by John Lansing
Peter popped the hood and leaped out of the car, staring at his engine, as two burly men in suits walked menacingly in his direction.
“Son of a bitch, my car died and my wheel locked,” Peter said, putting on his best act. “I hit the brakes, and holy shit! Are you guys all right? I think we just dodged a bullet.” He wondered if that was the right choice of words.
“Move your car, now.”
“Don’t I wish?”
Cars were honking and traffic was stacking up with irate early morning commuters.
The men took another step closer. “Move your vehicle or you’re under arrest.”
Peter didn’t doubt the men were feds or cops, and so, “I can’t promise anything.” He jumped into his car, made a show of pumping the gas, turned the key, and when it fired up, he raised his hands as if a miracle had just occurred. He backed up and waved to the feds as he pulled slowly to the curb.
The gray sedan sped down the half-block and executed a tire-squealing slide onto Washington.
Peter was breathing heavily as he uncapped the dregs of the wine and drained it. He pulled out his phone and dialed Jack.
“Yeah?”
“Trade in your rental.”
“What?”
“Your shit list seems to be growing, Jack. You got some government boys on your tail. I slowed them down, but they’re tearing up Washington. Who’s your rental company?”
“Enterprise, on Venice. I owe you, Peter.”
“Big-time,” he said to a dial tone.
Jack swung a hard left onto Beethoven, heading for Avis.
* * *
Mateo struck out at Public Storage, but then he showed Sukarno’s photo to the woman behind the desk at Security Storage. Joan was African-American, in her forties, with wedge-cut brown hair that sat just below her jawline. She gave him an appraising look, trusted what she saw, and gave him the nod.
“If I’m not mistaken, that’s Mr. Setiawan.”
“Really? Oh, good, I’m supposed to drop off a package, and I was worried I read his text wrong.”
“Well, you certainly might have.” The woman appeared happy to have someone to talk to. “Mr. Setiawan closed his account last night and moved out after hours. I wasn’t on duty, but I saw the invoice this morning. Paid in full until the end of the month. You’re not looking to rent a space yourself, are you?”
“You know, I was thinking about it,” Mateo said, and Joan’s eyes brightened. “Would it be possible for me to see the unit?”
“You may, and if you sign the lease today, I can give you a free month on top of the three weeks Mr. Setiawan paid for. That gives you plenty of time to move your things. We also have a truck at your disposal to help with the move if you need. I can coordinate everything.”
“You are accommodating,” Mateo said.
“I’ll take you back there myself.” Joan locked the front door and rotated the red hands on the paper clock that announced she’d return in fifteen minutes. Joan walked him through a door in the back of the lobby that led to the outside units. They were well maintained in neat rows, corrugated stainless-steel roll-up doors, large inset locks, and an eight-foot solid metal fence topped with concertina wire that enclosed the property, with night access to cardholders only.
“I’ll make any excuse to get out of the office, the sun feels so warm.” Joan walked a few steps with her eyes closed, but when she opened them, she was standing alone.
Mateo was behind her, looking at the roofline, where the security cameras were spaced every thirty feet or so. It looked as if four of the camera lenses providing video coverage for this row of units had been blacked out. He caught up with Joan, and when they arrived at unit 46, “Here it is,” she said proudly. Mateo easily rolled the heavy door up. “I’ve never seen anything like it,” Joan said.
The three-hundred-square-foot room was spotless. It smelled like bleach, and there was a new coat of white paint on the walls.
“It’s so clean,” she went on. “No one leaves a unit this clean. Well, what do you think?”
“I have a strange request.”
“Really,” she said, not sure where the conversation was headed.
“Could you please check the security tape for last night?”
“Why on earth?”
“I’m not sure, but it looks like someone tampered with the cameras.”
“Oh my God, nobody reported anything missing, uh, I should call the manager first.”
“Joan, just a peek. Then we’ll know if there’s any reason to worry the manager.”
Joan hightailed it to the office and into the back room. Mateo stood by her desk until he heard Joan say, “Oh my God!”
Mateo stepped into the room in time to see a blacked-out screen on one of the multiple monitors. “Could you roll it back to just before it goes to black, and maybe we can get some idea of how it happened?”
“Oh, I don’t know.”
“Joan, it’ll make you look sharper with management if you’ve discovered how it occurred and can give a concise report.”
“You think so?”
Mateo flashed his smoldering eyes, nodded with concern, and Joan complied, berating herself for being so damn easy. She rewound the tape for fifteen seconds, and a night shot appeared.
“Let’s stop here and hit Play,” he said casually.
Security spots created pools of amber light. The picture was still for a moment, and then a shadow seemed to enter the frame and a dark hooded figure made his way up the aisle. His face was obscured as he methodically blacked out the cameras with spray paint in Sukarno’s row of storage spaces.
“We’ve never had a problem like this before.”
“I’d report it, all right, but I wouldn’t worry about it, Joan. It doesn’t look like anything’s out of place, and somebody saved the company some money in unit 46. The security company can change the lenses on the cameras, and insurance should cover the cost.”
“Why on earth would somebody do such a thing?”
