Misisipi

by Michael Reilly

  AP: I’m sorry for your loss.

  SJ: I thought I saw him on the street this morning. But it wasn’t him. It was just me. I’m sorry if I caused any worry to that kid or his family. I think maybe I should just go home. I think coming this far was a bad idea. I don’t know what the hell is happening to me since I got going.

  AP: Let’s get you back to holding. We’ll take this one step at a time, ok?

  Chapter 25

  A blue Lincoln Navigator sat on Indian Alley where it had parked all morning. Mike Stencek hadn’t witnessed the excitement on Loundon Street. He had slept in the SUV while a supposedly-competent colleague shadowed Scott around Winchester. Now Stencek listened as the nimrod communicated the real-time arrest of their subject. He switched his cell from ear-to-ear, agitation spiking as each new detail of the fuckup presented. That it was unfolding one block away only mocked his impotence. Live commentary was no consolation. As useful as Tabasco on a turd, he thought.

  Stencek cut the speaker off. “Cuffed? Is he cuffed?” Abso-fuckinlutely.

  “Well, this pretty much ends our happy caravan, don’t it?” Stencek announced.

  The speaker decided it was safe to respond.

  “Depends,” Stencek replied. “How many A.O.s?”

  Stencek listened, then asked another question. “One unit?”

  “Good,” Stencek concluded. “They won’t do anything about his car til they get him processed. We have a window.”

  The speaker made an unwelcome observation.

  “I don’t want to hear it,” Stencek snapped. “All you had to do today was spot til I was awake. When I was compos mentis then I coulda tried to lift it without him knowing. These crowds woulda been perfect for a little bump-and-bye. I dunno what you’re whining bout. You got your full shut-eye last night.”

  The speaker had no comeback for that.

  “Silence?” Stencek asked. “Awesome. So we have work to do. I gotta fix your fuckup and you need into my good books again. Get your ass back here. The tracker’s arrived. Then you go tag his car. Think you can manage that? Ok, I need to phone this in.”

  He listened as the speaker began questioning the—

  “Because it ain’t my call what happens next,” Stencek barked. “He rolls, we roll. Right now you’re keeping me from that conversation and it’s way above your pay scale—said pay I’d like for you to start earning from here on!”

  Stencek hung up.

  “Jesus, it smells like a used diaper in here,” he griped to the empty Navigator, popped a Vicodin, and sipped from a tepid water bottle. Why hadn’t the son-of-a-bitch just gotten on the damn plane to Dallas, he thought, taken himself out of the equation from the get-go?

  Stencek was rapidly developing an irrational hatred for Scott Jameson. The two days they had tailed Scott, the occupants of the Navigator took turns babysitting Scott’s BMW outside the motels in Hershey and Williamsport. Scott had gotten the jump on them with his abrupt departure from Boston. There’d been no time to prep a tracking device and his movements since were erratic beyond belief.

  Taking a single room in the same motels was the necessary only means to a bathroom break for the team. The bed was a plus but indoor shuteye was on strict rotation. Someone had to stay on-point for when Scott resurfaced. The bickering about unequal mattress time, the cycle of shit-sleep-surveil, was grating nerves. Ironically, it was a relief to hit the road each morning. Though the day held only fast food and foul humor, they could project their considerable combined resentment to the prick in the distant BMW.

  The newly-arrived LoJack tracking device sat now on the seat beside Stencek. The need for visual pursuit was over. The goddamn satellite could guide them. The only time Stencek had seen a real pillow in the last 36 hours was 5am that morning and Scott was nice enough to give him a mere hour’s shuteye. For this alone, Stencek was prepared to let Scott stew in a Winchester cell til Thanksgiving.

  Stencek chewed the Vicodin to a pulp and swallowed. When he dialed the client, they answered on the first ring.

  “Michael,” the client asked. “Where are you?”

  “Winchester, Sir”

  “Did you arrange the car transmitter?”

  “Yes. Took em a day to configure a secure frequency. Courier brought it over from Pittsburgh an hour ago.”

  “Good. I did not anticipate this was to be a road trip.”

  “There’s been another”—Stencek rummaged for a euphemism, winced as he delivered it—“unanticipation.”

