Marked Man

by Jared Paul

“That’s the one. He seemed like a decent enough guy.”

  “They all do when you don’t really know them and when they don’t know you. But as soon as they figure out what you are people go running off. Mr. Williams is all country drawl friendly but if he could he’d have me locked up until the end of time. And why?” Shannon hiccupped and began ending every sentence in the form of a question, “because I choose to live a different way than him? Well fuck him? Who the fuck is he? To tell me or anybody what I can or can’t do?”

  Jordan shrugged and took a deep satisfying pull from his bourbon, which he still insisted on paying for on his own even though there was an ample supply of booze in the bar downstairs. Shannon was on a roll and he decided it was best to let her keep going.

  “And Leslie too? I mean we have something going and it’s great as what it is, but then why does everything have to become a cage? Every relationship. It’s like if you don’t even.” Shannon burped. “If you don’t even have the exact same idea about the other person about what you’re doing together it can’t work out? So I go with other girls once in a while. Does that mean that I love Leslie any less? It’s ridiculous. She’s controlling. That’s what she is. She comes off all wise to the world and everything but deep down underneath all that she’s just a control freak who is terrified of anything that might spin out of her orbit. She does it with everybody. With you too. Whatever you have going with her I don’t know but I do know Leslie and I know that she’s controlling you for her own ends.”

  “It’s not like that. We have a common goal. We’re working together on something.”

  Shaking her head and wagging her finger, Shannon set her glass down on the table and spoke earnestly to Jordan. The fabled moment of alcoholic clarity had come washed over her completely. Jordan knew it well enough. Shannon was on the perfect dividing line bordering the terrific carefree land of the tipsy and the scorched and barren world of the wasted; an elusive plateau where only the good feelings are manifested and every word coming out of her mouth was pure gold. In twenty minutes she would be moaning and throwing up into the sink but in the moment Shannon was a mystic dispensing infallible prophecies and indisputable wisdom with every breath.

  “You think that but you’re wrong. She’s convinced you of something that isn’t true. I don’t know what it is. But I do know that there’s another way. There’s always another way. But Leslie only sees things through her narrow prism of revenge. It’s medieval the way she thinks, her entire worldview. Blood for blood. Do you want to know something? She’s obsessed with this Russian guy, this gangster who killed her partner. It’s all she thinks about. Getting back at this guy. Used to be when we first started going out she made plans for the future, she was a complete person. Now this is all she lives for. She has nothing left. There is nothing left of her for me to love and she gets mad at me for trying to get off with someone else?”

  Shannon broke into sobs and Jordan patted her on the back. After a few minutes she whimpered, “I don’t feel so good,” and ran off to the bathroom.

  …

  Detective Bollier dipped her head and let a fresh wave of steam wash over her. Her eyes were closed and she was making a concerted effort to empty her mind of all the angles and plots and horrors that seemed to be closing in around her investigations. The steam room in the precinct had become her last oasis. For weeks Bollier’s nerve had failed her when it came to returning to her apartment, and after being kidnapped in broad daylight by Shirokov’s thugs she had become a full-on recluse.

  Bollier ate, slept, and lived out of her office, venturing out into the world only once each morning for her pilgrimage to Starbucks. No place was safe for her now, she understood, but if Shirokov and his gang managed to rob her of her daily grande mocha Bollier figured that she might as well call it a life and put a bullet in her head. Besides, it was always crowded there and only a block from the station, and therefore brimming with both on and off duty police.

  Sweat was dripping out of her brow. The white towel tied around her chest was soaked through and felt like it weighed ten pounds, which was about as much as Bollier had lost in recent weeks. Whether it was the extended sessions in the steam room or the stress she couldn’t be sure, but at least it was one positive to the ongoing melodrama thriller that seemed to be her life. Perspective was what it was all about.

