by D. F. Bailey
“All right. So what do we do now?” Eve looked at Sinclair, then Finch.
Finch wove his fingers together as he considered a plan. “How’s this sound? We put the tracker on my car. John and I drive the RAV4 down to The Post and park in the parkade. Brodie will think you’ve gone to the office to coordinate the media attack on him. Then you meet us at the parkade and we all head up to Ashland in the Acura. Sound good?”
With a nod, it was decided. They planted the tracker on the RAV4, loaded all their gear into the Acura and drove both automobiles out of the garage down to the Hearst Parking Center on Third Street. Ten minutes later they began the journey to Ashland.
※ — FOURTEEN — ※
EVE DROVE THE Acura north along the I-5 while Finch interviewed Sinclair in the back seat. Finch recorded the conversation on his phone and made a few notes on a pad about the most pertinent facts that Sinclair disclosed. He knew that one day the state would present their case for first degree murder against Deacon Brodie in front of a jury. And when the day of reckoning arrived he would surrender the digital recording and all his notes to the prosecuting attorneys.
Sinclair spoke without hesitation. His earlier indecision, his request to stand as an anonymous source, his confession of cowardice — all of that had dissolved. His commitment to expose Brodie as a serial murderer now seemed unwavering. Finch was impressed by the turn-around. And somewhat suspicious of it. He’d conducted many interviews which provided full and complete disclosure. Too often the source would come back to him in less than a day and beg to withdraw the testimony. Finch’s reply was always the same. “Sorry, but you agreed to go on the record. Thanks to you, the truth is out. Now we just have to learn to live with it.”
During their conversation in the Caffe Trieste Sinclair claimed the sequence of murders in Iraq started with Dutch Vanheussen then went on to Larry Cottrell and Alan Rousseau. When he realized that Deacon Brodie stood behind the killings, Sinclair disappeared. That sequence matched Kinsella’s diary. But it contradicted Tony Turino’s verbal account. Did Turino’s version undermine everything else in the diary? Finch knew that in the end, the jury would have to decide. Until then, it was Finch’s job to report all the facts he could unearth. Even if the testimonies countered one another.
“Tell me something, John.” Finch shifted his right knee onto the seat bench and swung his arm over the back. He glanced at the light flow of traffic as they approached Vacaville, then turned his attention to Sinclair. “There’s a serious contradiction between the accounts I have from Joey Kinsella and Tony Turino. Joey had the diary, and we got Tony to take a formal interview.”
Sinclair’s expression changed only slightly. This was the first time that Finch revealed the additional evidence he’d pieced together from other members of the squad. Apart from his oblique smile, the news didn’t appear to impact Sinclair at all.
“In Turino’s version,” Finch continued, “the murders in Iraq went Dutch, Cottrell and Rousseau. But he said your disappearance followed Dutch’s murder. On the other hand, Kinsella gave the sequence your way. He said you left after Cottrell and Rousseau died. Which is it?”
“No, Turino got it wrong. Everyone knew the guy was a liar.” Sinclair shook his head. “But Kinsella had it right. You have to remember something important. I had a network of informers working for me. When I heard about the conspiracy to kill Dutch, it put me on amber alert. But it wasn’t a red light. Not yet. Then when the other two were killed by the hajjis — and when I heard that they’d been paid off with Rolex watches — I knew Brodie would take us all down.”
Finch felt his pulse quicken. “Rolex watches?” He’d never mentioned the watches he’d seen on the two fighters that he’d killed next to the disabled Humvee. Not to anyone except Eve. But apparently it was common gossip among Sinclair’s web of informants.
“Yeah.” Sinclair let out a pish of disgust. “I imagine that Brodie had skinned them from someone else. You remember what it’s like out there. Life is cheap. Why buy something when you can steal it?”
Finch nodded. For some, all sense of morality disappeared. For others, it never existed in the first place. “So what happened? To you, I mean. You vanished without a trace. How’d that work?”
“If you want to know that, then we’re going off the record. Agreed?”
He tipped his chin to Finch’s cell phone sitting on the bench between them. Finch clicked off the recording app. “Okay,” he said. “Everything going forward is off the record.”
