by Ponzo, Gary
“I appreciate it.”
“Take care, Lee. And let me know what you figure out about this guy. I’m curious now.”
“I will. Bye.”
He disconnected and stared down at the phone for a few moments before putting it away. He couldn’t shake the feeling of surprise. He’d expected to hear something along the lines of combat training for Banks, or even some battlefield experience. But this was something else entirely.
Sandy Banks did not exist.
So who the hell was the guy he set up?
He wondered briefly if he had bitten off more than he could chew. Normally, he wouldn’t entertain such a ridiculous thought, but the shadowy nature of Banks’ past worried him.
His next thought was, should he tell Linda?
He considered the question. That immediately begged the obvious follow-up: could he still trust her?
Sure, he could, he decided. She loved him. That was obvious. He supposed he loved her, too, though he wondered how much of that was really love and how much was the fact that she’d been his ticket out of the mess he was in.
He let out a weary sigh. He’d started sleeping with her more on a lark than anything. Imagine being able to tell the guys in the bullpen that he nailed the Brass Bitch? Their boss’s boss’s boss? That would have been a definite boost to his reputation, even with those guys on the job who were big time trim hounds.
Then it changed a little for him. He wasn’t sure how exactly or even when, but it did. It felt a little different than the others. He found himself thinking about her more. Not just sexual fantasies, but imagining a life alone with her. Away from all of the bullshit.
He blamed his head in the clouds state of mind for getting sloppy. Kelly got suspicious, which was nothing new. This time, though, she found small pieces of evidence. A receipt that was clearly dinner for two. She didn’t buy his argument that it was his partner.
“Your partner wears lipstick?” she’d snapped at him, holding up his shirt, rescued from the laundry.
He tried everything he could, following the age-old methods of cheaters everywhere. He admitted nothing. He denied everything. He tried to counter-accuse, even though he knew it was a lame tactic with no teeth. Then he resorted to calling her paranoid and crazy.
“We’ll see how paranoid I am in divorce court,” she told him. “We’ll see how crazy things are when I have half your pension and you’re living in some lousy apartment somewhere. See if your whore girlfriend is impressed with that.”
“Kell—”
“Everything is mine, Lee,” she’d told him. “It’s all in my name. You’ll get nothing. Do you understand? Not a thing.”
And he knew she was right.
He had to smile now, in spite of everything. He smiled because although she’d been right at the time, she sure as hell wasn’t right anymore.
The door behind him opened. His daughter leaned out of the doorway. “You okay, Dad?”
He cleared his throat and feigned wiping tears away before turning around. “Fine,” he said.
She glanced down at the empty glass in his left hand, then back up at him. She tried to conceal her disapproval. “Coming inside?” she asked.
He nodded. “Yeah. In a minute.”
“Okay,” she said. She stood watching him for a moment. Then she added, “You look like you have the weight of the world on you, Dad.”
He looked down into his glass as if he didn’t know where the liquor went. “Still adjusting to the shock of everything,” he said.
She opened the door wide for him. “Come inside. Be with family.”
“All right,” he said.
For a few more hours or so, he thought.
TWENTY-EIGHT
Sandy watched the news broadcast carefully. The police and the FBI were being surprisingly close-mouthed about the shooting. The reporters only talked about the barest details. Unfortunately, that included a fairly good description of him. The name of the victim was not mentioned.
He flipped to another local channel. This reporter was mid-way through his story.
“Officials are not releasing the names of the wounded agent or the homicide victim. However, investigative journalists here at KRDQ have uncovered the following exclusive information: the residence where the homicide occurred is owned by Lee and Kelly Merchant. Now, since the victim in this shooting is being reported by police as being female, there is speculation that it is, in fact, Mrs. Kelly Merchant.”
Kelly Merchant, Sandy thought. Now I know who I murdered.
“An interesting side note,” the reporter continued, “is that Lee Merchant, who we assume is the deceased’s husband, is a local police detective.”
And now I know who George Larson really is.
“Here is the scene earlier today, where Detective Merchant was comforted by his co-workers.” The picture cut away from the reporter to file footage of the man Sandy knew as George Larson standing outside the house. Tears streamed down his cheeks. A fellow detective had his hand on Larson’s—no, Merchant’s shoulder. A moment later, a woman in a business suit exited the house. She reached out and gave Merchant a hug. His hands moved to the small of her back, hovered, then settled there.
Sandy’s eyes narrowed.
A moment later, the video cut away to that same woman in mid-sentence. “—and so we will cooperate fully and assist the FBI in any way we can with this investigation.”
Below her, subtitles announced her identity.
Investigative Captain Linda Valczinski.
An off-camera voice asked her, “Why is the FBI taking lead on a city homicide?”
Captain Valczinski didn’t miss a beat. “I can’t comment on that. This is their investigation.”
The video snapped back to the field reporter. “The FBI also refused to comment, other than to confirm that the suspect is still at large and should be considered armed and dangerous. Back to you, Mandy.”
A perfectly coiffed anchor woman appeared on screen. “Thank you, Alan. Tonight, the school district superintendent announced a cut in –”
Sandy turned off the television.
