by R. A. McGee
A short drive later, Badway led the small caravan into the front parking lot of a one-story brick building. There was a large wrought-iron fence running the perimeter, and near the entry gate, there was a large patch of grass with a shiny black cannon aimed at a forty-five-degree angle skyward.
A sign underneath read National Guard Armory.
Badway pulled up in front of the cannon and got out of his truck. A swipe of his key card and the gate glided open, admitting Porter and Cat. Badway got back into his car and followed the other vehicles in, gate closing behind him.
He directed Porter to a spot far to the edge of the parking lot, next to two olive drab half-ton military trucks. Cat squeezed next to Porter, into the only other open spot in the lot.
Badway met them near their cars. “I’ll be right back.” He disappeared out of sight into the building, which was labeled Administration.
Porter walked down the row, looking at the cars and trucks, sure that some of them had seen action in one of the ’stans. He carried the bottle of Artsakh with him.
“Porter?” Cat said.
Porter paused. “Yeah?”
“How many people have you found?” Cat said.
“What do you mean?”
“What do you mean, ‘what do I mean?’ You know what I’m asking. Bobby told me you have a good thing going, finding lost people and getting the reward money.”
“It’s mostly kids.”
“Fine. How many kids have you found?”
Porter was quiet for a moment.
“What, so many you can’t keep track?” Cat said.
“Just wondering if you wanted me to include the ones who weren’t alive by the time I got to them.”
“I’d rather not think about them. I want to believe all we have to do is try our best and we’ll find Trey safe and sound, that everything will be okay for him.”
“How can it be?” Porter said. “His dad is dead, his mom’s a nutcase. That’s not okay.”
“Which is why I’m asking how many kids you’ve found safe and sound. It’s the way my mind works. I need to know there’s a good chance of finding this boy,” Cat said.
“I mean, every case is different, you can’t just assume—”
“How many?”
“Eleven. Eleven alive, taken back to their parents or grandparents. One foster family. Another was in a group home.”
“What about the other number?” Cat said.
“Three,” Porter said with no hesitation. “Three.”
Cat was quiet. “Trey will be number twelve.”
“Maybe,” Porter said.
Badway came jogging up to the pair, messenger bag slung over his shoulder.
“Thought you were out of the Army, Sarge. What gives with the Guard?”
“I’m mostly out. Only a few more months of inactive reserve time. I come here to help teach the weekend warriors. I let the administration know we’re parking a couple cars here. You guys good?”
“Amy texted. She said we can meet at this little restaurant we used to go to.”
“Good food?” Badway said.
Cat looked at him crossly.
“What? Eat when you can. If you guys are going to drag me all over the place, I need some eats.”
Cat didn’t answer, instead climbing in the front seat of Badway’s pickup and slamming the door.
“What’s up with her?” Badway said.
“And they say I’m the one without people skills,” Porter said.
“Who says that? I like you just fine,” Badway said.
Porter looked at the front door, and turned his back to it, lowering his voice to Badway. “Right now, she’s feeling some kind of way about things. You got to remember, she isn’t used to all this.”
Badway frowned. “I guess you’re right. Everyone I’m usually around has the same—”
“Sense of humor? I know. Same when I was a fed. Just remember, while you’re cracking about food, she saw her first dead body today. She’s trying to keep her shit together,” Porter said.
“I’m tracking,” Badway said.
The men got in the car. Badway turned it around and nosed out of the gated parking lot, onto the main street.
“Where to?” Badway said.
Cat thumbed a button on her phone and turned the volume up. The mechanized voice of the GPS took over, guiding Badway onto the highway.
Porter watched as the late-afternoon sun cast a yellow glow on the tops of the cars that Badway was blowing past. He tried to remember being in Cat’s shoes, dealing with an unfamiliar, hostile situation. He tried to remember the day before he’d first killed someone. How normal everything still was. How his life was going the way he’d planned. He and Trish didn’t have the two and a half kids yet, but they had a dog. They were happy.
He thought back to how that first body changed everything. The investigation he was running. The course of his career. Even his marriage. Maybe things would have been different if he’d never seen that first body.
Pushing the thoughts from his mind, he focused on Vance. Parabellum. The clowns who couldn’t even kill him, despite having long guns and the drop on him. He ground his teeth thinking about it.
Thankfully, Badway was soon off the highway and onto a surface street. He pulled down two other streets and found the destination he was looking for.
“The Leaning Tower of London?” Porter said. “What the hell is this?”
The building was the only structure on that side of the small street. Overflow parking across the street was bordered in the back and side by a small runoff canal. Next to the overflow parking were a consignment shop and a store selling cheap auto insurance.
The front of the building was a mixture of new construction made to look old and the genuine article. A graphic in the front depicted a London Beefeater, complete with colorful outfit and hat, holding up the Leaning Tower of Pisa, digitally altered to have the large clock colloquially known as Big Ben in the center of it.
The front of the restaurant was lined with windows, but they had mirror tint and it was impossible to see through them.
Badway parked at the end of the building, set back from the street. Tough for anyone to see his car if they were driving past.
