“That a fact? Is the FBI telling every other police department this? I’m just asking because that seems a big undertaking. There are something like fifteen thousand taxing districts in the USA and I reckon each one of them has a police department in one form or another as part of it. Hell, I ain’t even counting the federal units, the armed services, and you guys. How in the name of everything holy do you figure to keep them in line, O’Rourke? I don’t want to believe we are the only one you’re going to be talking to. We aren’t, right? Okay, now I am committed to interagency cooperation and all that. Always have been, unlike some of my colleagues. See, I’m your friend in this.” O’Rourke sat back and frowned. “But what you’re forking out here is bullshit and there is no way I am going to have you horn in on this. You pull whatever strings you have and try and stop me, but we’re going after Brattan and if we are there first, he’ll be ours.”
O’Rourke stopped smiling. “You’ll regret this.”
“Yeah, maybe. See you around, Special Agent O’Rourke.”
When the main door to the offices slammed shut behind O’Rourke, Frank had Essie call the FBI and then get Billy on the line. He wanted to know all about the new program directed at investigating attacks on law enforcement personnel from the Feds and alert Billy of this new wrinkle.
The race was on. They had to find Brattan before the Feds did and started a game of hide and seek with their killer. And who the hell was Special Agent O’Rourke, anyway?
Chapter Thirty-three
Charlie put down the phone and shook his head. He felt like a marionette master whose puppets had gotten their strings crossed. Or maybe he had it wrong and he had never had them in hand to begin with or maybe they were the handler and he was the puppet. Frank’s news that Jack Brattan had been identified as the probable driver of the car used in the cop killing came as a surprise. Not that the driver was Brattan, but that the Picketsville Sheriff’s Office had managed to make the identification. His people had used every bit of computer wizardry they had on the dash cam tape and come up empty. Frank’s people had it in an hour. Then, if that wasn’t enough, Frank had jumped the gun and issued the BOLO before checking with him. That didn’t sit well either. Too many agencies rabbiting around could only lead to confusion and a possible screw up. Then there was someone who claimed to be an FBI agent horning in on the BOLO. The way Frank described their meeting didn’t sound right either. The puppets were not behaving. He put a flag on the wire. If Special Agent O’Rourke was real and bent, they’d find out soon enough.
The director called and said that all kinds of horseshit had arrived on his desk and continued to do so and what the hell was Charlie up to?
“I thought you told me the Agency’s presence in this mess would be so thin it wouldn’t even cast a shadow. What’s going on?”
“I think the problem you’re about to have to deal with may have to do with the goons put on Ruth Harris-Schwartz’s trail. We picked up that pair of rotten eggs and put them on ice in a Gitmo holding facility. Their boss just discovered they’ve been busted and is annoyed he can’t find them. He’s probing, that’s all. If his contacts in the FBI say they don’t have them and the several Maine LEOs say they don’t, he figured we must.”
“Do we?”
“Director, deniability is the key to longevity in your position.”
“That’s horse hockey, Charlie, and I don’t like it. It puts us in the frame and we can’t be. You can play with this thing all you want to, but you can’t get caught doing it. Cut them loose or find a better solution. If the word gets out, I’m toast. If I’m toast, you can guess what you are, Charlie.”
The director rang off before Charlie could answer. Just as well. What would be worse than toast in that metaphor anyway? Burnt toast? Hot buttered toast? French toast?
He called Ike and told him he didn’t have much time and if they had anything on Pangborn, they had better move fast. Ike replied, “Today is the day and tonight is the night.” Charlie said he had no idea what that meant, but the last part sounded like the punch line from an old joke. Ike said he was close and hung up. Charlie turned his attention to the chart Alice had drawn with the players and personnel of the Fifty-first Star, as far as they had been, or could be, identified. Charlie called her in.
“Alice, good work. Excellent, in fact. Now, what I really want to know is who isn’t on this chart but has enough drag to heat up the phone lines to the Agency and the Bureau. Can you get someone on that?”
