By the time we sight Roach’s property, the rain has stopped. Overhead, the sky is still cloudy, but the moon and a few stars fight through the overcast. Under any other circumstances I’d take that to be a hopeful sign, but I don’t have much hope left.
The dock is ablaze with light. Cars are stacked behind each other. Several have red and blue lights flashing on their roofs. People are milling about, looking and pointing at us as we approach.
I cut the engine as we glide into the dock. Federal agents wearing black windbreakers grab the lines and secure the boat. Right behind them, a team of medics come on deck and approach Maureen. She shakes them off impatiently. The agents talk low to Maureen; then they and several others follow her below. I hear gasps and fulminations.
I stand off to the side, watching. Fred and Marcus are coming toward us, along with some Prince Georges County police officers, and a contingent of local King James cops. Fred gives me a “what’s going on” look as they board. I shake my head, move away to the other side of the deck, as far from everyone as possible.
Fred and Marcus fight their way down into the ship’s cabin. Mabel Ricketts, the no-nonsense detective from the P.G. County police department, carefully maneuvers in low heels across the slippery deck, grasping on to the boat’s lifelines for support. “What the hell’s going on?” she demands brusquely.
“Check it out,” I answer dully, pointing my thumb toward the hatchway.
She looks at me sourly, follows the others inside. It’s getting awfully cramped down there, especially with the strong puke smell.
Then it quiets down. Maureen is doing most of the talking. I don’t pay attention.
After a few minutes, all the county and state cops, except Fred and Marcus, troop out from the boat’s cabin, stumbling over each other in their haste to escape the death scene. Some have handkerchiefs over their mouths to ward off the smell. Ricketts, one of the last out, glares at me with open hostility.
“You’re a regular Typhoid Mary, ain’t you, Tullis?” she dry-spits. “If I had my way, I’d bring you up on charges of obstructing justice.” She sloshes her way across the deck and gingerly climbs down onto the dock.
The Prince Georges and King James contingents get in their cars and take off. A short while later, Fred and Marcus come up from below. Marcus walks over to me. He’s angry, too.
“I’m out of it. You should’ve brought me in earlier,” he rebukes me. “You and my cousin had a deal.”
I’m too wasted to say anything.
“This is federal. I’m superseded.” He cracks his knuckles. His hands are big—he could palm a basketball like it was a grapefruit. “You had no idea what the fuck you were into, did you?”
I shake my head no.
“You’re a lucky sonofabitch, I hope you know that,” he says. “By rights you should be the dead motherfucker in there, instead of that dead motherfucker.”
I get his point, but I don’t feel lucky. I just killed a man. He deserved killing, but that doesn’t make me feel better.
Marcus puts one of his meathooks on my shoulder. “I thought I was ahead of the pack, but they caught up to me,” he says resignedly. “It’s okay. I’ll get my promotion anyway, she’ll see to that. I just won’t get the glory.” His face tightens. “No one will. Including you. This didn’t happen,” he says, his voice low.
“What didn’t happen?”
“None of it.” He cocks his head toward the cabin. “She’ll explain.”
His anger toward me has abated, now that he’s vented his spleen. He puts out a hand. I take it.
“I’m sorry about your mother, man. Be thankful you aren’t joining her.”
He walks away from me. I look at Fred, who’s been watching us but staying out of it. He and Marcus walk the length of the dock, get into his car, and drive away.
• • •
Shortly after Fred and Marcus leave, two of the federal agents emerge from below with a lumpy body bag slung over their shoulders. They strap the body into the back of one of the vans, drive away.
The noise of an incoming helicopter cuts through the sounds around the boat. I look up as it banks for a landing, disappearing behind the low hills at the other end of the property. A few moments later, a black Range Rover arrives from the direction of the tarmac. James Roach gets out of the passenger side. He’s wearing a raincoat over a tuxedo—he must have been summoned here from some fancy diplomatic function. A couple of bodyguards emerge from the backseat, flank him tightly.
