Running Cold (The Mick Callahan Novels)

by Harry Shannon

  Jerry answered on the first ring. "Where are you, boss?"

  "I'm still in the Valley," Callahan said. "And I'm not feeling sleepy." Callahan neglected to mention the large paper sack full of Mexican alcohol sitting on the seat beside him. The damned fifth felt like a woman. It may as well have been wearing sprayed-on shorts, lipstick and knock-me-down-and-fuck-me heels.

  "Hal called, he's worried you're not in a good place."

  "I'm in Northridge," he lied, "guess that's a good place."

  "Are you . . . okay?"

  "No," Callahan said honestly. Some of the rage promptly dissipated. "This got to me, Jerry. Somebody needs to pay."

  "Where are you headed?"

  "I don't really know." The street was brightly light and sprinklers were on. Beautiful gated homes, large two-lane street with trees in the divider. Was he on Chandler and headed east? Landscaping left and right, people living normal lives without corpses and fights and boozing and an all-pervading lack of trust for anything with skin. Callahan said, "Still in the Valley."

  "Don't go to that somewhere or do any of that something, okay?" Jerry's voice was breezy but there were low notes to the chord. Background noise abounded. He was working like a man putting out forest fires in a bonsai garden. Callahan could hear fingers going wild, snippets of video, consoles and printers vomiting new information from legal and not-so-legal sources, his two or three keyboards clacking and chattering along like rows of wind-up silly teeth.

  "I won't."

  Jerry paused. "You lie like a rug."

  Alone in the dark car, Mick Callahan touched the bottle again, his crucifix, Star of David, One Protector. "I'm not sure what I'm going to do, old friend." The liquor store on the corner became a siren in neon silk. She leered and suggested stopping for a mixer, maybe some fruit juice, but Callahan blew her off.

  "Call Hal," Jerry said, urgently. "Let me ask him to call you."

  "Not now. Don't want anyone to tell me to slow down. Fuck being reasonable tonight. I don't feel like being restrained or spoken to in a soothing manner. I just want to knock someone's dick in the dirt. Will you help me do that, Jerry? Again? Just for old time's sake?"

  A few beats to ponder. Jerry said, "You don't even have to ask."

  Callahan felt his heart settle down in his chest. Almost purr. "So . . . ?"

  "So go on home now, Mick. If you do, I promise I'll have something for you by the time you're parked."

  "Done."

  Callahan broke the connection. Checked his phone. Hal had called again, but Mick didn't want to answer. He had already disappointed Hal, failed to keep his distance from this emotional train wreck, ended up acting childish and jealous and self-destructive. Why stop now? What's the use. . . . It was a viscous spiral. Hating himself for being so weak and predictable just made things worse.

  He took the long way home. After a time, Callahan pulled over where a bunch of street guys were camped out in front of a Hamburger Hamlet bumming leftovers and cash. He rolled the window down. A seedy street vampire in a torn checked shirt and filthy jeans appeared in the frame. The guy reeked of unwashed skin, piss and rotgut wine.

  "Hey, bud can you spare some money for something to eat?"

  Callahan pointed to three empty pizza containers near where the three of them were sitting. "Looks like you've already had supper."

  The drunk cocked his head, wary eyes waiting for some kind of religious tract or pious lecture. Callahan looked down at his hands. He was gripping the wheel tight and white, pulse thumping, bones throbbing. "Hey. See that bag on the seat next to me, pal? Take it."

  Nothing happened. Callahan made himself stare at the man, looked deeply into rheumy eyes that could easily be his own. That cunning ego, the dark despair. Pitiful and incomprehensible demoralization. He said, "Take the bottle, man. It's good Tequila. Just take it."

  The drunk snatched the paper sack and backed away. He sat down with his friends. Someone behind Callahan honked for him to move. He ignored it. Stayed to watch the homeless alcoholics whistle in appreciation when the guy lifted that bottle out of the paper sack. And then Callahan drove off at last, nerves calming instantly with the subdued whimper of metal, the faint whoosh of wind as he rolled away, the low thrum of tires on dry pavement. He left the window down. The air seemed cleaner as Callahan drove north and east toward his house.

