Enemies Domestic (An Alex Landon Thriller Book 1)

by Gavin Reese

  Landon briefly fell silent. “How the fuck do you know that?”

  Jonathan expected the conversation may go like this. I may get my dick slapped for this, he thought, but it’s important enough to make it worthwhile. Rip it off like duct tape. “I snuck onto the south side of the property at night, walked into the shed, and saw the manual and the components there.”

  Landon seemed to ignore the obvious problem. “What can you tell me about the manual?”

  “It’s a copy of the manual Billy stole from my bags.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yeah, it has my handwritten notes in the margins.”

  “And it’s not the manual, it’s a copy, right?”

  “Right.”

  “And, just because I have to play Devil’s Advocate, especially when you are so unwilling to come in and do this right, how do I know you didn’t plant the copy there and blame this guy for the bombs and Billy for the theft?”

  Faced with the accusation, Jonathan suppressed his anger. “I guess I have to take that one on the chin.” He paused and cleared his throat. “You’ll have to take my word for it, find the original in Billy’s possession, maybe pull their prints off the copy, or beat a confession out of one of them.” Jonathan had only moderate control of his temper.

  “I don’t like the implication, Jonathan, I don’t beat suspects and you’re the only one here who’s clearly willing to commit crimes in pursuit of this information.” The sharp truth stung.

  “And I’m also the only one actually doing anything.”

  “Jonathan, we’re not partners, you’re not a cop, and I can’t tell you anything that impacts an ongoing investigation. I respect and thank you for your prior service, but you’re really working hard to get yourself in real trouble, if not killed. You have no idea what we’ve done on this because you have no need or right to know. If anything, your continued insistence on going about this the wrong way makes it look all the more likely that you’re either wrong, or that you’re trying to set these guys up.”

  Jonathan forced himself to get through this, pass along what he had, and decide how to proceed later, when he wasn’t being accused of felony conduct against his country. “Do you want to know what else I have or should I just go?”

  “I’m afraid to ask, but how did you get it?”

  “I followed the man from his property in Tonopah to downtown Phoenix, where I found out he works at American Bank Tower as a security guard. It’s the perfect job for him to get access and intel for a bank robbery or bombing at the Tower, Detective.”

  “How did you find out where he works?”

  “He had on a security uniform, and a, uh, stripper, told me,” Jonathan felt himself blushing even as he said it, “um, where he works, and that he drinks black coffee, never tips, and wears a bad wig and cheek implants, whatever those are.”

  “So, you were only in public places, never entered private property, and didn’t break into the guy’s vehicle?”

  “‘No’ to all that.” Let the stripper-thing go, Jonathan hoped, I don’t need some trumped-up version of this getting back to Colleen.

  “In hopes that you stop what you’re doing, I’m gonna share this with you. We’re mobilizing some serious ground assets on this. In the meantime, we’ll work up background packets for the most probable owners. We’ve, got the, uh, resources, at our disposal now to move a helluvuh lot faster on this, but I still can’t tell you our investigative progress and findings.” Landon paused, but Jonathan didn’t think he’d finished speaking. “I know I don’t sound like it, but I appreciate what you’ve done. That doesn’t mean that continuing to fly solo and out-of-bounds is okay or blessed, though, and I promise you, Jonathan, before all that is Holy, you will absolutely get arrested if you keep pressing this. So, consider this an order: stop helping this investigation. I need you to get in here to fill out the paperwork that will let us admit this as trial evidence. How soon can you be here?”

  Jonathan contemplated the request, which had started to sound like a broken record. He felt Landon might have ulterior motives, and didn’t comprehend how cops couldn’t use intel given to them from the general public. All I’ve given them has been information anyone in the right place at the right time could’ve seen. Well, Jonathan corrected himself, almost all of it.

  “Maybe later tonight, maybe tomorrow. I have some things to do and it’s getting late in the day. I really don’t want to spend the rest of my night with you and Wall.”

  “My boss needs me to get this done, and if you want to avoid potential interference charges, Jonathan, then you need to get this done. It is in your best interest to see me as soon as possible, or my boss may give me marching orders to come see you instead.”

