I continued east, turned north on Clark.
So did they.
I took Clark to Polk, turned east, and then north on Dearborn.
And so did they.
I picked up my cell phone and started to call Holborn just to thank him for the company, but the guys in the Crown Vic were now directly behind me, no longer trying to be coy about it. And the car didn’t have government plates. I put the phone down and turned east on Jackson, crossed over to Lake Shore Drive, and headed north. Beyond North Avenue Beach the flow of traffic got faster and so did I.
To my left, luxury Lake Shore Drive condos towered over parks with trees showing the first blush of autumn on their leaves. To my right, joggers jogged and cyclists cycled up and down the path, and people frolicked with their dogs on the beach. Lake Michigan was particularly blue today, dotted with dozens of white pleasure boats. I’ve always wondered what the people on those boats do for a living, that they can spend the workday sailing. Nice work if you can get it.
When I slowed and exited onto Lawrence, the Crown Vic was still behind me.
So I went apartment hunting. I cruised the residential side streets of Uptown, stopping whenever I saw a decent building with a FOR RENT sign, and jotted down the address for later reference. But I didn’t get out of the car. Just drove, stopped, wrote, and drove away again.
While I had the notebook handy I wrote down the license plate number of the Crown Vic. My escorts stayed with me the whole time and the guy in the passenger seat took a photo of each building where I stopped. They made no effort to hide their presence.
They seemed content to do this all day, but I soon grew tired of the game. I took Clark south and parked at a meter just north of Wilson and ducked into Max’s Place, removed my sunglasses, and let my eyes adjust. Dim lighting fought to penetrate the haze and the dark wood surroundings soaked up what light made it through.
I bought three bottles of Old Style from Erica and took a stool, as Marvin Gaye called out from the jukebox for a witness. I pressed the Record button on my little digital voice recorder, dropped it in my handkerchief pocket. I took a swig of beer and lit a cigarette. I looked at my watch. It was just past noon.
My escorts entered the bar. They weren’t big guys—the taller one was about five-ten, which put him an inch taller than me. The shorter one was maybe five-seven or -eight. They both sported receding hairlines and both were clean shaven. Their suits may not have been up to Special Agent Holborn’s standards but they were above average and custom cut to help conceal their weapons.
They approached with a special swagger. Not the authoritarian FBI swagger, nor the militaristic strut that I’d seen on Blake Sten, and definitely not the aggressive bluster of the career criminal, but something entirely different. Something loose and dangerous. Something that said they were above all laws and they knew it for certain.
“Thank God you’re here,” I said. “I was beginning to think I’d have to drink all these myself.” I gestured for them to take a beer but they didn’t.
“Mr. Dudgeon,” said the taller one, “we’re with the Department of Homeland Security. We need you to answer a few questions.”
“Sure. May I see some ID?”
“No, you may not.” It wasn’t the answer I expected.
“You serious?”
“Test me and find out.”
“I guess I’ll have to. You say you’re government but for all I know you could be aliens from Neptune,” I said. And your car doesn’t have government plates.
“You had a meeting today with Special Agent Holborn at the FBI building,” said the shorter one. “We need to know what you talked about.”
“Then you should ask Special Agent Holborn,” I said. “I’m sure you wouldn’t mind showing him your tin.”
“We want to hear it from you.” On the jukebox, Marvin Gaye was done asking for a witness and was now wondering “What’s Going On.” That made two of us.
“Okay, I’ll tell you,” I said. “We were discussing an ongoing investigation into the recent wave of people posing as federal agents. Rumor is, some even claim to be with DHS.”
“Listen, fucktard,” said the taller one, “you are going to talk to us. You do not want to be labeled as obstructing our agency’s efforts to protect the homeland. Suppose we put you on the terrorism watch list. Could take years to clear your name. Suppose we contact the State of Illinois and tell them it is the opinion of the federal government that Ray Dudgeon is a security risk and should not be carrying a firearm or working with a PI license.”
