He dialed out on the new/used telephone.
“Finn,” came the voice.
“It’s Ray, I’ve got some of the information here for you.”
“Sorry, hold on, there’s a lot of… noise… hang tight. Alright, so you’ve got the credit card stuff… bank stuff?” He was breathing hard. In the background he heard Tonic say, “You’re the one making all of the noise Grandpa.”
“Yeah, I’m at the office.”
“Whose office?”
“At the just across from your desk office,” Ray said. He’d learned quickly that there was never any telling just where a conversation with James Finny might lead. He sat back and the leather chair complained with a shriek.
He heard it echo in the telephone a half second later.
“How do you like the… new desk?” Finn said into his cell phone, and to Ray’s back. The two detectives stood there behind Ray smiling, having come up the stairs in a half–hearted effort at stealth and treachery.
“It’s very nice,” Ray said as he kicked off of the desk and swiveled around to face them. He still held the telephone, and the cord twisted around his neck.
“Consider it a ghetto promotion,” Tonic said and handed over yet another brown bag with a darker, greasy bottom so often indicative of mishandled Chinese food.
Ray struggled out of the cord and the three of them sat down to eat.
“Okay, so tell us what you’ve got,” Finn said as he pulled up a chair to the monolith.
“Okay. The bad news first. I don’t have the first clue how to make doctors talk. I didn’t turn up anything on the whole vaccinations thing.”
“Yeah,” Tonic said. "Doctors are real fuckers about stuff like that, even if you can corner ‘em for the twenty seconds it would take to ask. We just wanted to see if you could do it.”
“Thanks. What’s the secret?” Ray looked between the two. “I spent two hours and got nothing.”
“Call the guy’s dentist,” Finn said, mouth full of egg–roll. “They have access to lots of stuff and if you attack it from the whole cloak and dagger angle, most of those guys are so bored with capping teeth that they’ll step up.”
Tonic added, “Plus, they almost never yell at you. Dentists are nice.”
“Credit cards?” Finn asked.
“Yeah,” Ray pushed over the stack of info he’d printed out. "It’s all real tedious until yesterday.”
“How so?” Finn asked. He picked up the stack and worked from the bottom up.
“He spent like forty grand on computers yesterday, oh… and the check cleared for the preacher at the hospital.”
“Fuck me,” Tonic said.
“Yeah and that’s not all,” Ray said, “I think he bought a car.”
“Africa is a hella long road trip,” Tonic said.
“No shit. What kind of car?”
“I don’t know yet. A big black one with dark windows, but how many of those things are there around here? I called the dealer and they’re calling back. I also called the bank and they said it was financed for 50k down and payments out to twenty–four months. Something like a two–hundred thousand dollar car.”
“Smart,” Tonic said.
“Why?”
“Anymore if you buy a car outright, a dealer will give you a good once over with the police, ‘specially around this city. Call the dealer back, ride his ass. If he bought a car like that, he might have a tracking system… and if so, well, it won't take long to serve someone with a request for his current location, eh?"
"It's got to have GPS…." Ray started.
Tonic was looking at hands. "No, not GPS. It's passive. You can't track people like in the movies. But a two hundred thousand dollar ride might have an anti–theft tracking system… that could be useful. Worth checkin'."
“He went to a pet store?” Finn turned the printout so that everyone could see it.
“Yeah,” Ray said. "And after that he bought himself a few cell phones. I’ve got all of the numbers. Oh, and he went to a toy store too, look. God knows what else, he’s got the cash.”
“What a weird son of a bitch," Tonic said.
"Can't we track them anyhow… the phones I mean?" Ray asked.
"Yes and no," Finn said, still reading. "A network knows which mast a phone is connected to, which would be lovely if we were in New Mexico, but the overlap here in D.C. is rather… redundant. And if he's moving, forget it. The lag between what the network sees and what we get is just too long."
Ray nodded, “Okay, the pet store I haven’t called yet. I figured maybe he had a goldfish or something, stocking up since he was leaving, but yeah, he bought five different phones, a thousand minutes each give or take, and from three different providers. All local plans, I checked.”
“That’s the funky kind of sneaky,” Tonic said. “He’s gotta know that we can get his records if we want. Maybe he figures we’re not that far along yet. Fuck… maybe we aren’t, but it’s really like he doesn’t care what we know or not. We sure as hell can find out where he’s been, and seriously, who has the scratch for that kind of car on a whim? Maybe he’s freakin’ out.”
“Maybe,” Finn pinched the bridge of his nose. "Anything at all on his computer?”
“Doesn't matter. Someone came and got it last night,” Hopkins said as he walked up. He put his hand on the back of Ray’s new chair. “About three in the morning from what I hear. NSA guys. But whatcha gonna do. If they want somethin’ in this town now, they get it. Period. It’s national security, and you sure as hell don’t want to go to condition magenta just because you want to solve a murder.”
“Triple murder.”
“Yup,” Hop patted the chair. He did a double take. “I’ve got one just like this, too bad I never get to sit in the damn thing. Hey, gimme an egg–roll you ungrateful bastards.” He rummaged through the sack, came away with two, and left.
