The Informers (The Stringers Book 2)

by TJ Martinell

  “I can’t.”

  “Gotta have a reason. Can’t have ya walk away like this. It ain’t gonna look good, inside or outside this paper.”

  “It doesn’t matter why. All you need to know is that I’m done. I’m moving my stuff out right now. As soon as it’s cleared out, Griggs will move in and take over.”

  “Isn’t that my decision?”

  “Yes, but that’s who you’d pick, isn’t it?”

  He only held back half his smile. Griggs was an outsider, but he had proven his loyalty many times over. Olan also trusted my judgment.

  “He know about this?” he asked.

  “I discussed it with him last night. He’ll take it if you offer it.”

  “So what about ya?”

  “I’m going back to my old job, as a stringer,” I said.

  “What beat?”

  “Sorry. Loose lips and all that.”

  “No. Not with me. I gotta know.”

  “I’m chasing after a lead in the ISA. Can’t say much else because I don’t know.”

  He grinned and offered me a drink. I refused. No more drinking. No more smoking, either. I had given up both. For the time being.

  “Ya seem set to get outta here,” he remarked. “I won’t keep ya.”

  In my office, the guards were in the process of removing my books and the framed portraits from the walls. Griggs was standing outside the door. He had a self-conscious look apparent. The writers appeared preoccupied with their work but every other moment or so they eyed him. I had warned Griggs they would test him.

  “Never thought I’d do this,” he joked as he settled into the chair. He reached for the phone and cradled it in his hands. “I don’t know what I was thinking when I said I’d do it.”

  “You’ll have an easier time,” I replied. “We’re declaring a cease-fire with the pravdas.

  I could feel every ear in the room perking up and stiffen. I wasn’t about to give them the pleasure.

  “But don’t say nothing,” I added with a slightly louder voice. “Wouldn’t want anyone to get in trouble for spreading this around.”

  I retrieved my Ford Coupe and drove north. Without a cigarette, I rolled down the window and let my hand drape across the side. AT Tom’s old hideout I parked underneath an overhand in the alley and covered the car with a tarp. I then set several traps around it to deter any would-be prowlers and moved over to the brick wall and removed our newspaper’s insignia on the side that had been there for years. It indicated the building occupant was one of ours.

  Entering for the first time in months I was greeted by the smell of dampness and mildew. Rats and mice scurried to evade my flashlight. I found the table in the main room covered in a fine layer of dust, cobwebs dangling from the ceiling like dead corpses. I cleared it all off with a damp cloth before reactivating the old power generator Tom had installed outside. I came back inside pleased to see the light bulbs flickering to life.

  I stood in front of Tom’s old room for a minute. It felt sacrilege to enter his private space.

  But somehow, I knew he wouldn’t care.

  His dresser still had his clothes undisturbed in it. The closet contained miscellaneous items. When I came across his stash of cigars and cigarettes and liquor I put them all into a box and stashed it in the kitchen where it would be out of my sight. I then went back to his room and opened the top drawer in his desk.

  Inside was a notebook marked “Contacts.” I took the notebook into the main room and threw it open on the table. It had been written in code.

  I slammed the table and clenched my fist. The alarming outburst of angst left me sweating.

  I didn’t even know what it was I was doing.

  The resignation letter had been written in haste. Then, I had had a clear vision what to do. Now, it was all a blur.

  I closed the notebook and closed my eyes. Strangely, I found myself at ease without my father there beside me.

  It occurred to me what he had tried to do. Write the story that would redeem him. There was no way to learn how close he had been. What he had learned.

  Or maybe there was…

  Yes. There was one person who would be able to find out for me.

  For a price.

  Always for a price.

  ***

  Pike Place was in the perfect mood. Large crowds allowed me to enter without notice. I was also out of my regular clothes. Plain jeans and a windbreaker was like wearing camouflage.

  I glanced over at the newsstand by the newly-constructed building. Ideally, he would be there.

  And he was.

  Undercover ISA officer Edward Owens was at his newspaper stand, handing a bundle of papers to a man. I observed him while pretending to listen to a busker beside me.

  A short call to Griggs had provided me with what I needed to know. Much of it was self-evident. Owens had worked his way to the top of the ISA ranks. There, he had received a position he had coveted for years. One could only speculate what he had done to obtain it.

  Interestingly, he was set to retire in two years on a generous pension. He didn’t seem the type to live comfortably off a fixed income. Clearly, he wasn’t above making extra money on the side.

  I tossed a coin to the busker and walked down the street towards the newsstand. I scanned the list of rows of papers and looked up at Owens sipping on his morning coffee. He looked common with his dull eyes and widow’s peak underneath his short thin hair.

  That mundaneness marked him as an undercover officer. He was too perfect a nobody.

  “Looking for something?” he asked.

  “I’m looking for something to educate me.”

  “Yeah? Educate you on what?”

  “How things work,” I said.

  “What things?”

  I paused, running my finger across a row of titles. I kept my voice low and my face down.

  “Things you probably don’t want to discuss in public.”

  He smirked, then spat out black into a can and wiped his mouth.

