Not bad, Mick. Maybe you've still got it. Not bad at all . . .
As he collected Allison's fee, Callahan heard the waiting room door ping softly. He had no more clients scheduled for the evening. Callahan wondered if his landlord had come to ask a favor.
He walked Allison out the door, waved goodbye, and was surprised to see a young man seated on the long couch. Big guy, short brown hair and muscles. Covering, Callahan said, "I'll be right with you."
Outside, Allison gave him a quick hug and walked away, hips swinging and heels clicking. The sunset had begun to smear the horizon like a squashed rainbow. Callahan visited the restroom, splashed some water on his face. His mood had brightened considerably during the day, and the signs were obvious. He made a face in the mirror. He walked down the hall, entered his office again, closed the waiting room door.
Callahan leaned against the door, facing the couch. The younger man slowly rose, hands in the pockets of his jeans.
"I'm sorry, but I don't show anyone booked for this slot. Perhaps there's some kind of mistake? I work by appointment only."
The young man said, "How long do these sessions last?"
"Fifty minutes."
The young man produced a gun. The business end looked like a bottomless pit. He aimed directly at Callahan's chest.
"Fine. You have fifty minutes to live."
A clock ticked. The air conditioning whispered threats. Someone in high heels walked by outside, chatting on a cell phone. Heart thumping, Callahan took in the situation. The stranger's hands were steady, eyes reasonably clear, though he seemed tired. Clothes rumpled, possibly slept in. Nearly my size, not as bulky. He's almost at attention, that posture telegraphs his background as clearly as a jailhouse tattoo on an ex-con.
"Did someone send you?"
"Callahan, you're the last shrink I ever expect to see in my life. All I want from you is the truth. What happened?"
"What happened to whom?"
The sliding click sounded loud as a shot and made them both twitch. "You know," he said.
Maybe I do, Callahan thought. But I need to buy some time. He moved slowly, turned and flipped the front door lock. Counter-intuitively, that closed them in together. He had upped the ante enormously. After a brief pause, Callahan again faced the enemy, his own expression calm and enigmatic.
"I saw you there. I drove by and saw you in the yard," the man said.
Callahan nodded understandingly. "It must have looked bad."
The younger man just glared. The gun did not waver.
"I've been having some crappy luck lately," Callahan said. "I almost don't care if you shoot me. But that would be stupid on both our parts. Let's talk. Do you want some coffee, Wes?"
The kindness surprised him as much as the use of his name. Caught off guard, Wes McCann licked his lips. "Water. Unless you have something stronger."
"No, nothing stronger than coffee for a few years now. Sorry. But then I suppose you already knew that."
Callahan forced himself to turn his back again. He walked back into his inner office. Heard rustling and a grunt as Wes followed. Callahan bent over. He got a cup of water from the cooler and offered it. "Wes, I never hurt your father. Why would you want to kill me?"
Wes sat on the couch without being asked. He drank half the water in one gulp. His armpits were dark with sweat and his shirt tail had slipped out. The gun was pointed at the wall now, all but forgotten. The kid stared at Callahan, momentarily unable to cover his raw emotional state.
Callahan seized the opportunity. He moved rapidly, sat down in his usual chair, leaned forward as he would with a client.
"Wes, I'm so sorry. I really liked your Dad."
Voice thick. "What the fuck did you do, Doc? Did you stick your nose in all this and get him killed?"
Callahan closed his eyes. "No, I tried to help. It's not surprising that you want someone to blame. A person to punish. But I'm not the right man."
When Callahan opened his eyes again, Wes was looking up at the ceiling. "I guess I knew that all along."
"Whatever happened," Callahan said, "I don't think it had anything to do me, except that I stumbled on the scene."
"Somebody we don't even know about."
"Nothing adds up any other way. I told Roth I'd pay your Dad's debt. He had no reason to kill him. The murder scene looked like some kind of professional hit, something reserved for people who betray the mob. Way out of proportion for a man who owed a few grand. It's all wrong."