  “Oh?”

  “He’s been arrested. Winchester PD took him into custody ten minutes ago.”

  “Whatever for?”

  “Bit confused right now. My partner says there was a fight with some guy.”

  “Strangers?”

  “Not any more.”

  “Michael, your humor is a touch gauche under the circumstances. What is your professional assessment?”

  “Hard to say. Could be looking at a battery charge. I’ll get more from my spotter when they get back. For sure, he’s in for the night, maybe longer. No bad thing really.”

  “How so?”

  “Well, there’s no evidence he knows where Julianna is. He might be headed in the right direction but that means nothing. I think this pussyfooting is a waste of manpower. We should change tact, while there’s still time.”

  “Is there explicit evidence that he doesn’t know where she is?”

  “If I can go through his things, we can ascertain that. Right now, this is just a wild goose chase.”

  “For now, that goose is the only thing you can chase.”

  “You asked my advice. I say let Winchester bench him. Send down a lawyer if you feel bad enough. Then let me get where we both know I need to be so I can follow up my own leads personally.”

  The client thought for a moment. “No,” he decided. “As long as he might possibly know where she is, Scott is your only and best lead, wouldn’t you agree?”

  “Yes Sir.” Stencek sighed.

  “You have suitable credentials I take it?”

  “The best your money can buy. But in my professional assessment, it’s a bad move. Winchester might get suspicious. Hell, he might get suspicious. Am I supposed to simply bail him?”

  “I trust you will proceed as you deem appropriate to meet your objectives.”

  Stencek rolled his eyes. “Of course. And how’s our other friend doing?”

  Now the client sighed. “If it’s a woman’s prerogative to change her mind then she is ever the lady. She continues to keep everyone guessing.”

  “I best get to it, Sir. Things to see, people to do.”

  “I’m praying for your success, Michael. And your safety.”

  “As long as you don’t end up paying for the one with the other. Goodbye Sir.”

  Stencek hung up as a sharp rap on his window announced the return of his colleague and his migraine, both equally welcome.

  Chapter 26

  Stencek stepped from the passenger seat and cast a clinical eye around the crowded parking lot on Woolen Mill Lane. He noted the two exits, one with ready access to the Interstate. Relocating here was strategic; the private lot was walking distance to the police station, fleeing distance from Winchester itself if things went sour. The Navigator would remain here. A customized unit which was Bagdad-bound before it and Stencek were pressed in action three days earlier, it didn’t synch with the image he needed to present now.

  He shut the door and eyed his reflection in the black-tinted window, swept his short blond hair back and checked the closeness of his dry-shave. The light-blue stripes of his tie mirrored the sapphire glint in his eyes. He squinted them now, imagined he saw more lines around them than had been there a week ago. And he had forgotten to pack the Vita-Lift again.

  Fuck my life, he thought.

  He patted the creases in his snappy grey suit and walked to the front of the Navigator. It’d have to do. Anyway, they wouldn’t be staring at him.

  Stencek stood bes
ide his colleague, the man now squirming uncomfortably inside his own smart dark suit, shrugging like an itchy grizzly against the bark of a cedar tree. Stencek looked him up-and-down with the same razor-tight gaze. This was the other element which stood out like a booger in the butter pat but that might work to their advantage. Distraction was an essential component of any illusion. Anyway, the option of leaving this guy alone in this daycare center parking lot was more likely to invite unwelcome stares than walking him into a building full of cops. Stencek was easily six-two. Still he had to look up to address his towering companion.

  “Didn’t we get you a tie, Larry?” Stencek asked.

  “I really gotta wear this clown suit?” Larry replied.

  “Feds don’t do casual Fridays, so yeah. Tie too. Give it up.” Stencek made a C’mon gesture with his hand.

  Larry dug in his pocket and produced a folded-up tie. “Never could do it right,” he grumbled.

  “Why didn’t you ask for a clip-on?” Stencek sighed. “All right, lift your collar.”