“I can after I have my coffee, Charlie. Deprive me of my coffee and I turn into the equivalent of the Hulk with PMS.”
“The Hulk is a man.”
“If you say so. Coffee first, then I’ll start turning over rocks.”
Melba toast?
***
Sam arrived and was told she had half an hour to collect and dismount the surveillance clothes hooks scattered around the cottage, convert them from record/retrieve to record/transmit and set up the monitors to capture the transmissions.
“You’re not asking for much, are you? Do you want to tell me why?”
Ike explained what he had in mind.
“You’re serious? You’re going to go into the ranch and plant them?”
“Not me, you and these fine folks on loan from Charlie’s farm, and yes, that’s the general idea.”
“I won’t ask how you think you can breach that security system. But why?”
“There are two things I believe we need and we need right away. The first is access to the ranch. Obviously, daylight is out. There are way too many yahoos out there with guns to make a daylight appearance. However, the nighttime video shows that it is quiet, very quiet, at night. I want eyes in there so I can map an entry.”
“And the second reason?” The man called Josh appeared nervous.
“Something is just not kosher over there and I think I have an idea what that is, but can’t be sure until I see for myself.”
“That’s all of it?”
“For now, it is. Okay, your faces have been erased from any facial recognition programs that we know of. I suppose it is possible that these people have assembled one of their own, but I doubt it. It is also possible they have somehow already connected you to Silver Gulch. Again, I don’t think so but you never know, so when you go in, change your appearance if you can. Nothing obvious, but glasses, wigs, things like that.”
“Okay, you’re the boss. Do you want to tell us why and where?”
“I want you to be County Health inspectors and go scour that ranch and plant surveillance equipment and bugs wherever possible. Since you have a role to play, start in the kitchen. Health inspectors always do the kitchen, right?”
“Right.”
“Also the bathhouse and, if you can, spot some near Pangborn’s door.”
“Because?”
“I want to hear what he has to say. I doubt you can get in the house, but you might try. Anything is better than always guessing.”
“It’s a long shot, Ike, but we’ll try.”
“Bitchy bureaucrat might get away with it,” Ruth said.
“You be careful with that. They will raise hell when you push in there, you know. Pangborn will insist the ranch is private and above regulation. I am certain they all believe it to be and they will insist it is so, even if they know the opposite. They are rabid anti-governmental types and will get their noses out of joint at the thought a government official of any sort has invaded their space. Nevertheless, you are to flash your credentials, badges, whatever, and bull your way in. You should have enough time to plant some hardware before they bring enough pressure to get you out of their hair.”
“You’re sure about this?” Mary Jean asked.
“I am about as sure as I am about anything, given the amorphous nature of the situation we find ourselves in. Okay, Ruth, switch to a blond wig and purple lipstick or something
equally distracting. Wear those horn-rimmed spectacles, too. You will be the annoying and officious chief inspector. The rest of you head to the kitchen, the hallways, bathhouse, wherever, and plant the hooks and cameras in as many places as you can and where the view is the widest.”
Karl walked in and reported that a BOLO had gone out for the suspected killer of the cop and that Frank had issued it. He also said that there were other players in the game including at least one from the Bureau and that it didn’t look good.
Charlie called back and said that they had identified the loose cannon in the Agency and he was now being fed misinformation, which should keep Pangborn guessing for a few more days. He hoped the Bureau would turn up one or two as well. Pangborn had deep pockets and a long reach. He said he also worried that the BOLO on Brattan might spook their guy. Ike said he hoped not, but what was done was done.
“Maybe it will force him to make more calls, which we can trace. So far we know he’s having a double duck fit over what’s happened and Sam can give you a half dozen phone numbers and the content of the calls that he and Senator Connors made. You might want to put them in the FBI’s inbox. It’s looking like a lock on Pangborn. I’m not sure how deep Senator Connors is into this.”
