Faces of the Gone

by Brad Parks

  When we disembarked, I was ushered past a succession of closed office doors until we reached the one in the corner, whose name plate announced it belonged to Field Director Randall N. Meyers. L. Pete knocked softly.

  “Yes?” a powerful voice inquired from behind the door.

  “It’s me, sir,” L. Pete said.

  The powerful voice replied, “Come in, Monty.”

  “Who’s Monty?” I asked as L. Pete opened the door.

  “Oh, that’s me,” L. Pete said. “I’ve gone by ‘Pete’ since grade school. But when Randy found out my first name was Lamont, he started calling me ‘Monty.’ ”

  The Director surveyed the young man who followed Monty into his office and was almost disappointed. This was his nemesis? This was the greatest threat his operation had ever known? This was Carter Ross?

  The Director buried his attention back into a pile of meaningless papers on his desk, not wanting the reporter to know he was being studied. In that quick glance, the Director had already seen enough to know Carter Ross would not pose any further difficulty.

  He wasn’t armed—the cut in his trendy clothing left no room for a concealed weapon. And, physically, the Director could crush him. Carter Ross was nothing more than a pretty boy. There was no real meat hanging on his shoulders, no thickness in the chest or arms that might suggest he was dangerous. He looked like any one of those yuppies who spend time in the gym strictly for vanity, doing arm curls to get a small bulge in their biceps, with their only goal to look good in a tight T-shirt. They were not like the Director, who worked out for the express purpose of being able to overpower other men—for moments exactly like this.

  The only real challenge of killing Carter Ross was what to do with him afterward. You couldn’t just dump his body down on Ludlow Street, like the Director had with the others. That would work for lowlife drug dealers, who would not be missed by anyone important. It wouldn’t work for newspaper reporters.

  So the Director had spent his morning planning Carter Ross’s disappearance. Unbeknownst to him, “Carter Ross” had already booked an eight o’clock flight out of Newark airport to the Dominican Republic.

  Making it appear Carter Ross was actually on the flight had taken a few hours of work. First, the Director asked one of the National Drug Bureau’s computer technicians to hack into the Eagle-Examiner’s network, telling the tech it was part of an investigation and he had a judge’s order to do so. Once inside the mainframe, the Director accessed Carter Ross’s account and poked around long enough to get a sense of Ross’s e-mail style.

  Then the Director wrote two e-mails—one to Harold Brodie, one to an e-mail account Ross had labeled “Mom & Dad” in his contact list. The e-mail to Brodie was more formal in its punctuation and sentence structure. The e-mail to Mom & Dad was more colloquial. Each said the same thing: their dear Carter had been so traumatized by the events of the past week, he felt he needed two weeks in the Dominican Republic to recover. The Director scheduled the e-mails to be sent at precisely 5:59 P.M. and 6:01 P.M., to make it appear “Carter Ross” had dashed off the e-mails then gone straight to the airport.

  The next step was ensuring “Carter Ross” didn’t miss his flight, but that was easy enough. The National Drug Bureau had authorization to create passports for agents traveling under assumed names, so the Director created one with Carter Ross’s name and birthday—but Monty’s picture.

  Then, at six o’clock, Monty would drive Carter Ross’s car to the airport, use the passport to check in for the flight and get through security, then use it again to get through customs on the other side. The next day, Lamont P. Sampson, using his own passport, would fly back—leaving “Carter Ross” on his Dominican vacation.

  The Director knew someone would eventually notice when Ross didn’t return, but he was less concerned about that. The authorities up here would locate Ross’s car in long-term parking, check the airline manifold then conclude he had gotten on a plane for the Dominican Republic safe and sound.

  To the authorities down there, Carter Ross would be just one more American who went on vacation and decided, for whatever reason, not to come back. The Director didn’t know whether Ross’s family had means to investigate his disappearance. But it didn’t really matter. The Director knew how to weight down a body. Unless his family had a submarine, they were never going to find him.

