He was just as glad not to get caught in the cross fire in there. He headed for his own desk, ready to turn if either McComb or Schaefer shouted at him.
Neither of them did; instead, the two men marched into McComb's specially soundproofed office.
McComb slammed the door behind them, then turned to the detective.
"Lemme make it simple," he said to Schaefer, "since you don't seem to listen real good. I'm telling you, you keep messing with me and I'll have your job. Hell, I'll have you up on charges-"
"I want to talk to Philips," Schaefer said, cutting McComb off. "I want to confirm-"
"You're not hearing me, Schaefer!" McComb shouted.
Schaefer stopped talking, and McComb continued. "This isn't an official investigation. There are no feds involved here, as far as you're concerned. Philips doesn't exist. Nobody's going to confirm shit."
"And those dead bodies . . . how are you explaining those?" Schaefer demanded. "Suicide? They all fired off all their ammunition, then skinned themselves?"
"It's not your problem, Schaefer," McComb bellowed, "or mine either. It's a federal matter, and you just keep your fucking nose-"
"Look, McComb," Schaefer interrupted. "I want to talk to Philips. It's personal, all right? Maybe it's nothing to do with this case-it's about my brother."
"I told you, Philips doesn't exist," McComb replied, glaring.
Schaefer stared back silently for a moment, then said, "Fine, he doesn't exist. So let me talk to a figment of my goddamn imagination!"
"You want to talk to anybody on personal business, Schaefer, that's your business, you do it on your time-I'm not going to bother the general on your behalf."
"You're my only contact with him, asshole!"
McComb stared at Schaefer.
"What did you call me?"
"Look, McComb, I've got to talk to him!"
"Fuck off, Schaefer," McComb replied. "Listen, you shut up right now, you give me your word you'll stay the hell away from the feds and from Twentieth Street and from that tenement, and you can go-"
"You can go to hell, McComb," Schaefer said, cutting him off. "Where do I find Philips?"
"All right, that does it," McComb said. "You're history, Schaefer-you're going down, you're out of the department." He snatched up his phone and bellowed, "Give me the desk sergeant, I want-"
Before he could finish the sentence, Schaefer's fist came down on the phone's base, smashing plastic and circuitry.
"Bad connection," Schaefer said.
For a moment McComb stared down at the broken phone, the receiver still clutched in his hand.
Then Schaefer grabbed him by the front of his shirt and picked him up and slammed him against a bookcase; law books and old reports tumbled down around him.
"Listen," Schaefer said calmly. "You probably could have me fired, just the way you think, despite the union. I might even do a little time. Lose my pension, six months behind bars, and you know what would happen then?"
He waited while McComb stared down at him in terror; then Schaefer answered his own question.
"Then I might get mad," he said.
McComb managed a glance at the door and saw no sign of approaching rescue. He had had this office rebuilt to his own specifications, to ensure complete privacy-he hadn't wanted officers eavesdropping on confidential business.
He regretted that now.
Then he looked back at the expression on Schaefer's face. He saw the bandages on the nose and jaw, but most of all he saw those cold blue eyes.
Something in them looked dead, McComb thought-and Schaefer had told the truth. He wasn't angry.
Not yet.
"Jesus," McComb said. "Look, I'm telling you the truth you'll never find Philips. He's not regular army or special forces or even CIA, he's some kind of army freelance that isn't supposed to exist. And I swear, Schaefer, I don't know what's really going on, he wouldn't even tell me, he just ordered us to keep everybody out, to go through the motions and then forget it all. He wouldn't tell me a thing!"
"No?" Schaefer dropped McComb; the captain flung out an arm and spilled a shelf to the floor in a useless attempt to catch himself, and landed sitting, sprawled on, a pile of ledgers and reports.
"Can you reach him?"
"Not anymore," McComb said. "I had a phone number, but it's been disconnected."
"So he doesn't trust you. Smart man, Philips," Schaefer said. "I guess I'll have to try something else."
He marched out before McComb could move to stop him-not that McComb had any intention of stopping him.
He marched on out through the squad room.
Rasche jumped up and followed him.
At the curb outside Schaefer turned and saw Rasche.
"Good," he said, "you can save me the cab fare."
Rasche had just wanted to ask what had happened with McComb, whether they still had their jobs, but the expression on Schaefer's face wasn't anything he wanted to argue with; he went to get the car.
After all, they could talk while he drove.
A moment later he pulled up at the curb; Schaefer climbed in, slammed the door, and said, "Kennedy."
"Kennedy?" Rasche turned to stare at him. "Christ, Schaef, you mean this has something to do with the assassination? Was the CIA in it, after all? I always thought that was just another crackpot conspiracy theory"
"Kennedy Airport," Schaefer said.
"Oh," Rasche said. He put the car in gear, pulled out into traffic, and headed for Queens, too embarrassed to say anything more right away.
They were crossing the Williamsburg Bridge when he asked, "So what'd McComb say?"
"Nothing," Schaefer said, staring out the window,
"He didn't fire us?"
Schaefer shrugged. "Not you, anyway," he said.
Rasche considered that as he turned onto the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway.
"So you're going to the airport?" Rasche asked.