“This place is a mess,” Porter said.
“I’ve eaten at worse,” Badway said. “One time, we were in Kandahar and—”
“The food is good,” Cat said. “Amy says she’s already here.”
“Let’s not keep her waiting,” Porter said.
“The restaurant won't be too crazy about that,” Cat said, pointing to the bottle in Porter’s hand.
“A little vodka with lunch? Nobody?” Porter set the bottle down in the bed of Badway’s truck.
Badway held the door and Porter stepped through first. Tacky tourist fare dominated the décor inside the restaurant. There were posters from both England and Italy, and strange plaster busts of different British queens.
Cat pointed to the front, by the window. The hostess motioned the trio toward an already occupied table. A woman sat alone in the front by a window, a table next to the wall.
The woman at the table stood and walked over to Cat, arms extended for a hug, and reached down to squeeze her friend.
Badway elbowed Porter several times. Porter looked and saw his cousin’s eyes wide, looking at the woman.
She was tall—taller than Badway, nearly able to look Porter in the eye. Her long blonde hair and fair skin stood in stark contrast to Cat’s dark bob and warm complexion. She looked like she could be the model for a Valkyrie from Norse mythology.
“Close your mouths,” Cat said, busting the two men.
Twenty-Three
“Guys, this is Amy Olson. Amy, this is Thing One and Thing Two.”
“Hey, boys. Let me guess… you’re Robert and you’re Porter.” Amy pointed to each man in turn. “Did I get that right?”
“Hi. Yeah, good guess,” Badway answered, stumbling over his words.
&nb
sp; “I don’t need to guess. I got enough info from Cat to figure out what you guys looked like.”
“Always a reporter, huh?” Porter said.
“Exactly. I ask questions, that’s what I do. When Cat tells me she wants to meet up and she’s bringing a couple good-looking guys, I needed to ask more questions,” Amy said.
Cat’s skin burned bright red.
Porter pulled a metal chair out for Amy and the one next to her for Cat. He and Badway took the other side of the table.
This caused them to cram together, broad shoulders touching each other. It was uncomfortable. Logistically, however, it was the best place to sit. Both of their backs were against the wall, and they had the full view of the restaurant. While Porter didn’t like sitting near the window, at least they could see everything outside and couldn’t be seen through the tint.
“So you guys were roommates?” Porter said.
“Three best years of my life. Then the real world caught up. Jobs and moves and life got in the way. But we still keep up as often as we can. Which is why I wasn’t surprised to get a call from my girl here, asking for information about Parabellum. What does surprise me, however, is having to take a taxi to the meeting. What’s going on?” Amy stirred the lemon in her water.
Porter looked at Cat, then back at Amy. “You seem savvy. I don’t want to bore you. Tell me what you know and I’ll fill in the blanks.”
Amy recited much of the pertinent information about the court case and Kevon’s life. She wasn’t up to date on the shoot-out or Kevon's body. Porter filled her in.
“He was just burned alive? Just like that?” Amy said.
“To be fair, no telling if he was alive or not when it happened,” Badway said.
“As if that makes it any better,” Cat said.
“I’m just saying.” Badway continued flipping the single sheet of the menu over and over.
A waitress came with three additional glasses of water for the table. All four ordered: Cat had a Caesar salad, Amy got a full plate of pasta with extra breadsticks, Badway went for fish and chips, and Porter got a double cheeseburger, no fries or bun.
“No bun?” Amy said. “That’s some of the best stuff.”
“Some of us need to watch our carbs,” Porter said with a smile. “I take it by your order that’s not a problem for you.” His eyes drifted out the window.
Amy shrugged. “I can’t put weight on. Blessing and a curse. I didn’t get boobs until college.”
“TMI, Ames, TMI,” Cat said.
Amy shrugged again. “So you guys think Vance killed Kevon? You think he was shooting up the storage unit today?”
“Seems like it,” Badway said. “He’s the only one with a reason to try to kill us. If you’d seen how angry Stacy Brown was after the court hearing, you’d get it. I’d kill someone too if it kept her from being pissed off at me.”
“Do you guys think anyone found the body yet?” Amy said.
“After that shootout? Someone must have called the cops,” Cat said.
“Probably the Shelbys,” Porter said.
“I’ll tell you what, I have a friend who works in the Health Department. The coroner’s office is under their wing. Maybe I can find out what happened to Kevon. Think that will help?”
“I’m not sure it will,” Cat said. “We know he got burned up. Doesn’t really matter if he was alive or not first.”
“I’ll ask anyway. The more information, the better,” Amy said.
Porter nudged Badway and once he caught his eye, flicked his head toward the window. Badway followed his gaze. Across the street, in front of the closed-on-the-weekend antique shop, a black Lincoln SUV was backed into a handicap spot.
Amy reached into a small bag she carried and pulled out a manila envelope. “This is what I dug up on Vance and Parabellum. I’ll bet you’re more interested in that.”
“For sure,” Cat said. “Tell me what’s in here.”
Porter leaned over to Badway, voice low. “I’ll go. You watch them?”
“Bueno,” Badway said.
