Wall of Night

by Grant Blackwood

  Asheville, North Carolina

  Armed with Beard’s description of Candy Kane’s car—A white Trans Am with two candy-cane decals on the windshield—Cahil drove downtown and found Rhino’s strip club. He walked inside, found a stool at the bar, and ordered a beer.

  Candy, an early twenties platinum blond with impossibly large breasts, was in the process of removing her red-and-white striped cowboy boots. She strutted about the stage, robotically grinding her hips to a rock-a-billy version of “Baby Got Back.” Her eyes were vacuous black holes. Meth or crack, Cahil thought.

  The crowd cheered and waved bills at her, and she moved down the line.

  “She’s popular, huh?” Cahil said to the bartender.

  “She’d be popular with a pumpkin on her head.”

  Cahil laughed. “How late is she here? I got a buddy from Durham who wants to see her act.”

  “She’ll be here to close. After that, it depends on who’s got the cash.”

  “That right?”

  “Yep. You interested?”

  “Nan, but maybe my friend. I’ll be back.”

  Outside, he followed the alley behind Rhino’s until he came to a small parking lot he assumed was for employees. Candy’s car was parked in the far slot. He memorized the license plate, returned to his truck, and dialed his cell phone.

  Oaken picked up on the second ring. “Hey, Bear, where are you?”

  “Asheville, outside a bar called Rhino’s.”

  “How nice for you. What’s up?”

  “I need a QMR.” In police jargon, QMR stands for Query Motor Vehicle Registration. Cahil recited the plate number. “She’s Sheldon’s girlfriend, I think.”

  “Give me five minutes, I’ll call you back.”

  Three minutes later Cahil’s phone chirped. “Hello?”

  “The plate belongs to a ninety-six Trans Am, owner is a Amanda Johnson,” Oaken said.

  “Also know as Candy Kane, exotic dancer at large.”

  “Very catchy. Please tell me the candy cane thing isn’t part of her act.”

  “I didn’t stay long enough to find out. You got an address?”

  The address took him to a trailer park in a town named Stony Knob, north of Asheville. The park was deserted except for five trailers, most of which looked abandoned. Darkened streetlights lined the dirt road. He found Candy/Amanda’s trailer and got out.

  Penlight in hand, he walked to the front door and repeated the procedure he’d used at Blanton Crossing. Once the door popped open, he stepped inside and shut it behind him. The smell of cigarettes and rotting food filled his nostrils.

  “Anybody home?” he called. “Hey. Mike, Amanda, you guys around?”

  No answer.

  He clicked on his penlight.

  The trailer was a disaster: Clothes strewn about, empty pizza boxes and food cartons, garbage cans brimming with trash. The kitchen sink overflowed with dirty dishes, above which hovered a cloud of flies. Two recliners patched with duct tape and a rickety card table were the only furniture. On the bedroom floor he found a grimy mattress; beside it lay a half-empty twenty-four-pack of condoms.

  “Christ Almighty,” Cahil muttered, and got to work.

  His search left him wishing for a decontamination shower. Worse still, he’d turned up nothing he could connect to Skeldon. There were dozens of men’s names and phone numbers scrawled on slips of paper and matchbook covers, but he assumed they were part of Candy’s rolo-trick.

  On impulse, he picked up the cordless phone and punched the Talk button. Instead of a steady dial tone, he got a punctuated one: She had voice mail. Doubting that Candy would have enough brain cells to remember her PIN, he rifled through the drawers, scanning notepads and scraps of paper until he found a Post-it note with “Phone: 9934” written on it. He punched in the code.

  Candy had three messages. The first sounded like a former client trying to arrange a date; the second was her mother. The third, which had been left just an hour earlier, sounded promising:

  “Mike, this is Lamar. Hey, I left you a couple messages last week, don’t know if you got ’em … Wondering maybe, y’know, if you got my money yet. Gimme a call. You know the number.”

  “I don’t,” Cahil muttered. He punched star sixty-nine, retrieved Lamar’s number, and jotted it down. He flipped open his cell phone and dialed the number. After five rings a voice said, “Yeah, what?”