  Landon’s thinly veiled threat felt sufficiently ominous that Jonathan disconnected the call without retort or pleasantries. Who the fuck does that guy think he is? Jonathan crossed Washington Street on foot, entered the parking garage, and waited for the air conditioned elevator rather than climbing the oven-hot staircase. As he stood in the heat, his mind wandered. Maybe I could just kill Reggie and make this easier for everyone? Run his car into the center Jersey barrier, it can’t be too hard to make vehicular homicide look like an accident. Would Landon and Wall keep their mouths shut when my name hit the news? How long would it take the highway patrol cop to learn the driver responsible for a fatality was the subject of a felony child abuse investigation, and had recently provided intel the dead guy was a potential terrorist? Jonathan stood, alone with his thoughts and emotions, torn over what he wanted to do and what he knew he should do. I couldn’t kill this guy and justify it to Michael, at least not yet. This isn’t a theater of war, I’m not an assassin, and this isn’t a sanctioned covert action against an enemy of the state. Killing Reggie would ultimately be no different for me than killing any other terrorist, but I still can’t determine his actual intent despite the overwhelming circumstantial evidence against him. ‘Intent’ is the one missing fact that would easily allow me to resolve this. Maybe I should start with enhanced interrogation, make Reggie the founding member of the Hassayampa River Waterboarding Society?

  dingding

  The elevator doors opened and Jonathan heard the attached air conditioner working overtime to keep its interior cooled below ‘Clam Bake.’ He stepped inside, pushed “3” and leaned back against the cool interior metal wall. Time to go home and shower, he told himself, there was a lot more than dirt to wash off today.

  Sixty-Four

  American Bank Tower lobby. Phoenix, Arizona.

  At about 4pm, and only a couple hours after his last conversation with Jonathan McDougal, Detective Alex Landon purposefully strode across the dark marble tile floor to an opulent security desk along the west interior wall of American Bank Tower’s first floor. There, upon a cheap office chair throne, sat an obese security guard who appeared to be around fifty-years-old with a bad, outdated mustache. The wrinkled white polyester uniform shirt and weight problem portrayed the man as an apathetic and ineffective employee, despite the lapel pin and three-striped shoulder patch that identified him as a Sergeant. Next to him, a much younger and exceptionally fit man sat in a pressed and starched light blue uniform shirt. Both men looked up as Alex neared the desk, but the younger officer had done so well ahead of his boss.

  “Good afternoon, I’m Detective Landon with Dry Creek PD. I spoke with one of you gentlemen on the phone about an hour ago.”

  “That was me, Detective,” the older guard gruffly stated through his walrus mustache. “I’m Sergeant David Martinez, the day shift watch commander, and I assume you are here with a search warrant in hand?”

  Landon had had numerous occasions to speak with all manner of security staff and personnel, and had generally found them to fall into three categories: those who would later become cops, those who never gave up on the dream of becoming cops, and those who were angry and bitter that they never got the chance to become cops. Alex im
mediately filed Dayshift Watch Command Martinez as the latter.

  “No, I am here to ask for your help instead of demanding--”

  “I don’t need a goddamned civics lesson, I need you to produce a legal demand for the personnel files in question or get outta my face. You’re wastin’ everyone’s time poking around here, there’s not a criminal among my staff and no one who’s willing to bend the company rules for some small town dick fishing outside his own pond. Have a nice day, Detective.”

  “Can you at least look at a photograph and confirm if this guy works here? It’ll be pretty hard to get a court order if I don’t even have a name to go with it?”

  “That’s sad news for you, my friend, sad news.”

  “The other option is that I have to subpoena all your employee files to make sure we get the right one. Considering the lack of cooperation so far, the courts might agree that a potential conspiracy exists among the, uh,” Alex looked at the fat man’s shoulder patch, “…Silent Safe Haven Security Company, to, uh, protect the misdeeds of at least one of their employees.”

  “Ssshhhhh!” The fat man’s visceral reaction to the word ‘conspiracy’ seemed predictable, and Alex chuckled at the apparently unintended use of his employer’s acronym. “There’s no conspiracy here, but we have to protect our employees’ privacy from snooping eyes,” he harshly spoke through clenched teeth.