  Bollier heard a noise out in the locker room area and perked her head up. She listened for footsteps but whatever the source of the sound was had gone. Bollier sighed then decided to leave the steam room before she got overheated and passed out. She showered leaning against the stall, legs and arms feeling like warm jelly. Her skin was glowing red as if she’d gone through an intense cardio workout or an entire afternoon of sex. When she was through Bollier dried herself with a new towel and tracked a series of wet footprints into the locker area. She stood in front of her locker and pulled it open.

  On the bottom shelf there was a tangled heap of sweatpants and headbands. A clean, pressed women’s blazer and slacks were suspended in a plastic dry cleaner’s pouch above the scrum. The smaller top shelf was empty except for a single shiny bronze bullet, standing erect in the center of the shelf.

  Bollier nearly gasped but she refused to let it escape from her mouth and swallowed down her terror. It tasted foul and dead.

  She stole a furtive glance around the locker room but of course she was alone. Bollier picked up the bullet and rolled it between her thumb and forefinger, letting waves of cold rage wash over her. It was always foolish to leave her things unguarded. Like most of the detectives and other officers who called the 84th home Bollier never bothered with a lock. If your personal items weren’t safe in a police station after all, then where in the hell would they be? The equation had changed though. This violation of her inner sanctum was the most intrusive action yet. Even that slug Detective Castillo wouldn’t have had the stones to stroll into the women’s bathroom and put a bullet in her locker, which meant that the Russians had their hooks in at least one female cop working at the precinct. The circle of death was widening.

  Suddenly feeling incredibly naked, Bollier dressed fast and hurried out of the locker room without drying her hair. Back upstairs in her office she set the bullet down on the edge of her desk and got right back to working. An hour later her friend Sergeant Melanie Cole dropped by to say hello.

  “Hey Les. How’s it going?”

  Melanie made a face at the conspicuous bullet.

  “What? Oh. It’s uh, it’s going. I’m getting a lot done.”

  “Yeah I should hope so. We haven’t been seeing much of you lately. Is everything alright?”

  Bollier shuffled a few forms around on her desk, trying to appear busy, trying to hide the quivering fear in her voice and failing at it.

  “It’s going. I’m just dealing with some stuff at home right now. Shannon again.”

  “What’s with the bullet?”

  The Sergeant was eyeing the bullet like she was afraid it might leap off the desk and strike out at an innocent bystander entirely on its own will. Bollier wrung her hands and then smoothed them through her hair. Unconsciously she began rocking in her chair, a slight but perceptible bounce that made her resemble a senile grandmother in a nursing home.

  “You want to know what’s with the bullet.” It wasn’t a question. Bollier studied her friend the Sergeant’s face for any creeping hostility. There was nothing there. Melanie was not a part of the plot; the ever expanding ring of fire had not found her yet. Either that or she could give Meryl Streep a run for her money at the Academy Awards. Bollier flashed an ugly smile and answered her friend’s question. “The bullet… was in my locker. Someone put it there while I was taking a shower today, just an hour ago. Here, in the precinct I’m being threatened by dirty cops. Shirokov has bought at least two or three detectives and I don’t even know how many uniforms. I got abducted the other day while I was at the FBI field office of all places. I’ve been living out of this office. I haven’t gone h
ome in weeks. My cat is in all likelihood dead by now, and any day now I’m probably going to join him. So, that’s it. That’s what’s up with the bullet. But how are you, Melanie? How are the kids?”

  Sergeant Melanie Cole didn’t say anything. She didn’t bite back, didn’t rise to Bollier’s bitter taunt. Melanie was always a better friend and more emotionally mature. Even when Bollier lashed out she never took it personally. As her friend came over and quietly squeezed Bollier on the shoulder she found herself resenting this superior emotional intellect, by contrast it only made Bollier feel worse about her own deficiencies.

  The next morning just when she’d settled in with her mocha Bollier got a call from Agent Clemons at the FBI. Wiping the warm chocolate and whipped cream from her mouth, she hurried to answer the phone.

  “Kyle? Is that you?”

  “That it is. I’ve got some good news detective.”

  Hearing Kyle put Bollier at ease. At least there was one powerful friend she could still count on.