Wes nodded. "The last few days everything has gone out of whack. Nothing feels right. Nothing makes sense."
"Did anyone else have a grudge against your father, Wes? Against you, maybe? Anyone at all?"
Wes said, "Callahan, let me tell you something. I agree it probably wasn't Roth who had him killed. Yes, I think there's something scary going on, something much bigger."
"Like what?"
Wes covered a lot of ground in a few minutes. His trip to Las Vegas, the girl in the gift shop who'd shown up later claiming to know him from high school. He spoke of the mercenaries who had murdered Rosa and tried to kill him in Catalina. They had been asking about something unknown, as if he'd know what and where it was. He told Mick how it had all dawned on him suddenly. Then of his recent actions, his visit with the attorney named Pearlman, and his growing suspicions about the girl's mysterious suitcase. How Pearlman was to have been a go-between should he need one. And lastly, about that email to the unknown adversaries saying that he had what they wanted. Wes spoke in short bursts, efficient and clear. When he looked up again, all his cards were on the table.
Except for the whereabouts of that suitcase, Callahan thought.
He was not surprised. Wes had given him most of the rest of the puzzle. In exchange, Callahan told him about his meeting with their neighbor Julius, and what Julius had said about some kind of stolen item Blackwatch and others were after. Something likely to have been stashed in that suitcase. Callahan told him everything—except that Julius had admitted to being the super-hacker and information broker known as Avant.
"I'll be damned." Wes whistled. "I knew Julius was brilliant, but I've never even been inside his place. Now that I think about that, it's kind of a fortress. Makes sense. He just always seemed so stoned out and harmless."
Callahan sat back. "So here's what we have so far. Some people working for an information disseminating organization run by Avant broke into a top secret research facility in Vegas. They took something that they didn't dare copy or upload to the internet. Whatever it is, a program or virus or piece of information, it is something dangerous as hell. It ended up getting handed off to you by that woman. She meant for you to figure things out slowly, or perhaps even tell Julius the story."
Wes said, "Someone had to have been on top of her. She needed to lose the item, or pull a switch of some kind.
"She probably left the train station carrying someone else's luggage."
"Giving it to me like that was a big chance to take."
"Not really. She knew you were there, and that you lived next to Julius. Someone told her that early on. It was their backup if the girl was being followed. Maybe she sent a message or was killed even before she could get the word out. That part, we may never know."
"I'm with you now," Wes said. "And the men who wanted this something back came to our house. Maybe they tortured that information out of the girl who gave me the suitcase. They assumed my dad would know something, but he didn't. They established that and took him out. They tracked me to Catalina somehow. Could be Dad told them I'd been talking about going there. They sent a team after me and killed Rosa. And they still want what I have."
"If it's Blackwatch, there are a lot of them."
"But not all in on something this big. Too many chances for a leak that could bring the whole company down."
"You're familiar with them?"
"Callahan, these assholes were all over Iraq and 'Stan. They may have moved their corporate headquarters to Dubai, but
if the word got out they were torturing and murdering citizens to cover their asses, even the Arabs would turn on them."
Callahan nodded. "So my guess is they'd keep all this as small as possible. You may have already killed the men who murdered your father. But they need whatever this is, so there will be another team looking for you."
"That's why I've been afraid to follow up on that email I sent to Jessie Keaton, you know?"
"My friend Jerry can help us do that safely."
The two men stopped talking. Callahan finally said, "Think hard. Is there any chance anyone followed you here?"
Wes shook his head. "I don't think so, I hot wired a car and parked blocks away. Someone would have had to stake out your office."
"That's always possible, but let's hope not. Neither one of us seems to be feeling very lucky lately.
Wes sat quietly. He had one last secret. Callahan read his features and let him decide on his own. Finally, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a quarter. He flipped it. Heads.
Wes looked up. "Okay. I stashed the suitcase under my neighbor's house, on the other side. In the crawl space. The property was abandoned months ago."
