Devil's Advocate (Trackdown Book 4)

by Michael A. Black

  Wolf took a deep breath and shrugged. “Probably, but at the time I didn’t think I needed a lawyer.”

  The perfect teeth flashed in a smile, “Mr. Wolf, Steve, you should remember that you always need a lawyer.”

  “I know that now. But I’m not talking about the missing eight minutes. I’ve pretty much figured out what I couldn’t recall. What I am talking about is a statement, a video, by one of the men who testified against me.”

  The space between her eyebrows furrowed. “Statement? What do you mean?”

  Again, he debated whether or not to tell her everything.

  Might as well go for it, he thought. I’ve got to trust somebody.

  He took out his wallet, removed a hundred-dollar bill from it, and handed it across the table.

  “Let’s make this official first,” he said.

  She took the money and reached into her briefcase and removed a slim laptop. “I’ll draw up a receipt. In the meantime, what is it you wanted to tell me about this flashdrive?”

  Wolf watched her open the laptop and press a button to turn it on.

  Close enough to being official, he thought.

  “I think it’s what you might call,” he said, “exculpatory evidence.”

  GRAND TETONS HOTEL

  PHOENIX, ARIZONA

  Soraces watched as Dirk slammed the edge of his right hand again and again against the piece of wood practicing a knife-hand karate blow. He was wearing a black T-shirt and blue jeans, and the muscles of his bare arms bulged with each movement. The board was a two-by-four about sixteen inches long and one end had a series of horizontal slits cut into the thickness running parallel to the width. Dirk had brought it back from his run to the hardware store and the methodical chopping sound was driving Soraces nuts. It was as constant and regular as a metronome. He was grateful when his burner phone rang and that Dirk stopped his activity.

  “It looks like McNamara’s pulling up now,” Clyde Perkins said. “Wolf’s saying goodbye to her.”

  “Did some money exchange hands?” Soraces asked.

  “Yeah, but I couldn’t tell how much. I’m too far away.”

  “Good. Keep it that way.” Soraces smiled.

  It looks like Wolf’s got himself a new attorney, he thought. Smart move.

  “Okay, she’s walking away and Wolf’s going toward the Escalade,” Perkins said. “Want me to stay on them?”

  “Yes,” Soraces said. “But keep it loose. Don’t let them get a whiff of you.”

  “I won’t, as usual.”

  The as usual part had a little condescending lilt to it. A hint of acerbity. Soraces was well aware that neither of the Shadows liked to be told or reminded how to do their job, nor did they need to be. But it was all part of a master planner, an effective mission leader knowing when to keep his men on a short leash. With the Shadows, Soraces figured he could allow a lot of play in the leash, only using an occasional jerk on the line to keep things in order. Sort of like patrolling with a pair of well-trained Dobermans.

  A sharp reverberation cracked the air with the abrupt intrusiveness of a gunshot. Soraces glanced over to see that Dirk had begun his knife-hand strikes again.

  “What the hell was that?” Perkins asked.

  Soraces held up his hand and Dirk froze, with his muscular arm cocked back.

  “Dirk practicing his karate,” Soraces said.

  “Figures.” Perkins snorted derisively. “Well, they’re gonna pull out. I’ll get back to you.”

  The connection went dead and Soraces removed the phone from his ear and glanced at the screen to be sure it had been terminated.

  “What’s Clyde got against you?” Soraces asked.

  Dirk shrugged. “The prissy little asshole thinks I cheated him at cards.”

  “Did you?”

  “What do you think?”

  Crack!

  “How about taking that thing into your room?” Soraces said. “That pounding’s giving me a headache.”

  Without a word, Dirk got up, went to the door, and paused. “Don’t forget that I need one of them debit cards to get that equipment.”

  “Right,” Soraces said, reaching into his pocket for his long, zippered wallet. He unzipped it and removed one of the non-descript debit cards that Fallotti had given him. “Here, take this one.”

  Dirk turned and came back to snatch the card. He slipped it into his pants pocket and then strode back toward the door, getting in three more resounding blows as he walked.