The four “employees” of the Silver Gulch Realty Company were called in. When they and Sam, Ruth, and Karl were ready, he sent the “health inspectors” off to New Star Ranch. The government was about to meddle in the affairs of private citizens and the residents of the ranch would not be pleased. Ike just hoped that he had it right and that the hooks would be located in places that would give him what he wanted.
Of course, they had to avoid the tire spikes at the entrance, but he assumed their credentials and a little bullying would do the trick.
It did.
***
Pangborn’s phone woke him from a post-breakfast nap. He was told that somehow, people claiming to be county health inspectors had managed to talk their way through the security at the gate and were crawling all over the place. He told them to deal with it. A knock at the door revealed a particularly disagreeable woman leaning against his doorframe and who insisted she need to inspect his kitchen.
“Who the hell are you?”
“Angie Pederakis, County Health Department, is who. Are you the owner of the ranch?”
“Yes, now get off my property.”
“You are operating an institution and as such, all health regulations must be kept. I need to inspect your kitchen.”
“Not in this lifetime, woman. Now get out of here.”
“Very well, but you realize your refusal to cooperate with our inspection will be in my report.”
Before he could respond, the woman wheeled about and stalked away. He called his security people and told them to get the damned busybodies the hell off his ranch. Half an hour later, they confirmed that all the intruders had been escorted off the premises. One woman, who seemed to be in charge threatened to come back with the local police. She was, the reporter said, “a five-dollar bitch.” Pangborn said they’d met, thanked him, and sat back wondering who he should call.
“Connors,” he yelled, “you’re the senator for this goddam state, who do you know who can keep these idiots off my place?”
“What idiots would that be?”
“One of your county suits decided I was running a camp or something out here and sent in the Health Department to snoop around.”
“What? People are inspecting the buildings?”
“Kitchens, bathhouse, and some of the bunkhouses. They think because we have some kids here we’re running a camp.”
“Well in the first place, this county does not have a health department. You must mean the state.”
“I’m sure that awful woman said county, and so did the man at the gate.”
“An easy mistake to make. I’ll call some people. You don’t have to worry. Even if they find something, we can make it go away. By the way, by bringing your Young Pioneers here for ‘educational purposes,’ which you insist is the reason they’re here, means you are running a camp and, therefore, you may be liable for Health Department regulation. I thought I warned you about that.”
“Maybe you did and maybe you didn’t. It’s my property and they are trespassers. It’s another example of government over-reach, by God, and something I expect you to do something about next term. Call whoever is in charge and make sure they don’t come back. I don’t like people wandering in here and I especially don’t like having pushy women on the premises. I don’t want anyone I haven’t personally invited here on any day and definitely not state bureaucrats. I don’t want anyone in here who doesn’t belong, dammit.”
“Come on, Martin. No biggie. Calm down. I’ll make a call. No probs.”
Martin Pangborn had a list of expressions he wanted erased from the language. High on the list was, “no probs,” which was closely followed by “no biggie.”
Chapter Thirty-four
Jack Brattan had a friend in the Philadelphia Police Department, Jocko Mulloy. Actually, friend didn’t quite cover it. An “acquaintance who shared mutual interests” would be closer. Neither man could be said to have a relationship with anyone that would qualify as a friendship as the term is normally understood. Mulloy joined the Fifty-first Star after two horrific tours in Iraq which involved several near-misses with IED and later a chance meeting with Jack in a local pub. Jack had explained to him that the best way to exorcize his simmering PTSD demons would be to associate with others who, like him, were “going to do something about it.” What exactly “it” or the “something they were going to do” was never surfaced, but it resonated with Mulloy’s muddled mindset at the time. In addition, his continued tenure as a cop had become tenuous following several Internal Affairs investigations which looked into his alleged use of excessive force on three occasions, a suspicious shooting, and moonlighting as muscle at local concerts and other events. The moonlighting was not deemed to be counter to police regulations, but the particular events he’d worked caused some concern higher up. Jack’s security company provided the needed manpower for all of the events in question.
