Jake Caldwell Thrillers

by Weaver, James

  “Permission to speak freely, sir?”

  The man ground his jaw and motioned for Stanton to take a seat in one of the plush leather chairs. “We’re not in the barracks. What’s on your mind?”

  “I don’t get this operation. I understand the money, but there’s gotta be more to it than that. You’re already rich. Sir.”

  The man perched on the end of the table, maintaining a predatory position over Stanton. His eyes narrowed to slits, nostrils flaring out. “This isn’t about the money. This is about order. World order. The new one we’re helping to create.”

  Stanton scratched his head. “I’m afraid I don’t understand, sir.”

  The man drew a deep breath, his sharp tone softening. “The fact is, son, that our current administration seems to feel it’s more important to make sure some jobless piece of garbage gets to visit the doctor for a checkup on the tax payer’s dime than to make sure the men and women protecting this country have every tool at their disposal to do what needs to be done. But, since you were on the front lines, I suspect you already know this.”

  “But how does this…item fix that?”

  “Ordo ab chao.” The man ambled from the table edge to the window overlooking the front parking lot. Stanton cast a look to the two men standing guard with a wide-eyed can you believe this shit look but got nothing in return.

  Ordo ab chao. Had to be Latin. Stanton hated Latin. “Sir?”

  “Order through chaos. Chaos creates an unstable system. The American sheep crave stability above all else. When chaos reigns, the media assaults us with images of carnage and fuels fear among the sheep. That fear creates a cry for a solution which is good for us. We pass laws which would never have passed were it not for the chaos and fear. Order is established through the deception of the masses. Our item will create that chaos, and from it we will gain everything that we need to establish order. The right order. We’re doing this to save our country, even if a few of the sheep are slaughtered in the process. That good enough for you?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The man clipped back to Stanton; his iron jaw clenched. “You now have just over sixty hours to get me the case or your partner won’t be the only body this sordid affair turns up. Do we understand each other?”

  Stanton’s face flushed. He’d gone toe-to-toe with Taliban fighters, killed dozens in heavy fire fights, and yet a dick in a suit reduced him to a child. He had that kind of presence. The man breezed toward the door, and the tough guys followed.

  “I’ve got this, Senator,” Stanton said.

  Senator Mitchell Young stopped and grinned over his broad shoulder, his capped white teeth glimmering. The plastic smile that won him back-to-back elections in the State of Missouri and vaulted him to the power seat in the Senate. The smile that could carry him to the White House.

  “You’d better,” Young said.

  * * *

  Jake met Bear at a Mexican restaurant called El Patron on Southwest Boulevard. No coincidence they kept meeting at eating establishments. Bear was a fanatic on food and had the gut to prove it. The restaurant was right across the street from Ponak’s where Jake ate lunch the day before, but he never complained about eating Mexican food two days in a row. Anything beyond macaroni and cheese out of a box, or Ramen noodles, was an improvement over his regular diet. Bear sat outside on the balcony overlooking the Boulevard, drinking a Pacifico, a lime wedge floating in the amber liquid. Even though it had been cool weather, a warm front moving up from the south provided them a sunny day for late March. Today, they were the balcony’s only occupants.

  “You meet with Snell?” Bear asked, dipping a chip into the dish of salsa on the table.

  “Yeah, you were right. She’s icy.”

  “If you need your beer cooled down, you could put the bottle between her legs.”

  Jake laughed. “Your wife know you’re such a crude bastard?”

  “She finds it charming. What did Snell say?”

  “I got the gist she’d rather slash her wrists than spend any more time with you. She liked Logan, though.”

  “He was like a father figure and mentor to her. Her dad died from ALS six months before the task force kicked off. She kinda latched onto Logan.”

  Jake dove into the chips and ordered a Pacifico to match Bear’s. “She didn’t seem too broken up about Logan being in the hospital considering he was a father figure.”

