the Mara.

  “Apparently, it was something that you said when you talked with them in Phoenix,” said Clive. “Did you find some leverage?”

  “Maybe. Which one?” said Zeke.

  “Ernesto Reyes.”

  “Sure,” said Zeke. “He seemed the weakest. I thought he might give it up when they charged him with attempted murder. The Mara’s in the ICE parking lot were apparently there to abduct us, not kill us. I’ll bet the escalated charges by the Federal Prosecutor scared him enough to get him to talk. I just loosened him up some. The charges opened him up.”

  “Maybe so,” said Clive.

  “Regardless, that’s good news,” said Zeke. “Has he given us anything specific? Anything useful?”

  “It seems that he wants to cut a deal for himself,” said Clive. “He says he’s willing to tell it all.”

  Chapter 22

  “We need to chop off the head of this Lernaean hydra,” said Clive.

  “That would be lovely,” said Kimmy. “I’m ready.” She was standing next to Clive, looking out the window of his library-like office, bouncing slightly on the balls of her feet.

  “Which head, though?” asked Zeke, sitting in a comfortable chair across the table.

  “Don’t know. Maybe all of them,” said Clive. “We’ll keep going until it dies, I suppose.”

  Sally, Clive’s researcher and assistant, was looking at her laptop.

  “I know where we can start,” said Zeke. “Benito Diaz was connected to Ramirez, and also to Susan Del Gato, the killer. We know he’s heavy into human trafficking, as well as prostitution and drugs.”

  “Yes, and somehow he’s connected with the attempt on Zeke in Cambridge,” said Kimmy. “His hitman, well, hit-persons, were responsible for the WITSEC murders as well as two attempts on Zeke’s life. West Coast and East Coast.”

  “I thought these were separate investigations, the human trafficking and the student loan scam,” said Clive.

  “We did, too, initially,” said Zeke. “But it’s curious. We’re coming across some of the same players in both investigations.”

  “Right,” said Kimmy. “Freddy Hanson. Susan Del Gato, who worked with Luis Cruz. Maybe Benito Diaz…”

  “It’s a loose connection. Hanson has some business dealings with Benito Diaz,” said Zeke. “Luis Cruz confirmed that. He said that that someone involved with the Student Loan scam wanted me out of there, and Hanson called Diaz for help. There aren’t that many killers available…”

  Zeke looked at Clive. “Raul Diaz connected with Jorge Ramirez while he was in prison. Jorge was a guard there, right?”

  Clive nodded.

  “I wonder what Raul Diaz’s current status is, then. He’s either a felon who served his time, or he may have gotten out early…” said Zeke.

  “Which would possibly put him on parole,” said Clive. “When was he released from prison?”

  Sally typed for a moment and said, “He was released in 2015. Part of the Federal Inmate Release program.”

  “What’s that?” asked Kimmy.

  Sally said, “There was a change in the sentencing laws for drug offenders. They reduced the sentencing guidelines for drug traffickers, basically instituted shorter sentences, and they applied the changes retroactively.”

  Clive shook his head.

  “So Raul Cruz was in prison for drug trafficking, and when this program went into effect, he was released on parole?” asked Kimmy.

  “Well, drug trafficking and child porn,” said Zeke.

  “Yep. And according to this,” said Sally, tapping her computer, “he’s still on parole.”

  “I think we need to chat with Clark Hall,” said Zeke.

  * * *

  “Look, I’m not going back to prison,” said Raul Diaz. “I don’t care what it takes.”

  “Why don’t you tell us about your brother’s businesses?” asked Clark Hall. He was one of about a dozen law enforcement people crammed into the small room with Raul Diaz. Officially, Acting Special Agent in Charge Jose Fernandez was hosting the meeting, but Clark Hall outranked him.

  In addition to the half dozen ICE personnel, Raul Diaz’s United States Probation/Parole officer and his attorney were in the room. Zeke and Kimmy were connected by phone to the speakerphone in the small conference room in ICE headquarters. Raul looked around the room nervously.

  “No, my brother’s a businessman,” he started. “He’s in transportation and logistics.”

  “Really,” said Clark Hall.

  “Mr. Hall,” said the attorney, “My client hasn’t done anything illegal, here. He’s reported on time and has kept his nose clean. He’s not involved with anything sordid or illegal. That would violate the terms of his parole.”

  Clark Hall looked at the attorney. “Actually, we have extensive and rather arbitrary powers over ex-cons,” he said. “We can put Mr. Diaz here back in jail any time we choose to do so. He lost his rights when he was convicted of a felony.”

  Raul Diaz seemed to shrink in his chair.

  Zeke said, “Raul, perhaps there’s some other information you’d like to share with us. Something about the Boston connection?”

  “I don’t know anything about that,” said Diaz, looking around nervously. “I can’t help you with any of that…”

  His attorney said, “Don’t say anything else, Raul.”

  Raul’s blink rate had increased and he had shrunk in on himself physically, often clear signs of lying.

  Zeke said, “We don’t care much about you, Raul. I don’t care whether you go back to prison or stay on the outside. But we need to know what’s going on in Boston.”

  “Why would I know about that?” he asked.

  “Maybe you overheard something. Maybe your brother said something to you,” Zeke continued.

  “I heard some things,” said Raul. “Some things that may help you find what you’re looking for.”

  “What did you hear?” asked Clark Hall.

  “One of the guys I kn
ow, a driver, he works for my brother. He makes runs to Boston. Told me that Freddy Hanson is the guy in charge. He’s supposedly involved in stealing money from some student loans or something.”

  “How did your guy know about it?” asked Zeke.

  “He was making a delivery and he said he overheard this Hanson talking on the phone. Telling someone that he’d take care of the problem, that their arrangement was still good.”

  “How do you know it was about the student loans?” asked Zeke.

  “When he hung up, he said, ‘These academics make me sick,’ and he told the driver ‘that with all the money they’re stealing, they should clean up their own messes.’ It was like a rant, our guy said.”

  * * *

  Freddy Hanson stood in the street, handcuffed, with three large Boston Police officers surrounding him.

  “You’re looking pretty pathetic, Freddy,” Deputy Chief O’Malley said. Standing next to him, Zeke smiled.

  Roy Calhoun and Louie Brennan, also handcuffed, were both sitting on a curb, feet in the street and with blue and red lights washing over them in the darkness.

  “I’ll be outta there in five minutes,” said Hanson with what Zeke interpreted as a lot of false bravado.

  “Sure, Freddy,” said O’Malley. “This time, though, I think we’ve got you dead to rights.”

  Freddy Hanson looked confused. “What?” he said. “What makes you so sure?”

  “It’s the source of our intel,” said O’Malley.

  “What’s that?”

  “Have you ever heard of Diaz? Out of Phoenix?”

  Hanson paled for a moment. Then he said, “No way! No way Benito Diaz had anything to do with this. You guys are lying to me.”

  “No, not Benito Diaz,” said O’Malley with a grin. “It’s his brother, Raul Diaz. Sang like a bird after the US Marshals arrested him. He had a lot to say, Freddy, trying to save his own skin. Said he didn’t want to go back to prison.”