Out of misplaced concern, or a response to a kindred spirit, Mulloy called Jack and that’s how he found out about the BOLO. Also, that was how he managed to drop out of sight so quickly and well before the most local LEOs were even aware of it and could close in.
It had not been easy, but Jack had the instincts of a hyena and he knew that if the cops wanted him for murder, there was a better than even chance that Pangborn would be after him as well. He’d had a hand in the elimination of Felix Chambers and Jack reasoned that Pangborn might react similarly to him if he took it into his head that Jack might plea bargain his way off death row by giving up the name of the person who’d called in the hit. Would he? Maybe, maybe not.
He cashed out five Fifty-one Star credit cards at as many different banks for the maximum allowable withdrawal and then gave the cards to five homeless men he met on the street. He told them they were twenty-five-dollar debit cards and that they should get themselves something to eat and a place to stay. He was certain the recipients would try to maximize the card’s utility by cashing them and then passing them along to others. Whether sold or discarded, they would circulate for days as they passed from one homeless guy to another. He knew that if they had the numbers, the police would track the cards. So would Pangborn the instant he learned about the BOLO. The cards should keep the trail cold for days, weeks even. He retrieved some clothes and one additional credit card he kept in the name of his ex brother-in-law, one Pangborn did not know about. He’d need to have some means to survive after the cash was gone and before he could come up with a long-term plan. His final stop was to his office where he cleaned out his safe and picked up a fake ID left over from an operation that had been cancelled a year ago and which he hoped no one would remember.
Later that
afternoon he stole license plates from an Escalade parked in a suburban shopping mall, being careful to replace the stolen ones with his own. They weren’t vanity tags so, unless the housewife who owned the Cadillac ran a red light or had an accident, it could be months before anyone would notice the switch. He headed south. He knew the BOLO originated from Virginia and was stunned when he discovered it came from Picketsville. How did those hick cops manage to find him? Of course they would still be pretty hot over losing their boss. In spite of that, heading south still seemed his best bet. The first place the cops would look would be Philadelphia and then either Idaho or Montana. They would stake out Pangborn’s operation in Chicago as well and maybe the Wichita area where he grew up. No way would he head home. There were people there who’d be more than happy to save Pangborn and the cops the trouble of taking him in.
The last place they’d look would be somewhere close to them. That was his reasoning at any rate. The trick was to find a place where strangers are the rule, not the exception. Tourist attractions would be best. Did he have time to reach Orlando or New Orleans? Probably not. Williamsburg was close and might work, but the crowds there were thin this time of year and especially on weekdays. A man alone would be noticeable and he didn’t have time to find a family. Virginia Beach and Norfolk were close by. Those places would be crawling with Navy, coming and going. His chief’s uniform still fit. With a little planning and some good ID, he could disappear into the Norfolk area and no one would ever find him. He headed south on I-95 and cut east, south of DC.
***
As if the Health Department pushing their way in wasn’t bad enough, his man in the hunt reported that nobody could locate Jack Brattan. He had dropped off the grid, they’d said. A trace on the credit cards he’d been issued had ended in Philadelphia. They were still in use, but by street people. The accounts had been shut down, of course. They had bounced the bums around a little and none of them knew except that the cards had been circulating in the homeless community for a while and no one remembered where they came from in the first place. He said they’d also tossed Brattan’s apartment and had come up empty. Brattan had cleared out. No one knew where he’d disappeared to. The last thing his secretary heard was that he’d been searching for the guys that got busted in Maine. Pangborn asked if anyone had contacted the Philadelphia cop. He couldn’t remember his name. After some consultation, someone remembered Mulloy. They checked out Jocko. When they found him, He’d been drunk and uncooperative and grinning at them like a crazy man. It took three men to put him out of commission and then only after he had caused some serious damage to two of their kneecaps with a baseball bat. He said he didn’t know anything. He said he’d been dismissed by the Philly PD and had been drinking for days. By the look of him, he had. They’d get back to him, they said, when he sobered up. If he ever did.
The Vulture Page 18
