Trace

by Archer Mayor

  With the resulting uniformed officer in tow, Willy had then appeared at the cab company and asked the woman at the counter to see her logbook for the same time and date stamped on Hinkle’s photograph. Without complaint or hesitation, she’d done so, supplying Willy with the address he was now observing.

  Sometimes, he thought now, the fates rewarded even the likes of him. The signage above the small warehouse’s entrance read: PURE COMPUTERS—THE IMPORTED ELECTRONICS EMPORIUM. And on a smaller, vertical plaque to the right of the door was written:

  CHIPS

  BOARDS

  BATTERIES

  You name it.

  If you need it, we’ve got it.

  “Let’s hope so,” Willy said to himself, reaching into his pocket and producing his cell phone.

  “Murphy,” came the answer after a single ring on the receiving end.

  “Hey, Murph. It’s Kunkle again. I wanted to thank you for smoothing the skids with the cab company.”

  Doug Murphy was sounding slightly more harassed than earlier. “Sure. You get what you wanted?”

  Willy forged ahead anyhow. “I did. I’m parked in front of the place right now, wondering if you’d like a piece of the action.”

  Murphy let out a humorless cross between a grunt and a laugh. “Great. Just what I need. What are you working on, anyhow? I didn’t ask before.”

  There was some shouting in Murphy’s background, which Willy let quiet down before he answered, “A bunch of suspicions right now, but I think I’ve stumbled over an electronics smuggling operation of some kind.”

  “Based on what?”

  Even as the words left his mouth, Willy was aware of their apparent inanity. “I found a maybe bogus lithium-ion battery in Vermont, in Windsor. The guy I had analyze it said it reminded him of some mil-spec work he’d handled back in the day.”

  “Military?” Murphy echoed.

  “Yeah.”

  “And…?”

  “I think I’ve traced it back to an electronics importer on Albany Street. That’s where I am now.”

  There was a repeat of the noise on Murphy’s end, just before he asked, “Where’re you going with this? Sounds like you found a lost battery. I don’t get it.”

  “If it was built to U.S. military specifications,” Willy argued, “it’s not supposed to be imported.”

  “You know anyone at HSI?” Murphy asked brusquely.

  “Homeland Security? Not really. Rumor has it I don’t play well with them.”

  Murphy was running low on patience. “Look, I don’t wanna play with you, either. Maybe you got somethin’, maybe you don’t, but if you’re right about the mil-spec thing, you should call Alex Dorman at HSI. He’s a good guy and he might want to help. To me, this sounds more like a Customs and Border Patrol case, but Alex is better to work with. Plus, I don’t know anybody at CBP.”

  Willy dived into his pocket for a pen to write down Dorman’s contact information that Murphy quickly rattled off before saying, “Good luck, man,” and abruptly hanging up.

  Willy didn’t mind. Unlike many who shared his abrasive personality, he didn’t mind being on the receiving end now and then, even more when he could empathize with the messenger. He didn’t know Murphy well, but he’d heard that his department had been under fire politically for years. That could not have made it a fun place to work.

  Plus, not only was Willy still on track, following a case that had begun as a mere hunch, but throughout its escalating stages he’d been learning how to improve his pitch. When it came time to win over Alex Dorman, Willy was already calculating how best to appeal to federal law enforcement’s refined appetite.

  * * *

  Nick Gargiulo’s phone vibrated on his belt.

  “What?” he asked without preamble.

  Jared Wylie took no notice. “You find her yet?”

  Nick was amused. Wylie had been calling him every few hours. “Like I wouldn’t tell you to get you off my back?”

  “Don’t give me attitude. You’re not irreplaceable.”

  “Maybe not, but I got your girl.”

  “The fuck you do. Really?”

  “I’m looking at her right now,” Gargiulo replied. “Like the song says: Just walkin’ down the street.”

  “God, you’re irritating, you know that? Where are you?”

  “You know where I am. You want me to do this right, I gotta get off the phone.”