Schaefer didn't bother to answer.
"No luggage?"
"It's in the trunk. I keep a suitcase there."
Rasche grimaced. They were still using Schaefer's car, and that was just like Schaefer-always ready for disaster.
And of course he hadn't mentioned it sooner and saved Rasche that side trip to his apartment.
Rasche drove on, made the turn onto the Long Island Expressway, then asked, "So you're flying somewhere?"
Schaefer didn't bother to answer that, either.
"Washington?" Rasche asked. "Did you get an address for Phillips?"
Schaefer shook his head. "Central America," he said.
Rasche slammed on the brakes. "Central America? Are you out of your mind?"
Horns blared behind him; he pulled to the shoulder.
"Keep driving," Schaefer said.
"You tell me what you're doing, or I stop again," Rasche said as he pulled back into traffic.
"Dutch told me the rescue mission where he lost his men was in Central America, and I think I remember enough of what he said to figure out just about where," Schaefer said, ticking off the first of three raised fingers. "So if we're right that it's the same one, then the killer was there once, right?"
Rasche nodded reluctantly.
"Philips said the killer likes the heat-and Central America's hotter than hell. Maybe it's home for whatever we're up against." A second finger came down.
"That's pretty weak, Schaef," Rasche said.
"And finally, Carr and Lamb were meeting in that dump, and why would they be doing that? Because they were making peace, maybe? Why would they do that? Because they had a common enemy. And who could that be? That could be the Cali cartel, or the La Costa, trying to pick up where the Medellin used to be. Carr and Lamb were cutting out the Colombians, and the Colombians didn't like it that's the first motive we've got for that massacre that makes any sense. So the Colombians run a lot of their stuff up through Central America-the Cali, especially. So maybe there's a connection. Maybe they hired this killer there. Or if he's
not someone they hired, maybe they found him there-or he found them." Schaefer held up a clenched fist.
"And maybe this is all coincidence!"
Schaefer almost shrugged. "Maybe. But it's the best shot I've got, without Philips. Something happened down there eight years ago that ties into Dutch's mission, the murders, Philips, that thing I fought-all of it. It's the only thing that makes sense."
"It doesn't make sense to me," Rasche protested. "That killer isn't in Central America now, it's here in New York!"
"Yeah," Schaefer said, "but where? It's a big city, Rasche, you know that as well as I do. If we're going to find that thing, we need a lead of some kind."
"And you think you'll find one in fucking Central America?"
Schaefer didn't bother to reply.
They were halfway down the Van Wyck Expressway when Rasche said, "We ticked off some heavy players down there when we worked narcotics, you know-some of those Colombians you mentioned. If any of our companeros catch you, they'll peel your tan with a straight razor."
"Screw 'em," Schaefer said.
It was Rasche's turn not to answer; he drove into the airport and looked for an appropriate terminal.
He eventually decided that American would do.
"How are you going to pay for this?" he asked as he looked for somewhere to pull over. "Is McComb going to okay departmental funds?"
"Hell, no," Schaefer said. "I've got credit cards. I'll put it all on plastic and worry about paying when the bills come."
"Schaef, that's-"
"That's any business, Rasche."
Rasche couldn't argue with that, so he didn't.
As Schaefer pulled his suitcase from the trunk, he said, "Listen, Rasche, get Shari and the kids away from the city until this is over. Have them stay with your parents or something-tell them it's a vacation. Tell them anything, just get them away"
"It's a big city, Schaef . . . ."
Schaefer shook his head. "I've got a feeling something ugly's coming down here," he said, "something that's going to make our Colombian friends look like something out of a Dr. Seuss book. I saw that thing, you didn't." He touched the bandaged lump on his neck. "If it picked me because I'm Dutch's brother, and it's not just a coincidence, then maybe it went after Lamb and Carr because I wanted them, maybe it hit Twentieth Street because I'm a cop. If any of that's true, then it might decide it'd be fun to go after you, too-partner. And like you said, I may be going to Central America, but the killer's still here in New York. So get out of the city, Rasche, you and your family. Go somewhere cool."
Then he turned and almost jogged into the terminal.
Rasche watched him go. Schaefer's nose and jaw and one hand were all still swathed in bandages, but he moved as if nothing had happened.
When he was out of sight in the airport crowds, Rasche got back into the car and started the engine.
He sat thinking for a moment before he pulled out into traffic.
He had some vacation time saved up. He hadn't planned to use it this soon, and McComb might not like it, the department wasn't real fond of short-notice vacations, but maybe a vacation would do Shari good, he thought.
Maybe, it would do them all some good.
And, he thought, wiping at the sweat on his forehead, it would be nice to go somewhere cool.
* * *
12
General Philips looked over the latest weather reports and frowned.
The heat wave was still hanging on. Summer was slipping away, but the hot, humid air was holding steady over the city, and temperatures were staying in the nineties or above.
The pollution count was well into the unhealthy range, but New York's unwelcome visitors wouldn't give a shit about that; hell, according to Dutch they wore those masks-they probably didn't breathe the local air in the first place.
Though they apparently could if they wanted to.
They could do just about any damn thing they pleased, it seemed.
