Bad Intent

by Jordan Cole

  “Where’d you get these?”

  “A little birdie gave them to me.”

  “These are two of the guys after the woman? Agatha?”

  Riley paused. “They were.”

  Dallas stared at him for a long moment. Didn’t respond. Continued to fold the licenses over in his hands. He shook his head.

  “I’m not a counterfeiting expert. But they look real enough to me.”

  “I don’t think they are.”

  “If they’re fakes, it’s the most convincing job I’ve ever seen. Professional quality. Government work, maybe. Someone who knows what they’re doing.”

  “Can you run it through your databases?” Riley asked. “Might be able to give me some more to work with.”

  “Sure I can,” Dallas said. “Strictly speaking, only law enforcement agencies are supposed to have access to Virginia’s DMV database. But Henderson Security may have found a way to subvert that particular restriction.” A hint of a grin on his broad face. Like they were back in Mosul, bribing shopkeepers to rat out their local insurgent leaders. He pulled up a program on the computer linked to the database of Virginia licenses. Punched in Carter’s personal info. Then Spann’s. Their names came up on an alphabetized list. CARTER, EDWARD G. followed by SPANN, MATTHEW BERTRAM. Dallas opened the two files and displayed them side by side on the computer screen.

  Both names had been registered in 2010, within days of each other. They each had a different Virginia address assigned to their names, no place that Riley recognized. Nothing else.

  “Guess I was wrong,” Dallas said, examining the screen. “They’re in the system, but they sure as hell ain’t real.”

  “How can you tell?”

  “They’re blank slates. Everything shows up in this database. Every parking ticket, lane violation, expired insurance, late inspection. Neither of these guys has even been caught speeding.”

  “Maybe they’re just careful.”

  Dallas shook his head. “Even the most careful motorists will have done something, in five years. Here. I’ll show you my record for comparison.”

  He brought up his own name, HENDERSON, HERMAN. A lost list of violations, mostly minor traffic citations, but enough to clutter the page.

  “And they got these licenses within a week of each other,” Dallas continued. “Meaning they either didn’t drive for the first 30 some odd years of their lives, or the found a way to get into the system with fake names.”

  “Then these corresponding addresses for Carter and Spann are bullshit.”

  “Almost for sure. Random noise. Unfortunately.”

  “Damn.” Riley hadn’t expected a smoking gun, but he’d hoped the licenses could have at least got him started on the right track. Whoever these guys were, they were leaving no trace. Even the bodies had been disposed of with startling efficiency. And he was no closer to figuring out who the hell they were or why they were after Agatha Dumont.

  “Riley, I have to tell ya,” Dallas said, taking a cigar from a desk drawer and lighting it with a Zippo, all in one motion. “I’ve never seen this kind of thing in the database before. Not even sure how you could get added without a valid social security number. And say what you will about the DMV, but they’ve gotten pretty good at figuring out chicanery. This is high level work. Pentagon, maybe. Or CIA.”

  “I don’t think so,” Riley said. “Maybe they had contacts there, but these guys weren’t CIA.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because I’m not in jail right now.”

  “Fair enough.” Dallas crossed his arms, blowing a line of smoke up into the ceiling fan. “None of this gives me a good feeling. These people mean business. Fake IDs of this caliber, they’re going to be prepared for whatever you throw at them. I think you should consider my offer. I can help you.”

  “Not yet,” Riley said. More bodies in the mix would only complicate things. He didn’t want to get anyone else involved, not if they didn’t need to be. So far it was Riley two, bad guys zero. Him versus them. That’s how he wanted to play it. “I’ll let you know, if it comes to that.”

  “Fine,” Dallas said. “I just hope you don’t disappear off the face of the earth sometime in the next few days.”

  “I should be so lucky. One more thing. The name Caliban mean anything to you?”

  Dallas shrugged, shook his head.

  “Didn’t think so,” Riley said. “That’s all I need for now. Thanks for the help. I’ll be in touch.”

  Dallas nodded. Riley headed out, back through the officer corridors, wondering what his next move was going to be.