  “Like I said, ice queen. She was like a robot on the task force. A good, meticulous, and organized robot. The only thing that got her visibly riled up was Keats at the end. We had him dead to rights on a gun shipment, but a judge wouldn’t okay the search warrant. Snell all but threatened to take the judge out to the parking lot and kick his ass. Hell, Logan held her back and probably saved her job.”

  “She knows who I am,” Jake said, swirling the bottle in his fingers. “That I was connected to Keats.”

  Bear drained his beer and set the bottle on the table with a belch. “She said that?”

  “No, but she dropped a couple lines she wouldn’t have if I was some ordinary schmuck off the street. She also hauled a box in the fed building. One of the binders had an address on the spine matching Keats’s warehouse. She’s still running the case, official or not I don’t know. I gotta be in those files somewhere.”

  “That worry you?”

  “That a federal agent has a file on me?” Jake said. “Hell yes that worries me.”

  “Anything else?”

  “You guys ever play poker with her?”

  Bear rubbed his big fingers together in the universal money sign. “A couple of times in the war room. Those task forces have long periods where nothing’s going on. You can only look at the same files so many times.”

  “She any good at it?” Jake asked.

  “She’s horrible. A terrible liar for a fed. I wouldn’t let her within ten feet of an interrogation room. Why?”

  The food arrived and they dug in. Fajitas with plump shrimp and chorizo for Jake, enchiladas for Bear. They waited for their server to move out of earshot.

  “She came right out and talked about the task force, you, and Logan,” Jake said. “But she lied about not knowing what Ares was. You figure it out?”

  “I talked to a couple of guys in the police department and got nowhere. I also contacted an ex-Army guy I know who works freelance for the government in, shall we say, certain sticky situations.”

  Jake leaned on the table. “A mercenary?”

  “Call him a well-connected contractor. Said there were whispers of a Department of Defense project called Ares getting the green light a few years ago. Nothing since then. Didn’t know what it was for or if it even got off the ground.”

  Jake chewed in silence trying to put the pieces together. A lot of information floated around with little to tie it together—at least on the surface. Voleski in the wind with a silver briefcase of unknown contents but wanted by a lot of people. Someone hired Logan to find Voleski. Voleski worked for Keats. Keats had two gorillas tailing Jake. A DOD project called Ares nobody knew anything about.

  Light bulb.

  “Two things. One, Ares, whatever it is, it’s in the briefcase Voleski has,” Jake said.

  Creases sliced Bear’s brow. “You know this how?”

  “Logan. He kept telling me the less you know on this case the better. He used me to help track the briefcase. He directed me to Snell and you because you two would tie Ares with my second epiphany.”

  “Which is?”

  Jake drained the last of his Pacifico and set the bottle on the table. “Keats hired Logan to track down his own guy. Voleski stole the case.”

  Bear leaned back in his chair, his lips moving as he tried to get the cogs spinning in his head to line up. He stroked his beard with his massive hands and a minute later thumped his elbows on the table.

  “Wait…Voleski stole the case from Keats?”

  “Think about it. The one thing you, Snell, and Logan have in common was Keats. Did you
know Voleski worked for Keats?”

  “Never heard of him until you mentioned him.”

  “Snell said Voleski was on your watch lists during the task force days.”

  “That doesn’t mean anything.” Bear rolled his eyes and flipped a hand in the air. “There were a hundred fucking names of all kinds of dirtballs on that list. The list was divvied up among four or five of us. If I came across his name, I don’t remember it.”

  They were stuck. The waiter brought the check and left it for them. Jake reached for it, but Bear was quicker.

  “My going away present,” Bear said.

  “Say what?”

  “Benton County District Attorney called me this morning. They’re moving quicker than they thought with Langston. I gotta be in Warsaw by this afternoon for a debriefing, and then my fat ass is in the witness chair tomorrow morning.”

  “That sucks.”

  “No kidding. I’d rather be trolling around here with you trying to find who kicked Logan’s ass.”

  Jake was disappointed he’d be running solo again. They descended the restaurant stairs and out the door to Southwest Boulevard. The afternoon sun burned bright overhead, though dark thunder clouds curled in from the east.