  “She have it with her—?” Wylie was asking as Gargiulo cut him off. He absentmindedly slid the phone back into its holster, dropped a five-dollar bill next to his coffee cup on the counter, and walked to the café’s front door. He waited a few moments for Jayla to get partway down the block from the clothing store where she worked, before stepping out and following her from a distance.

  Shouldn’t be much longer now.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Jayla stopped chewing in midbite, taking in Rachel’s surprised expression as she said, “Oh—I thought when you said you’d come from Buffalo, that’s where you were born. What a dummy.”

  Rachel gently slapped her own forehead as Jayla silently cursed her slip of the tongue. Enjoying dinner at the apartment—consisting of soup and sandwiches—they’d been chatting, when Jayla had let slip that she’d attended high school in Guilderland.

  Okay, she then thought, what was the damage? They’d been roommates for almost a week, they got along, Jayla knew in her bones that Rachel represented no threat, and she hadn’t heard a word or seen a sign of Jared lurking anywhere in all that time. Maybe her legitimate but fading paranoia was losing its grip.

  “I wasn’t exactly honest when I told you about Buffalo,” she said tentatively, testing her new theory. “I’ve never even been there.”

  Almost as a reward, Rachel smiled encouragingly. “That a cover story?”

  Jayla looked down. “I’m sorry. I was trying to be careful.”

  “Smart,” Rachel said. “So you’re a Guilderland girl. Where is that? I never heard of it.”

  “It’s right outside Albany. That’s not all, by the way. My dad’s not dead, and my mother would be the last person on earth to have a boyfriend. I just thought it would put you off asking more questions. I’m really sorry.”

  Rachel took it in stride. “Don’t be. I get it. I’ve done that before. I mean, I never killed off my dad, but I’ve tossed out smoke bombs at guys getting too nosy. It’s handy sometimes. Does that mean you were taking classes in Albany, at SUNY?”

  Relieved, Jayla nodded.

  “Oh, God,” Rachel said enthusiastically, “I was soooo tempted when I was applying. My mom would’ve been cool about it, but my dad had a fit—said it was too far away. Total joke, of course, since I barely see him since he remarried. Not that I’m complaining. UVM’s been good, but I always wondered if SUNY wouldn’t have had much more to choose from.”

  Jayla rolled her eyes. “Parents, right?”

  Rachel laughed. “So now that you have parents again, what do they do?”

  “They’re both in the Albany school system. My dad’s an administrator; my mom’s a librarian. Super nice, super straight…”

  “Super controlling?” Rachel suggested.

  “Kind of. My mom’s worse. That’s what I meant about her never having a boyfriend. I know my dad was her one and only, period. Maybe it’s the mother-daughter thing, but we kind of get on each other’s nerves. She says I don’t respect what they’ve achieved—that’s her favorite phrase—and I say she’s sold out her heritage.”

  She quickly held up one hand, as though Rachel were about to interrupt, which she wasn’t. “I know, I know. Harsh. Makes her sound like an Uncle Tom or whatever. I don’t mean that. They did well for us and she’s not really a sellout. They were part of the Civil Rights movement and everything, and they still belong to all the right groups. It’s just they’re so protective, you know what I mean?”

  In that way, Rachel actually didn’t. Her parents had been remarkably trusting and freehanded as s
he and her older sister were growing up, even if that had been in Burlington, Vermont.

  “You know Albany at all?” Jayla asked, not just warming to her topic, but also enjoying speaking freely after so many days of self-guardedness.

  “Not really,” Rachel admitted.

  “It’s a fun town. I mean, it’s got all the political junk going on that everyone talks about, but underneath, it’s a huge melting pot of cultures and ethnicities and different traditions—all the things that Burlington could have if it were bigger, and not so white.

  “Anyway,” she went on, “there are two sections that are mostly black—South Side and Arbor Hill—and when I started getting older, I used to go to Arbor Hill to do volunteer work and find out more about it. Drove my mom crazy. That’s where she and my dad came from originally, before they headed for the burbs.”

  “So she saw you as trying to set back the clock?” Rachel asked.

