by Rick Mofina
Faker and Sid were believers.
They were also security agents for the network’s most important project. Their job was to ensure nothing threatened its success.
“Sid, there. See?”
On the passenger seat, under a corner of an open map, luggage tags from Graham’s carry-on bag peeked out, offering them his name and address. Quickly, they made notes, including the letters RCMP-GRC, which framed one of the tags.
The men then vanished into their vehicle some distance away but within sight of Graham’s car.
Behind the darkened windows of their vehicle they worked very fast on laptop computers, using search engines, news databases and Web sites.
Within minutes they learned the stranger who had visited Maggie Conlin was Daniel Graham, a corporal with the Royal Canadian Mounted Police in Canada. Graham was from Alberta and, according to news reports, part of the investigation into the sudden deaths of Ray Tarver, the reporter from Washington, D.C., and his family.
“They’re getting close,” Faker said. “We should alert our uncle.”
Faker reached for their satellite phone and in seconds his call bounced off satellites orbiting miles above the earth to a secured series of relays in Istanbul, Vienna, Prague, Casablanca, Lagos then to Addis Ababa.
The scrambled signal remained beyond the immedi ate reach of the NSA security net. When the call was answered in Africa, it was followed by a cryptic con versation in an ancient language.
“Hello, uncle, this is your nephew in California.”
“Yes, and how is the family?”
“They’re fine for now, but we have some news. We may not be able to go forward with the event. A stain has been found on Grandmother’s carpet.”
A few moments of silence passed before Faker con tinued.
“Uncle, we’re getting close to the event, Grand mother would be disappointed if something went wrong. We suggest we attempt removal of the stain.”
Several beats of silence passed.
“Uncle, do you agree?”
47
Riverside, California
Graham wheeled into the Chrome Coast Truck Center near the edge of the interstate with his duty and in stincts at war.
He was torn.
Maggie’s pain had got to him.
It obliterated the distance that should be kept between a cop and a victim and led to his promise to help her. Graham put in a call to Novak with the D.C. police, asked him for a favor with a check through NCIC. Novak came through for him.
Now, as Graham sized up the truck center, he wondered if his sympathy for Maggie had blinded him. Was he sticking his neck out, becoming entangled in a domestic case because he felt sorry for Maggie Conlin? Or was he here because he couldn’t leave the Tarver case with so many questions unanswered?
Either way, he’d defied orders.
The center’s service office door opened onto repair bays with air smelling of rubber and diesel, and echoing with the clank of steel tools and compressors. Some where a radio was playing “On The Road Again.”
A tanned, bald man wearing a smock with Bruno Krall, Manager, embroidered over his heart, ended a call when Graham stepped to the counter.
“Can I help you?”
“I’m looking for Mac Sullivan.”
“Mac, Mac,” the manager said, squinting at his computer screen. “He’s on a job. Can I help you with anything?”
“A buddy told me Mac had a line on a truck I was interested in. I’m only in town for today. Just needed a minute or two with him.”
“Charlie!” the manager called through the doorway to the repair floor.
“Yo!”
“Tell Mac to clock out and come to the counter.”
The radio had started another song, “Wichita Line man,” by the time a man with a Vandyke, red bandana and wearing grease-stained coveralls arrived.
“This guy’s looking for you.”
Intense blue eyes carried a question to Graham.
“Hey, Mac. Dan Graham. A friend told me you might have a line on a rig I’m interested in.” Graham nodded to the lot. “Can I show you some information I have on my laptop in my car?”
Sullivan looked at his manager.
“Ten minutes, Mac. Go.”
In the car, Graham showed Sullivan his badge and photo ID.
“What’s this? You’re a cop? A Mountie?”
Six Seconds 293
“That’s right. Your boss doesn’t know. Yet. You help me and I’m gone and he never needs to know.”
“Help you with what? You’re from Canada, right? I don’t know nobody in Canada.”
“You know Jake Conlin.”
“What about him?”
“Four Americans were killed in my jurisdiction. In my review of the case, Jake Conlin’s name came up.”
“You think Jake killed people in Canada?”
“I didn’t say that. But I’m pretty sure you know where he is.”
“What makes you think that?”
“Let’s shift gears for a bit.” Graham opened his notebook. “I did some checking and I understand you’ve got a stolen truck parts beef in Texas?”
“That was put on me and that was ten years ago.”
“Mac, I need you to understand that I don’t have time to waste. I have four deaths. I’ve come to you for help. Are you going to obstruct me in my duty?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Conlin’s name came up. I need to locate him. Now, you can help me the easy way, point me anonymously and truthfully in the right direction. Or I can ask the county sheriff and the FBI to help me with warrants for your personal phone records, computer records, includ ing work here, the whole deal. Say we find you’re involved in extracurricular action. We get another warrant. Gets kinda unpleasant.”
“You can’t do that, you’ve got no jurisdiction for that.”
“I just call the locals, make a request through the D.A. Countries have these things called international treaties and agreements.”