“Well shit,” Tonic said. The computer had been a nice ploy to sneak into Ray's head, and make him feel like a part of the team; it was distantly troubling though, that NSA was coming out of it's cube and playing in their backyard.
"Good work on tracking all this shit down. I hope you gave out your cell phone number.”
Ray’s eyes narrowed, “Why?”
“Because you’re coming with us, Rambo,” Finn stood.
Ray looked to Tonic for help. "Aren’t I more… valuable here at my new desk?”
“Not even close. Com’on. We’ve got a meeting in Beirut.”
“I should call my wife,” Ray said.
“Not really,” Tonic said as he stood. “Hey you gotta gun?”
“A gun?”
“Ah well, that’s probably better anyway,” Finn said. He took the last egg–roll for the road.
Chapter Twenty–Three
In situ
“Why the fuck haven’t you called me?” Hack contained his outrage, but not before he’d made a point. “I’m running out of ideas here and my website is getting hit like four times a second. Everyone’s leaning on me for new shit and you’re jerking off playing cop.”
“It’s been busy here.”
“I’ll tell you about fucking busy, you little shit,” Hack said.
“Calm down.”
“What?”
“Calm down,” Ray repeated.
“Don’t tell me to calm down you….” The line went dead. “Ungrateful little prick…” Hack said through gritted teeth. He'd actually broken two of teeth in this way. He picked the phone up on the first ring. “Don’t ever do that again.”
“Irving, listen. You’re hitting your sources so hard that the cops are going to know it’s me. Someone actually called for me here today. It had to be one of your other people. These guys aren’t inept, far from....”
“Oh Jesus Christ,” Hack fumed. “Get your head out of your ass. Kid, how long have you been doing this?” Hack selected a new pencil. He’d splintered the other one, though he didn’t remember doing so.
“Two months.�
�
“And how long have I been doing this?” Hack waited until he heard the kid take a breath to answer and then cut him off. “Fifty fucking years. I know what I’m talking about. It doesn’t matter what is real and what isn’t, it’s about what sells copy. You want to make it in this line of work, you’re going to have to get that through your head.”
“I didn’t sign on to learn how to write for a tabloid, Irving, and I sure as hell don’t want these guys on my ass,” Ray said.
“Get it straight, kid. The tabloids invent stories. I use the facts and let the public decide.”
“Oh bullshit.”
“Do you want a job or not?”
“Not like this.”
Hack tossed away another broken pencil. "Listen, I’m sorry about being rough on you. You’re a bright kid, and obviously…” he groped for a line. "Obviously…obviously you’re passionate about what you do.”
No response.
“Still there Ray?”
“I’m here.”
“Okay, how about if I start fronting you some of the cash that you've earned in the trenches. How about your first five grand now?” Cash always worked when they started getting overly moral. He’d played this kid hard, maybe it was time to toss him some chips before he folded entirely.
“Ray?”
"I'll think about it."
Chapter Twenty–Four
Inarch
Seth studied a phonebook map of D.C. upon which he’d highlighted an area of roughly twenty blocks worth of real estate. He picked an intersection right in the middle and programmed it into the car’s navigation system. There were no rebukes, only a calm, “Your route is in the displayed direction.” Whatever that meant.
Seth rechecked everything: the things he would need in the next twelve hours, and those he would need over the next few days if things worked according to plan. It took him an hour, and he fought with the excitement of getting moving, of setting out to do what he planned to do. The excitement. Insanity, he realized, was little more than crossing a line, looking back, and knowing that life could never be the same again. And not caring.
If he succeeded today, it would become something larger than his own life. If not, he’d be dead. It was a win/win.
He changed into the five thousand dollar suit Whit had sent along. He knotted a golden double Windsor, and unsatisfied, did it again, brushed the lint off of the fabric, and looked at himself in the car’s window. He looked like his dad.
He drove toward the city and took time to stop for a Quarter–Pounder, a sandwich he’d loved as a kid but banned from his diet since Jenny’s birth. The smell of the thing made the memories well up inside of him. Jenny wouldn’t have the chance to enjoy one. No more snowmen, no more zoos, there would be no first diving trip for his little girl. No boyfriends. Children. Nothing.
The burger didn’t taste like much, but he ate it anyway. He dumped the trash and pulled out of the lot, careful not to exceed the speed limit despite the car’s urging. 13:22 the clock said. The time to destination counted down from twenty–four minutes. Almost. Almost.
Just twenty minutes later a pleasant female voice intoned, “You have arrived.”
It was almost two, which translated into just a few hours of daylight and then a whole bunch of unknowns. But then, Seth didn’t know how this would play out, only how it would end. He began a systematic search, starting in a box of four blocks and then expanding by one block each time he made a full circuit . Time was increasingly important.
As he pulled around a corner strewn with a half dozen tires, he saw it for the first time. 19 13 7. The same star shape, circled by the same numbers, the ones that adorned the wall in his old home. The ones that were on his family. The symbol was freshly emblazoned upon a greasy, overturned dumpster which now housed two men who sat back to back, staring at the walls rather than out at the weather.
