Warn Me When It's Time

by Cheryl A Head

  “Your new name is Don Curtis, Jr.,” James said. “You live in Dearborn Heights and work at Donovan Construction in the city. That’ll be your explanation for having access to explosives.”

  Don nodded, looking through the folder of documents in front of him. Judy sat next to him, and Charlie was across the table. Coleman sat at the head with James.

  “You’re a veteran and a former police officer. You were fired for too many excessive force complaints. You’re divorced, with two sons, and you live alone. You’re angry about the rotten deal you’ve gotten from DPD, and the social services people who took away visitation rights with your kids. You have an arrest record for DUIs, and owing back child support. You drive a 2004 Ford Ranger.”

  “God, I sound like a real loser.”

  “That’s the point,” James said. “You’ll be one of the guys.”

  “We already have your fake Facebook page up, and we’ve added posts adding credibility to your story,” Coleman said. “We’ve set up utility accounts in your name, and opened a banking account for you. You have a couple of credit cards set up for your use.”

  “You’ll report to work tomorrow at the construction company,” James continued. “That’s where you’ll receive your demolition refresher from a couple of agents. When you leave this afternoon, you should pick up some groceries and anything else you need and drive to your new digs. An agent will be there to show you the security measures we’ve put into place. Then you can have your night. Go get a beer, watch TV. We do want you to spend some time on social media, and in the chat rooms of the Turks and some of these other groups. We also want you to talk about your experience with explosives, and your military background. We want people to be curious about you and look at your profile.”

  “I may need some help with the social media stuff,” Don said.

  “He’ll definitely need help,” Judy agreed.

  “There will be one of my people in the apartment building. They can do the online stuff and make sure Don has a presence on the message boards.”

  “How will I stay in touch?” Don asked. “Will I have a point person?”

  “We still need to figure that out,” Coleman said. She pushed a phone in a plastic bag to Don. “That’s your new phone. I’ll need your current one.”

  Don reached in his pocket. He cradled his phone for a moment before sliding it down the table to Coleman.

  “Don’t worry. You’ll get it back. This new one has a tracker and an emergency code that will bring your security guys running.”

  “I’ll have security guys?”

  “Yes. But if you see them, they’re not doing a good job,” James said.

  “I won’t be able to contact my wife?”

  “No. We can’t guarantee your communications won’t be traced. We won’t be the only ones watching you.”

  “I thought you said these guys weren’t that sophisticated,” Judy said.

  “Their communications systems are actually pretty good,” James said. In fact, Robbie is partly responsible for that. Now we’ll be able to use his expertise.”

  Don looked worried.

  “What’s wrong?” Charlie asked.

  “What if Rita needs to reach me. What if there’s an emergency?”

  “She can call me,” Judy said. “Day or night. I’ll call her today and let her know.”

  “Thanks, Novak. I really appreciate that.”

  “So if Don needs help, I assume you don’t think he can just pick up his phone and call.”

  James responded to Charlie with a headshake. “Phone messages can be intercepted, and as a new member he’ll be under scrutiny.”

  “You can set up some communications back channels, right?” Judy asked. “Maybe use the direct messaging function of Facebook?”

  “I’m not sure how secure that is. I’ll talk to my tech guys.”

  “We can always go low-tech,” Don offered.

  “You mean leave a note in a flower pot?” Charlie asked.

  “Something like that. A signal that lets you guys know I have information or I want to meet. We can set up a couple of predetermined locations.”

  “I have some ideas about that,” Charlie said.

  “Let’s hear them,” Don said.

  Before they split up, they had a viable plan to keep in touch with Don, which included a twice-a-week rendezvous with Charlie, rotating between a city park near the White Castle restaurant on Michigan Avenue and the MGM casino. If he were being watched, it would raise suspicions to be seen with an African-American woman, so Charlie had an idea for a disguise she’d used before. In case of an emergency, or if he needed to speak to James between the Charlie meetings, they’d come up with a signal.