“It wasn’t difficult.” A self-satisfied smile appeared on his lips. “I simply walked into Al-Shorjh, the market district in Baghdad. Since I was expected to make contact with the locals almost every day, no one would question my motives. I purchased a thawb so I could pass myself off as one of them.”
A thwab. Finch recalled the long tunic men wore in the urban centers of Iraq. “And then?”
“Then I burned my uniform and paid a visit to Amir Khoury, my local fixer. He arranged my transit to Jordan. Turns out money can buy you love.” A whimsical grin briefly touched his lips and then disappeared. “A little more love got me a new identity that came with a passport. Canadian. Turns out the right passport can open a lot of doors. No visas required.” He lifted his hands, palms up. “From Amman I made my way to London.”
“All that love would take some deep pockets.”
Sinclair glanced away without betraying his financial resources. Finch could only guess how he’d navigated the world of shadows and intrigue. The man was smart enough. Did he have bank accounts in the Cayman Islands or Panama? Probably.
“And you’ve been living there for the past fifteen years.”
“Living. And working,” he added.
“Working at what?”
“Translation.” Sinclair said this as if it were the obvious choice. “One of the colleges in Oxford required someone fluent in Arabic to translate everything from Baklava recipes to state secrets. Frankly, there was more work than I could handle.”
Finch had to admit he was impressed. Sinclair had found a backdoor exit from a war that most people now recognized as an historic blunder. Once inside the UK, he’d found a new, prosperous life. Nonetheless, he lived under a cloud of guilt. A cloud so heavy with remorse that eventually he was drawn back to the USA to bring Deacon Brodie to account.
A moment passed and Sinclair added, “You know what I think?”
“What?”
“Yesterday I would’ve said that I’ve made two huge mistakes in my life. One, when I went to Iraq. The second, when I returned to the US. But today could be different. Maybe today I can start to make both of them right.”
Finch considered Sinclair’s expression. He realized the man was full of contradictions and surprises. At first glance, back in the Caffe Trieste, he took him for a teacher or librarian. But now he knew Sinclair possessed the resourcefulness and cunning of a double agent. Nonetheless, he was a man full of regret for his cowardice and now prepared to face the consequences.
※
Eve pulled the Acura into the parking lot of the Black Bear Diner just off the I-5 in Redding, California. They’d passed dozens of truck-stop cafes and restaurants but the Black Bear advertised itself as “Vegetarian Friendly.” Eve was not vegetarian but she suspected that the Black Bear might provide a decent salad to satisfy her gnawing hunger.
“Avocado, goat cheese, and honey-walnuts in a spinach salad,” she said after studying the menu. “Okay, that’s me. And a cup of java. Order for me while I’m in the bathroom,” she instructed Finch and made her way to the back of the restaurant.
The waitress came to their table with three glasses of water. Finch and Sinclair placed the food orders. Sinclair asked for a double shot of Johnnie Walker Black on the rocks. Finch smiled with a look that recognized Sinclair’s need. Yeah, the man could use a drink or two. His journey had taken more than a few turns away from the translator’s desk in some wood-paneled Oxford library. And likely he anticipated a few
more twists in the road ahead.
After Eve returned from the bathroom, the waitress brought their meals and drinks. A turkey clubhouse for Finch, cheeseburger and fries for Sinclair, and the salad for Eve. They ate in silence for almost ten minutes, interrupting the meal a few times to comment on how hungry they all felt. When the server came around with a stainless steel carafe, they topped up their coffee cups. Finch decided to check his phone for messages.
“New email from J.R.,” he said. He read the message aloud. “Look forward to seeing Sinclair again.”
“Nice to know I’m wanted.” Sinclair’s lips pouted in a half-hearted smile.
“Better than not wanted,” Finch said and decided to follow up on a comment Sinclair had made earlier in the afternoon. “John, did you say you had a photograph of the men on the chopper?”
He nodded. “From J.R. A copy he mailed to me following his investigation of Dutch’s murder.”
“And you brought it with you?”