He ran through the video in his mind. Watched that hug over and over again. Saw her step into his embrace. Saw the hand fall to the small of her back.
There was something wrong with it.
But what?
After a few minutes, he knew.
It was too familiar. Merchant hadn’t held onto her like a bereaved husband might hold a colleague.
He'd held her like a lover.
Sandy considered the thought. It was an awfully big leap to make just from a few moments of video. A police captain sleeping with one of her detectives? It didn’t seem likely. Not in today’s age of hyper-vigilance when it came to sexual harassment and workplace ethics.
Still, whenever he replayed that touch in his mind, there was less and less doubt in his mind. The way Merchant’s hand found its way so comfortably to the small of her back? They were lovers.
Sandy struggled with the internal argument for a few minutes. Finally, he conceded that while it was a long shot, he didn’t have many options. And if Valczinski and Merchant were lovers, there was only one way to find out.
Sandy rose and opened the single drawer in the nightstand. Under a bible was a telephone book. He pulled it out and flipped through it, looking through the Vs.
No Valczinski.
“You didn’t really think it would be that easy, did you?” he muttered to himself.
He glanced up at the clock. Almost five-fifteen. The libraries should be open until nine.
Sandy left the motel room and headed down to see Arlo, hoping that the clerk didn’t watch the news.
“A car?” Arlo squinted at him.
“For a day or so.”
Arlo spit out a sunflower shell. “I can loan you mine for a hundred bucks.”
Sandy didn’t hesitate. He pulled out his money and counted off five twenties.
“You got a driver’s license?”
S
andy stopped. “Yes. Why?”
“Cops’ll tow the car if you get stopped without a license. I don’t want to have to pay to get the car out of impound.”
Sandy nodded in understanding. “No problem. My license is valid.”
“Show me.”
Sandy paused. “I don’t have it with me.”
Arlo shook his head. “Forget it, then. It’ll cost me a hundred bucks just to get it out of impound.”
“They’ll check my name,” Sandy said. “It’ll come back with a good license.”
“Uh-uh.”
Sandy sighed. He counted off another hundred dollars. “This is a deposit against an impound, all right? When I bring the car back, you give it back. If it gets impounded, you’re still ahead a hundred bucks. All right?”
Arlo eyed the money for a moment. Then he shrugged and snapped up the bills. He fished a pair of keys out of his jeans pocket. “It’s the green Ford Maverick out front. Bring it back with the same amount of gas in it.” He tossed the keys to Sandy.
Sandy caught them. “Thanks,” he said, and left.
The Hillyard branch of the library was quiet. One of the librarians looked up at Sandy as he entered and smiled. Sandy nodded back, then headed straight for the computers before she asked him if he had a library card.
He sat down at a computer and brought up a web browser. The default page was the library home page. He navigated away to a search engine. Then he typed in “Linda Valczinski.”
He got seven hits. All seven were about a Polish gymnast.
He revised his search to “Linda Valczinski Spokane.”
Only four hits this time. The second one was a DIRECTORY/PEOPLE site. He clicked on that. The first listing was the only one that matched in Spokane. He read off the address.
2731 South Latawah.
He wanted to shake his head at how easy it was, but the last few years of researching targets had taken the surprise out of how much information was available on the Internet. There was no such thing as true privacy anymore.
Just to be certain, he ran the address through the county tax assessor’s office. The record for that year came back to Linda Valczinski. The photograph showed a small brick bungalow that sat back off the street deep into the lot. He examined the layout of the doors and windows. A side door on the garage side. The garage sat slightly behind.
He clicked on the search engine’s MAP function and entered the address. Once the arrow was centered on the address, he switched to satellite view. Now he had a scrolling picture of the entire block. He navigated left and right. About two houses away and on the opposite side of the street, he spotted a huge weeping willow that hung over the street.
Perfect.
Sandy switched to the police department website. He found an entry for Captain Linda Valczinski, which listed a very brief bio. There was no mention of a husband. He stared at her formal photograph, taken in full uniform. She was a moderately attractive woman, he admitted, but her plastic smile bothered him. He could see the cold calculation in her eyes. It was as if, at the moment the camera flashed, she was trying to determine how much and what kind of advantage she could get out of that smile.
Her and Larson, Sandy thought. Two peas in a pod.
Then he shook his head.
Merchant, he told himself. His name is Detective Lee Merchant. Larson was the alias that he used with Gail. An alias that would work fine to cover his tracks for a while, at least until she saw his picture on the television news. That’s why he came back and –
Sandy ground his teeth together and swallowed thickly. He clicked away from the website, not wanting to look to see if there was a grinning picture of Lee Merchant or not. He was too sure that there was.
He sat at the terminal for a few moments, his mind clicking off possibilities. He asked himself about the likelihood of a police captain and a detective having an affair. It seemed unlikely. Still, he’d seen the embrace on television. He knew enough about human behavior to recognize it for what it was – a lover’s touch.
So did Captain Valczinski know about the Horsemen? Or that Merchant was the Keeper? Or was she guilty of nothing more than adultery?
Sandy thought again of that cold, calculating smile and shook his head.