The radar reports showed that faint, unnatural interference was still there-not that he really needed that; he could just turn on a TV that didn't have cable and see if reception was still lousy. Philips was pretty sure, despite all the fumfering from his scientists, that that interference came from those damned alien ships.
The police reports were the only encouraging sign-there hadn't been a third massacre yet.
At least not that anyone at the NYPD knew of, but who knew what sort of slaughterhouse scenes might be lurking undiscovered in some attic somewhere? It was a big city, and it had been a long time since most New Yorkers could be bothered to be their brothers' keepers.
Of course, usually those things let their victims get a few shots off, just to make it interesting, and that might still draw attention in most neighborhoods.
So maybe they really hadn't struck again.
But if that was the case-why hadn't they? What were they waiting for?
Philips read down past the summary, into the body of the report-usually he left that for underlings, but he didn't want to risk missing anything on this one.
Sealing off the scene at Twentieth Street had made some trouble-that was no surprise. He'd tell his boys to hurry it up and get that place reopened.. The local cops were never going to stop hassling about it as long as there were reminders there in their own basement.
And hassling those things would just get more good men killed. The only way to deal with the creatures was to leave them alone, let them have their fun; when they'd had enough, they would go home.
That reminded him of Dutch, and Dutch's brother; he began flipping through the report, looking for some mention of Schaefer. That stubborn son of a bitch wouldn't leave anything alone, Philips was sure.
He spotted Schaefer's name and paused, then stared.
"Goddammit," he said.
Captain McComb had ordered Detective Schaefer dismissed from the NYPD. The union was fighting it, but for the moment Schaefer was off the force.
That would just make Schaefer more determined than ever to get whatever had trashed the firing range, and now he'd have all the time he needed for it, without any paperwork or office politics to worry about.
That asshole McComb . . .
He punched a button.
"Perkins," he said, "get a squad together and send them to fetch Detective Schaefer."
"Yessir," the radio replied.
"Make sure they're armed-he may not want to come. Warn 'em who they're dealing with."
"Yessir."
Philips turned back to the report.
Detective Rasche had put in for his annual vacation, and McComb had agreed-after all, Rasche's partner was gone, and he might as well take some time off before they found him someone new.
Was Rasche helping Schaefer? Were the two of them up to something that might stir up trouble?
"Damn," Philips muttered. He took the stub of cigar out of his mouth and threw it at the wastebasket.
He spent the next hour going through reports, reading a summary of every unsolved murder that had taken place in New York City or northern New Jersey since the heat wave began.
He was just finishing up when his aide, Perkins, appeared in the door of the office Philips was using.
"Sir?" he asked.
Philips tossed the report aside.
"We can't locate Detective Schaefer," the aide said. "He hasn't been seen anywhere in the NYPD since McComb fired him-not at One Police Plaza, not at the academy on West Twentieth, not anywhere. He isn't at his apartment, and his mail hasn't been picked up for at least the past two days. He's not at Detective Rasche's home in Queens, or if he is, he's not answering the door or the phone."
Philips stared at him for a moment.
"Shit," he said.
He thought it over, then said, "All right, put a trace on him--get a search warrant. When they ask for probable cause, tell 'em flight to avoid prosecution for assault, and that he's wanted for questioning in a murder investigation. Search his apartment. Check phone records,
bank records, credit-card records, everything. Find him. And find Rasche, too-if anyone knows where Schaefer is and what he's up to, Rasche does."
"Do you want Rasche brought in?"
Philips chewed his mustache.
"Yeah," he said. "If we ask questions and then don't bring him in, he'll warn Schaefer."
Perkins nodded. "And if he doesn't want to cooperate with us?"
"Shit," Philips said again. "Look, bring Rasche in, but don't rough him up; we want him to cooperate, and maybe he will eventually if we play nice."
"Yessir." Perkins saluted, turned, and left.
Philips stared morosely after him.
This whole setup stank. This wasn't how it was supposed to work. There were monsters loose in the city, and Philips wasn't trying to stop them; instead he was trying to stop a couple of good men who were just trying to protect their homes and families.
But it had to be like this. The monsters couldn't be stopped. The best he could hope for was not to make them angry, and to keep their presence a secret, so there wouldn't be any panic, wouldn't be any harebrained attempts to fight them, wouldn't be a lot of endless recriminations about who didn't prevent what, wouldn't be congressional investigations and independent prosecutors and reporters prying into every nook and cranny of the government operation, investigations that wouldn't do a damn bit of good as far as stopping the aliens, but would blow the lid off every secret the government had left in covert operations.
Maybe it would have been smarter to have built up a whole separate operation to deal with the alien hunters right from the start, instead of using the existing structures at first; but at the time, eight years ago, no one had known how fast they'd have to act, or what they might need to do. It had seemed better to take a little piece of everything that was already up and running-CIA, FBI, NSA, everything.
Which meant that if the shit hit the fan arid the reporters began turning over rocks to see what they could find, they'd expose the dirty laundry in every branch.
A single all-new black operation would have been better, all right.
Hindsight was always twenty-twenty. Sir.
Watt-Evans, Lawrence - Predator 01 Page 8