He found the second one above a doorway. A third, on the corner two blocks away, entirely filled the octagon of a stop sign. Green on white. This was where he needed to be. He checked his map.
Seth’s eyes had become accustomed to the lengthening shadows, but when he looked up from marking the neatly folded map he nearly missed the two kids huddled behind a stoop about twenty feet away. Keeping out of the wind, probably. They watched him, and when he stayed put at the corner, they stood. One was in a red, goose–down jacket, the other in what amounted to a threadbare windbreaker. Both wore hats pulled down low, both were black.
Seth bit his lip. Tasted blood. The guy in red looked a lot like the kid that had tried to blow a hole in his chest.
He waited.
When they were within a few feet of his window, he let it down and looked up at their faces. Curious, cautious.
“Ballin’ ride,” one said.
“Gunna play?” the other asked when there was no response.
Seth stared at both saying nothing.
The kids seemed confused and traded a glance. "Ain’t got time for fuckin’ ‘round man, it’s cold as fuck. Com’on.”
“Get in,” Seth said. He looked back down at his map as if he didn’t have much time either. In fact, he didn’t.
“You one lost motherfucker,” one said, but they both stayed.
“Certainly at least one of you has a gun, right?”
Nothing, just stares form the two.
“So get in out of the cold, and let’s do some business. You’ll be right behind me, right?”
“Roll down the back, lemme see in,” the fluffy goose–down kid said.
Seth rolled it down and unlocked the door, "Get in.” He rolled up his own window, dismissing further argument.
They did. Both from one side, sliding across the seat and looking around the interior.
“Fuckin’ cold–ass ride.”
The kid in the down jacket pushed the agenda forward, "Straight up, whatcha want?”
“First thing’s first,” Seth said. He reached into the center console and felt them tense up. He produced a thin stack of perfectly flat bills, divided them evenly as they watched, and then handed them back just like he might have handed Jenny an ice cream cone. “That’s so you know I’m serious. We on the same page?”
He watched them in the mirror, count, recount. Each held five one hundred dollar bills. Recount. “Yeah, we’s with ya man.”
“How much did I give you?” he asked.
“A grand.”
“And how much of that do you have to turn in to whoever you sell for?”
“We ain’t got no shit man,” one said.
“That’s not what I asked. Pay attention.”
Both were quiet.
“I asked, how much of that can you keep for yourselves?”
“All of it.”
“Right. Want more?”
“Yeah,” the threadbare kid said. "For what?”
Seth smiled at him in the mirror. "The only thing that’s worth anything is information.”
“We ain’t snitches.”
“What’s your name?” Seth asked, zeroing in on the goose–down kid.
“Fuck you.”
“You know who I am?” Seth watched in the mirror. The kid hesitated. “I’ll take that as a no, and I’ll call you Daisy. How about you?” he shifted his gaze to the other kid.
“Jonquez.”
“Nice to meet you Jonquez,” Seth said. "You want to do business?”
“Yep.”
“Hey me too, man,” Daisy said.
“Alright,” Seth said. "Then let’s cut through this bullshit. I’m not a cop, and I’m not your babysitter. I’m here because I want you to take me to the top of SMG. Can you tell that I’m serious?” He watched them, knowing that this could all be in vain if even one of his many guesses had been astray.
A loud whump on the hood interrupted the thought. Two teenagers were standing in front of the car, peering in through the front windshield. One of them said something, pointing past Seth and at Daisy. He slapped the hood again. Hard.
> “Shit shit,” Jonquez said.
“Stay cool man,” Daisy said. "It’s cool.”
“You know these guys?” Seth asked. He sounded irritated, but felt very little real emotion at all. In a detached sort of way it surprised him. This new data arrived, was sorted, and without so much as a jump in his pulse. He squinted at the two boys outside, then changed his gaze to the rearview and his two passengers.
“Widmore Crew,” Jonquez said, he looked around the car and then slumped in his seat. “We poachin’ a lil.”
“Poaching?” Seth looked in the mirror. Seth caught Daisy reaching into his coat, “Stop it, put it away.”
“Yous ‘bout to get capped,” Daisy said. “We's on they ground. That’s poachin’ dude.”
Another slap to the hood. A dent. The two stood defiantly, throwing up their arms and beckoning the boys out. One reached into his coat.
The big car surged forward. The kid reaching for his gun was struck first, and fell forward, his face landing short of the glass and impacting like a cannonball. His face and jaw didn’t realign as he rolled off into the street. The other, having a moment longer to react, took the front bumper at about knee level. He just folded in two and slid down out of view. Silence.
Seth put the car into reverse, backed up until he could see them both, and then waited. “Who’s at the top?”
“Suki,” Jonquez said. “You wanna talk to Suki.”
“Fine, where is he?”
“I dunno,” Jonquez lifted himself up on the seat so he could see the two on the street out front. One looked dead, his face crooked like he didn’t put it on straight that morning, the other one was writhing around on the ground, his legs folded up backwards like a dog's.
“What could you possibly not know Jonquez?” Seth asked. “Take me to him, you get enough cash to move off this fucking corner forever.”
Jury of Peers Page 13
