“Some folks aren’t buying that,” David said. “Especially this guy who’s bugging me.”
“You know this guy?”
“From the old neighborhood. Went to the same school until tenth grade when his folks moved. He used to hang out with me and the kids I knew.”
“What’s he like?” Frank asked.
“The school bullies picked on him a lot, pushed him around. He was kinda easy to make fun of. Little weird, but a nice guy, smart, good in sports, but his old man embezzled money where he worked and served jail time. Got him razzed and beat on by the school toughs, and left the family bad off. Got so bad they had to move away. He came by the old neighborhood a few years later. He was in med school on a scholarship. The kid was no dummy. But I think he had to drop out before he finished his residency when the money ran out. I hadn’t seen him in years, but lately he’s been back. He’s changed. Not the fella I knew in school. Now the guy kinda gives me the creeps.”
“What’s his name?”
“Cezar Nicolai. American, but his parents were Romanians, I think. He did a stint in the navy, and for a while I got postcards from him. From all over. Cool places like Greece, Saudi Arabia, and Denmark. Then I lost track of him. Last I heard he landed a job with the government.”
“What does he know about the Omega formula?”
“Probably not much more than I do, and I don’t know diddley about it. The poem makes absolutely no sense to me. Truth be known, I have trouble figuring out my phone bill.”
“Listen to me,” Frank said. “Don’t give this guy the time of day. Nothing. If this thing is for real, imagine it getting into the hands of a foreign government, or a terrorist group, or a maniac with a hard-on about America. Jesus.”
“Well, …I’m afraid it’s a little late to bolt that barn door.”
“What’s that mean?”
“I gave Cezar Nicolai a copy of the letter… and the poem.”
Chapter 35
After an exchange of contact information, Frank walked David out to his Jeep.
“Sorry I blew up in there. Feel up to going someplace for a drink?” Frank said.
“Thanks, but I don’t drink, and I need to see my sister and get back to Detroit.”
“Look, I want you to have this,” Frank said and handed David a DVD. “It’s a copy of the Omega film. Everybody else in the universe has seen this, so I figure you should too.”
“Be nice to finally get to see it.”
“Have a safe trip, and watch out for the speed trap out on Route 76 right before you hit the interstate.”
“I will, thanks,” David said and slid into the Jeep. “By the way, I just remembered something else my dad said about the Omega thing.”
Frank moved close to the car.
“The formula is written on a piece of parchment-kinda paper and rolled up and tied with a red ribbon, like a little tiny diploma,” David said. “A roll maybe five, six inches long.”
“I’ll remember that,” Frank said and closed the driver’s side door. “Can I give you money for gas?”
“No, I’m good.”
“Take this anyway,” Frank said and tossed three twenties onto David’s lap. “I appreciated you sharing your knowledge with me.”
“Even the bad news?”
“Bad news is why I have this job.”
* * * * *
Back in the building, Frank banged his way into the men’s room and splashed cold water in his face like it was on fire. He tried to imagine the implications of yet another hunter having clues to the possible reality of the Omega formula. He placed his hands on the sink, leaned toward the mirror, and gazed at his drawn face.
The men’s room door swung open and Greg Martinez barged in.
“Roland’s asking for you,” Greg said. “Could be important. He never even touched the calzone I brought him from Scaldetti’s.”
Frank plodded to Roland’s office and stood in the doorway, his tight lips and lowered eyebrows telegraphed his discontent as he glared at Roland.
“Close the door,” Roland said.
Frank closed the door and plopped into the chair in front of Roland’s desk.
“What’s up?” Frank said.
“Got a call back from Mark Hollenbeck in Maryland. Had a team of his insiders gather us some information,” Roland said and paused.
“And…”
“Your boy Chernac can’t be Anton Chernac of the National Security Agency.”
“Why so?”
“’Cause Anton Chernac’s been dead for over three years.”
Frank stared blankly at the ceiling, then closed his eyes.