Roach says something to one of the remaining cops on duty. The officer nods, points toward the boat. Roach turns and looks. And sees me, standing on the deck like a beacon, staring at him.
Although we’re fifty yards from each other, I can see the fear in his face. For a moment, we’re locked into each other. Then he braces himself, walks down the deck to the boat, and jumps aboard. Even though he’s wearing patent leather pumps with slick soles he strides manfully across the wet surface over to me.
“You’ve overstepped your boundaries for the last time,” he tells me in anger. “I’m going to have you arrested and see that the book is thrown at you.”
I almost laugh in his face. “Jesus Christ, man, is that all you can come up with at this late date? The best defense is a strong offense? Like back there at the State Department, with your phony scare tactics of the collapse of civilization because I shot a lousy roll of film?” I shake my head. “Nice try, but no cigar this time.”
“You still don’t know who you’re fucking with, do you?”
I hold my ground. “Oh, yes. I know exactly who I’m fucking with.”
He’s trying to put up a good front, not only for me, but for the rest of those who are here, Maureen and the other federal cops, as well as everyone who’s going to be involved in this, up and down the line—but a blind man could see through his transparent facade. This fucker is scared shitless. As well he should be. If nothing else positive comes out of this disaster, this bastard is going down.
“We’ll see how this plays out,” he says tightly.
“You’re fucking-aye right we’ll see. You really are a one-eyed jack, you son of a bitch, but I can see the other side of your face now. And so can everyone else.”
He glares at me once more, trying one last time to break me by the force of his will. But this time, I don’t back down—I’m standing toe-to-toe against him. Tonight I’ve found a strength I didn’t know I had. And despite all the horrors that have gone down, I have to feel good about that.
Roach feels it—it overwhelms him. He turns away, walks off the boat, and goes back to his car, where he immediately gets on his cell phone.
For the moment, I’m alone on the deck. A wave of exhaustion hits me, a release of the tension that’s built up all these fearful hours. I sag, grabbing a shroud for support.
I’ve had enough for tonight. I cross over to the side of the yacht where my canoe is still where I tied it up. I climb over the edge of the deck, lower myself into the little boat, untie my line, and begin paddling away. In less than a minute I’m back in the shelter and safety of the swamp.
• • •
My mother’s house feels more like a tomb than ever. After I brush my teeth and gargle with mouthwash to try and get rid of the barf taste, I grab a cold six-pack from the refrigerator and take it outside, where I sit on the front porch under the wide awning. I drink one brew straightaway, in four long gulps. It helps, but not enough. I crack the second one.
The phone rings several times, but I don’t answer it. It’s probably Maureen, but I don’t want to talk to anyone now, especially her. I want to be alone, to wallow in my sorrow and self-pity. I’ve earned it.
Some time later—I’m unaware how long, I haven’t moved from my spot, but it must be several hours later, I’ve gone through the entire six-pack plus a couple belts of bourbon—a car comes up my road, throwing bits of oyster shell and fresh mud. It’s a government car, a beige Ford Taurus. It stops in front. Maureen gets out.
A large bandage covers her battered eye and cheek. She stands there, feet spread apart, looking up at me with her working eye.
“We have to talk, Fritz. You can’t avoid me.”
“What about?”
“Everything,” she says firmly. “I know you’re angry as hell with me right now, but we have to talk. Can we go inside?”
I’m too weak to resist. “Come on.”
She reaches into the car and grabs a bulky briefcase, then walks up the porch steps and lets herself into the house. I follow her into the living room and sit down on one of the old down-filled couches. Maureen pulls off her wet shoes, sits opposite me.
The tension between us is excruciating. “You want to talk, Maureen—or whoever you really are—go ahead, talk.”
She fidgets in her seat, takes another moment to compose herself. “You might not believe this,” she begins, “but I was going to come clean yesterday. Tell you who I am for real, everything.”
I shrug. “Easy to say now.”