“They might have been planning a robbery, but you foiled their plot. I’d suggest you get a security guard for a few nights. And it would be smart to check the camera that covered the outside gate.”
“Good idea.” Joan switched to another screen, hit Rewind, and stopped when the night scene appeared. She hit Play and the same dark shadow entered the frame, and the screen went black. “My, my,” she said, trying to make sense out of the situation.
Mateo knew the cleaning crew were professionals, probably the same team who cleaned the fishing trawler up in Oakland. “Could I have one of your cards?” he asked. “I’ll call when I’ve made a decision about the unit.”
Joan flipped a card out of her holder like a blackjack dealer.
Mateo felt a slight pang of guilt manipulating the woman, but it was for a worthy cause. Jack had been up to his neck in alligators on cases they’d worked in the past, but never from so many directions at once. The Mob, the feds, the men who’d tried to burn him alive, and this morning the guys in the government-issue sedan. It could’ve been Homeland Security or the cops or the CIA, for that matter.
Mateo was a loyal friend. Jack had saved his life, after all, kept him out of the big house for a twenty-year stretch, and that was money in the bank. As far as Mateo was concerned. He’d have Jack’s back until they were too old to remember why.
“Thank you, Joan. I’ll get back to you. Call your manager now, you might get a raise for being so observant.”
Joan was all business. She grabbed the landline and was talking in hushed tones as Mateo stepped into the sunlight and called Jack’s cell to relay Sukarno’s alias and late-night housecleaning.
* * *
Agent Liz Hunter was in her office, printing a copy of the ViCAP report Jack had requested, when her phone rang and she was summoned. From the tone of Flannery’s voice, she knew she was in deep trouble. She racked her brain to ascertain where she’d messed up and decided she’d been made in the café in Venice talking
with Jack, consorting with the enemy.
Liz folded the report and slid it into her back pocket, checked her hair in a small mirror she kept in her desk, and mumbled “Shit” as she took the long walk down the hallway.
Special Agent Ted Flannery was seated at his desk and backlit by the California haze that streamed through his window on the seventeenth floor of the Federal Building. The shadows couldn’t hide his physical state. He looked five years older; a patch of dry skin flaking over his eyebrow, hollowed bloodshot eyes, and a spot of beard under his chin missed with his morning shave spoke of a beleaguered civil servant.
Hunter paced in front of his desk, poised to cull her boss from the herd if she’d had the power.
“You’re not a stupid woman.”
“Ted! Don’t go there.”
Flannery tossed a photograph of Hunter and Jack, thick as thieves and leaning close at the Hinano Café in Venice. “What did you discuss?”
“We talked about the case. About Luke. Nothing more. Nothing that moved the case forward or backward. You’ve been copied on all the suspects. Nothing you’re not fully aware of.”
“What did I tell you?” Flannery hammered.
“Jack thinks my brother’s dead. Okay? That’s my new reality. I got to cry in my beer, so what? He has some leads but nothing to take to the bank.”
“Do you know the position you’ve put me in? That you’ve put both of us in? My ass is on the line here because of your brother.”
“You were all over the idea of sending him undercover. And you weren’t fooling anyone. You thought he’d make you a star.”
“I supported him with my reputation, which is now being called into question.”
“Big fucking deal. My brother’s probably dead, and there’s only one person besides me who gives a good goddamn, and that’s Jack Bertolino.”
“I ordered him to cease and desist.”
“That had teeth.” Her tone dripped sarcasm. “You’re worried about your ass, I’m worried about Luke. I’m the one who has to tell my parents their only son is dead, and I’m supposed to walk away? You used to have balls.”
Flannery leaped up and his chair banged against the wall, startling them both, his verbal attack a violent torrent: “I brought you up through the ranks when everybody thought you were a lightweight. And you have the temerity to disregard my orders? Washington’s orders? Your brother knew the risk when he signed on. You did the risk-reward analysis, for Christ’s sake. And now you’ve gone outside the department. Crossed company lines.” Flannery faced the window, his eyes locked on the traffic on the 405 as he stilled his breathing. “I tried to bring your brother in. He defied me. And now you . . . you defy me.”
Agent Hunter remained silent, waiting for the final edict.
Flannery turned. “Agent Hunter, you are now on your own. It’s out of my hands. You’ve been suspended without pay for twenty days, at which time you’ll meet with the Office of Professional Responsibility. If they recommend removal, you can appeal to the Disciplinary Review Board. We know how that usually plays out with their low threshold for misconduct.”
Hunter’s stomach churned and her head reeled, but she stood tall, tamping down her emotion and waiting to hear the rest.
“Washington wants a full written report on what was discussed with Bertolino, where the case stands to date, and I want it on my desk by five o’clock tomorrow. I’ll do what I can to save your pension, but I wouldn’t count on it.
“On a personal note, I couldn’t feel any worse than I do about Luke.”
Hunter refused to break eye contact. “But he’s dead, and you’ve got a few years left before retirement. Given any more thought to buying that bar in Key West?”
“Close the door on your way out,” he said, all the fight gone.
“Who’s running with my brother’s case?”
“It’s no longer your concern. You’re ordered to maintain strict silence until the case is disposed of, however it plays out.”