“In my pack.” He opened his shoulder bag and rifled through some papers. He set a worn envelope on the dining table and slipped a finger under the flap. “Here we are. All seven of us.”
He pushed the photo toward the middle of the table so that Eve and Finch could examine it. A gray wash had bleached the surface of the four-by-six color photograph, but despite the fading, each soldier’s face was clearly distinct. Their mood seemed defeated, as if they’d just lost a game of baseball and needed convincing that the loss meant nothing. Apparently they’d been lined up against a wall in an army barracks or mess hall. J.R. had taken the picture and moved on.
“That’s Tony,” Eve said and tapped the image of his head with a fingernail.
“Right.” Finch’s eyes moved from face to face. “And that’s Cottrell on the left?”
“Yeah.” Sinclair’s voice was almost inaudible.
“And Rousseau beside him?”
“Uh-huh.”
“I’ve got to say I’m surprised by that photograph,” Eve said. She watched Sinclair sipping at his Scotch.
“Surprised?” His eyebrows arched into his forehead as if he didn’t understand. As the waitress cleared the plates from the table, Sinclair slipped the photo and envelope into his jacket pocket.
“Yeah. That you held onto it so long.” Her hand swept above the table. “And that you brought it all this way.”
Before Sinclair could reply, she asked if she could take a second look. Sinclair drew the picture from the envelope again and leaned back in his chair.
“So. We’ve identified Tony, Cottrell and Rousseau,” she said as her index finger hovered above Sinclair’s image. “And that’s you, of course. But who are the others?”
Sinclair sighed as if this careful examination of each man felt painful. “Okay” — his lips fluttered as he exhaled — “so left to right, there’s Larry Cottrell, Alan Rousseau, Tony Turino, me, Frank Chernovski, Joey Kinsella, and Michael Jahnke on the end.”
Finch studied the face on the far right. Jahnke’s head looked freshly shaved. “Besides you, Jahnke’s the only survivor?” He knew the answer, of course, but the question was intended to probe for more information.
“Far as I know.” His shoulders slumped. “But the way things are going, who can say?”
“Did you know that Jahnke called Tony Turino just before Tony died?”
“No.” He blinked. A glint of surprise in his eyes.
“Does that seem unlikely to you?”
“A little. Jahnke wasn’t the most sociable type.”
Finch examined the picture once more. “Did he shave his head close like that, or was he naturally bald?”
“Bald. He’s got the hair DNA of a cueball.” Sinclair chuckled at his joke, pleased that he might have brightened the mood. He smiled and knocked back the dregs of his Scotch. “That’s how he got his knick-name. He hated it, but the name stuck. Fuzzy.”
※
Finch drove the Acura from Redding north toward Ashland. Eve sat beside him and Sinclair slumped across the bench seat in the back. Within ten minutes he fell into a heavy slumber interrupted by abrupt snorts and snoring.
“He’s got sleep apnea,” Eve said in a loud voice intended to test Sinclair’s alertness. The snoring abated for a few seconds, then returned with a brief fit that shook his head and shoulders.
“He’s got to be exhausted,” Finch said and closed the air vent streaming smoke-filled air into the car. “Jeez. Can you smell that?”
Over the summer and early fall, a series of forest fires in northern California had burned through the woods from the coast up to the Nevada border. Months later, the stinking vapors still rippled over the lowlands and valleys.
“Yeah, pretty rank,” she said. But in her mind, the fires paled in comparison to the dangers presented by Deacon Brodie. She swiveled around in her seat to face Finch. “You think he’ll wake up if we talk?”
He took a few seconds to listen to the heavy snoring. “Sounds like he’s out for the count.”
“So tell me if I’ve got this right. If Michael Jahnke is Fuzzy, and Fuzzy is Nine, then Jahnke has to be our mystery man from Mayne Island.” She counted off the transitions on her fingers. One, two, three. “And that accounts for all seven men in the photograph. Right?”
Finch held the wheel steady as he considered how the pieces fit together. The night traffic had thinned after they passed the town of Weed and approached the state boundary to Oregon. The road was dry but the air was layered with bands of fog laced with the charred stench from the forest fires. Above the haze, he could see a quarter moon rising behind the distant hills.
