Matt tried to ignore the radio traffic noises and to concentrate on why they were still sitting in the garage.
“I could use a drink,” Carling said.
Matt didn’t bother responding. They had been in the car for over thirty minutes, listening to the sounds of search parties nearby. Twice, cars had driven slowly down the alley, shining flashlights between buildings and into garages. Carling had managed to get their garage’s door most of the way down, and so far they had gone undetected.
They both jumped, startled by a voice blasting from one of the handheld radios on the dashboard. “We have him. We know where he is now, boss. We’re going in now.”
Matt looked over, his eyebrows arching in surprise.
“That’s the CleanSweep radio and frequency,” Carling said.
The two men listened to Bristol reporting to Angela Vaughn. Moments later they heard him calling back to relate the unsuccessful search at the apartment and building. They heard everything they needed to know from the undertone in Angela Vaughn’s voice in response to that last piece of information.
“They’re going to find our way out,” Matt said as they listened to the description of the basement and what used to be his safe room.
“But that’s all,” Carling said. “They don’t know where we went after that nail salon. All we have to do is stay put. The worst thing we can do is run. That’s how suckers always get caught.”
“I’m scared.”
“We both are,” Carling said. “We’d be fools not to be.”
The CleanSweep radio blared again. Carling picked it up to lower the volume. He looked suddenly worried.
“I’m on my way.” It was Angela Vaughn’s voice. “It’s time for me to take charge. I want every building and alley in a ten-square-block area of that apartment surrounded. Tremain couldn’t have gotten far. I want every nook and cranny, every dark corner, every shadow searched. Don’t leave anything to chance. We have to get this guy. On Claussen’s orders, Tremain is now a Code Blue target.”
That made Carling sit bolt upright, as if he’d been jolted with an electrical shock. “That’s an order to kill on sight.”
“There’s somebody with him,” John Bristol said.
“Do you have any idea who it is yet?” Vaughn demanded.
“Damn if I know, boss. What about him? Is he a Code Blue target, too?”
“Disposable,” came the one-word response from the boss.
The radio hissed, and Carling adjusted the squelch knob until the white noise stopped. “Hmm, they don’t have a line on me yet. But they’ve raised the stakes on both of us.”
“I never thought you looked anything like a cop,” Matt said. He realized Carling wasn’t wearing his trademark fedora.
“And that may work for us…with luck. You can hear it in Vaughn’s words. She’s running scared.”
“And we aren’t?”
“Like I said, we’d be fools not to be scared. But we have the advantage.”
“Oh really? Do tell. I would love to know what advantage we have.”
“We know where they are,” Carling said, laughing. “They don’t know where we are.”
“Some plan. Some advantage.”
“It’s better than no plan, wouldn’t you say? KBO…” Carling hissed.
Minutes passed as the two listened to radio reports from the search parties. It took an ominous direction when they realized agents were starting a careful search of the alleys. It would only be a matter of time until someone opened the door to the garage—to find their targets sitting right there in the car.
“I need to get something out of the trunk. Get out, and come to the back of the car with me.”
They could hear voices and footsteps approaching as they did, so they closed the doors as quietly as possible. Carling opened the trunk and pointed to a satchel. He reached in and pulled out a bottle of whiskey. He tipped the bottle over his head, letting it wash down over his hair and shirt. Then he took a large swallow, gasping as the heat of the liquor caused him to sputter.
“Damn,” he muttered, “a waste of good whiskey.”
Then a surprised Matt watched as Carling began pissing his pants on purpose, the spreading, wet splotch growing visible even in the dim light. When he was finished, Carling reached down and grabbed dirt from a discarded flower pot and rubbed it all over his face. With his coal-stained clothes and his new accessories, he was transformed into a disheveled, smelly man who looked very homeless indeed.
“Now,” he said, pointing, “jump up on the trunk of the car and haul your sorry ass up there.”
Matt looked up at the rafters overhead. Scraps of wood, old doors and windows, and other debris had been shoved on top of them. Matt got up on the trunk, then on the top of the car, and finally hoisted himself up. He curled behind a plywood slab until he was as invisible as he could be.
“Stay quiet.”
Matt didn’t need the reminder. He watched Carling walk to the front of the garage and slide down the wall until he was slumped at the bottom. It was an award-winning imitation of a drunk.
The agents conducting the search made no attempt to be quiet. They reminded Matt of scenes from jungle films about safaris, with beaters thrashing the bush in front of the hunters, hoping to scare up the game.
“Has anyone looked in here?”
Suddenly the door was yanked open. A flashlight beam shone on the dirty car and then began swinging around the garage until it landed on Carling. He looked every bit the drunk, leaning there against the wall.
“What the fuck?” Carling demanded, but he made it sound more like “Wha’ de fuuuk?” He held up his hands to shield his eyes from the light—and his face from recognition. “Turn off those lights—”
“What are you doing in here, old man?” a man yelled.
Another agent came in and dragged Carling up to a standing position. Carling staggered and weaved to the side. As Matt looked down through the debris, he witnessed a remarkable display of near-projectile vomiting. Carling puked down the shirt and pants of one of the searchers, then stood there looking puzzled, like he was wondering how that had happened.
