Don't Know Jack

by Diane Capri

  A red satin pouch held slightly more exotic items. There was an elaborate dual-control vibrator labeled “Busy Beaver.” There was edible underwear. Ben wa balls were nestled in a velvet case. There was a silver egg filled with mercury. There was a matching two-inch silver band.

  Underneath the nostalgic keepsakes were three obsolete flash drives snugged into a Cartier watch box: silver, gold, black. No labels.

  When she’d finished, she saw Gaspar had long ago adopted his relaxed posture. She said in a level tone, “There’s nothing remarkable here. Nothing has been added for at least five years, maybe longer.”

  He understood. His jaw clenched. He added this latest insult to his long list of Finlay grievances. He nodded, but didn’t open his eyes. He said, “Ancient history here too.”

  Kim repacked and returned the Cartier box below camera surveillance angle. She replaced the red satin bag and the canvas duffel. Her right hand slipped her phone and concealed all three flash drives until she dropped them into her pocket while her left hand retrieved the depositor key. She relocked the box. She left the depositor key in place as instructed. She took a bottle of water.

  Her watch said the bank had closed ten minutes ago.

  “Don’t want to get locked in,” she said.

  She assumed he was as ready as she was to escape the tiny space. Five minutes, if their watchdog was close by. She reached the doorbell and pressed it before Gaspar could react. She'd misjudged his signals.

  Swiftly, he body-blocked the door. His expression was unreadable. He whispered, “Take a look at those pictures. Make some copies in case mine get lost. Be sure we’ve got several backups.”

  She saw four photographs from Cooper’s box spaced out on the table.

  The first was of a group of Marines dressed in fatigues. Hard to judge ages, but the setting and the picture were both old. Faded color. Maybe 3 x 5 instead of the more common 4 x 6 for later photographs. She flipped it. Kodak paper. Undated. Late 1960s?

  The center Marine was a young and handsome Charles Cooper. Standing next to him was a giant. Couldn’t be Jack Reacher. Reacher was much younger than Cooper. And Army, not Marine Corps. She didn’t recognize the others. A crude hand painted road sign proclaimed 472 miles to Hanoi. Her Viet Nam geography was rusty. Da Nang, maybe?

  There was a knock on the door.

  Gaspar called, “One minute.”

  The second photo was from the same era. Similar location. Maybe the same camera and the same lab. The photo was of a man and two boys. The giant from the first, with what had to be his sons, one a couple of years older than the other.

  Acid bubbled in her throat.

  She pressed on.

  The two remaining photos were much newer. Kim figured six months old at most. The third was Roscoe and her family. Roscoe’s stylish haircut, son Davey in basketball uniform, sulky Jack inexplicably smiling.

  Fourth was a candid group shot. Outside. Picnic table. Summer. Beers and laughter. Roscoe, Brent, Kraft, Harry Black, Sylvia Black, Jim Leach, Archie Leach.

  Another knock on the door. An insistent voice. “Please. We are now closed. You must return tomorrow if you have not finished.”

  Kim made her copies and returned the originals to the box. Closed the lid. Glanced to check with Gaspar, her hand on the key.

  “Not yet,” he said. He held out a white standard number 10 business envelope. Overfilled. She lifted the flap. Extracted a thick wad of hundreds. “Kliners?”

  Through the door: “Please. You must go now. Or security will remove you.”

  Gaspar called, “Two minutes. We’ll be right out.” For her ears only he said, “I can’t tell if they’re fakes. Can you?”

  She confirmed all standard markers of authenticity. Her phone application quick scan discerned no metallic strips. Older bills. Could be genuine. Could be fake. Could be Kliners. What she needed was an expert.

  Sharp, doubling pain in her stomach.

  Gaspar pressed. “Now or never. What’s it going to be, Madame Prosecutor?”

  “You’re taking on Cooper as well as Finlay now, Che?”

  He shrugged. “I’m no revolutionary. I’m a lawman, just like you. But I know a no-win scenario when I see one.”

  The assistant was pounding on the door.

