Cut and Run

by Ridley Pearson

  Sunderland glanced over the top of his glasses. “You do look vaguely familiar.”

  “Scott Rotem was in the field then. This is back before our protection squad was transferred to F-A-T-F.”

  “That’s a nice promotion.” He still couldn’t place Larson. “Let me ask you this: my home? Are you out of your mind?” Sunderland ’s phone number went unpublished and was not listed anywhere in any government publication, nor on any Internet site, standard security for a WITSEC regional. The five regionals ultimately relocated all the witnesses in the program or oversaw their relocated identities. As such, the regionals were carefully protected.

  “I traced you through Marley and Conner. You, or your wife, bought them each a cell phone about a year and a half ago. Marley’s phone had the home address listed. It took me about thirty minutes to get it.”

  Sunderland grimaced and then waved off the two guards. As he closed the door behind Larson he asked incredulously, “You found me through my kids’ cell phones?”

  “It’s what I do for a living.”

  The living room was Chippendale, handwoven area rugs, and floral arrangements that matched. Larson drank in the sweet smell of furniture polish, and the tang of ripe cheese. He heard a television running.

  Sunderland led him past the kitchen, down a hallway lined with summer vacations, the television first growing louder then fading.

  “Scott knows about this visit?”

  “Not exactly,” Larson answered honestly.

  “Fugitive Apprehension has the utmost respect of those of us in the Service, Larson, and we’re all aware it’s you running field operations. Rotem can be a real prick. We all know that, too. But he gets the job done. So do you, I’m told, or I wouldn’t have let you past the front door.” In fact, he’d recognized Larson’s name if not his face.

  “How well do you know Markowitz?” Larson asked, once the study door was closed. Lived-in and somewhat disorganized, it appeared to be a maid’s room he’d converted, for it was a door or two past the laundry room. It smelled of oil paint and whiskey. A partially completed, somewhat tacky landscape sat on a paint-stained wooden easel in the near corner, a canvas drop cloth beneath it.

  “Calms the nerves,” Sunderland explained, catching Larson staring.

  Not when you look at it, Larson thought.

  “Leo Markowitz is a brilliant designer and technician. I know him only professionally, of course, but I’m not sure there’s much to Leo besides the professional. He took an unruly system for cataloging and… and tracking thousands of protected witnesses and… and created out of it not just a database, but an encrypted database. We paid a dozen convicted hackers to try to break Laena, and… and not one of them made it past first base. The man’s a genius.”

  “How many within WITSEC knew what he was doing… knew it was him doing it?”

  “Listen, if you’re going where I think you’re going, we’re way ahead of you. We’re on it. So’s Rotem. If there’s a mole-WITSEC, FATF, Justice-we’ll ferret him out.”

  “I’m sure you will, but we’re coming at this from an entirely different direction than you. You’re trying to find a mole and turn him. We’re trying to find Markowitz. And that means radiating out from anyone who knew his role in this and looking at their recent activities, calls, e-mails, contacts, finances. Some of the same stuff you’re looking at.”

  “So, I’ll get you the names. We’ll e-mail them to you. There are about eight people total we’re looking at.”

  “That’ll help. Thanks.”

  “Which woman?” Sunderland asked. “The farmhouse,” he reminded. “What was her primary?”

  “Stevens. Hope Stevens.”

  Sunderland nodded. No one forgot Hope. But as it turned out Sunderland remembered her for other reasons than Larson might have thought. “She opted out, you know?”

  “I heard.” Larson took a deep breath. “I need to know what’s in her WITSEC record. What someone might see if they went looking. I need to find her.”

  That half-cocked, tilted head of curiosity was something his daughter had learned from him. “Have you been assigned to do so?”

  Delicate territory. Larson hesitated.

  “Because, I don’t know if you know this or not, but Justice would do backflips to find her right now. There’s a case pending. She could be… influential.”

  “Donny Romero.”

  “You’re beginning to impress me, Larson.”

  “Or am I pissing you off?” Larson could see it in the man’s face.

  Sunderland nodded behind an ironic smile. “Okay. That, too.”