  It was all so perfect the Director was tempted to get it over with quickly: to stick a bullet in Ross’s ear, dispose of the body somewhere wet and cold, and be home for supper with his family.

  But no, a small amount of patience was required. First, the Director needed to find out if Carter Ross knew more than he had let on—and if he had shared those thoughts with anyone else. Maybe Ross would be unwitting enough to spill, maybe he wouldn’t. Maybe the Director would have to coerce it out of him. The end result would be the same: Carter Ross’s final hour on this earth was already well under way.

  CHAPTER 10

  The office of Randall N. Meyers had a large expanse of carpet that was a step up in quality from the thin, standard-issue floor covering his peons walked each day. In the middle of the room, a highly polished conference table was surrounded by eight cushy chairs. Along the side was a small living-roomlike setup, with a leather couch and matching recliners surrounding a low coffee table. On the two unwindowed walls, there were various plaques, diplomas, and newspaper articles, chronicling a long, successful climb to the higher reaches of law enforcement. Then there were the pictures: a portrait of Meyers as a young infantry officer, a pair of posed photos with two U.S. presidents, then a collection of more candid shots with three or four people who looked vaguely familiar as senators or congressmen.

  It was all meant to convey the high standing of the man inhabiting the office. Because, obviously, anyone with enough juice to command from the federal bureaucracy such tremendous resources of square footage, carpeting, and furniture had to be someone around which solar systems rotated.

  That someone, Randall N. Meyers, was sitting at the far end of the room behind a large, mahogany desk. He was a bear of a man who did not bother standing when I entered. He was casually dressed in a blue button-down shirt, which was wrinkled by the presence of a shoulder holster that was weighted down by his service weapon. Even seated, his considerable girth was obvious. I immediately pegged him as suffering from high cholesterol, hypertension, and occasional battles with gout. Some people just have that look.

  Then again, he also looked like he could pick up a Honda if he put his mind and muscle to it. Somewhere in Randall N. Meyers’s past there had been heavy manual labor or a lot of weightlifting.

  “Uh,” L. Pete said, clearing his throat. “Here you are, sir.”

  Meyers looked up briefly and told L. Pete, “Thank you, Monty. You can leave now.”

  But L. Pete was already slinking in that direction. His entire demeanor had changed the moment he entered that office. Gone was the little man with the firm handshake and the self-important—albeit Napoleonic—air about him. Around his boss, he was halting, uncertain, and deferential, like a puppy accustomed to scolding. He was gone before Meyers could tell him not to let the door hit him in the ass.

  “I’ll be with you in a moment, Mr. Ross,” Meyers said without looking up, waving at the chairs in front of his desk. “Take a seat.”

  I sat and Meyers returned his focus to the incredibly vital document in front of him, doing his best to send the message the piece of paper contained information that far outdistanced littl’ ol’ me in importance. I was merely a distraction he would deal with when the more weighty matters that occupied the rest of his precious time were properly handled.

  It was all part of the intimidation game, of course—along with the furnishings, the size of the office, and the pictures on the wall. And I guess it worked on some people. As a journalist, you can never let yourself get too awed by someone. You have to remember that anyone, no matter how important they try to make themselves seem, is just as li
kely to be full of crap as anyone else. That was especially true with someone who went out of their way to impress upon you just how important they are.

  So I did what I always do when I’m in a source’s office and they’re not paying attention to me: I subtly invade their privacy. You can learn all kinds of things from studying someone’s desk, especially a large desk like this one, which had so much room for pictures, knickknacks, and top-secret files.

  In Meyers’s case, I learned he didn’t give a crap about his family. Really. There was one picture of him, a mousy woman, and three awkward girls. The rest were pictures of Randy Meyers and his buddies on a variety of exotic vacations: hunting, fishing, scuba diving, skiing, paragliding, skydiving—all macho activities by macho men.