“I can’t believe you guys operate like this,” I said. “While we’re supposing, suppose I divulged the content of my conversation with an FBI agent to a couple of guys who said they were with DHS. How much of a security risk would that make me?”
The shorter one said, “This is a very bad time for you to make enemies of us. America is at war.”
“I couldn’t help but notice.” I stood up. “Look, I’m done with this conversation. If you show me some identification, I’ll be happy to meet with you tomorrow at the Federal Center.” After I talk to Holborn and check you out with DHS. “Failing that, you can call the Illinois Department of Professional Regulation and say nasty things about me.” I pulled a business card from my wallet and placed it on the bartop. “Here, I’ll make it easy for you—the number of my detective’s license is on the card.” I put my wallet away.
The shorter one picked up the card and stuck it in his pocket.
The taller one said, “I’m sure you’ve made a lot of bad decisions in your pathetic little life, Mr. Dudgeon. But this was the worst. You will be hearing from us again in the near future.” They turned and left the bar.
I clicked Stop on my digital voice recorder. I put a cigarette between my lips and set it on fire. I reached for the second beer.
And thought some about my pathetic little life.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Refused to show identification?” Special Agent Holborn sounded dubious. “Are you serious?”
“That’s what I said.” I shifted the phone to my left ear and plugged the digital voice recorder into the USB socket on my office computer and downloaded the sound file to my hard drive. This was a conversation I wanted to save forever. Maybe play it back to myself on long winter nights.
“You’re not exaggerating any of this?”
“I know, it ranks high on the weirdness scale,” I said. “Hold on a sec.” I unplugged the little Olympus from the computer, pressed Play, and held it to the mouthpiece. I waited until I heard the question about my meeting with Holborn, then pressed Stop.
“Who the hell do these guys think they are?” said Holborn.
“More important, who the hell are these guys?” I said. “After I realized they weren’t FBI, my first thought was Hawk River but my intuition says no.”
“Intuition is a fickle guide.”
“True. But they could be legit DHS agents. Could be they’re just assholes with egos, didn’t want to lower themselves by showing ID to a gumshoe and thought they could tough it out of me. They suggested that their investigation has something to do with terrorism.”
“They always say that. Even if it’s true, they have no business asking you about our meeting. The Bureau has primary jurisdiction on terrorism.”
“Where does DHS fit in?”
“DHS is a bullshit agency. But you didn’t hear me say that.” Holborn opened a desk drawer, closed it. Something clattered on his desk. “I’m recording. Play it again from the beginning and let it run through.”
I did. When the recording ended, I gave Holborn the license plate number of the Crown Victoria.
“I’ll be in touch,” he said and broke the connection.
With no idea what to do next, I put a pot of coffee on and read the opening chapters of The Book of Ralph. It was good and it bothered me that it was good because I didn’t want to admit that Jill’s boyfriend had good taste in books.
But he did, damn him.
>
I wanted a cigarette. I denied myself, opted instead for another mug of coffee. It wasn’t the same. The phone rang and I answered it and it was Terry Green calling to report that he had nothing to report.
“Everywhere I turn on this thing is a dead end,” he said. “Someone’s locked it down tight.”
“Told you,” I said.
“Yeah, you did. I’ve seen the CPD file on Richmond. You’re right, it looks sanitized. And the cops just gave me the standard sound-bite bullshit. And I can’t get past Hawk River’s media relations department.”
“More sound-bite bullshit,” I said.
“Natch. And Amy Zhang doesn’t return my calls.”
“But you’ll stick with it,” I said.
“Not much to stick with,” said Terry.
“Bernstein…”
My meeting with Holborn had not gone as well as I’d planned, the tryst with the DHS guys (or whatever they were) had left me in a foul mood, and I hadn’t had enough sleep. And now Terry was bailing on me. It was shaping up to be a hell of a day.