“Died in the Middle East, maybe Iran,” Roland said, “During some covert, black ops shit. They even held a retirement party for the guy, then sent him on the mission. The idea was that no one would suspect him to still be active. He could be a ghost operative with a new identity, and get into places the old Chernac couldn’t. Turns out, he got into pretty sensitive quarters, and started sending the NSA some sweet intel, but then his encrypted messages stopped. They never recovered his body, but Mark Hollenbeck says the CIA has a film of him being shot, execution style. NSA’s kept the whole thing under wraps, like everything else they do.”
“Then who’s the guy who’s been bulldogging me?”
“‘That,’ said the elephant as he shat in the road, ‘remains to be seen.’”
Frank moved to the window and stared out at the tops of the palms surrounding the parking area.
“In your encounter with this guy, did he ever leave any prints, any DNA?” Roland asked.
“I didn’t sleep with the bastard. I don’t know–”
“Think, damn it,” Roland said and pounded on his desk so hard the calzone jumped off its paper plate.
“He wore gloves, wrapped around a Makarov. I wasn’t gathering evidence. I was trying to survive him.”
“By the way,” Roland said, reaching into a desk drawer. “Your precious Browning’s back from the Internal Affairs’ dry cleaners.”
Roland handed Frank the gun.
“Boy, I sure missed her,” Frank said and took the gun.
“I want you back on days,” Roland said. “Only thing lately that happens at night is it gets dark.”
Roland pressed a button on his phone.
“Janis, send Rumbaugh in here when he gets back.”
“Will do, sir,” the pleasant voice of Janis said.
Frank rubbed his face with his hands.
“It’s a long shot, but maybe he’ll remember something,” Roland said.
“He’s lucky to remember where he lives,” Frank said.
Roland glared at Frank.
“I said it was a long shot,”
Chapter 36
The next morning, Frank’s coffee time and peaceful thoughts were jarred by his desk phone’s speaker.
“Dugan,” Roland growled over the intercom. “I need a word.”
Frank tramped to Roland’s office and stood in the door.
“We got a call from an old codger in Jensen Beach. Says his neighbor just tried to kill his wife with a baseball bat.”
“The old codger’s wife? Or the baseball bat’s wife?
“The batter’s old lady,” Roland said and handed Frank the address. “Take a drive and find out what’s going on with these lovebirds.”
“Sensitive as usual about serving and protecting, I see,” Frank said.
“You know, police work ain’t always them nice shoot-‘em-ups you’re so fond of.”
“Why did I think I was a homicide cop. Must’ve been dreaming.”
“Hear of anybody getting killed today?”
“Day’s not over yet.”
“No homicides, you take what comes up.”
Frank bunched his lips and stared at Roland.
“Sounded like a he-slap-she-slap to me,” Roland said, “but there may be some merit to the complaint. I’d send a couple of uniforms over there, but the guy who called said you
know these people. Mentioned you by name.”
“I’ll check it out,” Frank said.
“You look like two cents waiting for change. How ‘bout some backup?”
“Who’re you going to give me? Rumbaugh?” Frank said. “I can handle a couple of locals having a dust-up.”
“Domestics can turn out bad as shootouts.”
“They’re overrated.”
“Take the rookie, Burnett. He can use the experience.”
“Watching me work is always edifying.”
“God, it’s nice to have you back,” Roland said. “Try sleep tonight. Did I mention you look like shit?”
* * * * *
At 11:55 A. M., Frank and 22-year-old Hollis Burnett arrived at the Perkins home off NE Skyline Drive in Jensen Beach. The new officer drove his own cruiser and parked behind Frank’s. Frank slid out of his car and stepped back to Burnett’s.
“Stay put,” Frank said to the young officer and walked up to the front door on the Perkins’ portico. The Sandra Drive residence was quiet; no sounds from TV or radio, conversations, or fighting. He rang the bell and heard muted chimes inside the house. A pot-bellied man dressed in a dirty tee shirt and boxer shorts opened the door. The pungent aroma of fried country ham wafted out from inside.