  Soraces recoiled slightly with each one.

  “You might as well grab some lunch too,” Soraces said. “I’ve got an assignment for you later. Tonight, after dark.”

  Dirk nodded and struck the board again. He then reached for the knob and went out.

  Soraces breathed a quick sigh of relief when his large companion had left. The sharp sounds of the chopping continued with diminishing returns as Dirk, apparently, made his way down the hallway toward his room.

  If the Shadows are Dobermans, Soraces thought, then Dirk’s a fucking pit-bull. Or a huge Rottweiler. A god damn one-man-wrecking crew when he’s turned loose.

  He looked forward to seeing Dirk’s ultimate confrontation with Wolf.

  Chapter Eight

  OUTSIDE THE OFFICE BUILDING OF RODNEY F. SHEMP

  ATTORNEY AT LAW

  PHOENIX, ARIZONA

  Wolf was jerked back in the seat by the momentum as McNamara sent the Escalade lurching out into traffic. Behind them a screeching of brakes was followed by the blaring of a horn. McNamara ignored it and barreled down the street.

  “Let me get my crash helmet,” Wolf said as he fished for the seatbelt.

  McNamara glanced in the side-view mirror, scowled, but said nothing.

  Wolf glanced in the back seat but saw no packages.

  “You get what you needed to get?” he asked.

  McNamara shook his head, still silent and brooding. He cut in front of another car to pass, eliciting another blast of a horn.

  “What the hell’s eating you?” Wolf asked.

  “That damn daughter of mine.” McNamara blew out a long breath. “You ain’t gonna believe it.”

  They sat in silence while McNamara sped through traffic. When he didn’t elaborate, Wolf chuckled.

  “You want to explain?” he asked. “Or are you just going to keeping stewing and driving like a maniac?”

  Shaking his head, McNamara slowed the car down considerably. The car they’d passed came roaring around, sounding its horn while the driver gave them the finger.

  McNamara waved and nodded appreciatively.

  “Guess I had that one coming,” he said.

  Wolf let a few more seconds go by figuring if Mac wanted to talk, he’d do it when he was ready. It didn’t take long.

  “After I dropped you off,” McNamara said, filtering into a steady traffic stream. “I was heading over to that army/navy surplus store when, all of a sudden, I see the back of this attractive gal walking down the street, and somehow she looks kind of familiar. Well, I take another look as I go by and, I’ll be god dammed, if it isn’t Kasey.”

  She was dressed up pretty fancy, Wolf thought.

  “Well,” McNamara said. “I was gonna honk the horn, but some knucklehead swung over right in front of me and I had to jam on the brakes. By the time I got going again and started looking for her, I get stopped in traffic. But I catch sight of her and she’s standing with her back to the street talking to somebody. You’ll never guess who.”

  Again, Wolf waited, saying nothing.

  “It was that god damn Franker,” McNamara said.

  “Franker? Special Agent Franker?”

  “Yep.”

  They came to a red light and stopped.

  “At first I thought maybe they just met coincidentally, but then she starts laughing and he’s got this big, shit-eating grin on his face.” He paused and frowned. “And the next thing I know, they’re walking toward the outdoor seating of this one restaurant. By this t
ime I got somebody else blasting their horn at me so I drove around the block. When I made my second pass, the two of them are sitting there at a table like two teenagers on their first prom date.”

  The light changed and McNamara let the Escalade roll forward.

  “Well, I made another pass around the block again, and when I drove past, they were still sitting there talking and kind of leaning forward toward each other. A waiter came by and it looked like they were ordering something. Then I got your text, so I headed over here.”

  “And where are we going now?” Wolf asked.

  “To see if they’re still there. Christ almighty, you don’t think he’s grilling her to see what he can find out about us?”

  The thought had occurred to Wolf, but he didn’t say so.

  “She is a pretty girl,” he said. “I can understand him wanting to take her to lunch.”

  McNamara slammed his palm against the steering wheel.