“My editor needs ink, you know how it is. Look, I didn’t say I was closing the file but I’ve gotta focus on other stories. Leads that actually lead somewhere. I’ll keep my ears open, but unless you bring me another avenue, I’ve got nowhere to go.”
I decided not to mention the maybe-or-maybe-not DHS guys just yet. “For now, all I’ve got is confirmation that Jia Lun is an MSS agent.”
“Yeah,” said Terry, “I meant to tell you that. My people confirmed it as well. Apparently not that big a secret.”
“So I heard.”
“What’s your next move?”
“Dunno. Think I’ll take a closer look through Joan Richmond’s place,” I said, careful to use her last name. “If someone else cut the pages out of her diary, there won’t be anything to find. But if she did it herself, maybe there’s something I missed the first time around.”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know, Terry,” I said a little peevishly. “Evidence. Maybe she wrote an opening statement that she planned to give in her testimony to Congress. Or something to back up her testimony.”
“Safety deposit box?”
“No, I already checked. And there wasn’t anything on her computer…but she had a box of CD-ROMs, looked like backups of her hard drive. I’ll go through them again, look a little closer. And flip through all her books, see if any loose papers fall out. Hell, maybe I’ll check for loose floorboards, disassemble lighting fixtures, tear open her mattress. Got nothing better to do.”
“You could always call it quits, Woodward. Might be the smart play, under the circumstances.”
“Not until I get justice for Ernie Banks,” I said.
“You really sure you want to start tilting at windmills again? Almost killed you last time.”
PART II
We must guard against the acquisition of unwarranted influence, whether sought or unsought, by the military-industrial complex…. We must never let the weight of this combination endanger our liberties or democratic processes…. Only an alert and knowledgeable citizenry can compel the proper meshing of the huge industrial and military machinery of defense with our peaceful methods and goals, so that security and liberty may prosper together.
—PRESIDENT DWIGHT D. EISENHOWER, FAREWELL ADDRESS TO THE NATION—JANUARY 17, 1961
CHAPTER NINETEEN
I slept at home but had no nightmares. Instead I had a memory-dream.
It was the day after I found my mother’s body. My grandfather had flown up from Georgia to take charge of me and do all the things grown-ups do after someone dies. I was in my bedroom packing a suitcase. I could hear my grandfather talking on the phone in the living room, saying, “I’ve made arrangements for tomorrow; will your people pick up the casket at the airport, or is that…yes, thank you. Right, the family plot is at Westview….”
I tuned him out and focused on packing. Jeans, T-shirts, underwear, socks. Chuck Taylors, bathrobe, Cubs jersey, baseball glove, jean jacket. I slipped my mother’s diary into the suitcase, under the clothes, and zipped the case shut as my grandfather came into the room. He sat on my bed, patted the spot next to him, and I sat. He put his arm around my shoulders. I’d spent much of the day crying and his touch almost started me up again. If I looked into his eyes I’d bawl for sure, so I kept my eyes on the floor.
“Where’s Mom now?” I said.
My grandfather cleared his throat. “Well, I imagine she’s in heaven.”
“I’m not a little kid,” I said. “I know there’s no heaven. I mean, where’s her body?”
“At the hospital.”
“What’s a hospital gonna do? She’s dead.”
“The morgue is in the basement of the hospital.”
“Oh.”
“Don’t worry, son, you’ll get to see her again, at…in Atlanta.”
“I don’t want to see her again,” I said, “and I’m not going to some stupid funeral.”
My grandfather rubbed his rough fisherman’s hands on his thighs and said, “You don’t have to look in the casket if you don’t want to. But you do have to go to your mother’s funeral.”
“But why?” It came out as a whine and I immediately hated myself, tried to sound tough, adding, “I mean, the bitch killed herself and…left me…to find her. Didn’t even have the decency to do it somewhere else or even…put on some fucking…clothes.”