  Gaspar said, “I’ve got your back. I’ll tell him you’re sick; don't make me a liar. I’ll buy you five minutes.”

  He slipped out into the hallway and closed the door firmly behind him.

  ***

  Kim knew the right things to do. Either leave empty handed, or stay with the evidence. She was an officer of the law and of the court. She’d taken her oaths with pride. She still had ideals. She planned to be the Director of the FBI one day. Bright lines divided her conduct from those less ambitious and less committed. Lines she’d never planned to cross.

  Yet she looked around for a disposable container, just in case.

  The hundred dollar bills were solid proof. They were the only hard evidence that Kliners still existed, and that Cooper owned some.

  No warrant. No time to get one, even if she could.

  If she took the envelope with no warrant, not only did she break the law, but the evidence became inadmissible.

  If she left the envelope until a warrant was obtained, the evidence would disappear.

  She might never find another Kliner.

  Cooper might go free.

  She might get caught in possession and be arrested and convicted.

  No more time to think.

  Do something.

  Create a record, at least.

  Gaspar was arguing with the assistant in the hallway. Voices were rising and falling.

  Working as fast as possible, shielding her actions from the cameras as much as she could, Kim photographed the envelope and its stuffing. She counted 250 bills, all of them hundreds. She laid out several on the table. She photographed them front and back. She quietly dictated a list of serial numbers, careful to keep her voice below the volume of Gaspar's argument on the other side of the door.

  Now or never. Take Cooper down or let him win?

  What’s it going to be?

  Her trembling hand slipped four bills into her pocket. She returned the rest to the envelope and then to the box. She relocked the box. She left the depositor key in place.

  She'd have controlled her stomach, but Gaspar's excuse made the effort unnecessary. She made it to the ten-inch plastic trash can in the corner before she heaved. Vomit splashed the wall and dribbled down her chin. She heaved again.

  She doused her face with bottled water. Rinsed her mouth with Gaspar’s cold coffee.

  She squared her shoulders. She straightened her jacket.

  She rang the bell.

  Gaspar opened the door. Sour vomit fumes hung in the air. The security guard fled. The assistant turned green and marched them to the exit. All but shoved them out into the night.

  “The vomiting was a bit above and beyond, don't you think?” Gaspar asked.

  “Not at all,” she said. She gulped exhaust laden air. She sipped the last of her water while Gaspar hailed a taxi. The four Kliners sat like nuclear waste in her pocket.

  CHAPTER FORTY FIVE

  Washington, D.C.

  November 4

  9:45 p.m.

  They landed at Dulles. Caffeine and anxiety leveraged Kim vertical. She’d spent the entire flight working. She looked like hell and smelled worse. She felt subhuman. Nothing a long shower and a hot meal and red wine and two weeks in bed and a stomach transplant and a new career wouldn’t fix.

  Gaspar asked, “What’s the plan?”

  Her life was circling the drain. She grinned anyway. She said, “We attack at dawn.”

  He grinned with her. “I’d hug you, but you stink.”

  First phase: employ secret weapon. Gaspar thinks like Reacher thinks.

  She said, “Tell me again what happened when Hale collected Sylvia last night.”

  “Not much to tell. Maybe te
n minutes after you left, Hale showed up and took her away.”

  “How did she react?”

  “She’d been talking to her lawyer. She expected it.”

  “How’d she look?”

  “Like sixty-seven million dollars.”

  “What, all green and wrinkly?”

  “No, perfect. Clean clothes. Fresh makeup.”

  “What did she take with her?”

  “The Birkin bag. She’s not expecting indefinite detention.”

  “Hale arrested her?”

  “How long have you been doing stand-up?”

  “What was he wearing?”

  “Most guys only get dressed once a day unless someone pushes them into a ditch full of slimy water.”

  “You fell in.”

  “You touched my arm. Technically that was battery.”

  She asked again, “What was Hale wearing?”

  “Trench coat. Gloves. It’s cold out there, in case you forgot.”

  “What, precisely, did he say?”

  Gaspar was tired of the subject. “The whole episode was a year shorter than this inquisition.”