“I need to hit the head,” Porter said.
“Why are you telling us?” Cat said, not looking up from the paperwork she was rifling through.
Porter smiled and headed toward the back. He passed the restroom, heading further into the restaurant, and pushed open the swinging kitchen doors. Every face in the kitchen was some sort of Hispanic or Latino. He waved to the men, who looked surprised to see him in their kitchen, and stepped through the back door, which had been propped open with a box fan.
He slid down the side of the building until he got to the edge. Poking his head around, he stepped out and was directly behind Badway’s truck. He reached into the back and picked up the bottle of vodka.
Porter jogged down the open space, away from the restaurant, until he reached the drainage canal. He was now a hundred yards from both the restaurant and Badway’s truck. Waiting for a car to pass, he used the brief concealment to sprint across the street, to the side with the antique shop. Working his way behind that building, he waded through the unkempt, waist-high grass until he got to the end.
He peeked around the corner.
Now he could see the front of the restaurant where he knew his cousin and the girls were sitting. He felt good about the fact that, from this vantage, no one could see his friends. They would be safe at the table.
Further left, he saw the lone black SUV, parked in the handicap spot in the middle of the parking lot. Anyone in the car would have their attention on the front of the building. Porter had been on enough stakeouts to know no one paid attention to their entire surroundings the whole time. He used this to his advantage.
Stepping around the corner, Porter stayed low, vodka bottle in one hand, Glock in the other. He stepped to the rear of the SUV and, in one practiced movement, took two steps to the passenger side window and busted it out with a back-handed swing of the vodka bottle, which stayed intact.
The muzzle of his pistol followed and Porter took a large sidestep, to have the clearest shot possible.
There was a thin white woman, putting on lipstick. Porter glanced and saw no one else in the car.
“What’s your name?” Porter said, holding the pistol in one hand, muzzle still pointed at the woman. Threats came in every race, size, and gender.
“Eliza… liza… Elizabeth.” The woman's lipstick smeared along her cheek as she spoke.
“Why are you here?” Porter said.
“I ordered pizza,” she said.
No threat. Porter looked around. “I’m a cop. You’re in a handicap spot, but I don’t see a tag.”
“I didn’t want to take up parking in front of the store while I waited.”
“Not good enough. Usually, I fine people three hundred bucks for illegally parking in a handicap spot. You leave now, I won't fine you. Use the money to fix your window. Deal?”
“Deal. Deal.” Elizabeth fired up the SUV and sped out of the parking lot.
Porter watched her go, hoping she was dumb enough to fall for the story and not call the real police. He holstered his pistol and walked across the street and into the restaurant, still holding the vodka bottle.
Porter smiled at the hostess and walked over to the table.
Amy and Cat were looking at him with their mouths open. Badway was shoveling fish and chips into his mouth.
“I love when you come back from the bathroom and your food is waiting,” Porter said.
Twenty-Four
“What the hell was that?” Cat said.
“What?” Porter said, setting the vodka bottle underneath his chair.
“You know what,” Cat said.
“You saw?”
“Yes, we saw.”
“Thought it was the SUV from earlier. Had to be sure.” He wiped his hands on his napkin.
“That person’s going to sue you,” Cat said.
“Well, I know a good lawyer,” Porter said, as if that closed the matter.
“Rough
company you’re keeping these days,” Amy said with a smile on her face.
Cat gave an exasperated sigh.
“What did you come up with while I was in the bathroom?” Porter mixed ketchup with mayonnaise and slathered it on his burger.
“I was just telling Cat, the Parabellum group is bad business.”
“Why?” Porter said.
“They had numerous US government contracts and they lost them all. There were allegations that they committed war crimes at the beginning of Operation Iraqi Freedom. Several of their contractors were suspected of murdering members of a small village outside of Basra, but there was never any evidence. That was back when they were called the Ring.”
“The Ring?” Porter said.
“We used to see those guys over there sometimes.” Badway opened another packet of tartar sauce.
“After all that, Vance knew they weren’t going to get work, so he rebranded, brought in a new board of directors and called the group Parabellum. Our brilliant government gave the new group even more military contracts,” Amy said.
“What happened with those?” Porter said.
“They failed to deliver on things they promised. Took more money and didn’t build some infrastructure they were supposed to. I don’t have the full details, but Alex Vance is getting subpoenaed to talk to a Senate subcommittee sometime soon.”
“So the guys who killed Kevon are overall shitty people?” Cat said, picking at her salad.
“It starts at the top,” Amy said. “Vance comes from old money. His family has a huge real-estate empire somewhere down south. He used his father's influence to help get him to the Naval Academy at Annapolis. When he graduated, he went into the Navy for his compulsory service. He was a Naval Aviator for a dozen years and from everything I can find, he was a good pilot. Then he got caught stealing a new technology and selling it to a foreign government,” Amy said.
“How the hell do they give a guy like that big contracts from the government?” Porter said, ignoring his burger.
“His daddy hired him a good lawyer and he worked with the appointed military counsel during the court-martial. Got Vance off with no conviction and an other-than-honorable discharge from the Navy.