  “This Lamar?” Cahil said.

  “Yeah, who’s this?”

  “My name’s John. I’m a friend of Mike’s; he asked me to give you a call.”

  Lamar coughed. “Yeah? Where’s Mike? I mean, is there something—”

  “Nothing’s wrong. Mike’s out of town. You guys have some business to clear up, he said. He asked me to float you some cash until he gets back.”

  “Oh, man, that would be great.”

  “Where are you?”

  Lamar gave him directions to his house in southeast Asheville.

  “Twenty minutes,” Cahil said.

  The house was indistinguishable from its neighbors: A whitewashed box home with a postage-stamp yard fronted by a chain-link fence. Cahil parked beside the mailbox labeled, “L. Sampson,” then pushed through the gate and walked to the porch.

  Before he could knock, the door jerked open. He reached behind him, palm on the butt of the Browning. A man in a tattered gray robe stood in the doorway. He was in his early forties with receding brown hair and wide, red-rimmed eyes. His hand trembled on the doorjamb.

  Alcoholic, Bear thought. Mike Skeldon certainly knew how to pick his friends.

  “You Jim?” Sampson asked.

  “John.”

  “Yeah, right. Umm … come on in.”

  The living room was carpeted in a pumpkin-orange shag that hurt Cahil’s eyes. A black-and-white TV flickered in front of a lime green couch. Sampson plopped down. “So …”

  Up until this point, Cahil had been winging it, following the trail where it took him. Now he had to choose carefully. How much did Sampson know about Skeldon’s work, and what was the best way to go at him? Judging from Lamar’s demeanor, he was a timid drunk with an opportunistic streak a mile wide. “We got a problem, Lamar.”

  “What?” Sampson squeaked. “What problem?”

  “Mike thinks you’re holding back on him.”

  Sampson stood up. “That’s crap! I did everything he asked! I gave him everything.”

  Cahil growled, “Sit down.”

  Lamar sat back down. “Hey, what about the other guy?”

  “What other guy?”

  “The other guy I hooked Mike up with! If anybody’s holding out, maybe it’s him.”

  “Give me his name.”

  “Stan Kycek!”

  “Who is he, what’s he do?”

  “I used to work with him; he’s a demolition guy—used to work mines.”

  What’s this? Cahil wondered. “Lamar, what do you do for a living?”

  “I work in a grocery store. I’m a bagger.”

  “Before that.”

  “I worked for the USGS.”

  USGS … ? It took a moment for Cahil to place the acronym: United States Geological Survey. “You’re a geologist?”

  “Was.”

  “And Kycek?”

  “Him, too. Dammit, I gave Mike everything! Oh, man …”

  “You’re sure you didn’t keep a little something for insurance?”

  Sampson looked at him, puzzled, and Cahil thought, Wrong path.

  “He said that?” Sampson said.

  “He wants to be sure. The people he’s working for aren’t exactly the forgiving sort.”

  “Hey, I did my part.”

  “Lamar, what do you say I tie you up, toss your place, and see what I find? If you’ve got something, you’d best tell me now. If you make me look for it, I’m not gonna be happy.”

  Sampson stared at his trembling hands. “Jesus,
Jesus …”

  Cahil felt sorry for the man, but there was no other way to do this. “Time’s up, Lamar.”

  “Okay, okay, listen, I wasn’t gonna do nothing with it. I just wanted to make sure Mike paid me, that’s all.” Sampson got up and walked into the next room, where a light clicked on.

  Cahil rested his hand on the Browning. “What’re you doing, Lamar?”

  “Just a second … hold on.”

  He returned carrying a shoe box. Cahil could see papers sticking out from under the lid. Sampson handed over the box. “I made copies of everything. But like I said, I wasn’t gonna use it. Talk to Mike, huh? Make him understand?”

  “Sure,” Cahil said.

  “Uh, you think maybe you could … you know. I need some groceries and stuff.”

  Cahil pulled a pair of hundred dollar bills from his wallet. “I’ll talk to Mike about the rest.”

  Sampson smiled nervously. “Yeah?”

  “We’ll see.” Cahil turned to leave, then stopped and nodded toward the box. “What is all this?”