  They shuffled with the airport crowd. Slow progress.

  He relented. “Hale said Cooper sent him for her. He said the AG’s ready. I said OK. He knocked on the bedroom door. She came out. I asked should we wait. He said not necessary, she said goodbye and they left.”

  “That’s all?”

  “Yes.”

  ***

  Ten minutes later they were in another taxi. Thick plastic separated the front seat from the back. Three nickel-sized holes permitted sound exchange. There was a cradle for cash payments and a swipe box in the passenger compartment for credit cards.

  “Washington Hilton,” Kim said, and the taxi joined the outbound traffic. Then she said, “I checked Sylvia's flash drives on the plane. One contained copies of the Caribbean bank statements Finlay gave us.”

  Gaspar raised his eyebrow. “Chicken or egg?”

  “Sorry?”

  He slowed delivery as if addressing a dimwit. “Did Finlay take the statements from Sylvia’s safety deposit box? Or plant the statements in the box?”

  She shrugged; she’d come to love that response. “Either way, statements prove Sylvia and Harry laundered Kliners offshore. Statements add up to fifty-eight million over four years.”

  “Leaving nine million still unwashed?”

  “Maybe. Or stashed in one of the other three accounts.”

  “We’ve only been on this case four days.”

  “Cooper could have made a long-lead plan, I guess. Knowing he was going to bring us in sooner or later?” Some things still made no sense to her.

  He shrugged. “Unlikely.”

  She said, “The statements prove the box was accessed at least once after Sylvia’s initial set up. Five years ago, she hadn’t laundered any money yet. The flash drives were obsolete. Like the data was old, too.”

  “Was it Sylvia who accessed the box at least once?”

  “Maybe.”

  “When?”

  “Can’t say for sure.”

  He shrugged. “Anything on the other two flash drives?”

  “Sylvia’s memoirs on one. Nothing we couldn’t guess.”

  “Boyfriend?”

  “She called him ‘My Man’ or ‘MM.’”

  Gaspar noticed her hesitation. “What about the third drive? Anything about Harry? The Kliners? Cooper? Reacher?”

  She pointed to the hotel just ahead. “I’d rather show you.”

  The taxi dropped them at the service entrance. In their room, she pulled the third flash drive out of her pocket. Tossed it to him. “Look at this while I shower.”

  What would he find that she’d misinterpreted?

  CHAPTER FORTY SIX

  Washington, D.C.

  November 5

  1:15 a.m.

  Shower, food, coffee, talk. She felt fortified enough. Her plan was ironed out. Redundancies and backups were in place. Electronic evidence had been transferred to secure locations. She had two hours of work to complete later. Dawn was five hours ahead.

  Sleep three hours.

  Work two hours.

  Implement plan.

  Bingo.

  Gaspar was in the room’s only chair. She didn’t ask why he wasn’t stretched out on the other bed. She dressed in pajamas and the hotel’s terry robe. She set her alarm. She punched her pillows. She turned her cell phone off. She snuffed the bedside lamp.

  She stretched out.

  She closed her eyes.

  Gaspar said, “I forgot to ask. Did you recognize anyone on that last flash drive?”

  She murmured before she fell off the cliff, “A toady guy using the Busy Beaver was the U.S. Ambassador to Switzerland until last year. And a guy wearing the silver band is pretty high up at the Attorney General’s office now.”

  Then what felt a minute later room service delivered a 4:00 a.m. breakfast.

  ***

  Gaspar was already showered, dressed, and packed. He dealt with the waiter. Seconds later he was chowing down on eggs, ham, and toast.

  Revolting.

  Kim arose groggy. Mainlined coffee before, during, and after her shower. Munched dry toast as she packed. Twenty minutes later they were on the road to Baltimore. It was still full dark. Traffic was light. It was cold. No precipitation.

  “Did you check your voice mail?” Gaspar asked. “Roscoe called me again an hour ago. Looking for you. Seemed a bit frantic.”