“It’s true. Except Flaherty got the jump on me.” Her face contorts into a scowl. “I let my guard down. I was thinking about you, instead of my business. It almost got both of us killed.” She looks at me. “I’m sorry.”
I stare at her. “For openers, who are you?”
My bluntness catches her up. She hesitates for a moment before answering. “Well, I’m not Maureen O’Hara. Nor am I a professor at Harvard. I’m not a professor anywhere.”
“I already know that. I met the real professor.”
“When?” she asks in surprise.
“Yesterday.” I glance at the clock on the mantel. It’s way past midnight. “Technically, the day before that.” Christ, yesterday seems like a century ago.
“In Boston?”
I nod.
“You went there to check up on me? I thought you trusted me.” She actually sounds hurt, as if I did her an injustice.
That’s a joke. But it isn’t funny now.
“I did trust you. I had a job interview at a college nearby,” I explain. “I thought I’d drop in and surprise you.” My laugh is hollow. “Guess who the surprise was on.”
She grimaces. “I told them I shouldn’t use a real person’s name,” she laments. “But they insisted, in case you decided to check up on me. Which backfired, as I was afraid it would.”
“Who’s they? And who are you, for real? If you know how to be real.”
“I know how to be real,” she answers. “But I couldn’t be, in this situation.”
She rearranges herself on the couch. She’s having a hard time with this. I’m glad. Why should I be the only one to suffer?
She clears her throat. “My name is Vanessa Gardner. I’m originally from Chicago. I went to Southern Illinois University, got my degree in criminology, then went to Northwestern Law School. Now I live in Alexandria, Virginia.”
She looks away for a moment, then brings her eyes back to meet mine. “I’m a special agent with the Justice Department. In plain words, a cop. As Flaherty told you.”
“Don’t remind me. Married, too, no doubt.”
“No, I’m single. That part wasn’t a lie.”
“The only one, I’ll bet.”
“Not the only one. But that’s for later.” She sounds like she’s in pain. I know I am. “I used you, Fritz. I hated doing it, especially after I got to know you. But I had to. It’s my job.”
“Fucking over people.”
She doesn’t flinch. “Sometimes that can’t be avoided.”
I look away in disgust.
“Do you want to know what happened, and why?”
“Does it matter?”
“I think it does.” She hesitates. “It matters to me.”
I’m in heavy denial. “I wish this could all go away. I wish I could wake up and find this was all a bad dream.”
“Me, too. You don’t know how much I wish that.”
I sigh wearily, lean back. God, I’m exhausted. “Go ahead,” I tell her.
Outside, the sky is awash with stars, now that the rain’s passed. Through the open windows I can smell the heavy summer fragrances, powerful after a cleansing rain. Under different circumstances, there’s no other place I’d rather be, and no other person I’d rather be with. But that was in my old life.
She begins her story.
“The Justice Department had been keeping tabs on Flaherty while he was still in prison. We were sure he was doing business from inside, but we could never get enough physical evidence to do anything about it. After he was released, we intensified our surveillance. We were pretty sure he was working on something big, and that it was coming fast. But we still didn’t have the real goods on him.”
She takes a photograph from her briefcase, hands it to me: Putov, the murdered Russian diplomat.
“Is he familiar to you? Was,” she corrects herself.
“Don’t play games with me. You know he is.”
She flushes. “As I assume you also know, he was a top-ranking diplomat in the Russian delegation to this country. What you don’t know is that he was also a key figure in one of the Russian Mafias. Russia’s totally corrupt, no matter what nice propaganda you read in the papers, from our side or theirs. Everything’s for sale, and everybody can be bought. Up to and including jet airplanes, submarines, even enriched plutonium.”
She shifts position again—I’ve never seen her ill at ease like this. I hope it’s not only because of the deception; I’d like to think there’s some feeling involved. But I don’t know; it’s probably wishful thinking. Despite everything, I can’t help feeling like this—you can’t turn love on and off like a spigot. I’m sure she’s also in considerable pain, from the beatings Flaherty gave her.
