Throughout the interaction, Therese uses precise holds and force, continuing to think to herself and wonder – is this how Lilja would do it? Is this how Lilja would do it?
*****
There are three kinds of officers on the force, in general. Firstly, there are the rookies, or those still new enough they are establishing themselves. After that, they mostly develop into those that are good and those that are bad. This is not to imply an evaluation of their job performance but a measure of corruption. Save for those who are so poor at walking the less than legal path that they get arrested, the ones who play the game well enough to stay free are still known amongst their peers. The two sides, though possibly not directly opposing, just do not often mix, nor do they mix well. It is also another unwritten rule that once you choose a side, you usually stay there.
Detective Quain Contee experiences this a lot of late, and though it makes his life more difficult, he faces it, knowing he got himself here. He will do what he can to rectify the situation.
He bids Detectives Marek and Graner goodbye with a gentle tilt of his head and a slight raise of his coffee cup, gaining a similar aspect from them. The short interaction had been professional, courteous, and awkward. They have been assigned to the dead blogger case, and they are firmly in the ‘good’ camp, and they had evinced a veneer of defensiveness when Quain had wandered over to talk to them. It is subtle, but they are investigators. He doesn’t blame them.
He also has something of an ulterior motive, but where he used to be on the payroll of the local mob, he is now trying to earn his way back into the good graces of the ‘right’ side, as it were, by feeding information to the vigilante. The vigilante, no doubt, knows who he is, and it is not like he’s been approached at night by a sudden dark figure perched next to his bed. Quain is trying to use the shadow network that provides intel to the crime fighter, and he is hoping to gain trust and entry there. He doesn’t necessarily expect this to grant legitimacy to his change of heart, but he does have to live with that organ pumping in his own chest. He is trying to appease his own awakened conscience. He does this for himself as well as for others.
He’s had some mysterious exchanges of information, though again, he doesn’t think he is talking directly with the crime fighter. He could be half a dozen times removed from the source, and that is how it will have to be. He knows enough to know that the child prostitution operation is growing in the city, and though he has no concrete proof, he strongly suspects it to be at the orchestration of the new boss, Kazimir Volkov. He had considered trying to get something from Alec, but he doesn’t want to fracture the already strained relations between them. It could even get one or both of them killed.
He’d put in a transfer to his superiors, and they, of course had challenged him and what he might be after. He fobbed it off as a desire for keeping things new and a way to enhance his training and experience as well as possibilities for promotion, wanting to move from the Organized Crime department into the one concentrating on offenses against children. That department usually held openings, as it was not considered the most attractive, but it had been able to prove a good political path to advancement for others. He doesn’t really care about that, some of his cynicism creeping in, but he now finds himself imbued with a very real desire to help.
He had turned a blind eye to the way Gnegon and his outfit had treated the victims they brought into the city, but he cannot do so any longer. Now, with it being more blatantly persons of less years, he feels even more compelled to seek his redemption. He doesn’t even much think of the danger. Some may consider him reckless for his choice of profession and then deciding to become corrupt, but he’s always kept what he hopes is a careful measure of such things. From what Alec tells him, this new boss is much worse than Gnegon, but it’s not like Gnegon was afraid to spill blood. Alec says Volkov has a beef with law enforcement, though, instead of the attitude of it being more necessary but not desired bedfellows. Still, a rash of police murders has not arisen in the city, and he’d be surprised if it does. That often proves a great way to get one’s self stamped out. These “Thieves” may not like the police, but law enforcement has very real power.
He is going to continue to exploit that, using his contacts, his experience, the resources available to him, some clean, some maybe less so, but he is going to now try to do what is “right”.
*****
The climate somewhat reminds him of home, but that is largely where any similarities cease. The town, or small city, if one prefers, boasts a population a bit north of 100,000. It is growing, especially due to its relative proximity to other major metropolitan areas, and even the rare and bad news of late will not hamper that.
Duilio drank down a rather horrid cup of coffee, deciding against a second even though it had not been nearly strong enough, and he crushes out his cigarette, noting the prominently displayed sign that the building he is about to enter is a ‘tobacco-free facility’. He has not been to the USA in a long time, and his last visit had been to New York City. He takes in a breath, steeling himself, then he walks through the glass double-doors, entering the local police department.
He moves slowly, though not so much so as to draw undue attention to himself. He takes stock of the place. He sees a small waiting room, and he is somewhat impressed. A man sits there, looking like a typical resident, quite slender, blond hair cut very short and noticeable beneath the well-worn ball cap, goatee looking as though it could use a trim. Duilio casts his eyes down to the man’s wrists, half expecting to see cuffs there. The man sits somewhat forward, elbows bent upon knees, and of course, there are no such bonds.
Duilio moves further in, the report of his fine leather shoes quite loud in the sterile environment, but the desk officer does not look up. Odd, Duilio thinks, but so be it, and he politely clears his throat.