  # # #

  Judy hugged Don when he left with Coleman to pick up his truck, and he and Charlie shook hands.

  “I’ll see you day after tomorrow,” Charlie said. “Don’t eat too much pizza.”

  “I think that’s the least I’ll have to worry about, Mack. Tomorrow I’ll have my hands on some explosives.”

  “You’ll do fine, my friend,” Charlie said, trying to believe her own words.

  # # #

  The ride back to the Mack offices was quiet. Charlie looked at Judy’s dour face in the elevator and reached out to put a steadying hand on her shoulder.

  “He’s gonna be okay. Don has shrewd street instincts, and he’s suspicious of everybody so he won’t let his guard down.”

  Tamela spotted their mood the second they walked in the door. She brought phone messages and coffee to their desks even before they’d settled in.

  “Is Mr. Rutkowski gonna be okay?”

  “Yes, but he’ll be away for a while. He’s on an assignment. If anyone calls for him you should just say he’s out of the office. It’s a confidential matter.”

  “You mean I can’t even tell my brother?”

  Charlie and Judy looked at each other. Judy was about to call Rita, but put her phone down.

  “Do you tell your brother about our cases?” Judy asked.

  “Well, he asks me all the time if I did anything interesting. I told him we were trying to find out who killed that Muslim man who died in the fire last month.”

  “What kind of work does your brother do?”

  “He’s a security guard at the union. But he wants to be a police detective.”

  “What union?”

  “United Auto Workers.”

  Charlie asked Tamela to pull up a chair to sit between her desk and Judy’s. Tamela looked between their stern faces and knew she was in trouble.

  “This is my fault, Tamela,” Charlie said. “I should have told you that a lot of our work is highly confidential. Not all of it, but most of it, and we shouldn’t talk about it outside of the office.”

  “Are you going to fire me, Ms. Mack?”

  “Of course not. These things can happen. We probably all talk about our cases at home. My partner is a police officer and we talk about our cases all the time. The difference is she understands the confidential nature of our work. Most of the time our clients are hiring us to do private work. Do you understand?”

  “Yes. It’s just that my brother is so impressed when he finds out I’m doing real detective work and not just filing and typing.”

  “We understand that,” Judy said. “However, now that you’re getting more and more responsibilities, you’ll have to keep your work to yourself.”

  “Okay.”

  Charlie and Judy’s faces said everything as Tamela returned to her desk. Commander Coleman might be right about them being a source of leaks after all.

  Judy got on the phone with Rita. Charlie thought about her first rendezvous with Don, and planned her disguise.

  # # #

  “How do I look?”

  Hamm sniffed at Charlie’s leg then backed up and barked.

  “Apparently Hamm and I share the same opinion,” Mandy said. “Where’d you have those socks and sneakers stashed?”

  �
��They were in an old duffle in the car trunk. I’d forgotten they were there. Good thing I kept them. Most people don’t look very hard at homeless people. I think it’ll work.”

  “When are you meeting Don?”

  “Tomorrow at noon.”

  Chapter 16

  Robbie signed his message to Spader with the closing he’d heard in a recruitment video: “Yours in Solidarity.” He’d had two messages asking him to complete the online membership form, and inviting him for a live chat next week. He filled in the form as his FBI handler had advised. Ninety percent of the information was true, and the rest made him a better fit for the group.

  Next he wrote a note to the chapter president of the Turks recommending Don for the demo work they needed for the upcoming church attack. The wording came from his handler. He’d always had trouble with spelling. Sometimes the letters got mixed up, so he copied the note word for word.

  Robbie spent the next few hours doing what he always did when he was home. He trolled the internet. He’d helped the FBI set Don up with a registration on the Turks website and had given him a handle: Semper Don. He paused to monitor the Turks social media. The chatter about the upcoming attack had intensified. It was described as a “major event that will make everyone take notice,” and members posted their comments on the group’s Facebook page, listserv, and the chat rooms.

  Most of the back-and-forth was in veiled terms and coded language, but occasionally members—even Turks leaders, who didn’t give a damn about hiding—spoke in plain terms. Robbie noticed Don was also in the chat rooms tonight.