  “You’re not going to read this in any report, but Markowitz’s assistant, the one we found dead in the downstairs bathroom, was killed by the same person that attacked Hope Stevens on that bus six years ago. You remember that incident?”

  “Go on.”

  “I need to find her, because they’ll come looking. Markowitz’s assistant was either done by the same person, or a different one trained by whoever trained him, because it’s a signature kill. We’re never going to prove it was the Romeros, but that’s not my job. And we’re never going to prove this either, but Hope Stevens is at the top of the list of people they want dead. She reads about Donny’s parole review and maybe she has a change of heart and comes out of the bushes. Are they going to risk that? And we have two choices: let them get her, let her be killed; or find her, lay a trap, and either arrest the killer on the way in and try to debrief him, or-and this is more to my liking-scare the shit out of him, drive him off, and hope the termite returns to the nest.” He’d surprised Sunderland with all of this. In truth, he didn’t care nearly as much about tracking the killer, but he knew Sunderland would want a bigger prize than protecting an AWOL witness. “The same nest that’s containing Markowitz and Laena, I’m guessing.”

  “I told you: She opted out.”

  “You placed her into the program.”

  “I did. It’s true.”

  “You created a new life for her, a life she may still be following, using, even if under an assumed name.”

  “I’ve put dozens-hundreds-into the program. What makes you think I’d remember this one?”

  Larson had his own answer for that. He said, “When she opted out, was there any discussion, or did she just blow you off?”

  Sunderland pursed his lips, studied Larson thoughtfully, and shook his head slightly. “I don’t do this,” he said. “I don’t know what your agenda is, Deputy Marshal, but I don’t discuss protected witnesses.”

  “The active list is missing. No one is protected. But what about the inactive list-those who’ve opted out of the program? Why do I think that those witnesses would have a list of their own?”

  “Everything that’s contained in Laena, or nearly everything, has a paper counterpart. We also have physical backups of Laena. All of that is being onlined as we speak. By Monday we’ll be most of the way back.” His tone indicated otherwise, but Larson didn’t challenge any of that. The computer backups had probably been installed by Markowitz, and if so, they might not be so easily accessed. WITSEC most certainly had paper records, but how current were they, and how easily found and organized? He thought it was probably in more of a shambles than Sunderland was letting on. A couple years into depending on computers and paperwork seemed to calcify.

  “I need anything you’ve got on her,” Larson said.

  He felt Sunderland resist.

  “Why do you suppose there hasn’t been a bloodbath?” Larson asked.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “If Markowitz has cracked Laena and decrypted each of the protected identities, if the Romeros have all those names and locations, then why hasn’t there been a bloodbath?” With Sunderland behind the desk, Larson stepped forward and took a seat in a comfortable red leather chair facing him. “They could sell the names off that list. No shortage of buyers. Every crime family in the country has someone on that list they’d like to see dead-most have hit lists th
ey’re just itching to get to. So why no bloodshed?”

  “I’m sure Scott told you about the encryption. One identity at a time. That’s a lot of work. Takes a lot of time.”

  “Why else?”

  “They want to cherry-pick the list, I suppose. We’re way ahead of you on this, Larson. Believe me, we have crews out there right now recalling dozens of witnesses.”

  “But not the ones who have opted out,” Larson said.

  “Actually, we’re posting a prearranged general warning for all witnesses. It’s a red flag meant to send them and their dependents to ground. They’ll stay there until they get the all clear.”

  “And Hope will obey that?”

  “If she’s smart she will.”

  “If she’s not smart,” Larson said, “we miss a golden opportunity to catch a killer and find Marko.”

  “Are you always this confident?”

  “Fugitive apprehension isn’t like anything else. You have to learn to see around corners. That’s all I’m trying to do here.”

  Sunderland stood and moved to his study door, trying to draw Larson out of his chair. “Come on,” he said.

  Larson didn’t budge. “You’ve got to help me.”

  “Not here,” Sunderland said. “Not in my home. I’m not discussing a protected witness-even one that opted out-in my home. We have a room downtown. It’s clean. Both of us will have to be swept as well. I’m not doing this without taking that precaution.”