  Kim pulled out her smart phone and fired it up and found three voice messages, all from Roscoe. She listened. “She says Archie Leach is on his way. Says he’s out of his mind with grief. Dangerous, is how she put it.”

  “Something off about that guy. He was the cool head back at Eno’s diner when brother Jim was holding his shotgun on us. Now he’s so grief stricken he’s chasing a couple of federal agents?”

  Kim shrugged. “We’ve got plenty to deal with as it is. Let’s put Archie Leach on the back burner.”

  Gaspar followed the directions they’d worked out. Forty-eight minutes later they pulled into the bus station. Kim hurried inside and located two self-serve lockers permitting sixty day pre-paid rentals. She stashed duplicate hard copies of the evidence she’d made last night in each. Dropped each key into a padded envelope, postage prepaid. Mailed one at the station. Mailed the second from a random roadside box.

  She repeated the process at the train station and the airport.

  She rejoined Gaspar at the curb outside Baltimore Washington International.

  He asked, “Good to go?”

  She said, “Our asses are as covered as they’re ever going to get.”

  She checked her watch. Right on time. The sun was just peeking over the horizon.

  Attack at dawn.

  But the attack would fail unless Sylvia agreed to help them. Which she might. If they could separate her from Marion Wallace and Charles Cooper.

  CHAPTER FORTY SEVEN

  Washington, D.C.

  November 5

  8:50 a.m.

  Kim rang the bell three times before Elle opened the door wearing her bathrobe. “Goodness, Kimmy. It’s awfully early. Is Marion expecting you?”

  Kim stepped over the threshold and kept on walking. “Is she in the breakfast room? We can find our own way.”

  Gaspar followed.

  Elle called out, “She’s in the salon, I think.”

  Perfectly costumed, Marion glanced up from her morning paper. She had coffee in a bone china cup. French pastries filled a basket on her silver tray. “I wondered when you’d be back. It’s Agent Otto now, am I right? Not Mrs. Nguyen anymore?”

  Kim shrugged. Refused the bait. Essential work here didn’t involve Marion, but her breakfast companion, Sylvia Black. She was right there. Cheeks bright. In expensive travel clothes. Jeans, silk shirt, leather jacket. Fashionably functional boots.

  The costume worried Kim. Sylvia was all but gone.

  �
��Agent Otto, Agent Gaspar,” Sylvia said, rising, as if greeting old friends. “How may I help you?”

  Kim selected her best opening. She touched Sylvia’s arm, connecting. Gentle, lowered voice. “Cooper’s cut you loose, Sylvia. He’s setting you up. He sent us to Zurich for evidence against you.”

  Sylvia barely flinched, but Kim caught it. She said, “He sacrificed you last time. He’s doing it again. You’ll go to prison.”

  “That’s not true.” Faint whisper, quivering chin, dry mouth.

  “You think he’ll be your Main Man forever? Come on. You’re smarter than that. Aren’t you?”

  “Smarter than you give me credit for.”

  Kim said, “I think you’re a very smart woman. That’s why I’m here. Come with us. It’s all set up for real this time.”

  No response. Kim felt the clock ticking. Sylvia looked to Marion for guidance. For fifteen years Marion had mentored and protected her younger protégé. Sylvia trusted her.

  Another betrayal.

  Kim pushed as hard as she dared. “I thought Marion was my friend once. But believe me, her own hide always comes before yours.”

  No response.

  Gaspar said, “Wake up, Sylvia. You were expendable five years ago and you’re expendable now. Cooper would have killed you in that Chevy with Bernie Owens, but he still needed you. When he doesn’t need you anymore, that’ll be the end. And it’s coming.”

  No response.

  Kim said, “He’s on his way here now to take you away, isn’t he?”

  Sylvia’s expression was the only acknowledgement required.

  Kim said, “You’re leaving DC. You’re leaving the country. And when no one is around to watch him? He’s going to kill you, Sylvia. You know that. You know it.”

  Sylvia looked down at her hands. She was close to panic. Kim recognized the signs.

  One last hard push.

  “He’s using you, Sylvia,” Kim said. “He doesn’t love you.”