  “Shoot.”

  “I think I’ve found a solution to our problem. It will get your acquaintance out of hot water and it helps along our little side project. Can you swing by today to meet? I can tell you all about it.”

  Bollier almost panicked at the thought of driving out to Queens by herself. “Could you come by my precinct instead? I’m kind of slammed here at the moment. It would make my schedule today a whole lot easier.” This was a violation of their protocol, every time she had gone to him, but Bollier hoped that seeing her with a federal agent would put the fear of God into whoever was trying to intimidate her. A second elapsed as Agent Clemons considered the change of plans.

  “Yeah I can do that. I’ve got some Christmas shopping to do that I’ve been putting off, maybe I’ll check that off my list after we’re through.”

  “Great! I’m so glad that you can make it. Thank you so much Kyle.”

  “No problem. Be there around eleven.”

  When Agent Clemons arrived at the precinct at 11:15 Bollier came bounding out of her office to greet him at the front desk. She practically tackled him with a hug which took him by surprise.

  “AGENT Kyle Clemons, how have you been?”

  “Can’t complain. How about you, champ? How you holding up?”

  “OH I’m just dandy. Follow me I’ll show you around on the way to my office.”

  Detective Bollier made a show of introducing her special FBI friend Kyle to almost every single person she could find around the precinct, even the cops whose names she could not readily recall when introducing them. Bollier talked loud and laughed louder at her own stupid jokes and slapped her co-workers on the back. Twice the detective accidentally got lost on the way to her office, wandering around to the remote cubicles on the southeast side of the building and showing off Special Agent Clemons to everyone she came across.

  Castillo was milling around the break room waiting for a fresh pot of coffee to brew when Bollier walked in with her new friend in tow.

  “Morris! You simply have got to meet my friend. This is Agent Kyle Clemons. He works at the FBI field office out in Kew Gardens.”

  Awkwardly Castillo offered his hand for the fed to shake. Special Agent Clemons grinned and shook it heartily with a white knuckled grip.

  “So this is the famous Detective Castillo! I’ve heard so much about you.”

  Confused, Castillo pulled his hand away and looked back and forth between Bollier and the FBI man. He was at least six feet tall, wide-shouldered, fresh-faced, everything you expected an FBI agent to look like from the movies, only he didn’t have the giveaway Hollywood star handsomeness. Clemons had a grim stare and a chin that looked sharp enough to break ice. The overall effect made Castillo visibly nervous.

  “You uh. You’ve heard of me before?”

  “Oh heck yes, over at the FBI we know all about you.”

  Bollier could have died at the face that Castillo made. She would have kissed Kyle if there weren’t so many lingered eyes about.

  “Well I’ll let you get back to work. It was great meeting you finally.”

  “Uh. Yeah, you too.”

  As they were strutting out of the break room Bollier winked at Castillo and Agent Clemons made a two-finger gun salute. Back in her office Bollier closed the blinds and thanked Kyle for coming all the way to meet her here, it meant a lot. Slowly Agent Clemons drew it out of her why she had refused to drive out to the FBI building. Bollier told him about the bullet, about hiding out at the precinct, and finally about being abducted from the parking garage next to his building.

  Agent Clemons listened to Bollier intently, asking her to go over every detail a couple of times. When she was through he shook his head.

  “Sounds like you have a guardian angel. You have no idea who was on the phone with Shirokov?”

  “No. Whoever it was though I can’t imagine they only had my best interest at heart. I mean maybe he’s brought down too much heat with this whole Ross thing.”

  “Yeah that’s a thought. Speaking of which, I think I have an idea that will throw the Russians off his tail.”

  Detective Bollier flipped the lid off of her grande mocha and drank the rest of it even though it had gone cold. She crossed her legs in her chair and waited for Agent Clemons to explain his brilliant plan.

  “Well. This is going to sound crazy, but… have you ever seen Sleeping with the Enemy?”