Callahan said, "We need it, Wes. It may be the only thing we can use to bargain for your life."
"I think," Wes said, "we both just stepped in some very deep shit."
"No doubt," Callahan said. "Look, I have a dinner meeting in a few minutes. My sponsor is sending a car to pick me up. Why don't you come along? My three friends have helped me before, and they'll help us now. One has deep pockets; the other is a lot like your neighbor Julius, he can reach anybody. We'll check for the answer to the email you sent Jessie. My third friend? She is a cop."
"Whoa."
"No, it's okay. We'll have everything we need to solve this. I want you to stay alive. We may never know exactly what happened, or who killed Calvin, but we can try to find out."
"It looks like we're partners, like it or not."
The Blackberry pinged. Callahan took it out and checked his email. There was one terse message from Jerry. Callahan's face darkened. He sighed deeply and shook his head. The tumblers in his mind clicked as the pattern finally took shape. He closed his eyes for a moment.
Wes asked, "Is everything okay?"
"Hang on."
Callahan thought long and hard. He got up, paced the waiting room, eventually came to a decision. He quickly emailed a response to Jerry. Callahan closed the phone and looked up at Wes McCann.
"That was Jerry, my computer geek pal. The car should be pulling up any second. Come with me. Let's meet them for dinner, he's got a lot of new information. We can all work together. You and I will get the suitcase after we decide how to proceed."
Wes tucked the gun under his shirt. He flipped the quarter again and checked the result on his forearm. Tails. He smiled. "Okay, let's go."
Callahan turned the music off and shut down the lights. Fear coursed through his veins. Something was about to explode, he could feel it. Everything was shifting rapidly, events beyond his control.
But he didn't feel scared.
He felt more alive than he had in months.
Callahan took a deep breath. He opened the front door. The night was upon them, the building darkly shadowed and nearly deserted. He turned and locked the door behind him. Something rustled in the night. Both he and Wes whirled around, almost simultaneously. Two other men stood in the hallway, each aiming a gun. Callahan and Wes froze, both expecting a boom of thunder followed by eternal silence. One man held the gun on them, the other put his away. His hands moved and something metallic jangled.
"You're under arrest," Penzler and DeRossi said, almost in unison. "Turn around and put your hands behind you."
DeRossi cuffed Callahan. "You're a material witness."
Penzler held the gun. He moved closer, shoved Wes back two steps. "Move, pal. You're under arrest for the murder of your father, Calvin McCann. Turn around and put your hands behind your back. Do it now."
TWENTY
Friday night
Callahan and Wes were cuffed tightly, thin plastic biting into their wrists. They stumbled down the hall, exchanged confused glances. Penzler and DeRossi rushed them down the back stairs and into the empty, grey parking garage. Their loud, hurrying footsteps boomed and echoed in the confined, concrete tomb. The detectives refused to answer questions. Wes was whacked on the back of the head when he pushed to see a warrant.
Callahan knew that something was off about both the timing and manner of their arrest. He wondered how long it would take Jerry, Hal and Darlene to realize that something was wrong. They would come looking for him. The email exchange with Jerry moments ago would be crucial. He'd already played his hand, and their reaction was his best shot. He prayed the others didn't assume he was depressed and angry. Or just plain drunk.
There was a back gate, rarely used by the tenants. Penzler and DeRossi kept the guns close to the back of their heads, prodded them to keep moving. The gate had been left partly open, a brick prevented the sliding metal bars from closing. Penzler and DeRossi were both sweating and half-panicked. Callahan knew better than to excite them further. Not while they were pointing guns at their prisoners. The cops forced them forward at a brisk pace. Their car was parked outside, on a side street. It was unmarked. Callahan managed to glance at the license plate and his blood cooled. The plate had been smeared with mud to make the car untraceable.
Callahan and Wes exchanged worried looks. Was this another hit?
"Get in the back seat."