  Alex liked to take advantage of the average person’s belief that ‘conspiracy’ carried more weight than most other criminal charges. The fat man tried to speak quietly, but effectively hissed his words, pretty loudly, Alex thought, through his slightly pursed lips. Funny, it makes his mustache dance. It also helped draw unwanted attention from the nearby bank employees awaiting arrival of the tower’s elevators. “Give me a look and I’ll let you know if you’re on the right track.”

  Landon passed him the photo taken from security footage at a local deli south of American Bank Tower. “That’s Reggie, he’s a part-timer here, only works a few days a week. He was here earlier today and left when his shift ended at one-thirty. Last name is Page.”

  “And I still have to get a court order to see his file?”

  “I don’t even have access to it, they don’t trust us with anything but each other’s cell phone numbers, and I don't even have Reggie's. Only HR and the scheduling staff have that. All the records are at the central office in Chicago, anyway, we got nothing on site.”

  “What about Joseph Degliani, you got an employee with that name?” Alex hoped to also speak with the registered owner of “410JST.”

  “Yeah, but what’s Rocky got to do with anything?”

  “Rocky?”

  “Yeah, his mom named him Joseph Stallone Degliani because of her love for the Italian Stallion, so his family always called him Rocky.” Martinez leaned forward and spoke in hushed voice. “Sure beats being called ‘Fat Joe,’ know what I mean?” Landon enjoyed the irony that Martinez would laugh at someone else being called ‘fat.’

  “So why would Reggie be driving Rocky’s car?”

  “Oh, that piece of shit Oldsmobile? Rocky sold that to him months ago, I bet Reggie never got the car registered in his name. I remember, maybe two, three weeks ago, Rocky getting hot about it when he saw the car down by Central and Washington, where Rocky used to park it, and it still had Rocky’s original plates.”

  “When do Rocky and Reggie work again?”

  “Well, Rocky works tomorrow, he’s early shift this month, and Reggie? I dunno, he gets scheduled all over town, so he may not be back here for a few days, maybe a week. He’s basically a fill-in guy who doesn’t even actually fill in. Pretty worthless employee, really. Certainly never gonna be Watch Commander material.”

  Martinez agreed to leave Landon’s business card for Rocky to call him and provided Landon with the Chicago Human Resource supervisor’s name and phone number to help him with Reggie’s personnel file. Landon left the desk convinced ‘Dayshift Watch Commander Martinez’ could do nothing more to help, even if he wanted to. He left a voice message for Chicago-based HR staff and then called Berkshire to update him on the minimal info he acquired from American Bank Tower.

  Berkshire and Landon agreed to keep Jonathan’s continued refusal to come to their office quiet, and Berkshire shared Lieutenant Dobbins’ loss of patience with the man. According to Berkshire, Dobbins feared Jonathan’s potential involvement, and thought he had cooperated only enough to keep detectives focused elsewhere. Dobbins had made it clear to Berkshire that Jonathan would land in 4th Avenue Jail within the next forty-eight regardless of how he arrived there.

  Berkshire updated Landon on their progress with Williams, Healy, and the other feds who had signed on to their investigation. “This thing is now officially designated as its own task force because of the number of agencies and chains of command involved, so congratulations on that.”

  “Did we at least get a decent name, or is this Task Force Laser Mouse?”

  “T-F Willy Pete. I think it was the first thing they thought of that combined ‘white’ and ‘explosive.’ The twenty-four-seven federal surveillance will begin sometime tomorrow night when they can get another National Guard recon plane up overhead. Every other bird is out on other assignments or downed for mandated maintenance, so tomorrow evening is the earliest they can get anything airborne. There’ll be spotty ground assets in the area before the bird comes on-scene. They want overhead images to I-D relatively safe approach routes.”

  “Any new association between the property owners and The Chosen Few?”

  “The northern property owner, John Augustus Bennett, supported George Wallace in the 60’s, continued segregation efforts in Boston in the ‘70’s, but nothing more recent or volatile than that. The southern target, Ned Foster’s place, is deeded to Mildred McCarthy, still no known association between McCarthy, hate groups, or Foster. The National Guard gave us a brief flyover of the properties, took some photographs, but nothing has helped us I-D anyone else in the images.”