  14.

  The man in the suit looked out over the firing range. Surveyed the array of human-shaped targets, stretching into the distance. Wooden cut-outs, arranged at hundred-yard intervals, arms hanging stiffly at their sides, the painted expressions on their faces growing blurry and abstract the farther they got. Squinting, he could just barely make out the targets eight hundred yards away. He knew there were three more, at the max distance of a thousand yards, but those were too far to be seen with the naked eye. In his hands he held a Winchester M70 rifle with a variable power scope that he’d taken from the armory. As well-maintained a weapon as he’d ever seen. Pistol-grip stock in a loving walnut color. He ran his hand along the smooth underside of the gun, like he was caressing a woman. Checked the action, pulling the lever back, watching the mechanism move. Took a cartridge of 30.06 loads and pressed it gently home. Felt it click into place, the easy snick of parts working in unison. Lay prone against the sandbags and rested the rifle on his shoulder. Sighted in on the nearest target and pulled the trigger.

  Bang.

  A perfect shot, one hole ripped center through the face of the closest target. He sighted in on the next target, two hundred yards away.

  Bang.

  The man in the suit continued the pattern, each shot carefully placed through the cut-out’s heads. As he reached the far targets, 800 yards away, he could hear the rumble of a Humvee behind him. He didn’t turn around.

  Bang.

  At a thousand yards, he sighted in for a long time. Adjusted for wind and drop, visualized the trajectory the bullet would take as it sailed along the curve of the earth. Even with the scope, the target was little more than a faint smudge. He felt his heart beat, a steady half-time rhythm. He fired.

  Bang.

  Higher than he’d intended. A tiny chip of wood flew off the target, where the very top of the head would be. Hard to tell if it was a kill shot or just a graze, taking off a piece of scalp. Either way, he was satisfied. A thousand yards was tough for anyone, and he was out of practice. The crunch of footsteps approaching. He set the rifle down, rose to his feet, and saluted.

  “That’s some impressive shooting.”

  Frazier was wearing a loose green jogging suit. Dark cap on his head, gray hairs poking out from underneath. He was slightly sticky with sweat. The man in the suit nodded deferentially.

  “Try to get out to the range when I can.”

  “You hit that last one? A thousand yards out?”

  “Winged it.”

  “Goddamn, Jody. Don’t be bashful. That’s a hell of a shot.”

  The man in the suit winced involuntarily. He didn’t much care for his given name. Jody was not a popular designator in the military. It was a traditional nickname for the guys who mustered out and stayed home to sleep with the wives of the soldiers who were overseas. He had caught some flak for it, back when he first enlisted. Until the guys making fun of him learned what he was capable of. Learned that he was not, in fact, a jody. Then the jokes had stopped, quickly. Eventually he became Major Whitehall, and anyone calling him by his first name quickly learned never to do it again. Part of the reason he enjoyed slipping into the role of other personas. Frazier was one of maybe five people who could call him that name and live to tell the story. But that didn’t mean he liked it.

  Frazier stepped forward, crossing his arms. The sun fading, night breezes beginning to
ripple the thick crush of oak trees surrounding the firing range. Frazier was nearly a foot taller and twenty years older than Whitehall. Creases appeared in his face when he talked. But he was fit for an old guy. Probably had just run five miles before driving over here. Behind him, the Humvee--dark green, like the jogging suit--idled in place.

  “We’ve got to figure out what we’re going to do about this thing,” Frazier said.

  “What happened is unfortunate, but it’s still under control.”

  “Where are Carter and Spann? Their bodies, I mean.”

  “Incinerated,” Whitehall said. He didn’t elaborate. Frazier nodded.

  “They were ambushed.”

  “I’m assuming so. Likely their own fault. They got complacent.”

  “They didn’t go to the police,” Frazier said. “Riley, or the girl. That tells us something.”

  “Would have been better if they did. Spann and Carter’s IDs were clean. Nothing to trace them back to us. Police would have been all over Riley trying to figure things out. Could have paid someone on the inside to do it.”