  As promised, Jerry Jover was in Callahan's home office. Jerry didn't look up. He had two of his own laptop computers hooked up to Callahan's. An unfamiliar handheld device was streaming video. The three machines were running some kind of rapid code. Evidently Jerry had set them loose to do specific searches. Jerry's world was a mystery to Callahan, who would merely turn things on and off. They either worked or they didn't. He hadn't the slightest clue how or why they functioned, or what to do if something electronic broke down. It forever fascinated Callahan how the human mind just specialized in certain things while virtually ignoring others, honed in and mastered one arcane skill after another. You name it, someone had a passionate interest in mastering every nook and cranny of a subject. Others, not so much.

  "I'd love some coffee, thanks," Jerry said. "DeCaf if you've got it."

  "I don't. You can have thirty weight morning axle grease with cream and sugar, or a pussy cup of herb tea."

  "Wimp."

  Callahan paused in the doorway. His eyes moistened. He looked back over one shoulder. "Jerry?"

  "You going to be all right now?"

  "Yeah. Thanks."

  In the kitchen, Callahan nuked them two reasonably ordinary cups of tea. His adrenaline was falling off at last. Surprised himself by yawning as a wave of exhaustion swept over him. The worst had past. He waited in the kitchen, knowing Jerry would let the machines do the searching. Eventually his friend wandered down the hall.

  They sat at the kitchen table. In search of truth, justice and the American way. As if reading Callahan's mind, Jerry said, "Have you ever considered we could get us some cool outfits and have a graphic novel named after us or something?"

  "Graphic novel my ass. Comic books are comic books, no matter how any times you try to change the name. And no, we'd both look silly in capes and hockey pants. Besides, those cod piece things the actors have to wear makes them look hung like a Hereford."

  Jerry sipped his tea, examined the cup. The mild steam inflamed the scarred side of his face. He'd become expert at looking down and away, artfully using hands and arms and articles of clothing to cover the ruined tissue. But he never did that with Callahan. Mick felt honored that he didn't.

  "I started with names, Mick. Everyone you've mentioned, just so we'd have them. I'm using a program favored by identity thieves. We'll get Social Security info, credit card numbers, cell phone information including GPS, everything that's out there. But I have to tell you, this may be risky."

  "How so?"

  "It's almost impossible to toss a net this wide yet specific and not leave a footprint."

  "Like a trail for the authorities to find?"

  Jerry sipped tea. "Well, someone."

  Callahan cocked his head. "As usual, you're losing me."

  "You remember that dude named Avant? The Frenchman who got in trouble for publishing government files on the web? Guys like him have ways of raiding anything they want, whenever they want. You piss them off, and suddenly your credit cards are maxed, kiddy porn shows up on your laptop and your home goes into foreclosure."

  "Why would they care about some low-life bookie and his muscle?"

  Jerry shrugged. "They probably wouldn't, but I don't think they'd like it that I'm on their turf. As good as they are. Well, maybe even a tad better."

  "Modesty," Callahan said, "has never been one of your virtues."

  Something beeped in the office. Jerry motioned for Callahan to sit, then jogged back down the hall. That omnipresent typing sound. Jerry returned, sat down again and rolled his teacup in circles. Said, "I'm doing some top notch stuff here, bud. Homeland Security ain't this good."
r />   "Before you go any further, what about tracking our targets tonight? Roth and Quinn. Did you pin down their whereabouts?"

  "Roth yes, Quinn no."

  "Makes sense you could, because Roth would take care of himself. He'd be damned sure his alibi was air tight."

  "Yeah, but Quinn didn't make much of an effort at an alibi. He's just flat gone. Not a clue to his whereabouts. Almost too easy to figure he did it."

  "Yeah, you'd think he would cover his ass," Callahan said. "He should have spent a quiet evening at home with his wife and adopted child and a room full of college drinking buddies."

  "Yeah, I wondered about that. But as of now, he's just gone. Here's how it breaks down. He arrived at the restaurant just minutes before you did earlier tonight, I found that kind of interesting. Why right then? Was he coming back from Cal's place after the murder, and the cops have the time off by an hour? Could be. Or was he tailing you maybe?"