Wes balked. "Let me see a warrant, asshole."
Penzler kneed him from behind. Gagging, Wes bent over the unmarked car. The violence was answer enough. Callahan knew this had to end badly. DeRossi opened the door to the back seat. He shoved them both. Wes got in and slid over with no further complaint. Mick joined him. When he looked at Wes, the younger man's eyes seemed beaten for the first time.
The streets were almost deserted, the yards and trees shrouded with dusk. Callahan bit his lip when he saw a long black limo pass by headed for the front of his office building. The handsome young driver wore a cap and a black suit. As usual, Hal had paid for the very best. But Callahan wouldn't be taking that ride. He'd be on one far more deadly.
DeRossi drove. Detective Penzler kept what Callahan could now see was a revolver aimed at the two prisoners. A .357. With a flash, Callahan remembered that DeRossi had been waving around an old Smith & Wesson .38 snub nose. Detectives carried 9mms these days, not old school revolvers. Callahan's stomach clenched. These are "thrown-down" guns, he thought, miserably. The handles are probably covered with tape, any serial numbers filed off. If they kill us, the weapons won't be traceable—especially to cops. . . . And now they have the gun Wes carried to boot.
That's what Wes was probably thinking, and why he looked so defeated. But what did two broken down, sleazy homicide detectives in rumpled suits want with them? How did they get involved in all of this? Did they work for Roth on the side, someone who didn't understand the magnitude of the mess they were in?
As if reading his mind, Penzler said, "All we want is the money."
Callahan blinked. "What money?"
"Don't fuck with us," the detective whispered. "We know the whole story. How that deal in the Valley went south the other night. How McCann and his father ended up with the drug money, and the old man got killed for it. We just want the cash. You give it up, we'll let you go."
Wes said, "How do we know you'll let us go?" His voice had risen half an octave. He was sweating heavily, probably from pain more than fear.
Penzler sighed. "Drive."
DeRossi said, "Drive where?"
"How the fuck do I know? Just drive. Stay away from the main drags and get us into the barrio. This stupid fuck probably hid the cash near his house anyway."
"I don't know what you heard," Wes said, "but I don't have any money. And Doc here, he doesn't know anything."
"Maybe we should just shoot one of the
m and see if the other one decides to come clean." Penzler seemed serious.
DeRossi promptly ran a stop sign. "Don't be an asshole. You gonna explain that to Dennis?"
Callahan kept his expression blank, but his mind whirled like a dervish. Another piece clicked into place.
Beside him in the back seat, Wes pressed on. "Look, if you guys heard it from Pearlman, he's got this all wrong. I ended up with something valuable, but I don't know what it is. The one thing I can tell you is that it probably ain't about drugs."
"And that you'd be stupid as hell to get involved," Callahan added. "Some pretty heavy people want that suitcase."
It worked. Penzler bit. "It's in a suitcase?"
"Maybe. Some babe left me a suitcase in Vegas, and I brought it home. Stashed it. We think that's why professionals did my dad. They came after me, too. Whoever they are, you don't want a piece of it."
DeRossi stopped for a light. A squad car came around the corner, headed the other way. DeRossi barked, "Put that gun down."
Too late. The squad car took in the four men, the unmarked vehicle and the suspicious body language. The siren whooped. The cop behind the wheel, an African American with short hair, braked and reached for his radio.
"Shit!" DeRossi said. "Don't let him call this in!"
"What you want me to do, shoot him?"
"If you have to. Dennis can't cover this if it goes on record."
Penzler rolled his window down. "Wait. We're on the job!"
The cop stopped moving. He waved his hand. Penzler extended his arm out the window. He badged the cop, waved his wallet and ID, showed the weapon too but aimed it straight up at the half moon. "We're just taking two suspects in."
The cop nodded and replaced the microphone. He yawned like a man getting off a long shift and drove away. DeRossi let out a long sigh.
Running Cold (The Mick Callahan Novels) Page 20