“We became aware of Putov’s criminal connections a long time ago,” she goes on, “and we’d been shadowing him. It took over a year of hard work, but we were finally putting the pieces of the puzzle together. We knew that Putov and Flaherty had done business with each other before Flaherty went to jail. Never directly, always through third parties, which is how it’s almost always done. It’s a closed shop, what they do, particularly at their level—people only do business with people they do business with, and if you’re not inside the business, you’re out of luck. Flaherty was one of the people who does business.”
She pauses, then continues. “As soon as Flaherty got out, he and Putov set up a new deal. Putov was involved in arming a clandestine rebel faction that was comprised of Russian hardliners who wanted to return to the old ways. Real Neanderthals,” she says with a scowl. “You’d be surprised how many old-liners, even today, still think Communism is better. Give them their quart of vodka and they’re happy.”
She glances at the photograph. “Flaherty had the money connections from all over the world, and Putov had the buyers. It was a deal made in heaven—their kind of heaven. For Flaherty, it was one last big payoff, after all those years he spent in jail. He was going to go out in a blaze of glory.”
She shifts in her chair again. “We had a tap on Putov’s phone,” she continues. “We had to be careful, because he had diplomatic immunity, so we couldn’t mess with him too much, and our relations with the Russians haven’t been very good the past few years.”
She brings her hand to her battered face, winces at the touch.
“Do you want something for that?” I ask.
She shakes me off. “Later, after I’ve told you everything.” She sits back. “Our surveillance paid off. We learned about when he and Flaherty were going to do this deal. But we couldn’t make a move on them until it actually went down. We had to catch them in the act. So we were watching and waiting.”
“Then what possibly could have gone wrong?” I ask caustically—this sounds like one more government fuckup, such as the ones I’ve been living with.
Before she answers, I get up and walk over to the sideboard, pour myself a generous shot of bourbon. I don’t offer her a drink. I take a sip. It goes down like liquid fire.
&
nbsp; “What happened was,” she says, pressing on doggedly, ignoring my rantings, “at the last minute Putov decided to cut Flaherty out. No honor among thieves, the usual old story. But Flaherty got wise, and the deal was iced. Which left Flaherty crazed—he knew that would have been the scheme of a lifetime for him. So he was out for blood.”
“Putov’s.”
She nods. “For a while, everything was flat-line. Then Flaherty, who as you know all too well was a crafty son of a bitch, got back in touch with Putov, told him he wanted to construct another deal, that he would make it worth more for Putov, bygones would be bygones. Business takes precedence over personal egos, he reminded Putov. Putov thought it over, and agreed to move forward with it. Nothing motivates more than greed to people like them.”
She rubs one bare foot against the other, tucks both of them under her. I sip my drink, listening.
“Except Putov didn’t trust Flaherty, for good reason. He was scared he’d run out his string and would be busted, with no payoff and heavy jail time. So, being the double-crossing little bastard that he was, he came to us, offered to work undercover. He’d set it up so there would be hard evidence against Flaherty, and he’d walk him right to us. In exchange, we’d wink at his transgressions. He could go back to Russia or anywhere he wanted and retire on his dividends.”
She clenches her teeth, shaking her head in frustration. “It wasn’t perfect—if we had Putov and Flaherty both it would have put a huge hole in the Russian underworld’s operations in this country, and we’d have Flaherty, too. But it was still a good deal. Their transaction would be in the toilet, Putov would be out of our hair, and Flaherty would rot in jail for the rest of his life.”
She massages her temples. I’m tempted to get up and do it for her; but I resist the impulse.
“We agreed to let Putov work undercover for us,” she goes on. “It was risky, but we didn’t think we had a choice. We had him under close watch.” She exhales, a deep sigh. “Unfortunately, we underestimated Flaherty.”
“You lost track of Putov.”
She nods. “Flaherty spirited him away from us.” She shrugs her shoulders. “Mistakes happen. We aren’t perfect.”
Bird's-Eye View Page 39