  “Listen, Jake,” Bear said by his Tahoe. “This is beyond finding some briefcase or getting revenge on the guys who beat up Logan.”

  “I can take care of myself.” Jake slapped Bear on the arm. “Don’t worry.”

  “I just don’t want to come back and find you in a bed next to Logan…or worse. Keep me posted. If you need me, call. I’ll tell the DA to fuck off and can be here in less than two hours. Don’t be afraid to pick up the phone.”

  Jake nodded, and Bear drove off in the Tahoe. Jake got in his truck and tapped the steering wheel, pondering his next move. He called Truman to check if there’d been any change in Logan’s condition. The news could have been worse. Logan was still unconscious, but at least his vitals were better. The one person who held the information he needed, and Jake couldn’t talk to him. He’d been through his office and found nothing, but maybe a more thorough search in the light of day might yield something. He started the truck and headed south to Logan’s office.

  Chapter Ten

  The laundromat was packed, and the sandwich shop barren. The tail end of the Tuesday lunch hour must have been prime time for the locals to wash their unmentionables. The food at the sandwich shop was already unmentionable.

  Jake climbed the three flights of creaky stairs to Logan’s office. The crime scene tape was still slit meaning the police hadn’t been back since his break-in yesterday. A cough barked to his right, and a head peered through a cracked door at the end of the hall.

  “How you doing?” Jake asked. The frail, black man hidden behind the door stepped out, bald on top with gray hair sprouting around the sides like a Chia pet. He kept a cautious hand on the door. Past the man was a tiny room, a couch covered with newspapers and take-out containers, and television by the window. He eyed Jake over wire rim glasses sunk low on a hooked nose.

  “I seen you before,” the old man said, his voice deep. “You a cop?”

  “Friend of Jack Logan’s.”

  “But not a cop.”

  “Not the last time I checked.”

  The old man shuffled forward a couple of steps, and Jake moved to meet him. He wore khaki slacks, the frayed ends of the legs draped over dirt-grey slippers, and a white button shirt with yellow stains at the pits. He smelled like mothballs and Ben Gay.

  “You were here after the cops left the first time,” the old man said. “But you didn’t turn on the lights.”

  “You the neighborhood watch?”

  The old man revealed stumpy, yellowed teeth. “Guess you could say that. I sit in my chair and watch my television. From where I sit, I see every person that enters and leaves this building.”

  Jake’s eyebrows shot up. “That so?”

  “Ayuh. I seen you here a few times with Logan. Hard to forget someone as big as you. I saw you come in after the police left and saw you leave twenty minutes later. How is Logan?”

  “Not good. Somebody beat the hell out of him.”

  “I know,” the old man said, his rheumy eyes cast low. “I heard it.”

  Jake jerked forward at the news, and the old man retreated a step into his apartment, his hand back on the door. Jake didn’t want to scare the old man and held up his hands.

  “I’m on Logan’s side. I’m trying to figure out who beat the crap out of him. I’m not going to hurt you.”

  The old man studied him for a moment. “Logan used to bring me food sometimes. Not those things they call sandwiches from downstairs, but some good ol’ barbecue. Every once in a while, we’d have a drink in my apartment and watch Wheel of Fortune. He was a good man.”

  “He still is a good man. He’s not out of the woods yet, but he’ll be back here with you in no time. Anyone else been up here since I left?”

  “This morning,” the old man said. “Couple of guys. Said they were detectives. Asked me some questions, but I didn’t tell them nothin’. I don’t like cops.”

  “A tall black guy and a short fat one?”

  “No, not those two. One was a big red head. Mean-looking and didn’t talk. The other was an older fella, bald. Bad scar on his face, across his right cheek. Like from a knife fight or something that didn’t heal right. They asked me a few questions, went inside Jack’s office and were in there for an hour and left.”

  “You seen them before?”

  “Nope.” The old man cocked his bald head. “Personally, I think they were lyin’.”