  “I guess. But it wasn’t my clock. It was hers. I get it, you know? I totally understand why they left. It was a different time and they had their reasons, and it’s true that parts of those neighborhoods are pretty bad. But there’s a ton of good going on, too, and if all you do is leave a place, how’re you gonna make it better?”

  Jayla suddenly laughed and sat back. “Jeez. Where did all that come from?” She looked at her watch. “Did you want to catch the early show? We could get some ice cream before.”

  * * *

  Nick Gargiulo watched the two young women leave the apartment house on foot from across the street, and quickly pondered his next move. Wylie had given him an open contract—grab the package, kill the girl if she got in the way. He didn’t care. As for Nick, he didn’t mind killing the girl. That part of his job had its appeal, which is partly why he so missed the military, after they’d been stupid enough to throw him out, ruining a good career and wasting a useful asset.

  Of course, killing civilians over here was trickier—he admitted that. And he wouldn’t miss watching his back if he did let her get away.

  He shifted his gaze from the girls to the apartment they’d just left. It was unlikely the target had the package with her. So, just this once, discretion being the better part of valor, maybe he would keep it simple. It’s not like he couldn’t find her again. He crossed the street.

  Rachel Reiling’s building was a cardboard box against Nick’s particular talents—and that was before he discovered that the common entryway servicing both second- and first-floor apartments had been left unlocked.

  He therefore slipped up the narrow interior staircase, careful of squeaking floorboards—in case the downstairs neighbors were around—and expertly bypassed the simple door lock he found at the top.

  The girls had thoughtfully left a couple of lights on, allowing him to use his pocket torch sparingly. And, befitting her age, lifestyle, and income level, Rachel hadn’t yet caught the habit of acquisition. The apartment—given some of the ratholes he’d burgled—was so uncluttered, it was almost spare.

  That in no way reduced the pleasant shiver he experienced every time he entered someone’s place uninvited—especially if it belonged to a young woman. Regardless of whatever he was after, Gargiulo never passed up the chance of searching through an underwear drawer, for example. In his own self-defense, such recreations weren’t entirely illegitimate—people did often bury their valuables in precisely that spot, for reasons he never understood. But truthfully? He would have pawed in there anyhow.

  It was fair to say that the whole enterprise was of dubious merit, of course. It was Rachel’s apartment, not Jayla’s. Jayla had arrived literally with the clothes on her back, which had only minimally been added to in the interim. Gargiulo’s careful ransacking of the place, while entertaining, should have taken all of five minutes, instead of the hour he gave it, and the end result was that he learned much more about Rachel than he did Jayla Robinson, including her family members, her mother’s interesting occupation, and the name of the latter’s policeman boyfriend.

  It was proof to Nick Gargiulo that no search—regardless how fruitless in appearance—was ever a complete waste. In his profession, information was currency, and always worth having tucked away.

  But it wasn’t what he’d come for. The target must’ve taken the package with her, after all. His earlier optimism for a quick and bloodless resolution had foundered. He was still lacking what would bring his employer satisfaction.

  It was time to step things up. Fortunately, he was now perfectly situated to do just that.

  * * *

  “You know, it’s weird,” Jayla said as they entered the apartment and Rachel locked the door behind them. “It’s like every movie’s better in a real theater. I watch everything on my phone, almost—maybe a laptop, sometimes. But that was fun. And the whole place was so … I don’t know. Old.”

  Rachel was laughing. “Leave it to Burlington to keep the traditions alive. That movie house is older than my mom. I don’t go anywhere else, though. It’s pretty dumpy, but it’s like the movie’s got to be showing there. Then I’ll start worrying about if it’s any good.”

  Jayla rolled her eyes, having been less than impressed by the venue. “You got it bad, girl.”

  “I know, I know. Country girl, trapped in the sticks.”

  They had moved into the living room/dining room/kitchenette portion of the flat and were dumping their purses, Rachel’s sweater, and—in Jayla’s case—her hoodie onto the furniture.

  “What do you have lined up for tomorrow?” Rachel asked.