  “I don’t think there is anything more to be done from here, Ron. I’m headed back to the office, see you there in a few.”

  “Be safe. I’m headed over to ask the nightshift patrol squads for their help shaking the bushes on this.”

  Sixty-Five

  Dry Creek Patrol Training Room. Dry Creek, Arizona.

  “We’ve gotta stop meeting like this, Ron, the kids are gonna start asking questions about how we’re spending our nights.” Dry Creek Patrol Sergeant Templeton again turned the podium and the morning patrol briefing over to Detective Ron Berkshire.

  “Yeah, well, they’ve gotta grow up sometime and realize their daddies have needs, too.” Berkshire turned to address the morning patrol squad, and informed them that DCPD’s investigation into The Chosen Few had officially been spun up into federal Task Force Willy Pete. “Ask all your snitches and informants for help, it’s critical to collect, document, and pass any word up the chain about any planned violence during the next few weeks. Despite the federal and local resources being thrown at this right now, we desperately need your help on patrol to beat the bushes and leave no stone unturned. Most of the task force eyes and assets will be turned on to the targets themselves, rather than their associates and accomplices.

  “We recently learned The Chosen Few may actually have some affiliation with Santa Lina cartel affiliates. We’re not sure what the dynamics are, but any imaginable scenario that translates guns, money, drugs, and human trafficking into hard currency is possible here. You may actually be able to get relevant intel from your drug snitches and local users, so please don’t overlook any dirtbag who could know something.” Berkshire paused to rifle through a few papers for the next piece of information. There it is, he thought to himself, pulling the coffee-stained page from within his leather portfolio.

  “We think there may be a tan Oldsmobile Alero associated with this investigation, Arizona plate Four-One-Zero-John-Sam-Tom, comes back to a registered own
er named Joseph Degliani, who has no known hate group association and no criminal history. Maybe he’s never been caught, maybe the plate’s stolen and not yet reported. R-O’s address is out of Phoenix and we’re trying to locate him now. We know the car passes through Dry Creek because the R-O may be staying up on Sunvalley. If you see the car, wall it off with your own probable cause, get a good, legit stop, and see what you can see. Make sure you got back-up on the way, we don’t have enough intel to justify a felony stop and you’ll have to sweet-talk your way into searching the car. Be polite, be professional, but have a plan to kill everyone in that car, just in case.

  “The flyer going around the room shows a photo of a tattoo associated with The Chosen Few, along with images of the known players and their vehicles and plates. This is all exceptionally sensitive intel, so this can’t get passed along to your wives, girlfriends, or mistresses, keep it close to the vest, boys.” He paused and looked around the room, deciding how to best get his point across. “If this is as bad as it looks right now, shit is gonna get real bad, real fast, for a whole lot of innocent folks. It’s likely these clowns are working toward building and deploying I-E-Ds and we have no idea what their intended targets are. Keep your head up, your eyes and ears open, and for God’s sake, be safe out there, gentlemen.”

  Sixty-Six

  Eastbound Interstate-Ten. Downtown Phoenix, Arizona.

  As he mushed the reluctant Alero east on I-10, Duke passed beneath a large green reflective road sign that notified drivers to use Loop 303 to continue on to the City of Surprise. He smirked and thought of his own imminent “surprise,” and then looked down at the tan Blackhawk medic pack lying on the front passenger floorboard. Still safe and secure, he thought, but then, I’m too close to it to ever know anything went wrong. His eyes returned back to the relatively empty freeway ahead, and Duke felt compelled to check his timeline status. Turning over his right wrist, he saw his watch displayed 11:23am. So, six-and-a-half-hours left in the American Bank workday. Three more round trips between the shed and the Tower. That’s almost six hours of driving. Duke pushed the accelerator only slightly closer to the floor, watched the speedometer increase to the posted speed limit of sixty-five, and reset the cruise control to maintain his new velocity. Can’t risk a ticket with a backpack full of fuckin’ bombs. I’ll have to make up some time on the return trips when I have far less to hide. Well aware his plans, and freedom, could be jeopardized by a single traffic cop, Duke drove without committing a single traffic infraction, which he found surprisingly difficult and irritating. The jackboots won’t have a lawful reason to stop me, but that doesn’t mean they won’t.