“Brodie must have hired Jahnke,” Eve continued. “So it had to be Jahnke who put the tracker on my car. Then he convinced Tony Turino to go with him and follow me up to Mayne Island. From there he could do a double take-out. You and Turino.” Her voice grew more intense as she unravelled the extent of Deacon Brodie’s conspiracy.
“And the one man left standing would be J.R.,” Finch added. A shiver ran through his arms as he realized how vulnerable they were. He tightened his grip on the wheel, and pared his speed back to sixty-five. Keep it steady, he told himself. Slow and steady.
“Except for Jahnke himself,” Eve corrected him. “Brodie must have had a plan to eliminate him after everyone else was taken out. But what if Brodie doesn’t know that Jahnke’s dead? If he thinks Jahnke’s still out there somewhere, it could make him nervous. Maybe even desperate.”
“And he doesn’t know about Sinclair, either.” Finch narrowed his eyes. Eve was right. Brodie always planned four moves ahead. A master manipulator. But now at least two unknown factors were in play. As far as Brodie knew, Jahnke could turn on him. And then Sinclair testify against him. How would he respond?
※
Finch pulled the Acura onto the gravel tracks that led to J.R.’s wilderness hideout shortly after eleven o’clock. When he reached the log cabin he cut the engine and leaned into the back seat. An hour earlier Sinclair’s frantic snoring had settled into a steady purr and he’d slipped into a deep sleep. Finch placed his hand on Sinclair’s knee and gave it a gentle squeeze. “John,” he whispered. “We’re here, man.”
Sinclair’s eyes blinked open. A shock of surprise crossed his face. “Where are we?”
“J.R.’s place.” Finch opened his door. In the distance he heard two or three dogs barking in a series of long, wailing cries. He sniffed at the air. Not a trace of funk from the California forest fires. When he tasted the clear breeze swishing through the trees, he drew a deep breath. Perfect, he told himself and for a moment he envied J.R. and Teesha — warm, snug — nestled inside their private getaway.
The front door of the cabin swung open. J.R.’s silhouette was illuminated by an oil lamp on the table next to the fireplace. Eve and Sinclair followed Finch up the single step to the porch and into the cabin.
Finch and J.R. traded a fist bump, then Finch swung his arm toward Sinclair. “You remember this guy?”
; “Yeah.” But J.R.’s voice sounded a skeptical note. “Well … maybe I do.”
“Oh, I remember you,” Sinclair said and shook J.R.’s hand with affection. He set his backpack on the floor. “You led the investigation into Dutch VanHeussen’s murder.”
“Which, by the way, we never solved,” J.R. added, then turned to Teesha. “This is my lady. Teesha.”
Sinclair smiled and shook her hand. “Look, I appreciate you taking me in.” His face revealed a measure of regret. “I really didn’t have many options.”
“Don’t mind that,” J.R. said and led them to the sofa and chairs that surrounded the fireplace. A thin log glowed on a wide bed of red embers and slumbering coals. J.R. had let the fire burn down for the night. “The way I see it is that you’re the one dude who witnessed the murders on the chopper. The only eye-witness who can credibly testify against Brodie. You the man!” — he laughed and jabbed a finger at Sinclair — “The only guy who can save me and Will from that crazy bastard, Brodie.”
“All right.” Finch nodded at Eve, a signal for them to move on. “Eve reserved a room in the B’n’B that we stayed in last week, so we’re going to drive back to town. How ‘bout we swing by tomorrow morning. Finalize a plan to take out Brodie and build contingencies for the next week. We hit a few road blocks since I saw you, so we’re playing catch up.”
“Road blocks?” J.R. glanced at Teesha then back to Finch.
“Yeah. Eve and I drove up to his place outside Seattle.”
“You saw him?”
“I talked to him for thirty minutes or so. Just enough time for him to do an end-run around me. His lawyer filed an injunction banning any reporting on his war record.”
“Let me guess.” J.R. pressed his lips together. He closed his eyes as if he were trying to block a painful memory. Slowly his eyes opened again. “Something about a national security ban.”
Finch nodded. “You know about this?”