  “I did some digging. This Riley is a real piece of work. One-time Army Ranger who quit to go merc. Fragged his CO or whatever the contractor equivalent is out in Iraq after hearing an order he didn’t like. Beat the rap.”

  “I’m not interested in his life story,” Whitehall said. Loosened his tie a fraction, tugging at his collar.

  “You should be. Considering he just killed two of your guys.”

  “He got lucky against two opponents who weren’t expecting resistance. That won’t happen again.”

  “Where’s the girl?” The first signs of impatience from Frazier. As if he would have handled things any differently, in Whitehall’s position.

  “We’re not positive. Either staying at his place or holed up in a motel somewhere. She hasn’t used her credit or bank cards in the last two days. We’ll get her out in the open soon enough. I’ve got a plan.”

  Frazier stared at him. His face a hard slab, like it had been peeled apart and stitched back together.

  “I want her in our possession. Soon. And I want Riley in the ground. I don’t like contractors. I especially don’t like them when they kill their CO and get away with it.”

  “Understood.”

  “You know what it means if she finds that tape before we do.”

  Whitehall smiled. He knew what it would mean for Frazier. As for himself, he wasn’t so sure. He was good at slipping the noose. At stepping into different roles. Becoming someone else. Grab a new ID, hitch a ride, start over somewhere far away. Of course, he’d prefer if it didn’t come to that. But it never hurt to have a plan, for further down the line.

  Frazier got back into the Humvee and drove away, tires crunching over the gravel. Whitehall slung the rifle over his shoulder and began walking back to the armory.

  ***

  Riley stopped for a late lunch at a burger joint, before leaving Arlington. He sat, munching a hamburger and wondering why Peter Saccarelli had gone to such lengths to keep his life such a secret from everyone, when his cell phone rang. It was Agatha, calling from his house. He set down the burger and put the phone to his ear.

  “Everything all right?”

  “I’m fine. Just killing time on the computer.”

  No duress in her tone. She sounded almost bored--well, bored maybe not the right word. Hard to be truly bored when bodies have started dropping. But she didn’t sound especially worked up, which was good. Riley needed her to keep a level head.

  “You update your blog like I said?”

  “I did. I also tried to dig up what I could about Pete, researched Caliban, and looked at some pictures of cute cats during the downtime. And this was all before noon.”

  “Good. I’ll be heading back soon. I’ll bring you home some food.”

  “Actually, that’s not why I called,” Agatha said. “Ramirez called me again. The detective.”

  “What did he want?” Riley still wasn’t sure if Ramirez would be any help to them at all. He certainly hadn’t rushed to corroborate Agatha’s story, when they’d first contacted him.

  “He wanted to talk to you, actually. Wanted to know if you could meet him at the station at four.”

  Riley checked his watch. Imagined the rush hour traffic that would soon be gearing up.

  “Might be tight, but I’ll give it a shot. You didn’t tell him where you were, did you?”

  “No,” she replied. “We didn’t speak for very long.”

  “All right. Stay put. I’ll be back as soon as I’m done meeting Ramirez.”

  “I’m not a dog. You don’t have to tell me to stay.”

  He was about to reply when the call terminated. Riley scoffed, finishing the last few bites of his burger. A little rudeness could be forgiven, considering the circumstances.

  ***

  Unfortunately, rush hour traffic started early this Monday, and it took Riley over an hour to make it back to DC and the MPD precinct. He arrived a few minutes after four, pausing a moment outside the building, watching the Unis bullshit with one another, smoking cigarettes on the concrete stairs. Wondering if this was some sort of setup. Being held for questioning was not what he wanted, not right now. Agatha would still be safe back at the cabin--if there was trouble, she could lock herself in the panic room. But it would be a complication. The two bodies might come back to bite him. Depending. He considered. Ramirez had been up front with him so far. Cops had a way of talking to people they suspected of a crime, and there had been nothing in his mannerisms that suggested he wasn’t buying Riley’s story. Still. It was a risk. He decided to chance it. If new information had come up, Agatha’s safety could depend on it. He took a few breaths and entered the station.