  "I would have noticed. I think so, anyway."

  Jerry tapped the table. "Maybe. Okay. But better still, he left right after you did, almost immediately in fact, out the side of the building. And I can prove it."

  "Let's go back to my office." They put their cups in the sink and walked down the hall, shoes squealing on the polished wooden flooring. The computers were glowing, the time code had stopped. Jerry sat down before the desktop, Callahan by his side in a folding chair.

  "Show me what you've been working on."

  Jerry said, "You won't understand a word of it."

  "Try me."

  "Well, now I've hijacked some DOD stuff so I can use miniature transponders, also known as active RFID. That's a radio frequency identification device. If it gets a specific ping, it recognizes that signal and responds. This stuff is outstanding. We're talking sixteen nanometer technology with a cadmium and lithium battery the size of a sewing needle."

  "You're right. I don't understand a word."

  "Okay, look. I'm getting damned good at tracking folks. Let's leave it at that. I just didn't get to Quinn's car in time. Anyway, back to the basics. You told me you left the restaurant right after the confrontation. You had coffee and walked around for a stretch. So right there Quinn had plenty of time to do the deed. To drive off and kill Calvin and still get out before you arrived. But why didn't he cover his tracks? He just seemed to disappear."

  "The staff?"

  "Donato sent in some pretty chicks to ask around like they wanted to screw him. No dice. Even the waiters don't remember much. But have a look at this."

  The computer screen. Video with time code. A generic parking lot after dark. After a second Callahan realized he was watching through the security camera behind the deli. Quinn came out, his movements revealing a few aches and pains from Callahan's manhandling. He got into a new pickup truck and drove off. Callahan decided not to ask Jerry how the hell he'd managed to hack a restaurant's security system and copy something like this without leaving a trace. He'd done things like that way too often for Callahan to feel surprised.

  "And check this out." Another screen, this time on a laptop. Jerry had hacked into the system of a private contractor working for the city of Los Angeles. There were several automatic cameras around the city that ticketed people who ran a red light. Those tickets, given with lovely photographs, were now providing a much needed and steadily increasing income stream. Jerry had apparently uploaded photographs, license plate numbers and a facial matching program. He had narrowed down the probable areas and raided those cameras. The computers did the work.

  Jerry said, "It took me about fifty minutes to establish that Quinn drove north and west. We have that much to go on. After that, he disappeared."

  Callahan pondered. Quinn had gone in roughly the same direction as Mick, towards Calvin's home. By itself of course that proved absolutely nothing. This was a big city. They still had nothing to tie him to the murder scene.

  Callahan's phone rang. He flipped it off again. When he looked up, Jerry offered a hangdog expression. "Dude."

  "All right, all right."

  Callahan sent Hal an email and text. He said he was sober and would call in the morning. Stared at Jerry. "Satisfied?"

  "Pussy. The right thing would be to just call him, you ask me."

  "Enough. Don't. I'll hit you so hard your sewer line will unclog."

  "I've already got a lot for us to mess with, bro. We should call Donato tomorrow and drag him in on this. He's got the manpower to follow folks around, and Lord knows Hal has the money."

  "Maybe we'll do that."

  Jerry raised an eyebrow. "Just maybe?"

  Neither one of them mentioned approaching Darlene Hernandez. Callahan sipped some more tea. "We have at least something on both Roth and Quinn. So you said there were names, other people we have to look at. Like his son, Wes?"

  "Yeah. For sure Mr. Wes McCann."

  "Okay, and I have one more. Their neighbor, a kid named Julius."

  Jerry nodded. "Big Julius Leibowitz."

  "You got him already? I'm impressed."

  "We aim to please."

  Callahan said, "I met him the other night through Calvin. After the murder, I checked and his house was closed up tight. But he could have been in there. Maybe he saw something, you know?"

  Jerry printed out a few pages and one blurry photograph. "Okay, so you probably figured this part out already, but although the guy's a total recluse, he sometimes hangs with Cal and Wes. Yeah, he seems like a long shot, but you never know. Accordingly to my file, he's morbidly obese, a big whale of a dude. But catch this, he runs his own sweet little operation from right there in a house his mom probably left him when he was a Star Wars geek."