  “The survey data. You know … all the stuff we collected.”

  “You and Mike and this Kycek.”

  “Kycek wasn’t there. I got no idea what Mike’s doing with him.”

  “Survey of what? From where?”

  Lamar barked out a laugh. “The asshole of the world, man: Siberia.”

  Cahil got Kycek’s address from Sampson, then warned him to stay off the phone, and drove to Kycek’s apartment on Olny Road. Deciding he’d worn out his “friend of Mike’s” routine, Cahil walked to the front door and pounded on the door. “Open up!”

  Thirty seconds later the door opened, revealing a man in his mid-forties with a beard, a potbelly, and sunken eyes. Soft, Cahil thought. Like Sampson, Kycek was another man beaten by life.

  Cahil flashed a counterfeit FBI badge at him. “Stan Kycek?”

  “Uh, yeah?”

  “FBI, Mr. Kycek, we need to talk.”

  Wide-eyed, Kycek let him in. “What’s … what’s going on?”

  “Do you know a man named Mike Skeldon?”

  “Uh, no, I don’t think so.”

  “That’s lie number one, Mr. Kycek. One more and you’re going to jail.”

  Kycek hesitated. “I know him through a friend.”

  “Lamar Sampson.”

  “Yeah. I’ve never actually met Skeldon.”

  “The man hired you, and you’re telling me you’ve never met him?”

  “He didn’t hire—”

  “Careful,” Cahil warned.

  “What I meant is, he hasn’t paid me yet. What’s going on? I don’t want no trouble. Lamar said Skeldon needed a good blaster, and I’m … between work right now, so I figured, why not?”

  “I’ll tell you why not.”

  Speaking off the cuff, Cahil rattled off a bogus laundry list of Skeldon’s crimes: illegal possession and transport of explosives; the manufacture of methamphetamine with intent to distribute; and finally, suspicion of conspiracy to commit murder. “Murder!” Kycek cried. “Christ almighty!”

  “You hired on with the wrong guy, Stan.”

  “I told you, I haven’t taken a dime from him. I’ve never even seen the guy.”

  “Then what’s the plan? Where’re you supposed to meet? What’s he want you to do?”

  “I have no idea. I’m supposed to sit by my phone. He said he’d call between Tuesday and Thursday next week with the details.”

  “That’s it?”

  “That’s it, I swear. He told me to be ready to travel, but nothing else. Listen, I don’t want no trouble. Whatever he’s got going on, I’m out.”

  Cahil stared hard at him. “Problem is, you’re already involved. I think we can help each other, though. Would you be willing to work with us?”

  “Doing what?”

  “Pack a bag,” Bear ordered. “I’ll explain on the way.”

  After I figure out what all this means, he thought.

  25

  Clinton Correctional Facility, New York

  With his family tucked away in a safe house, Latham decided it was time to shake things up.

  Armed with a little creative documentation from Oaken, he took the noon shuttle to New York, then drove north to Dannemora, where he was escorted to the interview room. Minutes later Hong Cho was escorted in.

  As before, the diminutive Cho wore an orange jumpsuit and was manacled hand and foot. He shuffled forward, sat down, and stared impassively at Latham as the guard cuffed his hands to the table.

  Once the guard was gone, Latham said, “Hong, have you ever wondered how we caught you?”

  “You didn’t catch me.”

  “I’ll rephrase: Didn’t you ever find it curious that a beat cop just happened to be walking by the apartment of the people you were trying to murder? Lucky timing, wasn’t it?”

  Cho said nothing.

  “Or how quickly backup was on the scene? Didn’t that ever make you think?”

  Cho’s eyes narrowed for a moment, then went blank again. “No.”

  “Sure it did,” Latham said. “Since I know you’re too proud to ask, I’ll tell you. We caught you because we knew who we were looking for. We’d had you under surveillance for weeks.”

  “You’re lying.”

  “We knew who you were, and how to look for you. We had profiles of where you were likely to hide, how you’d react to given situations, how you were trained—everything.”

  “That’s impossible.”