  Posted by: CRAZYASAFOX

  Are we talking about experience with medium loads or large loads?

  TURK#2 In Reply to: CRAZYASAFOX

  Large load event. Need CR4 or equivalent experience. Munitions.

  Posted by: LOCKEDNLOADEDSC

  Sounds like you’re gonna have a grand old time up there in Motown.

  Posted by: TURK#2

  These Nigs are in for a big surprise. Stay Tuned.

  Posted by: SEMPERDON

  Still looking for your powder man?

  TURK#2 In Reply to: SEMPERDON

  What are your credentials???

  SEPMERDON In Reply to: TURK#2

  Check out my FB profile. www.fb/semperdon/1293920

  Posted by EASTSIDEGUY

  I hope this sends a wake-up call to the Governor. He’s a traitor to his race.

  Posted by LOCKEDNLOADEDSC

  First we need to get rid of that monkey in Washington, DC!

  TURK#2 In Reply to SEMPERDON

  Impressive, man! I’ll DM you.

  “What does DM mean?” Don asked Agent Elizabeth Garrow.

  “Direct Message. You can have a private conversation on Facebook through the instant messaging function. Look here. The guy has already sent you something.”

  Don leaned over the agent’s shoulder to read the note from Turk#2.

  Chuck C. here. We’re looking for someone with your experience in explosives. Would you be willing to meet?

  “How do I answer him?”

  “You just type here in the chat box. I can leave chat open so you always know where it is and set up the notifications so that each time you get a message you’ll hear a ding.”

  “Do I really want that?”

  Garrow looked at Don. He reminded her of her father who didn’t want anything to do with the internet. The only thing he’d learned to use with some dexterity was the TV remote.

  “In real life, no. But for the purposes of this case, I’ll leave notifications on. Come on, sit and answer the guy,” she said, trading places. “I’ll watch you.”

  “What do I say?”

  “Just type in: Yes. When and where?”

  Don did as she said. “What now?”

  “We wait for his response.”

  There was no immediate reply. While they waited, Garrow showed Don how to use emoticons and to “like” other people’s pages.

  “Remember to stay in role. Don’t hit ‘like’ if someone says something liberal. Write a post or two on your homepage that lets folks know who you are. Obama bashing is good. Also, you can post links to right-wing websites. I’ll put a list together for you. I can monitor all your online activity from my own computer.”

  “Okay. Can I practice posting something now?”

  “Sure. Let’s find a link to some conspiracy theory. Or a meme.”

  “Meme?”

  “We’ll save that for another time. Here’s one website I look at pretty regularly. The people who run the site claim crazy things like 9/11 never happened. They say Hillary Clinton killed a guy. They’re the ones who started the rumor that President Obama wasn’t born in the U.S.”

  “So how do we post a link?”

  “You just copy the link up here in the link bar, like this.” Garrow showed Don. “Then go to where you want to put the link and paste it like this.”

  “Let me try one,” Don said.

  “Okay, here’s a good story to post. It’s about a group of Israelis being involved in 9/11. From what I’ve seen the Turks love to Jew bash.”

  Garrow patiently walked Don through the process of copying the URL bar and pasting it onto his Facebook home page.

  “Wow. This is my home page? Where’d the photos come from? I like the ones of the bed full of guns. Who are the two boys?” Don asked excitedly.

  “Probably photoshopped by one of our techs. Those boys are supposed to be your two sons.”

  “And this one with me showing my tattoo? I never took a picture like that.”

  “We’re the FBI. We can fake a photo of you meeting with the Queen of England if we want to.”

  Don’s computer dinged loudly. “What was that?”

  “It means you have another instant message. See? The guy wants to meet tomorrow night after he gets off from work.”

  “I’m supposed to meet Mack tomorrow after work.”

  “What time?”

  “Six.”

  “Okay, well, tell him you can meet at six thirty. He suggests getting a beer, and says you should name the place.”