The tears came again and there was nothing I could do to stop them. My grandfather put his sinewy arms around me and held me tight as I sobbed into his chest, where I was strangely calmed by the smell of Edgeworth pipe tobacco and Old Spice aftershave. After a couple of minutes I got myself under control. He went to the bathroom, came back with a box of Kleenex.
“I am so sorry that this had to happen to you, son,” he said. “And you’re right to be angry with her. It’s okay.” I blew my nose a couple of times while he pulled the pipe from his shirt pocket and lit it with a match.
“Human beings are odd creatures,” he said. “Sometimes they take their own lives, and sometimes they want to leave the world as naked as they entered it. Your mother, Lord knows, she shouldn’t have done what she did. But she wasn’t thinking straight—people never are when they do that—and she wasn’t thinking of you finding her, I promise you that.”
I looked at him now and what I saw surprised me. There was the sadness, but also something else—failure? fear?—and I experienced one of those transcendent moments of objectivity, thinking His daughter just killed herself and now he has to take in his grandson and he doesn’t know what to say.
But still I raged, not just at her, but at him and at the whole world.
“You don’t know what the hell she was thinking,” I said.
He didn’t rise to that, just sat back down on the bed and puffed his pipe. “You’re not a little kid,” he said, “that is true, especially now. I said that humans are odd creatures, and they are. One thing they seem to need is the chance to say good-bye to their departed.”
“Don’t say departed,” I said. “Dead.” I wanted the word to hurt.
“Okay, their dead. You don’t want to go to the funeral and you’ll be angry with me for making you go. I understand that. But there’s a good chance you’ll suffer more in the long run if you miss it, so I’m afraid you’ll have to go.” He stood, maybe to make it final. “When we get to Atlanta, we’ll buy you a suit at Rich’s.” He gestured with his pipe to the room. “I’m sorry we can’t bring all your things home with us, but let’s pick out some of your favorites. How about the covered wagon?”
“I don’t want anything from this place,” I said.
Vince was done serving subpoenas for his other employer and was once again following Dr. Boyfriend for me. To his credit, he stayed true to his word and didn’t argue the assignment. When I told him we were almost finished with the gig, he gave me a sympathetic smile that hit harder than any argument would have.
I spent the aftern
oon alone in my office surfing the Internet and finding nothing of value. By five o’clock my eyes burned and I was incubating a headache. I decided to sleep at Joan’s condo again, despite my previous resolution to stay at home. I was desperate for a night of uninterrupted sleep and told myself I could use the opportunity to conduct a more careful search of her place.
The decision successfully rationalized, I cracked open a beer and spent twenty minutes throwing darts, which gave my eyes a break from the computer screen and provided a workout for my shoulder. I didn’t shoot particularly well, and wouldn’t until after surgery and rehab. My problem was finding a consistent stroke. I’d shoot tight groupings for a few minutes, then I’d be all over the board again. I managed a couple of 140s but also missed the board occasionally and put a few new holes in the drywall.
Just as my shoulder was starting to complain in earnest, my cell phone rang. I left the darts in the board and answered before it went to voice mail.
“Ray Dudgeon.”
“Um, yes…Mr. Dudgeon…” I recognized the tentative voice. It belonged to Amy Zhang.
“I’m glad you called,” I said.
“Well, I just wanted…I want to apologize for my rudeness when you visited my home.”
“Not at all. How are you doing?”
“Oh, I’m fine,” she lied. “I’m sorry if I gave you the wrong impression before…I’m not in any trouble.”
“That’s good to hear,” I said, “but my offer still stands, should you need any help.”
“Actually, I could use your assistance with something. It’s a silly thing, really, perhaps I shouldn’t bother you with—”
“Go ahead,” I said.
“Well, I’m at my mother’s apartment. I just left to go home but my car won’t start. It’s an older car and I left the lights on and it appears I have a dead battery.” There was a long pause on the line. “I would like to offer you a home-cooked meal, in exchange for a ride home, Mr. Dudgeon. That is, if you don’t have other plans.”
Trigger City Page 11