“Damn! Fuck! Damn!” the agent yelled. “Some dirtbag just puked all over me!” he yelled with his hand on the radio switch.
The two agents with him started laughing. “You got it good, Billy—and they heard it all back at the truck.”
“Too bad our orders are to find Tremain. I’d love to send this guy to a detention center right now,” Billy said. The he punched Carling in the gut and pushed him back down onto the ground. He pulled his leg back to kick the drunk when he stopped himself and said, “Screw it. Let’s get out of here. I need to get cleaned up. You guys finish the alley.”
Footsteps, banging doors, and other noises associated with a search finally receded, and the alley was quiet again. Carling looked up and motioned to Matt to climb down. Carling risked looking out in both directions and then nodded. He walked back and reached into the trunk. He picked up a towel and wiped his hands and face. He stripped off his shirt and replaced it with a clean one from the duffel bag in the trunk.
“How did you—”
“Not another word.” Carling’s voice was cold, and it cut the question short. Matt saw a look on Carling’s face that matched the tone of the phrase. “We need to warn Payne and Carl.”
CHAPTER 36
We Need a New Plan
Matt and Carling waited until the dim light of dawn made a slow transition into daytime. Streaks of sunlight had gradually become visible through a dusty garage window.
“How much longer do we wait?” Matt asked.
“There’s nothing more on the radio,” Carling said as he placed the handheld police set on the seat. “Same for the police calls. Let’s wait a bit longer.”
“Someone’s sure to spot us. What are we goi
ng to do when they come back this way? Won’t the cops recognize this car—and you?” Matt tried to keep the fear out of his voice.
“Look at me,” Carling said. “I didn’t spend time undercover without learning the tricks of changing my appearance. Only a handful of cops would recognize me like this, and those are the guys I trust.”
They were startled by a radio blast. It was just the police band, a routine traffic call.
“Like I tried to say,” Carling went on, “I’m counting on my looks—and the smell. They won’t invite anyone to get close.”
“You smell as bad as Stinky,” Matt said. He wondered where that man was this morning. “What about the car?”
“I figured if I was going to break the rules, it might as well be for something big.” Carling smiled. “I waited until there was a shift change in the station garage. I picked out this old car because I’d once used it for undercover surveillance. This piece of crap hasn’t been out of the garage in years. It was sitting in the back, covered with enough grime to give it character—wouldn’t you agree?”
Matt nodded.
“I’ve had my eye on this car ever since I learned about CleanSweep. I carried a can of gas in one day to make sure it was topped up with fuel. Luckily the battery was still charged. I had a dupe—you know, a duplicate—key made. The old-timer on security detail never even noticed a thing when I drove it out last night. It’s time to find out if we can skate by on our good looks.” He laughed at that remark. “But we have to do something about you first.”
By the time Carling had opened the garage door, Matt had also covered himself in grime until he was a good match to the detective’s appearance. The ten-year-old car was rusting in several spots; a long, angry crease marked the hood; and the windshield was cracked. In spite of its looks, the motor purred with a quiet fury. Matt guessed the undercover cops using vehicles like this depended on the car being in perfect running order, despite the look of the exterior.
“Get out and look down the alley. Tell me what you see.”
“Right,” Matt said. He got out of the car and tiptoed to the doorway as if expecting agents to be hiding in wait. He turned his head to the right first, then to the left. He listened. “Nothing but traffic at the end of the alley,” he said in a loud whisper. Finally, he turned, gave a thumbs-up sign, and walked back to the car. He was careful to shut the door with care, just in case.
Carling eased the car partway out. Matt watched him make a decision to turn to the right.
“Guess we have to find out sooner or later.” He didn’t sound encouraging.
It turned out to be another of those days of perfect weather—for anyone liking a cloudless blue sky and the temperature in the low sixties. Carling steered the car to the end of the alley and then paused with his foot on the brake. Glancing in both directions, he decided to turn right, away from Queen Street, where Matt’s apartment building was located.
“I saw a car at the corner on the left. I’m sure it was a stakeout car. I just saw the front, but it had to be. I’m not taking any chances yet.” Carling weaved through narrow residential streets, dodging parked cars and waste bins. Matt was trying to convince himself that they just might make it—get away.
“Where are we going?” Matt finally asked.
“I have a place in mind, but I don’t want to take a direct route.”
The smallest handheld radio crackled, and Carling turned the squelch filter.
“Status report.” Angela Vaughn’s voice broke through the noise.
“There’s nothing on Tremain! Nada! It’s like the guy is a ghost.”
“What area have you covered?”
“I had over a hundred agents on the ground. We covered it all. They didn’t find anything except for an old drunk sleeping in a garage. He puked all over Crandall’s shirt.”
“Did they bring the drunk in on spec? Did anyone question him? Don’t we know that Tremain was with someone?”
Carling and Matt heard a whimper in the reply to her question and knew the man called Bishop, the one she’d left in charge of the search, was going to lose his job.