  Stencek shook the tie loose and tossed the loop over Larry’s head. Dexterously, he made a knot at Larry’s sternum. When Larry tightened it to his neck, it still ended only halfway to his belt buckle. Stencek observed at least the two tips of the tie were perfectly level and he smiled to himself as he buttoned Larry’s jacket up.

  “You know, this black really softens your persona,” he remarked.

  “Fuck you, Mike,” Larry spat back.

  Stencek grinned as he donned his Ray-Bans. “Right. Remember, keep your mouth shut, grunt only when spoken to, follow my lead, and check your charm at the door. Gottit?”

  Stencek strode away from the Navigator. Larry lurched after, still fighting his suit like a gator in a strait-jacket.

  At the station, the sergeant directed them to the desk of Officer Anthony Parcells. Stencek handed Parcells his badge for inspection.

  “So, Agent Milton,” Parcells asked, “what can I do for Homeland Security?”

  “This is my colleague, Agent Small.” Larry stepped forward and dourly produced his own ID. Parcells scanned it quickly, warily returning it with an uneasy nod.

  “I’m told you’re the arresting officer in an incident that happened on Loundon Street this morning,” Stencek continued. “Man by the name of Scott Jameson. There was some trouble?”

  “Yes,” Parcells confirmed. “Mind if I ask what your interest is? It’s hardly national security.”

  “Not at all.” Stencek produced a photo from his jacket and handed it to Parcells. “I presume by now you’ve run him through NCIC.”

  “Sure have,” Parcells said. “Got done about an hour ago.”

  Stencek indicated the photo. “That’s the mugshot from the domestic disturbance booking in ‘04. No charges filed. Mister Jameson was tossed the next morning.”

  “Yeah, I saw that.” Parcells eased back in his chair. “Seems like he’s taken to making trouble where we look on that kind of thing a bit more serious than you folks up north.”

  “So you’re gonna charge him with… what exactly?” Stencek raised his eyebrow. “Battery?”

  Parcells straightened. “We just booked him in not 90 minutes ago. That’s a tad quick for you to be hauling your ass here from DC.”

  Stencek smiled. “Who said I came from DC?”

  “I just assumed.”

  “Mister Jameson is a person-of-interest in an active operation. My team has been surveilling him for three days. Right now I have four colleagues sitting in the Daily Grind, bitching into their chai lattes.”

  Parcells stood. “Your POI was involved in a serious assault. I’m sorry to be screwing up world affairs but that’s how it is.”

  “Which part of ‘surveilling’ hasn’t caught on in your world affairs, Officer Parcells?” Stencek said. “I can summon two agents that witnessed the whole thing. How Jameson bumped into a kid on the street and his old man put him down and started beating him to a pulp. Word is Jameson didn’t even throw a punch. Is that bozo going to be booked at the end of all this or he one of the Mayor’s golf buddies?”

  Parcells cleared his throat. “What exactly are you saying, Agent Milton?”

  Stencek leaned into Parcells’s space. “Look, Tony? Ok, I don’t want to come across like I’m pissing in your pretty pond. I know you need to follow due process, which is going to end up going nowhere, except maybe if Jameson decides to counter-charge. Then you have a messy he-says-she-says, right? Meantime, my operation is a bust and your department gets duly noted on the paperwork in Nebraska Avenue about how you made it so.”

  Stencek handed Parcells a business card. “Alternately, you call that number, press star-three-eight-seven, and speak to my supervisor. If you like what you hear, then maybe you could see your way to citing him and tossing him.”

  “Into your custody?”

  “No. Keep us out of it. We’ll continue our surveillance. He’s just passing through. I guarantee you he’ll be out of the city limits within the hour, out of Virginia by dusk. We’ll be covering him every step of the way. Plus, you can keep the card. I won’t forget that you helped me and, by extension, your country.”

  Parcells tapped the card on the edge of his desk, thinking. It was law enforcement’s equivalent of an ATM card, access to a much bigger favor bank than Parcells usually drew from. Solid, expensive, and heavy, it made a confident thud against his cheap-ass shitty department desk every time it connected.

  15 minutes later, Stencek accompanied Parcells to Evidence. He sifted through Scott’s effects until he found Scott’s Blackberry. He hoped it wasn’t pin-protected. It was.