“Yes?” The cop looks up, and Duilio notices the hesitation and slight narrowing of eyes as the receptionist immediately registers that this man is not from around here. “May I help you?”
He speaks with a noticeable Southern American accent for this region, though in truth, Duilio does not have the ear for distinguishing the subtleties of such. The man could be from Mississippi for all he knows.
“Yes, thank you. I am Agent Gaspare Duilio of Interpol,” he announces, speaking with some measure of aplomb, showing his identification, but the man just sort of looks at him, confusion mixed with what the visitor might think of as unnecessary defensiveness. “I have an appointment.”
The eyes narrow, then the man consults his computer.
“Here it is,” he says, and Duilio’s disarming smile moves up a touch, “You’re to meet with Captain Shinberg. He’s just down the hall that way, on the left, his name is on the door.”
Duilio nods once, thinking this also a bit different, but he gives a courteous ‘thank you’ and moves on.
He continues to take his time, looking about as he walks deeper into the innards of the department. He did not notice any signs of upset in the foreparts, nor does he see any here, but mechanical messes are easier repaired than others. He thinks that the number of people is scarce for the population, but he has nothing against which to adequately gauge that. He also sees some further looks of suspicion set upon him, but again, is this normal, or is it paranoia from the attack? It feels as though the officers are on edge.
He finds the room, and the way is open, the transparent door leading into the man’s office.
“Inspector Duilio,” he greets, standing, “I’m Captain John Shinberg. Good to meet you.”
“The pleasure is mine,” Duilio returns, shaking the offered hand.
The man looks more refined than his colleague at the desk, , prominent nose and ears on his long face, his white shirt pressed and tucked into his dark trousers.
“Have a seat,” he offers, gesturing to one of two available chairs.
“Thank you, Captain.” The guest takes the one to the left.
“Would you like
some coffee?”
“Uh, no,” Duilio puts on a sheepish smile, “but thank you.”
“I suspect our coffee here wouldn’t suit your Italian tastes,” he says, the comment not laden with the prejudice or even subtle insult one could expect, “We do have Starbuck’s, though. We’re not some backwater little hick-town.”
“Yes, I stopped there before coming here.”
“Ah, good.” The man nods, then pulls in a breath, eyes setting more seriously upon his visitor. “We might as well get to it.”
The silence stretches, eventually making Duilio feel a touch uncomfortable. He is about to inquire when the man continues.
“We don’t often get official visits from Interpol agents,” he says, then raises his chin, fixing a more pointed stare, “In fact, I don’t recall us ever having one. Honestly, I can’t say as we’re too keen on much of anyone coming here. We like to handle things ourselves. We don’t much even like the State Police coming around. We don’t really roll out the warm welcome to the F.B.I., and Lord knows, they love to get involved around here.”
“Yes, you are close to Quantico,” Duilio notes, and the other man nods, ponderously.
“But … in this case, I’ll tell you, I’m glad you called.”
“Oh?”
“We’ve never had anything like this, Inspector, and in my experience, most mass murderers end up dead or caught at the end of their spree. This makes us look bad, not to mention how it’s weakened us, so I can’t say as it caused too much surprise when we received word from your office that this guy had done it before and was wanted in other countries.”
Duilio nods, slowly, but the man does not carry on, so he speaks, “Yes, yes, it is a very serious matter. We must find and bring this killer to justice, hmm?”
“You’d think someone this evil would have been found by now. How does he even manage to cross an ocean?”
“There are ways, Captain.” Duilio spreads his hands from where they had been clasped together in his lap. “Though I assume such a person would take a boat and not an airplane.”
Another weighty silence has its way with the moment, and though the agent’s comment had been made with a touch of humor, as though trying to placate, the seriousness of the situation supersedes. The host nods, thoughtfully, hands brought together, steepled, fingertips barely touching his lips. He then exhales audibly through his nose.
“This is a bad one, Inspector.”
Duilio nods, giving his sympathy as well as agreement in the manner of the gesture.
“Well, of course you know that,” the captain adds, hands moving away from his face, and he appears to escape the vines of his dark thoughts, though the smile that comes to his lips is short-lived and a bit awkward.
He reaches for a drawer, retrieving information, and though it is not presented in the customized, very precise and slick way as that given him by the Malkuths, it receives eager reception all the same. Duilio does note, though, that the brown string and button envelope is sealed, the broad band of tape also bearing red letters.
“I am sure you know the need of keeping this confined to official channels,” the captain relays, and Duilio nods, remaining back in his chair, not lunging forward for the file, “I’ll have you sign a release to get this, and it will discuss the need for confidentiality. I’m sure you boys at Interpol understand the handling of sensitive information.”
“Indeed we do, Captain. We often deal with the delicacies of just that.”
“Of course, you do. I don’t mean to offend … it’s just that this … well, this is bad.”