  Jayla checked her watch. “I’ve been thinking about what you said a couple of days ago, so I’m going over to UVM before work tomorrow morning to check out their courses. See if there’s something I like.”

  Rachel was delighted. “Really? That is so neat. I can’t believe all this is happening. If you find something, you could move in for sure. Get your stuff from Albany. We could find a bigger place.”

  Jayla gave her a hug. “You are too much. One step at a time.”

  Rachel patted her back. “Okay, okay. I know. I won’t get my hopes up. Well, I will get my hopes up, but … You know what I mean.”

  * * *

  It was late. Jayla lay on the foldout bed, gazing at the ceiling and the occasional lights of passing traffic. Who in their right mind would have come up with this outcome, considering how it had begun, with her running down the street, convinced that Jared would come flying after her like a condor-sized vampire bat? From that degree of fear and paranoia—just a few days before—she’d reached here.

  It was like a miracle. She closed her eyes and drifted off to sleep.

  * * *

  Gargiulo had taken his time, concealing himself in the back of the hall closet. It was, naturally enough, where Rachel had piled her little-used junk. The trick had been how to rearrange it so he could later emerge without making any noise. That meant shifting hangers so they wouldn’t slide, piling luggage so it wouldn’t fall, and heaping clothes so they could be moved without a sound. Just as important, he’d had to settle into a comfortable-enough position to stay immobilized for several hours.

  He began moving at around one in the morning, slowly working his way to where, after fifteen minutes of painstaking effort, he finally stepped out into the hallway. Once there, he indulged briefly in stretching his arms above his head, straightening his spine, and fully articulating his stiff neck.

  He stayed stock-still for an additional, drawn-out moment, acquiring and cataloging the apartment’s symphony of tiny sights and sounds—the outside lights, regularly altered by a light breeze through the trees, the ticking of a clock, the fridge’s steady hum, Jayla’s deep and regular breathing.

  He then adjusted his ski mask and glided soundlessly toward the center room, having memorized which boards creaked and which could silently bear his weight. Having reached a spot about four feet from Jayla’s head, which was helpfully turned away, he looked around carefully. There was still no reason to make a fuss if his goal was l
ying in plain sight.

  He saw the two purses, a small paper bag, the sweater and the hoodie, all newcomers to the scene he’d inventoried before hiding out. Which purse was Jayla’s, he didn’t know. Hers had to be new, or at least newly purchased at a used clothing store, but that didn’t help. They both looked old. The paper bag he ruled out as being too noisy to deal with first. The hoodie, he knew for a fact belonged to the target—he’d seen her wearing it. And it was lying in a heap in the chair by his leg.

  He bent over, running his fingers across the soft fabric, searching for the center pocket. He felt something hard in its folds, shifted the hoodie slightly to pursue it, and tried reaching in. His otherwise delicate gesture proved just enough to nudge the object he’d felt—a pair of sunglasses—onto the floor.

  Shit, he thought as the plastic frames clattered onto the wooden floorboards.

  There was a rustling from the bed, followed by a sleepy, “Rachel? What’s up?”

  Gargiulo swiveled on his heel, took one step over to the bed, and clamped his gloved hand across the startled girl’s mouth.

  “One move, one sound, and you die. Do you understand?” he hissed into her ear.

  For a moment, she seemed to comply, staying utterly still. But apparently she was merely gathering her wits, because one second later, her hand flew out from under the sheet, improbably armed with her cell phone, with which she struck him on the temple with her full might.

  He was stunned by the blow, and staggered backwards slightly. It was enough for her to roll free of his grip and make for the far side of the bed, screaming Rachel’s name.

  He threw himself at her, caution abandoned, hoping to neutralize her before her roommate could respond. He caught her around the waist as she fought to free herself of the entangling sheet, and they both crashed to the floor, knocking over the nearby table lamp.

  Jayla was on her back, Gargiulo partially on top of her, kicking, punching, and scratching like a woman possessed, screaming all the while, when Rachel appeared at her bedroom door, confused and alarmed.