  “About what?”

  “About being detectives.”

  “They take anything out with them?”

  “Not that I saw,” the old man said. “Just a bunch of crashing around in there.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Marcus. Marcus Clancy.”

  “You see the people that beat up Logan?”

  Marcus leaned to the left and glanced over Jake’s shoulder. The coast was clear. It was just the two of them in the narrow hallway. “Just a little. Four guys. Two drove in a dark sedan, and the other two met them on the sidewalk. Didn’t see what they was drivin’. Streetlight was out that night, and I only got a good look at one of them from the lights comin’ off the laundromat.”

  “Ever seen the guy before?”

  “Nope.”

  “You call the police?”

  “Nah,” Marcus said, swatting the notion away with a gnarled hand. “Not the first time someone showed up at Logan’s door yelling and breaking things. Always some mad husband or wife from some case he was working. You showed up ten minutes after they left. The cops showed up ten minutes later. Wasn’t till I saw Logan on the stretcher I knew something was bad. I hope he’s okay.”

  “Me too. Listen, I’ve got to go dig out a file from his office. Do me a favor and keep an eye out for anyone coming up. Might be some barbecue in it for you.”

  Marcus grinned and nodded before stepping back into his apartment and shutting the door. The deadbolt slapped into place and the door chain rattled. Jake hustled to Logan’s door and used the key to slip inside.

  If it was possible, the outer office was worse than before. In addition to the papers strewn all over the place, ceiling tiles were broken in spots and a fine layer of dust lay on the floor underneath. File cabinets heaved from the wall with drawers open. The sofa ripped as if a cat on steroids had a claw sharpening frenzy.

  Inside Jack’s office, the drawers were dumped on the desktop, some of the contents spilled on the floor. A fake ficus tree hauled from its wicker basket lay abandoned under the window. More ceiling tiles were broken, and a partial boot print dusted the desktop where someone climbed to peer into the false ceiling. The desk was shoved to the side, and Jake kneeled where the false board was located. He pried it up. The gun and the cash were still there. When he pulled them out, a glint of gold shimmered. It was a key that would fit
into a padlock. He didn’t notice it last night. He took it out, reading an engraved number in the metal—106. There was nothing in the office with a padlock on it, maybe at Logan’s house. He put the gun and money back inside and popped the key onto his key ring.

  He walked to the file cabinets. He didn’t hold out a lot of hope he would find anything. Between the bad guys and the detectives, they’d been rifled through multiple times. Jake started with P and looked for anything on Parley. No file. He moved a couple drawers to the Ks. Several files dealing with a divorce case from two years ago, but nothing on Keats. He moved to the next cabinet and opened the bottom drawer labeled V–Z. There was an empty folder labeled “Voleski.” Interesting. Jake wished he knew the name of the task force Logan worked on with Bear. His finger hovered over Bear’s number on his cell when hard heels tapped on the floor behind him. He raised his hands when Detective Ogio and his partner stood at the door to Logan’s office with their guns drawn. Marcus across the hall definitely wasn’t getting any damn barbecue.

  “Mr. Caldwell,” Ogio said. “You are under arrest.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Alim and Jalal strolled through the Syrian marketplace, weaving their way through the dense crowd. The locals knew them and darted out of the way. Having the nickname “The Butcher” had its privileges. Alim stopped and bought a bag of fresh fruit. The vendor refused his money, but Alim insisted. He bit into an apple and chewed as they moved along.

  “Any word yet?” Jalal asked.

  “Any minute now. What about the girl?”

  “Gone. Buried next to her father. Shame, though. We could have sold her off for a pretty price.”

  “Not worth the risk.”

  His cell phone buzzed in his pocket. Alim listened for a second, grunted and disconnected. An hour later, he assembled his crew in the living room of his Syrian home. The men lounged on couches and watched a soccer match on the television while Alim made phone calls. The calls were short, coded, and bounced off multiple satellites. He hung up the phone when Jalal entered the kitchen.