  The settings varied from the Caribbean to the Serengeti to the tops of mountains, but there was one constant to all the photos: in each one, Randy Meyers was in the middle. He was clearly the alpha male, bigger and beefier than everyone else, unafraid to throw around his weight.

  And sure, I didn’t know him. But I knew guys like him and I could see him on those trips. He was the big shot, ordering the most expensive drinks (when someone else was buying), belittling anyone who didn’t catch a fish (unless he hadn’t), bossing around the strippers and whores (because he was too inept with women for the pickup game).

  My decision to dislike the man had been thoroughly cemented.

  Once I was done with the vacation pictures, I moved on to the top-secret files, doing my best to read them upside down, hoping to see the name Irving Wallace pop out of one of them. But there didn’t appear to be anything of use or importance. Even the supposedly vital document Meyers had in front of him was a letdown. It was a goddamn receipt for an airline flight.

  Now I was getting steamed. While I was sitting there waiting, losing precious time against deadline, this jerk was planning another vacation with his idiot buddies. I started clearing my throat, shifting my weight, and making other not-so-subtle signs of impatience. But Randall N. Meyers was paying me no mind whatsoever, to the point it was getting downright bizarre.

  How long had I been sitting there? I wanted to look at what time it was on my cell phone. But, of course, I couldn’t. The square-jaws downstairs had taken it from me.

  Finally, Meyers looked up.

  “Sorry about that,” he said, with a weighty sigh. “I hope Monty was courteous.”

  “Yeah, he was a gem,” I said. “You must have sent him to all the best obedience schools.”

  A brief look of amusement passed over Meyers’s face, then faded.

  “Do your editors know you’re here?” he asked.

  “I ran out before I had a chance to tell anyone,” I said. “But don’t worry. If I tell them we’ve got a good story, they’ll back me.”

  “Very good,” he said. “Excellent.”

  He leaned back in his chair, crossing one thick leg over the other. Even reclined, his stomach spilled out over the top of his belt.

  “So, heck of a week, huh?” he said casually.

  “Sure was.”

  “Your articles have been excellent. You’re really some writer.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You put certain things together faster than my detectives. Maybe I ought to hire you,” he said, then added a guffaw.

  I smiled but didn’t laugh. I usually reserve laughing for things that are, you know, funny. I recognized this as the portion of the conversation where he was trying to establish friendly relations with me. But I wanted to get on to the productive part of the conversation. We each possessed information of indeterminate value to the other. Neither of us would give it up willingly without getting something in return. There would be some bluffing, some casual-sounding questions that weren’t actually so casual, some false leads tossed out there just for fun. I was curious who was going to mention the name Irving Wallace first.

  “So, I’ve always wondered this,” Meyers continued. “When you work on a story like that, do you work alone or are you part of a team?”

  “If it’s an important story, we usually have several reporters on it.”

  “But the person whose name is at the top. They’re the one who knows the most? Or no.”

  “The person with the lead byline is the one who has contributed the most reporting. But that can change from day to day, article to article.”

  “I see,” Meyers said. “But when you have new ideas, you share them with your fellow reporters?”

  “It depends whether you need another reporter’s help in fleshing it out. Sometimes you share, sometimes you don’t.”

  “Which was it this time?”

  “A bit of both,” I said.

  “I see,” he said, again. And I was, quite frankly, a little perplexed by his questions. Had he really brought me here to talk about newspaper politics?

  Meyers’s hand was resting on his shoulder holster, his fingers absentmindedly tracing the butt of his gun. Really, why was the gun even necessary? This had to be the most secure building in Newark. Was he worried the janitors were plotting against him?

  For that matter, when was the last time he’d used the thing? It made me almost sad for him: the paperwork warrior, still hauling around his piece like he was on the front lines.

  “So where has your investigation led you with the Ludlow Street murders?” he asked.

  I stared at him, unable to hide my incredulity any longer. “I thought that’s why I was here.”