  Larson practically sprang out of his chair. Sunderland had agreed to give him Hope Stevens.

  Larson was made to empty his pockets-billfold, credentials, loose change, handkerchief, pen-and to leave his BlackBerry and his belt, anything metal, with the deputy in charge. Sunderland did the same, but was carrying a lot less. Wands were waved over every limb and up and down their torsos, like an airport security check, before either man was cleared. They entered a plain-looking conference room.

  Housed in the center of the offices, this room was without windows or decoration, and only the one door, a thick door that locked with a significant click. The pale green walls looked different to Larson, perhaps a special metallic paint had been used, or even a composite material that reflected radio waves. He’d heard of such rooms, but had never been in one. No phone, no computer. No electrical wall outlets. The recessed lights in the ceiling shone through some kind of thick glass or similar material, and Larson thought this material was probably also designed to ground out any random radio waves.

  It had been a thirty-minute drive downtown, Larson in the rental following Sunderland ’s Buick. All this effort, he thought, an exercise in secrecy for a woman no longer in the program. He would never fully understand the government of which he was a part.

  At his request, Larson was provided a simple wood pencil and a blank piece of paper.

  “Hope Stevens was relocated under the protected name Alice Frizen,” Sunderland began without ceremony. A man in a hurry. “ Bakersfield, California. We set her up, as I recall, with employment in health care. Information technology skills, wasn’t it?”

  “Computers, yes.”

  “Yes. I.T. at a hospital, I’m pretty sure it was. No matter, because just short of a year after assuming her new identity, right at the time she was applying for a dependent, there was another of our witnesses, a man known to Hope Stevens, who was murdered while in a parking lot outside a Wal-Mart in Des Moines. His picture-it was a gruesome kill-went national before we could stop it. The Stevens woman went off our radar, just as the AUSA was putting a second case, the murder-for-hire case, together against Donny Romero and the others. Needless to say, those conspiracy and attempted murder charges were never brought.”

  Larson sat there, as if slapped across the face. Hope’s application for a dependent’s paperwork suggested the existence of a husband or a child or both. A new life, indeed.

  “A dependent, singular or plural? Anything more on that?”

  “There might be in her record. You’re right about her information being filed separately. We do pull it once they opt out. But it’s kept in Laena as well, because seventy-some percent of those who opt out eventually rejoin the program. By Monday I’ll be in a better position to clarify this sort of request.”

  “And that’s all? Alice Frizen voluntarily left the program.” Larson scratched out notes for himself.

  “Forfeiting a sizable stipend and medical insurance coverage, I might add.”

  “That’s a lot to give up.”

  “It is indeed.”

  “No explanation of this dependent? Child? Lover? Relative?”

  “None that I’m aware of.”

  “And that’s that?” Larson had spent a career reading the faces of notorious liars, and he put Sunderland up there with the best of them-but a liar just the same. It wasn’t all, and Larson knew it.

  “The possibility of Mr. Romero’s parole lit a fire under the U.S. Attorney’s office. With it came a renewed interest in locating Ms. Stevens, a.k.a. Ms. Frizen.”

  “And?”

  “And I don’t report rumor or innuendo.”

  Larson studied the man carefully, awaiting another lie.

  “It’s one of those things you hear, is all,” Sunderland said.

  “Would you make the call for me?”

  “On a Saturday?”

  Larson answered, “You want to wait until Monday? I was told that if Markowitz doesn’t have the entire list decrypted by now, he will any day. I doubt either of us has slept much in the last thirty hours, and I can tell you I for one won’t be doing my best work by the time Monday rolls around.”

  “You’ll have to wait here.”

  “I’m good at waiting,” Larson answered, containing his excitement. “Government work, you know?”

  Sunderland didn’t appreciate the sarcasm. He left the room, Larson catching a glimpse of the deputy marshal standing guard by the door. After a minute Larson put his head down onto his arms and rested on the table. He sat bolt upright upon Sunderland ’s return.