  “But why in the hell did she agree to meet with him?” he said. Before Wolf could offer any reply, McNamara said, “Okay, take a look to your right now. We’re coming up on them.”

  Wolf looked to his right and saw them seated at a table. Kasey’s head lolled back in apparent laughter, and Franker was sitting across from her grinning like a fool.

  “Looks like they’re having a good time,” Wolf said. “Pleasant conversation, laughter.”

  Mac slammed his hand on the steering wheel again as they continued past.

  “Careful,” Wolf said. “Either you’ll break the wheel or they’re going hear you and look over here.”

  McNamara continued down the block.

  “One thing’s for certain,” he said. “Me and her’s gonna have a little talk once she gets home.”

  “Mac, she’s not a teenager. She’s a grown woman.”

  “But she’s still my daughter, dammit. And I’m not going to stand for no low-down federal agent pumping her for information.” He swore. “That cold-blooded son of a bitch. FBI or no FBI, I’ll take him behind the barn and beat the shit out of him.”

  Wolf reflected that he’d had a different impression of Franker, an almost friendly one, after the shootout in which Wolf saved the man’s life with a warning of imminent danger. Franker had thanked him, and Wolf had felt that the FBI man had been sincere.

  Maybe I was wrong about him, he thought, but after a deep breath and mentally assessing how pretty Kasey looked this morning, he reconsidered.

  One thing was for sure, he didn’t want to get in the middle of a father/daughter dispute. It was Mac’s problem to deal with and, at the moment, with the fatigue creeping up on him again and another late-night surveillance looming, all he wanted to do now was go home and get some sleep.

  GARFIELD AND OLLIE’S CRAFT’S SHOP

  SCOTTSDALE, ARIZONA

  Dirk told Charles Perkins to take another pass through the lot of the strip mall so they could scan it one more time for surveillance cameras. Seeing none, he centered his binoculars on the target. It was still light out and visibility was good without any night-vision enhancement. He adjusted the rangefinder on the apparatus, enlarging the view of the posted business hours:

  Mon—Sat 1000 AM to 600 PM

  Closed Sunday

  Remember the Sabbath and keep it holy, Dirk thought with amusement. Solemn words to run a business by.

  It was now 1745 hours.

  “Okay,” he said. “Pull up over there and drop me off. I’ll call you when I’m ready for a pick-up. I’ll be coming out the back.”

  “Roger that,” Perkins said. He drove the non-descript white van over to the sidewalk.

  Before Dirk got out he pulled on a pair of latex gloves, checked his watch, and began his count. His estimate for this one should take no longer than twelve minutes max. Well, maybe a bit more if he started to enjoy it. In any case, the risk factor was negligible. Not like the last one. He thought back to his previous mission in Caracas where he was definitely in hostile territory.

  Indian country, for sure.

  That’s what the old Nam vets in the Agency used to call it. Hardly an acceptable expression in these politically correct times but Dirk didn’t give a shit. He’d always made it a point never to be bothered by the inconsequential and was glad that he was reporting to his old buddy, Soraces, instead of some pencil-necked bureaucrat back at Langley.

  He pressed one of the two buttons on his wristwatch that started the stopwatch.

  The clock’s ticking, he thought, and then pulled the baseball cap down farther on his forehead and canted his head downward and off to the side just in case the two shops he passed, a frozen yogurt shop and a Fred Astaire Dance Studio, had some kind of camera systems that might catch a shot of him walking by. It was doubtful, but he knew better than to drop his guard simply because this was a milk run. Any cameras would record nothing more than a big guy wearing a real loose-fitting hoodie and a baseball cap with a long bill.

  A true pro never takes anything lightly, he thought. Good words to live by.

  He checked his stopwatch again as he turned his hand to grip the door handle. He wore the watch reversed so that it faced the inner aspect of his wrist. Sixty seconds had elapsed.

  An old, gray-haired man with circular, gold-rimmed eyeglasses stood behind what looked like a cash register from a nostalgic Norman Rockwell painting. One thing that was not nostalgic was the state-of-the-art PTZ camera that was affixed to the wall giving an unencumbered view of virtually the entire floor area of the store,

  He’d have to check if it was transmitting the recording to the cloud before he left.