“Good morning. Are you Albert Perkins?” Frank asked.
“I am. What can I do for you?” the sixty-plus man said scratching his three-day stubble.
“I’m Detective Frank Dugan from the sheriff’s office. We received a complaint about an assault at this address.”
“An assault? Who told you that?”
“Apparently one of your neighbors.”
“Aggie,” Albert yelled. “There’s a police fella out here who says someone reported an assault. Know anything about that?”
A 250-pound woman dressed in a skimpy nightgown appeared in the doorway and looked at Frank.
“Only thing been assaulted here is a cured ham and a stack of pancakes,” Aggie said and cracked a broad smile revealing a mouthful of wide-spaced, yellow teeth.
“Did Albert here hit you?” Frank asked Aggie.
“G’wan with you. Aw, hell no. This tub o’ guts hits me, I send him to intensive care,” the woman said and elbowed Albert’s ribs.
“You mind if I come inside?” Frank said.
“Come on in, officer” Albert said. “We got nothing to hide.”
The gauzy nightgown confirmed a lot of that statement, although Frank wished Aggie would’ve kept some things out of sight. Inside, Frank panned the living room. It was messy, but there were no signs of a struggle. He glanced over at Aggie and noted her lack of any evidence of abuse.
“I guess someone is pulling a fast one on us,” Frank said. “I don’t see a problem here.”
“Got plenty more ham and pancakes, if you’d like some,” Aggie said.
“Oh, no thanks. I appreciate the offer, but I need to get back to the office,” Frank said and sidled to the front door. “I stay here you’ll make me fatter than I am.”
“Who’re you kiddin’? You look better than that Pierce Brogan feller in that Thomas Crown Affair movie,” Aggie said and cackled.
“Who you think made that call?” Albert asked, opening the door for Frank.
“Don’t know, but we’ll figure it out,” Frank said. “Sorry to bother you folks.”
Frank left the house and crossed the street to his unmarked car parked a few yards down Sandra Drive. As he stepped up to the driver’s side to open the door, Frank saw people approaching in the reflection in his car window. In a second, he was surrounded by four buff-looking men dressed in sport jackets.
He knew immediately they weren’t from Jehovah’s Witnesses.
Chapter 37
Hollis Burnett tried to get out of his cruiser, but two of the men hurried over from Frank’s cruiser and aimed guns his way. They forced him back into the car and took his service pistol before he could draw it. They got into the back seat of Burnett‘s car and closed the door.
A tall man wearing a Devil Ray baseball cap removed Frank’s Browning from his shoulder holster and patted him down. He also snatched Frank’s cell phone from his waist clip and slid it into his breast pocket.
“Get in,” he said as he nodded toward Frank’s cruiser.
“I was intending to,” Frank said and climbed behind the wheel.
“And don’t touch that radio,” Devil Ray said, pointing with a gloved hand.
Devil Ray slid into the front seat beside Frank and pulled out a pocket-size Beretta and nestled it in his lap. A second man with sunglasses climbed into the back seat from the passenger’s side. A fifth man approached Frank’s window and stood outside the door. He was lean and wore his black hair slicked back straight without a hint of a wave. His matching black eyes bore in on Frank. It was Colonel Anton Chernac.
Frank rolled the driver’s side window down.
“Detective,” Chernac said.
“I was worried I wouldn’t ever see you again,” Frank said. “You never write.”
“You’ll need to follow the blue Mercedes up the street. My two friends in your car will help you to comply without straying far from our rear bumper. Clear?”
“What about my partner?”
“He’ll be fine as long as you follow directions,” Chernac said.
“I heard you died.”
“An unfounded rumor, I’m sure.”
“I’m betting this has nothing to do with this domestic call,” Frank said and ran up his window.