294 Rick Mofina
Sullivan began stroking his beard, taking inventory of the rigs on the lot, seeing nothing but his own des perate thoughts. Graham prodded him a bit.
“As I understand it, Mac, you know people who saw
Conlin and a woman in Bakersfield, or Las Vegas.” “Guys come in the shop and bullshit all the time.” “This is how you want to play things? I’m running out of time.”
Sullivan looked hard at Graham then swallowed. “I don’t know nothing about what he’s been doing since he left, you got that?”
“We’re clear on that. I’m sure that if I need to seize your phone and computer records, that will be con firmed.”
“Hold on, I’m cooperating.”
“Keep going.”
“Before he left, Jake came to me, swore me to secrecy, said his old lady had cheated on him when he was driving in Iraq and he was going to split with his boy and start over. He asked about selling or trading his rig and keeping it off the books.”
“Keeping it off the books?”
Sullivan shrugged. “Guess he didn’t want her chas ing him for support. Maybe he had another woman he was seeing, I don’t know.”
“Let me enlighten you. What Jake did was a parental abduction. He committed a crime. Now, you could be considered as a person who aided him in his offense.
Does that help you remember anything else?” “Son of a- What do you want from me?” “Did Jake Conlin sell or trade his truck?” “I believe he did a deal with Desert Truck Land.”
“Where’s that?”
“Las Vegas.”
“With who? I need a name there.”
Sullivan rubbed his chin.
“This doesn’t come from me?”
“A name.”
“Dixon. Spelled with an X, I think, I’m not sure.” “That a last name?”
“Yes.”
“And Dixon’s first?”
“Karl, I think.”
“Karl with a K?”
“I think so.”
“Karl with a K, Dixon with an X. Thank you.” “Tell me how in hell did you find out?”
“I don’t give up sources. Now, if Karl Dixon doesn’t exist, or if he should learn of my interest in advance, in any way, I’ll automatically request those warrants and note your role.”
“And if you get what you need?”
“You’ll never hear from me again.”
“Good.”
“Of course, I don’t speak for local law enforcement.” “Are you shittin’ me? I cooperated with you.” “Just a little something to keep in mind, if I need more help, Mac.”
48
Seattle, Washington
Samara’s concentration bounced from her printed Internet map, to the van’s GPS, then down the street. “There it is.”
She pointed for Jake, who was driving.
“I’m not blind.”
“I wasn’t implying you were.” She folded her papers.
“You’ve been so reticent. What’s troubling you?” “I’ve got a headache coming on,” he lied. And she knew it.
The strip mall came into view.
It was a plain, single-story square, sheltered by two tall madronas. It offered half a dozen glass storefronts: a nail salon, a pet shop, a check-cashing outlet, a res taurant, a chiropractor’s office and Samara’s objective:
Top Line Men’s amp; Women’s Alterations.
Earlier that week, Samara said she needed a break and wanted to get away. At the same time she’d con cluded that she didn’t have anything appropriate to wear for the papal visit and she pressed Jake to take her to Seattle. Top Line was known for designing and making the best handcrafted suits on the west coast. Rush orders were their specialty.
Given that he drove all over the country for a living, the prospect of a long jaunt from Cold Butte through the Rockies to Seattle and back on his time off didn’t appeal to Jake. But the trip to Seattle was not the real problem. His doubts about Samara, about what he’d done, were slowly eating away at him.
Samara was intent on going to Seattle and had offered to share the driving. She suggested they make a holiday weekend of it, see some sights, take in a ball game.
Logan jumped on that.
Anything to escape his boring prairie prison.
Jake was outvoted.
Samara made an appointment and they set off to journey through a time zone so she could get a tailormade suit.
Was the fuss about clothes a British thing?
What the hell, Jake shrugged it off. We’re talking about meeting the pope. And the school had sent out a notice re quiring children, families and staff to wear their “Sunday best” for the pope’s event in the school. They’d stayed at a motel last night. Got up early, and now, here they were.
“I’m just going in to be measured. You two wait at the restaurant. If I’m not out in forty-five minutes, come for me. Then we’ll spend the day seeing the sights. Go to Pike’s, then the game.”
“Sure,” Jake said.
Samara looked at him for a moment then left.
“Dad.” Logan’s attention was on the pet shop win dow. “Before we go to the restaurant, can we go to the pet store and look at the parrots?”
“Okay, pal.”
After the pet store, which reeked, Jake and Logan sat in a booth in the diner, where Logan drank chocolate milk and read the comics in the Seattle Times. Jake had coffee while pretending to read the sports pages.
The truth was he was wrestling with discontent that verged on resentment. The fire between Samara and him had cooled. She’d grown distant, preoccupied with work, her online correspondence courses, her late-night calls to her friends all over the world. Even on this trip, she’d devoted much of her time to her laptop, as if he and Logan weren’t there.
Peering into his coffee, he again questioned his deci sion to leave Maggie. Had he thought this deal through? What sort of future did they have with Samara?
He didn’t know.
“Dad, is it time for us to go get her?”
“Not yet, son, we just got here.”