  “Your paper does that just fine,” he said sarcastically. “You don’t need to hear about it from anyone else.”

  “I’m sure there are other facts our paper has not yet become privy to at this time.”

  “Nope. Yours is the most informed.”

  Others were watching us, much to Owens delight. I had to play along.

  “Apparently, I was mistaken,” I said.

  I flipped through several magazines and tossed them on the counter. Owens peered at them suspiciously. He gave the price for them. I tossed the coins onto the counter, purposefully giving too much. He went to hand back the extra change I leaned close to the counter so that no one else could see my face or his.

  “Meet me by Pier 62 in ten minutes. Ten minutes should give you time to close this up and meet me there.”

  “Why?”

  “You’ll find out.”

  He had a severe expression, his hand moving towards his hip. “I don’t want trouble.”

  “Then don’t make me unhappy and not be there.”

  I stepped back, acting as though I had no further interest in him or the stand as I opened one of the magazines and read sentences at random. A window directly ahead allowed me to watch his performance. Owens turned away and rummaged through a box of papers, earnest to speak to possible customers as they walked past his stand.

  He’d be there.

  ***

  I was fighting off another urge for a smoke by a tower of wooden crates when Owens arrived. I greeted him with an appreciative nod but keep it discreet. He looked behind him to see if anyone noticed or cared. The fishermen on the street were too busy arguing with one another in their own idiosyncratic brogue about their latest load. Those fishing by the dock north of us were transients too drunk to care.

  “I’m here,” he said. “What do you want?”

  “When did you stop liking your work? By the way, this is purel
y off the record.”

  “You don’t strike me as a fool, Farrington. Why behave like one? Are you trying to trick me into confessing something you want to believe?”

  “Everyone knows it.”

  He shook his head. “No. They think they know it.”

  The attempt at mind games got no patience from me. I credited him for trying. But I didn’t have the time or the will to play it.

  “I want to talk business,” I said sternly. “But if you’re looking to jerk me around, find some other sucker. I got better things to do.”

  Owens rolled his jaw, trying to appear unfazed as he glanced over his shoulder before whispering. “What do you want?”

  “You’re set to retire soon. I know, because I’ve seen your records.”

  “Have you?”

  “Cut out the bullshit. I’m trying to be straight with you.”

  “Naturally. And the answer is yes.”

  “How do you stay out of trouble? Hard to play both sides of the fence without getting torn between them, ain’t it?”

  “Yes, if you’re a fool.”

  “Clearly you aren’t.”

  “Of course not,” he muttered. “I give them names. Names of people they would already get. But it isn’t about me producing anything worthwhile. I’ve positioned myself so that I don’t have to do anything particular. I have no quota, as others do. Not anymore.”

  “Where is your loyalty, here or there?”

  “Neither,” he said with a smile. He pointed at his chest. “It’s here.”

  “Wonderful. Nice policy.”

  “It’s kept me alive.”

  “Hard for me to work with.”

  “Only if you don’t think too hard.”

  He was too cocky for my taste. A little humility was needed.

  “Did your handlers bother to inform you about the drone strike?” I asked. “Or was it an ‘oh, well, never mind, he’s expendable’ kind of thing’?”

  Another poker face from him. It told me what I wanted to know without having to get a direct answer. They hadn’t sent him the memo. He had survived, but no thanks to his colleagues. It was good for me to know where he stood in that regard. He would be more willing to cooperate.

  “How often are you in contact with your superior?” I asked.

  “Once or twice a week. Just enough to keep him from getting worried.”

  “When was the last time you went back to the office?”

  “A while. I try to stay out of Bellevue.”

  “You think they suspect you? That why they didn’t bother to tell you about the drone strike?”

  Smiling once more, Owens rolled his shoulders as if to dismiss my subtle inferences.

  “It’s nice that you’re in this world, Mr. Farrington, and that you fit in so well,” he said. “You’re not the only one, though. Unfortunately, some of us chose different options.”

  “I’m not here to second-guess your decisions.”

  “Then what are you here for? Whatever it is, you don’t wish to spit it out.”

  We went to the end of the pier. The heavy breeze was too loud to hear each other so we stood behind a stack of crates. I looked back up at the stairs and the street and no one remained who had first been there when Owens had arrived.

  “I’m looking for something,” I said. “I need your help. I need information from the ISA.”

  He looked at me like he was about to shoot me. “You got a lot of guts coming and talking to me about this. Anybody found out I’d be dead. You wouldn’t be far behind.”

  “No shit.”

  “What do you want to know?”

  “One of our stringers was working on a story about the ISA. I figured he had a source on the inside. I want to know who it is.”

  “Why don’t you ask your stringer?” Owens asked.

  I bit the inside of my lip. “He’s dead.”

  “Ah. That would be a problem.”

  “Which is why I want you to find out.”

  “After your man was killed? Doesn’t sound very profitable for me.”

  Thinking of my father’s death didn’t put me in a patient mood. And I was getting irritated with Owens’ snarky tone.

  “If that is your decision, then I won’t trouble you anymore,” I said as I walked off.