  “I know a bar we can go to.”

  “It shouldn’t be any place where you’ll be recognized,” Garrow reminded Don.

  “Oh yeah. That’s right.”

  “Where are you meeting Ms. Mack?”

  “Near Corktown.”

  “Okay, let’s pull up a few places in that area,” Garrow said, her fingers flying along the keyboard. “What about this Irish pub? Let’s suggest that. That sounds like a good place for a couple of white guys to meet.”

  # # #

  Don put his laptop aside. He’d been scrolling through Facebook pages and chat rooms for hours. This apartment was well furnished and comfortable, nothing like the one-bedroom space he’d lived in when he worked as a beat cop. That was before he made the wise decision to marry Rita. He missed her already. He knew she’d be in bed reading a magazine or one of those romance books she liked. When he had hours to kill, he polished his bowling shoes or cleaned his gun.

  He tore a paper bag and spread it on the desk, setting his cleaning tools and oil to one side. He released his Ruger from his shoulder holster, removed the magazine, and racked the slide to eject the cartridge. He planned to keep the gun on him at all times during this assignment. He deftly disassembled the gun, then rubbed the exterior and interior surfaces with a soft, dry cloth. He sprayed a solvent on the small interior elements and rubbed them dry. Finally, brushing inside and out with a toothbrush, he pushed a small piece of cloth through the barrel with a tool that looked like a knitting needle. He reassembled the Ruger and hung it in the holster on the bedpost. As it most often did, the ritual relaxed him.

  He peed, drank a full glass of water, brushed his teeth, and lay on the bed. He let his head sink into the soft pillow. His prayer for Rita, Rudy and his baby girl ended with the sign of the cross. Within minutes Don slept for the first night as Donald Curtis Jr.

  Chapter 17 />
  Donovan Construction was a full-service quarry yard. Don arrived at the locked entrance at 8 a.m. He announced his business, and the automatic gate slowly opened. He spotted cameras on both sides of the gate. Don drove a half mile to the employee lot past giant excavators and mountains of slag, sand, and rock. He counted twenty men in hard hats and safety vests operating machinery and walking around the work site. He presented his badge at the door of the main building, and a man wearing a security guard uniform pointed him in the direction of a double-wide office trailer. The Dick Tracy look-alike, Agent Riley, and an older man were waiting for him.

  “Sleep okay, Rutkowski?” Agent Riley asked.

  “That’s Curtis if you don’t mind.”

  Riley offered a two-fingered salute. “Absolutely right. This is agent Kapinski. We just call him Agent K.”

  Don offered a nod. “I slept fine. Did a lot of social media. Grew a beard,” Don said rubbing at his whiskers.

  “Ready to delve into the world of explosives?”

  “Yep. Just enough to fake it and not get blown up, of course.”

  “Well, you at least need to be able to talk the talk in case somebody in the Turks has a passing acquaintance with bomb-making. They probably don’t if they’re looking for someone to replace Wyatt,” Agent K said. “By the way, Wyatt really botched the job. He used enough Semtex to blow a hole through a weight-bearing wall. He could have used a third of the plastic to start a fire if that was the goal.”

  Don, Riley, and Agent K started with a glossary of terms on a chart on an easel. Then K pulled out a bag and laid a shitload of explosives and a half-dozen bombs on the table. He gave a tutorial on each bomb and the most practical use for each. They went straight through to 1 p.m. until Don complained about needing lunch.

  “I already ordered lunch,” Riley said. “It should be here any minute.”

  “Well, let’s take a break until the food gets here. I’m supposed to check my social media and show that I’m engaging during my lunch break.”

  Don was fairly sure the trailer was for the exclusive use of the Bureau because no one from Donovan Construction ever disturbed them. He replied to a racist rant on the Turks message board with a thumbs-up emoticon, then shared an image on Facebook of a guy and his two dogs wearing Confederate flags. His last phone task was to confirm drinks with Chuck at 6:30 p.m. Gratefully, lunch arrived before he could do another Facebook post.