  "Operation?" Callahan sat forward. "Like what?"

  "Online business." Jerry spread a complex diagram on the table. He added still photographs of four website entrance pages. "He's been doing it for years, man. It's quite a complicated operation. He's got a few porn sites that pretty much run themselves, cash cows where people upload amateur videos just to see themselves fucking on the internet and then other people pay for it 'cause it seems real. About half of it is staged, but nobody seems to care. Julius also does some Russian Mail order bride frauds, you know?"

  "Where they bilk some lonely old bastard out of money by pretending to be a young honey trapped in Moscow with no food or heat and a sick mother."

  "Yeah, exactly. Send him lots of pictures of a sweet looking girl who wants to be his mail order bride. They send back money."

  "Charming racket if you're a sociopath."

  "That's just one level of it," Jerry said, "his real heart seems to be in multi-player games stuff, and he's very state of the art. He finds the best of the best, everyone puts cash into the pot through PayPal, and it's combat games all night long, winner take all. Guys of all ages are getting into this shit now, and a lot of them like to wager on it. Anyway, that's his main hustle. So Julius is not squeaky clean but he ain't exactly Bernie Madoff, either."

  "Wagers. How small?" Callahan now thinking of Roth the bookie, of the possibility of a wider connection than they'd expected.

  "Five bucks," Jerry said. He spread his palms. "I know, seems bogus on the surface, but just imagine this, you're good enough to design a program that ties in to existing communication networks and tracks wins and losses and converts them back to dollars. You piggyback on a perfectly legitimate role playing program that already exists. Most of your players go anywhere from a few minutes to a few hours and drop out. Some play all night, and some actually beat you and win."

  "Still, five bucks?"

  "Dig this. It's not five dollars, dude, it's five hundred times five dollars. Not bad. Our friend Julius wins a lot of the time, but even when he doesn't he gets a cut off the top for running the game."

  Callahan grimaced. "He didn't seem like much. Just an overweight hacker dude living next door. But like I said, maybe he saw something. Wes has to know more than we do, Jerry. Has to."

  "Wes McCann I'll get after," Jerr
y said. He leaned forward, sloshing a bit of tea, "but the second he pops up again, you interview Julius. See, there are two reasons the dude is definitely worth talking to. One, he's a camera nut. Security gear everywhere. He's as paranoid as Lindsay Lohan's rehab counselor, probably because of amounts of cash he's got squirreled around the place. His friend got murdered. My worry is Julius is already starting to wipe stuff off his hard drive and bury digital records. No sense attracting the IRS. But as of now, he's not around for us to ask."

  Callahan nodded. "And we need to see his security camera footage, especially last night but maybe the whole week, and do it before the police starting knocking on his door." Mick blinked and sat back. "Wait. You couldn't hack it?"

  Jerry shook his head. "Nope, and that's the second thing that makes him worth talking to. This kid is good, real good."

  ELEVEN

  Thursday morning

  Wes McCann, wearing thick shades and an Oakland Raiders windbreaker, stood in line in foggy San Pedro. He was itching to buy a ticket on the fastest boat out to Catalina. The spare, knickknack filled lobby was fairly empty, the wait minimal. He'd ditched his own car at LAX and spent most of the night going back and forth between taxis and buses and hitchhiking trying to leave no trail. Wes was paranoid by nature but all in all was pretty sure he hadn't been followed. He was hungry, but three times he'd tried to eat or drink coffee, and each time he'd pictured his dad and that lost expression with the face all puffed out and changed from the bullet. Wes had thrown up out in the bushes instead. He heard a voice like a preacher pounding a podium somewhere. You should have won the money. You should have borrowed the money. Fuck, you should have stolen the money.

  A flicker of rage was gathering power. That bastard Mick Callahan. Doc. Him just getting Cal's hopes up like that, making him all optimistic. They all should have known Roth wasn't about to let this go. And then because Callahan had gotten all up in his face, probably in front of somebody else, then an example had to be made. Calvin had been in the wrong place at the wrong time. It was all because of that fucking Callahan. But it was my fault, I should have found the money and brought it home in time and instead, I lost . . .