No, he figured. She was in it up to her eyeballs.
Still, all of this was conjecture. There was only one way to know for sure.
Sandy stood to leave, then hesitated. On a whim, he typed another entry into the search engine. The best he could find was a general number for what he wanted, but he supposed it would be enough. He jotted that number down next to the address on the slip of paper beside the keyboard. Then he rose and left the library without meeting anyone’s gaze.
Outside, he called the number at a corner payphone. The operator was very helpful. He jotted the phone number down on the back of his hand, thanked her and hung up.
TWENTY-NINE
Special Agent Lori Carter watched her partner’s eyelids flutter. She took a shallow breath and waited a few more long moments, but he didn’t become any more alert. When she realized that she’d been holding that breath in, she let it out in a sigh.
“It could be a while,” came a voice from the doorway.
She glanced up at the nurse there. A thick-bodied woman in her forties, the nurse had a warm smile on an open, kindly face.
“Sometimes patients take a while to come out of it after so much blood loss,” she explained. “But the doctor has him listed as stable. It looks like he’s going to pull through just fine.”
“Good,” Carter whispered. Her throat was dry and her words stuck.
The nurse asked if she wanted any ice water.
Carter cleared her throat. “That’d be nice. Thank you.”
The nurse smiled at her again. She looked at McNichol’s chart, checked his tubes and tore off a printout from one of the machines. “Be right back.”
Carter nodded her thanks.
Alone again, she looked down at McNichol. If she imagined him without the IV in his arm or the oxygen tubes in his nose, she could almost believe he was simply having a peaceful sleep. His face was still too white, though. And even though he was asleep, he looked haggard to her.
Have a look in the mirror, dearie, she thought sarcastically.
The nurse returned with a plastic cup filled with ice water. “There you go,” she said.
“Thanks.”
The nurse nodded, turned to go, then stopped. She gave Carter a long look. After a few moments, Carter raised her eyebrows questioningly. The nurse smiled. “Sorry,” she said. “It’s just…well, you’re a cop, right?”
“I’m an FBI agent,” Carter replied automatically, knowing that the distinction was lost on most people.
“Right,” the nurse said. “I’m just…well, I just wanted to say that I admire what you do. I could never do your job.”
Carter felt herself smiling. “I could never do yours,” she said.
The nurse waved away her comment. “Oh, it’s nothing. Check a few vitals, give out some medication.” She pointed at Carter’s cup. “Bring ice water. That’s all. It’s nothing like what you do. Like I said, I really admire what you do. It has to be hard.”
“Thanks,” Carter said. “But most days, it’s no more difficult than what you just described.”
“Not today,” the nurse said quietly.
“No,” Carter agreed. “Not today.”
The nurse’s eyes flicked to McNichol and back to Carter. “He’s your partner?”
“Yes.”
“And…not your husband or anything?”
Carter shook her head. “The Bureau would never allow that. Scott is married, though. His wife, Chelsea, is flying in from Florida.”
“That’s good,” the nurse said. “Family usually brings a good energy. Patients can sense it.”
Carter nodded, not sure how to reply.
“You bring a good energy, too,” the nurse said. “It’s obvious that you care about him a lot.
”
Carter’s eyes misted. “I do. He’s a good friend.”
The nurse smiled at her. “I’m sorry, hon. I didn’t want to make you sad.”
Carter wiped at her eyes. “It’s okay.”
The nurse took two steps toward her and rested her hand on Carter’s shoulder. “My name’s Brenda,” she said.
“I’m Lori.”
Brenda smiled. “You should feel good, Lori. You’re the reason he’s still alive.”
Carter shrugged, but didn’t answer.
“You are,” Brenda insisted. “The doctor said so. So did the medics who brought him in. Everyone said that if you hadn’t kept hard, direct pressure on that wound, he wouldn’t have made it.”
She squeezed Carter’s shoulder.
“You saved his life.”
Carter reached up and covered Brenda’s hand with her own. “Thank you,” she whispered.
Brenda gave her a final squeeze and turned to go.
“That’s what he’ll be saying when he wakes up,” she said over her shoulder. “It just might be a little while before he gets around to it.”
Carter smiled. Then she started laughing quietly. Brenda didn’t notice and continued out of the room, closing the door quietly behind her.
Knowing Scott, Carter thought to herself, it’ll be six months before he mentions it.
THIRTY
Sandy turned off the headlights as he turned onto Latawah. The space beneath the willow tree that he’d seen on the satellite photo was unoccupied, so he slid the Maverick to a stop directly beneath the limbs. The city kept the trees well-trimmed off of the roadways, but the slight overhang still gave him at least the illusion of some kind of cover.
He turned off the ignition and sat watching the small brick bungalow that belonged to Linda Valczinski. He listened to the ticking sound of the engine cooling and waited. This was a quiet, eclectic block of old Spokane. Unlike the Merchant neighborhood, which was fairly homogenous in the socio-economic status of it’s inhabitants, Valczinski lived in the zone where middle class homes and rich dwellings co-existed side by side. People paid below market value for the big homes here but above market value for the small homes. This allowed for claims of simpler living for some and a bit of casual snobbery for others.