  In the back of her head Bollier remembered renting the Julia Roberts flick with some early girlfriend from the video store a long time ago. After Pretty Woman it was the actress’ second big breakthrough role. Through most of the movie Bollier hadn’t really paying attention as she was too preoccupied with the goings-on beneath the blanket she was sharing with her date. While she could not remember the finer points of the plot, Agent Clemons’ intent quickly became apparent to her.

  “You have got to be kidding.”

  …

  Jordan Ross asked the FBI agent and Detective Bollier go over it one more time. Faking a death, as it turned out was a relatively simple affair if one had the resources to pull it off. Whereas most people in Jordan Ross’ situation would be put into witness protection, shipped off to the other side of the continental United States and given a new identity, that wouldn’t work in his case. For one Bollier’s FBI friend did not have the authority to grant asylum to a wanted fugitive, and secondly neither Ross nor his conspirators had any interest in making him actually disappear.

  The plan then was to convince the Russians that Jordan Ross was dead. To do this effectively, one would have to utilize some considerable resources. Luckily Agent Clemons had a discretionary budget at his disposal to fight organized crime and use as he saw fit. The first step would be releasing the news. FBI sources would arrange for a news story to be released in several major media outlets about a former green beret who committed suicide after losing his wife and daughter in a tragic accident several months earlier. His family would be notified and a service held, closed casket of course. A tombstone would be carved and a grave dug. It was really only a matter of resources.

  The problem, as Special Agent Clemons explained, was the little details. Like in the absurd battered wife movie with Julia Roberts, it was always the tiniest coincidence, the most unthinkable circumstance that tripped people up and blew their cover when they tried to pull it off. In the film the abusive husband first begins to suspect something is amiss when he steps on a piece of broken glass on the beach which had been instrumental to his wife’s escape. Agent Clemons admitted this was a silly example, but the point was essentially true. One object was all it took. One loose string could untie the entire knot.

  For two hours Jordan listened to Bollier and Agent Clemons go over the plan. Once he was officially deceased, he would have to radically change his appearance. Growing a long beard and shaving his head bald would be just the start.

  Meeting in the sun room of Shannon’s family cottage home, Agent Clemons, detective Bollier and Jordan Ross revi
ewed the first stage of the plan. After giving him a quick once over Clemons declared that Ross was going to have to get in shape.

  “What do you mean? I’m in shape.”

  “Don’t mistake my meaning please. For an average, healthy male of your age, yes you are in shape. But for what we’re planning you might as well be the Pillsbury dough boy.”

  Jordan looked to Bollier for support.

  “What you’re planning?”

  “Well. See Kyle and I have had this idea for several years now. The Russians have done an extraordinary job of evading prosecution, whether through bribes, extortion, or killing witnesses. Of course we can’t go into too many specifics but they’ve infiltrated the department to a disturbing level. In order to bring them down somebody’s going to have to meet them down on their level.”

  The sun was warming Jordan’s back as he warmed to the idea. He teased for more detail.

  “Meaning what exactly?”

  Agent Clemons cleared his throat and measured his words. He had been trying to articulate the broad strokes for five years. In truth, avoiding the inevitable conclusion that only by going outside of the law could Shirokov’s organization be fully destroyed.

  “I’m not going to mince words with you, Mr. Ross. What Leslie and I have in mind is exceedingly dangerous, ethically dubious, and illegal in the fucking extreme. Ever since Bollier’s partner…”

  Bollier waved her hand to warn him off the subject which she felt too raw to share with strangers.

  “Let’s just say, certain events have colored our understanding a decidedly dark shade of gray, if not black.”

  What they were asking for was readily apparent to Jordan Ross, and in principle he was fully on board, but he was not about to go out on a limb if the FBI man and the detective couldn’t even bring themselves to say it.

  “Why don’t you tell me exactly what it is you want from me? What am I to you?”

  For a moment Bollier and Agent Clemons hesitated on the precipice. Not surprisingly, Bollier found the courage to put the conceit into words first. Once the snowball was rolling down the hill though Agent Clemons joined in exuberantly.