“Yes, sir,” Duilio dips his head once, then he speaks further, “I think I’d like that coffee, after all, if you do not mind, Captain?”
“Of course, let me just get someone-.”
“Oh, please.” He raises his right hand from its place on the wooden arm of the dated chair. “Do not go to that trouble. I’ll fetch it for myself. I wouldn’t mind seeing your facility, anyway, if that is not too much to ask? I am curious.” He lets his polite, disarming smile take his lips now as he waits for the officer to reply.
“That’s fine.”
Duilio receives a short tour, given some basic information from his host. Captain Shinberg is knowledgeable of his own department, but he is something of a dry tour guide. It doesn’t matter to Duilio. He looks at the people, taking note of their demeanor. He suspects the “classified” information in the folder will not help him all that much. This is the bare beginning of the investigation, and he is searching, fishing, hoping to find something that will help. They are all little parts that come together to form the bigger picture.
The coffee here is even worse than what he had at breakfast, but he does not show it. He, instead, displays gratitude, and the two veterans resolve easily into talk of their respective understanding of their careers. Both are guarded but for different reasons. Duilio sees no reason to dislike the man. He seems sincere, if not stuffy, but he will be of no further use.
When he finally leaves, after signing the papers and taking custodianship of the file and its contents, he notices that the man from earlier is still in the lobby, and he gives the departing visitor a short look with his pale eyes, hints of blue and green washing away to the underlying color. As the inspector emerges from the building, he also sees a patrolman outside, lingering in the growing heat. Duilio reaches, instinctively, for his sunglasses, retrieving them from his inner jacket pocket and slipping them on.
“Good morning,” he greets, noticing that the cop is looking at him.
“Inspector?”
“Yes?” Duilio leads, gauging quite easily that the young man is nervous, his eyes casting about, blinking, fingers and hands not quite resting.
“I know why you’re here.”
Duilio nods, still as though trying to lead the obviously uncomfortable officer.
“I’d … I’d like to talk to you about it.”
“Okay.” Duilio continues nodding, then he perks his thick eyebrows when the other does not elaborate.
“Not here, though.”
“What is your name?”
“Gonzales. Arturo Gonzales. I’ve only been on the force for a couple of years.”
“And I … have not,” Duilio announces, affecting a chuckle after this, in which the other haltingly joins.
“Right, right. You ... you have a car, don’t you?”
“Of course. This is America. How else would I get around?”
“Right, right,” is repeated, along with deep nods, “If … if you don’t mind, would you like to follow me? I can show you a place that has good breakfast and good coffee.”
“Oh, well that sounds wonderful, Officer Gonzales. Grazie.”
“De nada,” comes the smooth response.
It proves easy enough, as Duilio is experienced in such things, and he pulls away in his rented white Volkswagen Jetta onto the nearby street, driving quite slow, keeping an eye out. The patrol car emerges soon enough, and he spies Gonzales behind the wheel. The cop pulls around, and Duilio follows.
The place ends up being off the main road, and driving around and into the dusty parking area, Duilio spies the small structure, tucked away in the lot, a few wooden tables set up for outside dining. It is a taquería, and other than the small truck positioned behind the place of business, only two other vehicles are here at this late morning hour. He parks next to the patrol car, walking over to see Gonzales already engaged in easy conversation with the proprietor. Two men, also of obvious Mexican descent, hold place at one table, and where they had given congenial nods to the cop, they gaze at Duilio with open suspicion. He gives them a nod of greeting.
“Buenos días,” he says, neither giving a response in kind.
He wanders up to the counter, the woman behind talking with Gonzales, the two speaking Spanish, and Duilio hears of himself, mentioning that he is from Italy and needs a ‘good, strong’ cup of coffee. A meal is ordered, then the officer turns.
“Would you li
ke some breakfast?”
“No, no, muchas gracias.”
“Oh,” the young man blinks, “You speak Spanish?”
“Sí, un poco.” Duilio gives a slight smile, then he pulls forth his pack of cigarettes.
He flares one up as he waits, looking around, catching the man behind the counter staring, so he gives him a single nod.
“You’d find more further south,” Gonzales says, walking over, holding two paper cups of steaming coffee.
“Coffee?” Duilio asks, blinking.
“Oh, no.” Gonzales chuckles. “Mexicans.”
“Ah, of course.” Duilio nods, taking the proffered cup. “Gracias.”
“De nada. Cream? Sugar?”
Duilio nods, doctoring his drink to his liking, and he sips, noticing quite quickly that this is by far the best he has had this morning. He looks over, the pair behind the counter watching, and he raises the cup. “Muy bien!”
They both smile at this, the woman more so, giving their thanks. It does not take long before the meal is complete in its preparation, and they find a table, sitting beneath a broad, colorful umbrella to protect them from the sun.
Sword of the Butterfly Page 10