  A new officer at the desk. Young guy, crew cut and serious, eyeing Riley like he was there to turn himself in. Riley stared him right back and told him he was there to see Ramirez. The officer gave looked him over for a few moments more and went to go fetch him. Ramirez followed him back, looking harried, wearing a suit even more ill-fitting than last time.

  “Couldn’t get here by four,” Riley said. “Traffic.”

  Ramirez nodded like it was the least of his concerns. Took him back to his desk, still cluttered with paperwork. They sat. Ramirez folded his hands like he wasn’t sure how to start the conversation.

  “Thanks for coming by,” he said, finally. “You want some coffee or anything?”

  “No,” Riley said. “I want to hear what you have to say.”

  Not quite an ambush. But there was something in Ramirez’s face he didn’t like.

  “You ever hear of a guy named Pete Saccarelli?” Ramirez said. Eyebrows raised. Leaning forward, like this was private information just between them, two buddies.

  “Agatha’s boss at the magazine mentioned him,” Riley said. “Said he hadn’t checked into the office in a few days. She was concerned about it. Had the feeling he might be connected to this in some way. Agatha said she’d gone on a few dates with him, nothing serious. Don’t know much more beyond that.”

  “Uh huh.” Ramirez leaned back in his chair. Found a pen amid the detritus on his desk and twirled it around his fingers. “Elizabeth Farber, right? She reported Mr. Saccarelli missing this morning. We also got a call from Saccarelli’s mother two days ago, reporting him missing as well.”

  “Not good,” Riley said.

  “No. We sent officers over to his last known address a few hours ago. There was a break in. Back door was kicked open. No sign of Mr. Saccarelli.”

  “A break in?” Riley said. Choosing his words carefully. “Was it recent?”

  “Hard to tell. Apartment was sparsely furnished. Didn’t look like anything was missing. But the door was hanging from its hinges. Seems to me like someone would have noticed, if it had happened a while ago. You don’t know anything about that, do you Clay?”

  “No,” Riley said. Didn’t break eye contact. “All I know about the guy is what Farber and Agatha t
old us.”

  “You’re aware that you’re not a law enforcement agent?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Because I have to say, it seems like you think you are. You and this woman come to me with a story about an attempted kidnapping. You tell me you think it’s a big conspiracy, and now I have people connected with Agatha going missing, apartments being broken into, cars found in perfect working condition after you claimed they’d been tampered with. None of this is making any sense to me, and I’m not happy about it.”

  “Listen to me,” Riley began.

  “No, you listen.” Ramirez’s voice rose, angry. Eyebrows narrowed. Cops at the surrounding desks perked up and turned to Riley, glaring at him. Like he’d already been convicted. “As far as I’m concerned, you’re a private citizen who’s tiptoeing across the line of interfering with an active investigation. You know more than you’re letting on. And I want you to tell me what that is, right now.”

  A woman came over. She was small, black, dressed in plainclothes. Gave Riley a hard stare, like the rest of the precinct. Turned to Ramirez.

  “Everything all right over here?”

  He nodded, waving her off. Despite the histrionics, Riley breathed an internal sigh of relief. The inquisitor act meant Ramirez was fishing for straws. If he had any hard evidence, Riley would be in handcuffs already.

  “I’m not sure why you’re making me the enemy,” Riley said. “We’re on the same side.”

  “You’ve inserted yourself into this case. You stopped Ms. Dumont from being kidnapped. Which is great, and we all commend you for it. As far as I’m concerned, your involvement with her should have ended there. You’ve convinced her she needs your help, and you’re going to get her hurt.”

  “I’m glad to see you’re at least taking this seriously.”

  “I told you, I take every case seriously.” Ramirez said. He relaxed a little, loosening his posture. Toning down the bad cop act somewhat after Riley hadn’t broken into a detailed confession. “Where is Agatha now?”

  “At a motel,” Riley said. “A state or two over. I don’t know exactly which.”