  “Oh?” he said, putting down his legs and sitting up suddenly, like I’d said something to unsettle him.

  “Yeah, you called this meeting, right? Or I should say Pete, or Monty, or whatever his name is—he called this meeting. He said you guys had a great story to give me?”

  “Oh, yes,” he said, nodding unconvincingly, purposely not looking at me.

  “So . . .” I began, dragging out the word to indicate it was his turn to talk.

  “Well, yes. Your articles have certainly caught our attention,” he said. “And I said to Agent Sampson that you seemed like the kind of person we could trust. I mean, a good reporter is someone you can trust, right?”

  “Absolutely,” I said, then pointed to his gun. “You carry that thing. The only thing I come armed with is my credibility.”

  “Absolutely, absolutely,” Meyers said. “Tell me, and you can trust me, how did you deduce that this brand of heroin—what is it called, ‘The Stuff’?—how did you figure out that was the connection between all the dealers? It always fascinates me to understand the thought processes a good investigator goes through.”

  “Well, Randy, it wasn’t really much of a deduction,” I said, with what I hoped was a patronizing tone. “I’m not an investigator, of course. I’m a newspaper reporter. Which means I’m always trying to tell a story. And to tell a story, you have to keep asking questions until things make sense to you.”

  “Of course, of course,” he said. “And then today’s story, that was quite something, you bumping into this young man just hours before he was killed.”

  “Yeah, it was something, all right,” I said.

  “And he told you how he got recruited in prison?”

  “He did,” I said, feeling my annoyance level rise.

  “And he had that packet with those photos?”

  I nodded.

  “Remarkable,” he said.

  “Sure was.”

  “Did he tell you anything else before he died?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. Any theories about who he was working for? Any ideas about who this ‘Director’ guy is?”

  “He had theories and I had theories, yeah.”

  “Really? What were they?”

  Finally, exasperated, I threw my arms in the air.

  “Look, Randy, what game are we playing here? Twenty questions for the Eagle-Examiner reporter? Because where I come from, information goes both ways. You show me yours, I show you mine. That kind of thing. If you just hauled m
e in here to quiz me because your own investigation has stalled, I got better things to do than talk to you.”

  “Hold on there, soldier,” Meyers said, holding his hands out like he was a crossing guard.

  “I’m not a soldier, and I’m certainly not your soldier,” I shot back. “We can play games with the sourcing and that crap later. Right now, I’m leaving if you don’t answer a very simple question for me: do you know who the Director is or not?”

  I stood up to let him know I was serious, putting my fists on his desk.

  And that’s when I saw it.

  It was just sitting there in plain sight, mixed in with some knickknacks. It was a stamp perched atop an ink pad. You couldn’t see the bottom of it, which would have appeared backward anyway. But on the side of the stamp was a sample of its impression.

  It was that unmistakable eagle-clutching-syringe design with the scripted lettering underneath.

  It was The Stuff’s logo.

  And there was only one person who could be in possession of that one-of-a-kind stamp—the man who had it imprinted on dime bags by the thousand, the man who stamped it at the top of those memos, the man who killed to protect its reputation for unmatched purity.

  The Director.

  Ilooked across the desk with new eyes. It was the man from Red’s sketch, all right, with his thick neck, fleshy cheeks, and receding hairline. How had I not seen it when I first entered the room?

  Because I had fallen into the mistake of believing Irving Wallace, and only Irving Wallace, was my bad guy. Tina had tried to tell me all the ways Wallace didn’t fit, but I wouldn’t listen. Hell, Tommy was telling me Wallace was driving a tan-colored vehicle, and I convinced myself it was really white.

  Because I knew it was a fed.

  I just had the wrong fed.

  Now that I had the right fed—the one sitting in front of me—I realized I had to keep my face straight and talk my way out of the room as gently as I could. I couldn’t let on I knew who he really was.