  The cash-drawer was open and the geezer was counting the bills. He paused and looked up. “Good evening.”

  Dirk nodded fractionally.

  There was no one else in the store, he noted, but there was a cloth curtain hanging off to the right indicating a back room. Judging from the size of this shop showroom, as opposed to his recollection of the overall width of the building from the outside, there had to be a fairly large area beyond that suspended curtain.

  An office, perhaps, or a storage or work room.

  Dirk bet on the last one, based on what Soraces had told him.

  The old guy had made a duplicate of the statue they were after. He would need space to work.

  All this for a fucking plaster bandito, he thought.

  But who was he to question an easy payday?

  “I’m sorry to be presumptuous, sir,” the old fart said, pushing the cash back into the drawer and shoving it closed. He tried to avert attention from that movement by bringing his other hand up and adjusting the glasses on his nose. “But I was just getting ready to close. This will have to be rather quick, I’m afraid.”

  Presumptuous?

  The old guy reminded Dirk of his seventh-grade teacher, Mr. Holt. He was always using big words and encouraging the kids to look them up when they asked what they meant. Dirk smiled as he remembered stringing a line of one-gauge fishing line across the lower hinge on the door of the classroom so that he could pull it taut just as Mr. Holt was walking in. He fell down so hard his false teeth went clattering along the tiled floor as the class roared with laughter.

  “I know,” Dirk said, turning toward the door and flipping a dangling card around so it displayed the CLOSED portion against the glass door. He then twisted the lock securing the door.

  The old man’s face registered concern and his right hand slowly descended toward the area beneath the counter.

  Dirk quickly pulled up the front of the sweatshirt and slipped the Beretta 92F from the Velcro belly-band holster and pointed it at the old guy.

  “Lift your hands above your head, real slow,” Dirk said in a flat tone. “Now.”

  The geezer froze for a split second and then quickly complied. Dirk strode over to the register, scanning the underside of the counter. The alarm button was down a ways and Dirk didn’t think the old guy had pressed it.

  “Don’t even think about it,” he said. “Now, ope
n the register.”

  “Certainly,” the old guy said. “Take the money. Take all of it. I just don’t want to get hurt, all right?”

  “You’re wasting my time.” Dirk jabbed the end of the pistol against the old guy’s side. He had a soft-looking body and the blow made him gasp.

  “Do it,” Dirk said.

  The old guy’s head was bobbling up and down like a yoyo. His fingers fumbled with the keys, he pressed one down, and the drawer slid open.

  Dirk reached in and grabbed the cash with his left hand. It didn’t look like much, but it would serve its purpose. Soraces said to make it look like a robbery.

  Stuffing the money into the pocket on the front of his hoodie, Dirk then grabbed the old guy’s arm, pulling him toward the hanging curtain.

  “Anybody else here?” Dirk asked, keeping the barrel of the Beretta pressed into the pliant torso.

  “No, no one,” the old man said.

  They pushed through the curtain and came into a large area with several rows of metal shelving. Each shelf was stacked with a variety of the same figurines and knickknacks that were on display in the front of the store. A special box was marked Christmas inventory. Another bunched-up curtain hung in front of a closed wall safe. There was a long wooden table littered with mixing bowls, bottles and cans of paint, two capped jars of what Dirk took to be paint thinner, and a variety of knives, spatulas, and paintbrushes. In the center was a partially painted plaster statue about eighteen inches high.

  A Mexican bandito.

  “Please,” the old man said. “There’s nothing of value here. Take whatever you want, just please, don’t hurt me.”

  “What about the safe?” Dirk asked.

  “It’s over there. I’ll open it for you. Take what you want. We don’t have much money. Please.”

  “Shut up.”

  The old guy did, and Dirk felt he had total compliance but decided to allow himself a bit of fun. He forced the old man down to his knees and then released his hold on the old guy’s arm.