  Latham opened his briefcase, pulled out a piece of paper, and slid it across to Cho. “Do you recognize the letterhead?” Charlie asked. “It’s from the Guoanbu—your former colleagues. They burned you. All your moonlighting for mobsters … You were an embarrassment.”

  As if handling a snake, Cho studied the letter. Latham could see his jaw bunching. Cho lashed out, shoving the paper off the table. “This is a trick!” he shouted.

  “It’s called politics, Hong. Your government found out about your side profession and they knew we’d eventually catch you, so they decided to cut their losses. Instead of facing the humiliation of having an active Guoanbu agent on trial for murder, they sacrificed you.”

  “They wouldn’t do that.”

  “Why not? Are you really that naive? You were a liability, plain and simple; they did what was necessary. Unfortunately for you, that means you get to spend the rest of your life here.”

  With a growl, Cho tried to lunge to his feet, but the manacles jerked him back. “Get out!”

  Latham collected the letter from the floor and walked to the door. “These are the people you’re protecting, Hong. You’re here because of them. Think about it.”

  “Get out!”

  Back in his car, Latham dialed his cell phone. When Randall picked up, he said, “It’s done.”

  “Did he buy it?”

  “If he didn’t, he’s a hell of an actor. How’s our girl?”

  “She just got home from work. I’ll let you know the minute she moves—if she moves, that is. Janet and Tommy are standing by if we need them.”

  “Keep your fingers crossed. If Hong’s as pissed as I think he is, we won’t have long to wait.”

  He spent the next ninety minutes parked in the prison parking lot listening to an oldies station before his cell phone trilled. “Latham.”

  “Agent Latham, it’s Warden Fenstrom. Cho just asked to make a telephone call.”

  “Good. Put up a stink, tell him it’s past telephone hours, then finally give in.”

  “Gotcha. I’ll call you back.” He called back fifteen minutes later: “You guessed it. His call went to the same woman. Mary—”

  “Tsang.”

  “Right. We’re not allowed to tape or listen in, but I had a guard keep an eye on Cho. The guard says he didn’t look too happy. What the hell did you say to him?”

  “I told him he’d just run out of friends,”
Latham replied. “Thanks, Warden, I appreciate it.”

  “My pleasure.”

  Latham hung up and called Randall. “He went for it. Keep your eyes peeled.”

  “Will do. You’re coming back?”

  “I’ll be on the next flight.”

  Latham was sitting in the passenger lounge at Kennedy waiting for his boarding call when Randall called. “About an hour ago she went for a jog,” he reported. “She went about a mile, then stopped at a Seven-Eleven and used the payphone.”

  “And?”

  “I had Oaken get the dump from the phone. She called the Post, Charlie. The classifieds.”

  The Post? Latham thought. Then it hit him: “She’s making contact,” he said. “Have Walt start working on that ad. I want to see it.”

  As Latham was landing in D.C., Oaken was placing his own call to the Post. He took out an innocuous ad—a lawn mower for sale—then jotted down the order number the clerk gave him, then hung up and nodded to Janet Paschel, who then placed her own call.

  Posing as Tsang, she told the clerk she might have made a mistake in her ad and asked that it be read back to her. The clerk asked for her order number. Praying that only a few ads, if any, had been placed between Tsang’s call and Oaken’s, she recited a number a few digits lower than Oaken’s.

  “Sorry, but I’m not sure about the last couple digits,” Janet said. “Sometimes I can’t read my own writing.”

  “That’s okay,” the clerk said. “Let’s see … here it is: ‘Adrian, please accept my condolences on your loss. Thinking of you, Harmon.’ Is that what you wanted?”

  “It’s perfect. How did you spell Harmon?” The clerk spelled it out. “Yeah, that’s right. Thanks very much; I appreciate your help.”

  Paschel hung up and handed Oaken the note: “Mean anything to you?”

  “Nope. Maybe it will to Charlie.”

  26

  Jakarta

  It took Arroya mere hours to probe his contacts and confirm that not only would Soong and his bodyguards be staying on Pulau Sekong, but that Trulau had loaned his yacht to the delegation for the week. “That didn’t take long,” Tanner said.