  “I’d like a copy of the chat you two had before I got here,” Stencek added, as he made a cursory examination of the other items—a Tag Heuer watch, wedding band, wallet, car keys, a gold broach, and a handwritten note—and returned all to the evidence zip bag.

  “What do you think that’s all about?” Parcells had remarked as Stencek read the note.

  “Who knows what’s going on behind closed doors these days,” Stencek snorted. “God bless the Patriot Act, right?”

  Parcells shook Stencek’s hand as he escorted them from the station. The other one—Agent Small—didn’t offer his but Parcells didn’t mind that one bit. Agent Small had remained silent the entire time. He was what Parcells’s mother might have called a ‘long drink o’ditchwater’. He was certainly the weirdest looking G-Man Parcells had ever seen. With his towering frame, freakish face, and gunfighter scowl, Agent Small looked to Parcells like a stream of piss in search of a shoe to splash.

  30 minutes after the pair departed, Scott came through the same door into the balmy late afternoon.

  Chapter 27

  The diner was pure Rockwell, a frozen topography of Americana and a welcome world away from the cell Scott vacated 15 minutes earlier. Families crowded into ribbed-backed, Superman’s cape-red leather booths, not cinnamon-colored couches drowned in a feng-shui’d arrangement of cushions. The tables were formica hardtops, not Indonesian acacia dream chests with glass tops. Couples—natural couples, y’understand!—perched on the stools at the chrome-edged bar and drank coffee, not skinny lattes. Kids climbed in and out of the star-spangled ride-on rocket in the corner. Every niche of the place harbored the weathered Mom-and-Pop values of yesteryear, rejected the hipster, NYTimes-reading, Mom-and-Mom trappings so beloved by Julianna. Think Ozzie and Harriet then.

  You’d never think Smith and Wesson. Why would anyone feel the need to bring a gun in and start loosing a few caps off?

  The man with the concealed weapon entered and surveyed the scene. Spotting Scott at a far-in booth, he started down, his gargantuan subordinate close behind.

  Reaching his quarry, Mike Stencek slid onto the seat opposite Scott.

  Scott was head-down. He ate robotically, chewing slowly and thoughtfully, showed no concern about the intrusion. That was curious to Stencek.

  Larry stopped in the aisle and towered directly over Scott. A few heads turne
d to observe the impressively unsettling physique—now freed from the jacket—in their midst. He was the largest man in the diner right then, maybe in Winchester all year. His well-cut black pants sat high up his hips, a crisp white shirt stretched, tent-taut, over his muscled torso and tucked under a broad black belt, its large silver buckle arrayed with sharp pointed stars. Formidably lean, forebodingly tall, the second curious thing about Larry was his high waist and short chest, their proportions hugely irregular within his frame; seeing his beltline so high, almost beneath his ribs, one might imagine how, as a young boy, Larry had stood up too quickly one morning and squashed against an iron Montana sky.

  All that aside, what made Larry’s stature truly imposing was not his goliath size or the apparent absence of a midriff on it. No, it was his posture. Stood rod-straight, no stooping or slouching, Larry presented a worrisome figure to the waitresses who passed warily under him in the aisle. His shirtsleeves were rolled to the elbows and his forearms were thick as tuna-tails. They ended in hands which could wrap a baseball completely and probably crush it to a golf ball.

  One of these fists jabbed Scott lightly on his arm. Larry wanted Scott to slide over.

  Scott ignored him, as if he had casually brushed shoulders with a passerby. He continued eating, eyes only on his plate. Stencek watched this non-reaction with interest.

  Larry’s fist jabbed again, adding a push to the contact now. Scott leaned a little, straightened, and carried on eating, completely ignoring his tormentor.

  Larry could have easily propelled Scott into the next space and had the seat. But these days, he preferred persuasion to force. Since his discharge from the Army, Larry was endeavoring to work on his people skills to get things done. In the civilians’ world, it seemed throwing his own weight around was a preferable strategy to throwing theirs.

  And this little shit was going to move his ass!

  Larry extended his middle knuckle and punched Scott sharply on his shoulder. It had to hurt but Scott held firm and went right back to ignoring him.