Hunter turned to leave.
“Liz, your weapon, your badge.”
Hunter pulled her badge off her leather belt and placed it faceup on the edge of Flannery’s desk. She stared at the golden eagle that capped the badge, the source of pride and all that it stood for, and her anger erupted. She drew her 9mm and Flannery’s eyes narrowed.
Hunter tossed her Glock on the desk’s surface. It bounced once and knocked over Flannery’s FBI mug. His face reddened as the dark liquid leached into his paperwork.
Agent Liz Hunter walked out the door, leaving behind years of success, struggle, and a career she profoundly loved.
* * *
Hunter made a stop at Gelson’s on the way home from the office, loaded up on junk food, and was now dressed in her most comfortable sweats, sitting on her favorite couch, wearing her favorite slippers, her television set to the Travel Channel, working her way through her sweet acquisitions and trying to deaden the pain, when her safe phone rang.
“It’s never easy,” Jack said.
“You got my text.”
“Are you drinking?”
“Hah!” exploded out of her. The first smile to pierce her melancholy in hours.
“Eating?”
“Entenmann’s crumb cake.”
“Good choice. Häagen-Dazs?”
“How’d you know?”
“A good match with the coffee cake.”
“Chocolate peanut butter.”
“One of my favorites.”
“You’re not going to make me feel better, although my esteem for your sleuthing skills just rose a few points. Which is a lot higher than my self-esteem.”
“I get lucky once in a while. But there’s more than one outcome at play here.”
“Oh yeah?”
“My team is stretched thin. You have a few days when you can still call in favors before the rumor mill shuts you down. I think we’re coming to a head one way or the other. I tell you what, sleep on it. I’m on my safe phone. I’ve moved onto my boat because of the feds, or Homeland Security, or whoever was on my tail this morning.
“If you want to stay active and be a part of taking down the scumbags who killed your brother, come on board. No strings. I’ll take you through every move we’ve made, and I know you can bring something to the table.”
Hunter chewed a piece of crumble off the top of the crumb cake while she thought.
“Cake, for example,” Jack said.
“I’ll call you.”
“Fair enough.”
“Jack,” she said before he could click off. “Thanks.”
Hunter wondered if accepting Jack’s offer was just hammering the last nail in her coffin. And was that necessarily a bad outcome? As things stood, she didn’t see a way forward at the agency. Even if she could prolong what seemed to be the inevitable end game, she’d bleed out slowly until retirement in some obscure outpost. Not what she had in mind when she signed on with the FBI.
It might be better to go out in flames. After all, she was the one who’d set the investigation into her brother’s disappearance in motion. Jack Bertolino had been her choice. It seemed a little chickenshit to have engaged him and then let him risk his life without backup.
She’d never forgive Flannery for authorizing the arrest of Rusty Mannuzza without clearing it with her first. It had put Jack’s life in danger, and he’d paid dearly for a move that hadn’t advanced the case one iota.
And let’s talk about loyalty, she thought, working up a head of self-righteous anger. Jack suffered a brutal beating and did not give up the Bureau. That should count for something to someone.
Hunter unfolded the ViCAP report and read about a man named Gregory, who piqued her interest. Why would Sukarno be meeting with an individual who traded in black-market contraband and acquired information he reportedly sold to the highest bidder? There was only one damn way to find out.
Hunter grabbed a fistful of crumb cake and polished it off in two angry mouthfuls. Hell, yes. Better t
o go out in flames.
Thirty-one
Jack had picked up his second rental in as many days. He’d traded the Mustang for a matte-gray Camaro with dark-tinted windows and a dangerous 330-horsepower V8. If he got into another altercation on the highway, he wanted the power to blow his pursuers off the road. Jack checked twice to make sure he’d signed the collision damage waiver.
He stocked up on food and drink before heading to Long Beach and filling his galley. Jack was confident it had been Homeland Security tailing him earlier, and the last thing he needed was to spend a day in interrogation. The boat would more than serve his immediate needs.
Cruz was in the field tailing Roxy and Trent; Mateo was on his way back from Playa Vista, and the storage facilities. Jack pulled out his laptop and booted up. He hadn’t heard from his contacts in Oakland, and he pulled up the East Bay Times to see if there were any stories of interest related to the case.
There was no mention of the fishing trawler or the death of the captain on the front page. Jack crawled down and, in the California section, skimmed an article about a thousand dead Pacific herring washing up on the shores of an island group about thirty miles west of the Golden Gate Bridge.
He was about to shut down when he read the article again, making note of the name. The Farallon Islands were a wildlife preserve. If Jack wasn’t mistaken, the destination was one that Cruz had stumbled upon when doing research on the computer Luke frequently used. It hadn’t rung any bells when it first surfaced. The search on Miranda’s computer had targeted the Farallones, along with Baja, Hawaii, Indonesia, and a few other exotic destinations. They’d chalked it up to vacation travel destinations, but it was worth taking a second look.
Jack sent a text to Cruz, requesting a copy of the research related to the computer and a copy of the doodles Luke had inked on the margins of the magazine Jack had retrieved from Miranda’s apartment.