“Williams, are you listening?”
“Yes, boss,” replied another, new voice.
“You’re in charge now. Take over from Bishop. I want as much of the area covered again as you can manage with a skeleton crew. I want people out of their cars, off their lazy butts, and walking the neighborhood. How could—?” There was no need for her to finish. “And have somebody bring in that drunk.”
“I’m on it, boss.”
“We’re shifting the focus to Payne and Remington. They’re going to try and meet up with Tremain. I’m sure of it. I’m putting out an all-points bulletin.”
It wasn’t long before the police scanner came alive. Everyone on patrol was ordered to action. “We are sending the photographs. They are all high-priority targets.”
Matt and Carling looked at each other. Carling pulled the car to a stop along the curb. “We’re still on a side street. Before we get into traffic, I need to think.”
“What do you have in mind, Detective?” Matt waited for an answer, but Carling just stared out through the windshield. Matt was hoping a plan was forming behind that stare.
“My name’s Wallace.”
Matt appreciated that he had just been given permission to cross a line—it was a courtesy Carling granted few civilians.
“My friends call me Brick, but my first name is Wallace. Don’t ever put that in one of your damn blogs.”
“Brick?”
Carling held up his hand to stop the question. “My buddies used to call me ‘Wallace.’ That changed to ‘Brick Wall,’ and then just ‘Wall,’ after my best friend, Scott, said the bad guys were up against a brick wall when they met me. Then someone called me ‘Brick.’ From then on, at least, that name was used with my permission.”
Both radios erupted with traffic. They were broadcasting the widening search for Matt, Susan, and Carl. It was apparent that they hadn’t pieced together Carling’s role in the story.
“Can you reach Susan and Carl?”
Matt stretched to reach into the backseat and get his backpack. “I almost forgot this. I don’t know what made me remember it, with all that was happening.” He pulled out two phones and looked at them, making a decision. “I’m going to try this one.” He started to punch in numbers.
“Wait,” Carling said.
Matt had been just about to press the Enter key.
Carling carried his cell phone in a holster. He used it to place a call.
“Scott. You know who this is.” Carling listened and then said, “Do you still have a friend working at the morgue?” He nodded and said, “I’ll call you back. I need your help. Thanks, Scotty, more than you know.”
He turned to Matt. “OK, call them and tell them to get to 66 Tilson Avenue as soon they can. Make sure they’re careful. Hell, don’t bother. They already know that. Tell them to park behind the building. The back door is locked, but they’ll find a spare key taped inside the electrical panel to the right of the door. It’s an abandoned day-care center. The owners lost everything in the riots. It’s called Tiny Tots, or something like that. They can’t miss it.”
Matt started to dial again when Carling muttered, “I may have a plan. It just might give us some breathing room.” Matt waited for more, but Brick didn’t offer any further information. He finally managed to dial the number and pressed Enter, then held the phone to his ear.
“Carl.” For some reason he was almost whispering. “It’s Matt here. How are you guys doing?”
He signed “OK” to Carling as he listened.
“It’s the same here,” he said, and he told Carl about their close call. Then he gave the directions to the day-care center.
“Carl’s north of the city,” Matt said, turning to Carling. Then he said t
o Carl, “Brick says to come down Leslie and turn at Eglinton.” He started to laugh. “Oh, Brick is Carling’s nickname. That’s another story. See you guys there. Wait—”
He looked at Carling, who was signaling to him not to hang up yet. He said, “Tell them to wait until it gets dark. Make sure they know there’s and APB out on them.”
Matt relayed the message and turned off the cell. “I know these things have GPS built into them. Can they really be traced?” Carling nodded yes. Matt took out the SIM card and tossed it through the window.
It was Carling’s turn to make another call. “Scotty, Brick again. How about the back of the theater? Right, that’s it. I’m going to ask for a huge favor. See you then. Oh, Scotty, I’m with someone, and we haven’t eaten since yesterday. One more thing,” he said, looking at Matt. “He’s about five-nine or five-ten, medium build. I’d guess large as his shirt size. We both need some clothes. Thanks, Scotty. You da bomb, my man.” He ended the call.
He turned to Matt. “We’re meeting him this afternoon. Now we need to take our phones apart. Take the battery and the SIM card out like you did on that other phone. We’ll toss them as we drive.”
Matt did as he was told, but said, “I’ll keeping this last one. It’s so old it doesn’t use a SIM card, so it should be safe to use.” He put it in his pocket. “Do you trust him, this Scotty?”
“With my life—and yours.”
Carling took his phone apart as he was driving. A dump truck was coming at them in the other lane. As they passed, Carling made a perfect three-point toss. His phone headed to the landfill.
Carling drove up a steep hill to a park Matt recognized. The two men spent the rest of the day there, sitting by a reservoir. “Hardly anyone ever comes here, and they never lock the door to the toilet. We need to rest,” Carling said as he backed the car between two large hedges. “One sleeps, the other stays awake. I’m not sure what good that will do. At least we’ll know when they find us. You sleep first.”
The CleanSweep Conspiracy Page 28