Bells chimed over the transom when Samara en tered the shop.
A man in his forties was on the phone, behind the counter. A U.S. flag was pinned to the wall above the counter. The man was wearing a navy vest and a white shirt with rolled sleeves; a measuring tape was collared around his neck. He interrupted his call for his customer.
“I’m Samara,” she said. “I have an appointment.”
“Oh, yes. Please look around, I’ll be with you shortly. My daughter will help you. Jasim!”
A pretty young girl emerged from the back to guide her through the shop’s offerings. It was crammed, floor to ceiling with bolts of fabric, Egyptian cotton, Italian and British wools, cashmeres, silk charmeuse, chantilly lace. Samara flipped through sample books until the man ended his call.
“Apologies, Samara, I’m Benny.”
He was a master tailor, originally from London, where his father had created suits on Savile Row.
“I understand you were also born in London. I believe we have mutual friends.”
“That’s true. Our uncles know each other.”
As they shook hands, she noticed his sharp, brown eyes.
“You’d like us to create a suit for a very big occasion.”
“Yes.”
“A rush job, you said?”
“Unfortunately, yes.”
“Not a problem. It’s my pleasure to help. Allow me to show you what I’ve started since your call.”
Benny opened a well-used notebook to show her sketches of a three-piece suit-a jacket, skirt and camisole ensemble.
“Simple understated elegance,” he said.
The jacket would have princess seams, and ribbontrimmed faux-flap pockets. The skirt would be cut below the knee, fully lined, with side zipper and ribbon detail. The camisole would be satin.
“All in taupe.” He held up a sample. “Yes, it works for you. Come to the mirrors and I’ll get some measure ments.”
During Benny’s measuring, note taking and small talk about life in Montana, their eyes found each other in the reflection.
“This is a monumental event, Samara.” He’d lowered his voice. “Are you nervous?”
“No. Are you?”
“No. I’m honored to be part of it.”
“What fabric are you suggesting?”
“A new import I just got in via New York from Africa. It’ll be excellent.”
The transom bells chimed as Jake and Logan arrived.
“Be right with you, gentlemen.”
“They’re here for me,” Samara said. “That’s Jake and his son, Logan.”
Benny greeted them.
“Welcome, welcome.”
Jake appraised Benny, then the large U.S. flag and framed photos of U.S. troops in desert combat dress above the counter caught his attention.
“You know people overseas?” Jake said.
“Friends. Clients for graduations and weddings. Got to support the guys,” Benny said. “As you and Samara know, it’s difficult for the people still over there.”
Jake nodded.
“So, Logan, Samara tells us you’re going to meet the pope. You must be thrilled beyond measure?”
“It’s cool, I guess.”
“Very cool. Jake, you must be so proud.”
“It’s a once-in-a-lifetime deal, for sure.”
“Would you like us to make you a suit for the occasion, Dad?”
“Me? No, I mean I couldn’t afford-”
“I’ll give you a very deep discount, out of respect for your contribution overseas.”
“How did you know about that?”
“Samara and I were chatting.”
Jake nodded, glanced round the shop.
“That’s kind of you. But I’m good in that department. Got a suit that does the job. I’m not inclined to wear one much.”
“I see, but a hand
-cut suit would fit like a dream. Are you certain you wouldn’t like one?”
“I’m sure.”
“How about young Logan? How would you like to be the sharpest dressed kid to meet the pope in Montana?”
“I don’t know.” He looked to his dad. “I got a shirt and a tie. I don’t like to get all dressed up.”
“Permit me. Let’s try something.” Benny assessed Logan, then selected a small blazer from a rack and held it open so Logan could slip it on.
“Now that fits nicely,” Benny said, then positioned Logan for some quick expert measurements. “Tell you what. I’ll make Logan a suit at no charge.”
“Free?” Jake asked.
“Free.”
“Why?”
“To have my work be part of history would be payment enough,” Benny said, smiling.
Jake looked to Logan.
“Would you like a free suit made just for you, son?”
Logan shrugged. “Guess that would be okay.”
“Terrific.” Benny got more measurements. “I’ll start work on your outfits immediately. We’re very fast here.”
Samara hugged Benny.
They spent the rest of the morning downtown at Pike Place, Pioneer Square, then they went up into the Space Needle. It was about six when they made it to Safeco and got tickets behind home plate, above the press box, for the Mariners’ home night game against Cleveland.
Nine innings and several hot dogs later they returned to the motel. They were exhausted from a long day of fun and were just settling in when Samara’s cell phone rang.
It was Benny. The suits were done.
Within thirty minutes he’d delivered them personally to the motel, apologizing for the late hour.
Logan was exhausted but Jake helped him try the suit on. It was perfect. Then, in the awkward moments Samara was in the bathroom trying hers on, Logan fell asleep watching Jaws on TV and Jake thanked Benny for going out of his way to save them driving time in the morning.
Samara’s suit also fit perfectly.
It looked good, in fact. Samara grabbed her purse before she stepped outside to see Benny off.
Jake could hear them outside the door.