Chernac walked several yards ahead of Frank’s car and got into the blue Mercedes. A moment later the car pulled out and drove away. Frank started his engine and followed three car lengths back as they turned onto Skyline Drive and headed south.
* * * * *
The two-car caravan made its way down a dirt road into a forest thickly populated with Australian pines and stopped where the two tire-width ruts in the sandy soil ended. The men who rode in the cruiser stood by Frank as he got out and escorted him past a large abandoned house set back from the rutted road, almost hidden by overgrown hedges. They scuffed their way through weedy grounds to a clearing deeper within the trees. A 40-foot recreational vehicle was parked at the center of the clearing. Chernac approached from the Mercedes with two of his men close behind. Devil Ray handed over Frank’s cell phone and pistol. Chernac dropped the cell into his jacket pocket and tucked the Browning under his belt.
“I know you must regard these little meetings as tiresome, detective,” Chernac said, “but I intend to obtain answers.”
“You know as much as I know,” Frank said. “How often do I need to say that?”
“Until I get the truth,” Chernac said. “What you’ve given me so far does not add up.”
Frank wanted to confront his captor about the death of his namesake and find out the real name of the impostor, but he knew coming from a position of weakness was not a good interrogation tack. He decided to play along for the time being.
“Look, Chernac, you work for the NSA, the U. S. A., right?” Frank said. “Let’s say I knew how to make this Omega thing. Shouldn’t that information be given to our government? To America’s Defense Department? What difference does it make who hands it over?”
“Therein is where we differ. I don’t give anything away anymore. I sell things. I am at a point where I want financial security and the power to maintain it. I’d sell the weapon to the highest bidder.”
“Okay, now that we’ve established what an unscrupulous, mercenary you are, what do you want with me?”
“You’re holding out. I strongly suspect you know exactly how to make this Omega formula work.”
“What makes you think I have the scientific knowledge to put something like this together? I’m just a county cop.”
“You grew up with a deeply involved scientist. Some of his knowledge had to rub off.”
“I had a grandfather who knew things, and died with them locked in his brain. You’re pissing in
the wind.”
Chernac stared at Frank and gently shook his head.
Frank drifted over to the RV and leaned on its side. Chernac’s men followed him and stood nearby. Chernac looked over at Devil Ray and nodded. The armed henchmen moved in on Frank and forced him into the RV.
“We going to Disneyworld, Anton?” Frank asked.
The inside of the RV was appointed like a suite at the Bellagio. A big screen TV, a full bar, and beautiful wood décor revealed the handiwork of a high-end designer. The space smelled of fine leather in the cool air conditioning, and the reclining chair where Frank was deposited was baby’s bum soft, buttery to the touch.
“We want what you know,” Chernac said after he entered the RV and stood in front of Frank.
“Going to work me over?” Frank said.
“Too primitive,” Chernac said. “Modern interrogators use drugs.”
A huge man entered the room from the rear of the trailer. He opened what appeared to be an eyeglass case and stepped behind Frank’s chair.
The prick of a needle being plunged into Frank’s neck made him twitch and soon his bright, Technicolor world faded to black.
* * * * *
The sandy ground was damp under the pine needles where Frank lay. His head was spinning. He tried to determine where he was, but his vision was not returning in hi-def, in fact, it wasn’t returning much at all. His eyes were dilated to the point he could only perceive harsh, blurry glows, even in what he thought were night conditions. He couldn’t make out distinct shapes and the gauzy brightness hurt his eyes. The light normally needed to clearly see objects worked against his perception. He was actually blinded by light.
Frank’s hearing was fine, even sharper than usual. He heard men talking in the distance.
“What does the colonel want us to do with him?” a baritone voice said.
“He’s done with him,” a gravelly voice said. “He said to let him go and help him back to his cop car, but I think he can finger us. Look, the way I see it, the colonel took off and left us with this mook, so I figure it’s up to us to dispose of any evidence.”
The Omega Formula: Power to Die For (Detective Frank Dugan) Page 17