  Sunderland sat down beneath a great emotional weight, reminding Larson of some judges as they returned to the bench following jury deliberations.

  Sunderland said, “An Alice Dunbar appears on a three-year-old health insurance group coverage for St. Luke’s Hospital, Minneapolis. The social she provided is the same one we gave her for Frizen. She probably had no choice. It makes sense: Post 9/11, it’s this side of impossible to get a counterfeit social. The name change to Dunbar was legit-done legally in California. There’s also a social assigned by Treasury to one Penelope Dunbar, born in California, currently a five-year-old Caucasian female. The kid’s social was mailed to a box number in Minneapolis. The investigator’s report lists some calls made to the hospital there before passing this up the command. His report suggests the lead was promising at that time.”

  “And?” Sunderland now seemed to be dragging this out for dramatic effect and the change bothered Larson.

  “No follow-up.” Sunderland ’s face reflected Larson’s exasperation. “You’re the one who brought up government work: It looks as though he sent it over to us, to Justice, but not directed to the U.S. Attorney’s office-and this is a little over three months ago. Apparently it never found its way to the U.S. Attorney’s office. This deputy had not only the post office box number where the social had been sent, but a residential address he thought was good. It was very good work this guy did. There’s been a lot of turnover at Justice since Ridge and Homeland Security-I probably don’t have to tell you that. But as far as I can tell-and it’s the same for the guy I talked to-it looks as if it died there.”

  “Right,” Larson said, then, under his breath, “Or else she did.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Minneapolis, Minnesota, streamed past outside the bus window as the passenger took a final opportunity to commit the face of his next victim to memory. He had to allow for added age, a change in hair color or style, weight loss or gain, so he focused on the green eyes, the s
oft curve of her chin and the placement of her ears, finding a tiny, hooked scar in the hairs of the eyebrow above her left eye. He put no currency in the name-Alice Frizen, Alice Dunbar-he thought instead of carving lines into her, shallow at first, deeper when necessary, the beauty of the rich, sanguine red against pale skin.

  A hole in the knee of his worn blue jeans revealed the dark skin of his Latin heritage. His knee bounced with the vibrations of the city bus. The fabric moved, including the forest green sweatshirt he wore, but not the body within-every muscle flexed and taut, a cat ready to pounce. With the hood of the sweatshirt pulled up, the man’s face remained like a monk’s, in dark shadow, so that the curious little girl who studied him so intently from the row in front of him could make out no distinguishing features. Just two eyes peering out, impossibly dark brown to the point of appearing black at the center. Those eyes looked down and returned to the crossword puzzle in his lap.

  3 across:

  A knot, not to be undone.

  The five-year-old girl smiled at him and waved with the tips of her fingers so her mother wouldn’t see. She clearly hoped for a smile, but she got nothing out of him.

  Paolo ignored the girl, his attention on the puzzle and occasionally out the bus window, on the street numbers above or alongside the door of a passing building. He awaited a particular address. For all the rigidity of his muscles, he felt an internal calm. He followed instruction; he did as he was told. He felt eternally grateful for the opportunity he’d been given: a sense of family, a sense of belonging. Nothing, no one, would come close to stopping him.

  Paolo had Philippe to thank for his training; he served him as a lieutenant serves his captain. It had crossed his mind more than once that his orders should have come directly from Ricardo, Philippe’s half brother, who now ran the Romero compound in his father’s “retirement.” Philippe did not sit on the council as Ricardo did, and was unlikely to have the authority to order this woman’s execution, but this was the woman responsible for putting Donny away, and so Paolo followed the orders. Philippe was tangled up in a family dispute, a power struggle to keep the family business in health care and insurance, while his worthless half brother was more of a street thug who favored cutting in on the Native American casinos and gaming. Paolo would follow Philippe to the grave, if asked. Ricardo was an arrogant, spoiled snot. If the bastard son, Philippe, was making a move for control of the Romero family, as it appeared, then Paolo would gladly assist the transition. Philippe carried a hard-on for his half brother’s wife, an extremely fine-looking Italian woman named Katrina. Paolo grew heady with the thought of his own increased importance following the success of this job.