  I hadn’t moved more than ten feet before he called out and told me to come back. I stopped but didn’t return to him. He approached me with a slightly apologetic demeanor.

  “You’re alright,” he said. “I never liked your people, even though I’ve made a fortune off you. That’s why I never ratted any of you out to my superiors. You were good to me, and I repaid the favor. I suppose when I retire and want to collect that pension of mine I’ve got to go somewhere. I’m not going back there. But I’m not staying here forever. When I leave, I’d rather have not made enemies with the wrong people. When I’m through they won’t have much of an excuse to get rid of me.”

  “How much will it take?”

  “To what?”

  “Convince you to help,” I said.

  “Depends. What was the poor bastard’s name that got bumped off? Maybe I owed him a favor.”

  I spoke father’s first name like he was standing there amongst us.

  Owen frowned, then cocked his head as he studied me.

  “You’re Carl Farrington’s kid?”

  I nodded.

  His demeanor towards me softened. The stiffness in his back eased up and his shoulders lowered as he came closer to me and clapped me on the shoulder.

  “I’ll do this as a favor,” he said. “For your old man.” He looked back at Pike Place and then told me he’d ask around and see what he could find. He warned there was a strong likelihood that the man my father had been in contact with was either gone or in hiding.

  “They might have gotten it out of him first,” he warned. “If they did, what are you going to do?”

  “Honestly, I haven’t the slightest idea.”

  ***

  Owens got the news back faster than even he expected. As I arrived he gave me a short look and gestured to the pier. When I met him down there all he would say was an address and a time to meet him there that night before he left.

  The rendezvous location was an old bar habituated by sundry personalities. Fortunately, when I asked around the neighborhood the locals told me the habitués there kept to themselves. There was never trouble, except when someone stuck their nose where it didn’t belong.

  That night I entered the bar and found a short but well-built bartender leaning against a shelf of moonshine. He had his large revolver strapped to his chest and a long belt of shotgun shells around his waist.

  He leaned on the bar counter and stared at me with anticipation as I took off my flat cap.

  “What can I get for ya?” he asked. “Brandy?”

  I concealed my surprise. “Good guess.”

  “We heard ya liked it.”

  “You heard well.”

  “We don’t miss a thing,” he said as he reached for an unmarked bottle. He poured a glass for me and slid it across the counter. I must have seemed hesitant as I reached for it. He watched me and held up a finger as if to stop me. He grabbed another glass and filled it up partially from the same bottle. He then took short sip of it and gestured at me.

  “It ain’t got poison,” he said. “Trust me.”

  “If I didn’t trust you I wouldn’t have come here,” I said.

  “We know. We heard ya made inquiries.”

  “No offense meant.”

  “None taken. We don’t like having dumb people come here.”

  I stepped up to the counter, pressing my foot against the rusted railing as it creaked against the loose nails. I sipped on my brandy; only so I didn’t draw undue notice on myself. I glanced at the other patrons leaning over the counter with their elbows planted down and a drink inches away from their cracked lips. The men were crusty and t
heir skin weathered from too many days in the sun and they didn’t care. They looked at me and knew who I was.

  “When ya gonna do something about the feds?” the bartender asked.

  “Why me?”

  “We read ya stuff.”

  I kept looking at my drink. “I’m not doing anything. I’m not even here, am I?”

  The bartender nodded and gestured to the side. The patrons there stopped gawking and went back to nursing their drinks with jittery hands. They’d keep their mouths shut.

  “No idea what ya talkin’ about,” the bartender said to me.

  “That’s good.”

  Owens slid next to me. His hands and clothes were caked in dirt. He ordered a whiskey and took me over to a table in an isolated section of the place.

  “Any time you want out of this, just say so,” he said.

  “Go on.”

  “It wasn’t hard to figure it out. I just had to do some thinking.”

  “Thinking?”

  “Yeah. I thought about who’d want to help your old man. None of the old timers would do it. They’ve got too much at stake. Like me. They’ve got a pension and a retirement plan to protect. Not to mention homes and families. No way would they help him out. The people in the middle of their career were off the table, too. They wouldn’t have what your father was looking for. They wouldn’t have the clearance to access the records.”

  “Do you know what my father was after?” I asked.

  “No. The boy wouldn’t tell me.”

  I frowned. “Boy?”

  “Your little turncoat informer is practically a kid, barely twenty.”

  “How the hell could he have helped my father?”

  “He’s an intern with our internal security department. They handle all the security software that prevents unauthorized access to our network. He’s a brilliant kid, when it comes to technology. Speaks better computer code than I do English. He has limited clearance, but he figured out how to obtain the codes beyond his pay grade. He doesn’t have them, yet.”

  I tried to picture the informer. I kept seeing Casey. At least when I had first met him.

  “What’s his name?” I asked.

  “No way. Not telling you a thing like that. He’s scared shitless.”

  “Why?”

  “Because they figured out your father was talking to somebody,” Owens explained. “They’re watching everyone. It’s amazing they haven’t fingered him already. They’ve got the place shut down tight as a submarine hatch. Everybody has to wear their Prizms at all times and be ready to account for what they’re doing every fifteen minutes.”