The Last Exit

by Michael Kaufman

  “No, Zach, I don’t feel any younger.”

  “Healthier?”

  “Nope.”

  “Then how do you know it worked?”

  “I’m not dead, for one thing.”

  “And another?”

  “I’m still not dead. Anyway, it’s not supposed to make me feel younger. It’s going to keep me from getting knocked off by a bunch of different things.”

  “And then you’ll die.”

  “Yeah, well, that is part of the program, isn’t it?”

  “Born, live, die.”

  Her voice turned serious. “We couldn’t have joked like this a month ago, could we?”

  Slowly he shook his head. “No.”

  “If this works, will you do it?”

  “Yes.”

  “And your parents. I hope we can convince them.”

  Zach said yes again, then abruptly shifted gears. “But how will you prove the consortium is behind the lethal treatment?”

  She had told him all about the meeting that day with Gabe and the folks from the co-op.

  “Wish I knew.”

  “And how will you get a sample?”

  “Pretty much ditto. Even with police on this everywhere, no one’s been busted with the stuff.” They had arrested more people who’d been administering it, but all of them said they’d been approached by someone, and no one had yet managed to track down those someones.

  “Do you think it’s being made here or brought in?”

  “Isaiah said that some of the compounds would have to be shipped in because they’re proprietary. Or maybe they’re not even including those. Others are pretty simple and could be made here.” Jen stewed on this for a moment. “But Isaiah thinks the lab would have to be nearby because of the quick turnaround on the gene splicing.”

  “Where have the cases come up? The US ones.”

  “Most in DC. Baltimore. Philly. Richmond. Newark.”

  “None very far away.”

  * * *

  For the next two days, Jen chewed over her discussion with Isaiah and the others. She’d concluded that the only chance she had of getting a sample of the deadly treatment or the program used for gene splicing was to follow the one person she figured had contact with the whole business. And if she could, and if he led her to it, then she’d also be able to show the connection. Likely more ifs than she’d be able to manage. What the hell.

  God, Chandler again. This would be infinitely easier with him. Sort through data, follow someone’s movements, identify people, make obscure connections. But more than his function, she’d been missing him. Missed his chatter and his bluster. Missed his questions and that bogus tough-guy voice.

  She received an unexpected letter from police headquarters. An actual paper letter, dated that morning: Monday, September 8. The department had reached a settlement with Richard and James O’Neil. Jen was now off the hook for assaulting him. Her first reaction was relief. Her second was that the department was cleaning things up. Wiping out anything they thought had to do with her investigation.

  She had a third reaction, a nicer thought: Richard O’Neil had ended the lawsuit because he now saw her as a person who deserved his trust.

  Maybe, maybe not.

  But whatever it was, she still wasn’t reinstated as a cop.

  41

  The next morning, Jen was at her kitchen table, scanning the news. It had been four days since any deaths in the US or Europe from the street treatment. There were still new cases in Asia, but they were tapering off. Good news, sure, but bad news if she was going to catch these guys. After all, if there were no new cases, it must mean they were shutting down the operation. The damage had been done. The public would run like hell from the co-ops’ Eden; the consortium’s business would be preserved.

  Another news site. And there she was. Teena Archambault. Speaking at a press conference in London.

  “This has been a terrible time for many families. We are pleased that our officials have stopped this horrific scourge. Our only hope now is that they will quickly bring the criminals to justice. This nightmare is over.” And then the line that flashed like lightning. “Thank goodness I can get back to my normal work.”

  As far as Jen was concerned, she might as well have come out and announced what she’d been up to. For sure, they were shutting it down. She wondered if Teko Teko was still in town and if their office still even existed.

  She thought about returning to the Eisenhower Executive Office Building. But without her police badge, she wouldn’t make it off the sidewalk. She mulled over some ruses. Faint at security; kindly older guard brings her inside to recover; she sneaks away, gets over her fear of dark enclosed spaces, and hides until nighttime in a broom closet; then sneaks upstairs, dons a Mission Impossible mask of Teko Teko, grabs evidence, leaps from window, exposes bad guys.

  Oh, Chandler, she thought, where are you when I need you?

  Ava came into the kitchen, put on the kettle, and rummaged in the refrigerator. When the water boiled, Ava poured water over the grounds in the French press. “Coffee?”

  “Nice. Working this afternoon?”

  “The White House. And thus begins my final week.”

  One week, Jen thought. She and Zach still hadn’t decided—or rather, she hadn’t decided—whether to find her own place or move in with him. She was suspended with pay, but figured it wouldn’t be long until she was kicked off the force. She’d be without any income and had no idea what she would do.

  “You should do one,” Ava said.

  “What?”

  “One of my tours. I could sneak you in, no problem. Rub shoulders with the rich and famous I juggle for.”

  “Yeah, maybe.”

  “Wednesday night is my famous nighttime tour of the Library of Congress.”

  “Been there.”

  “But not at night. It’s a true crowd-pleaser.” Ava checked her calendar. “Or tomorrow. First thing at the Eisenhower, then the Capital.” She went to the kitchen door and yelled, “Taylor!”

  The gods had lit up the runway. At least she could get into the building. If nothing else, she’d find out if the office was still there and if Teko Teko had blown town. (Chandler again, she thought.)

  Ava was speaking to her.

  “Oh, sorry. What?”

  “I was asking if you want a small or big mug,” Ava said.

  In her mind’s eye, Jen saw it. For real. No fantasy. The oversized mug on the assistant’s desk with the password written underneath.

  * * *

  It had seemed such a simple idea. Steal the password, hand it over to Isaiah to give to his tech wizards, then mine Teko Teko’s files.

  But when she told Isaiah, he ended that fantasy. His voice was as calm as ever. “There is no chance of going in from off-site. There would be two or three stages of security. Finger or handprint”—Jen pictured the assistant resting his fingers on his mouse pad—“and facial scan”—ditto—“and only then, your manual password for some specific apps. Our only chance is by us from inside.”

  “Then?”

  “I have someone.” He paused, as if considering how much to say. “Someone who works with me. I think they will be willing to try. But Teko Teko’s documents and email will be heavily encrypted.”

  Jen said, “Isaiah, you’re stringing together a lot of buts and impossibilities.”

  For the first time, Zach spoke. “Jen, you said you think they’re about to shut it down.” He turned to Isaiah. “Maybe there’s something on his calendar.”

  Isaiah said, “Same problem. Calendars contain a fantastic amount of private and secure information. The full calendars in the company are heavily protected. One password won’t do it.”

  Zach said, “What do you mean, ‘full calendar’?”

  “We also have what we call SpotView. It’s a calendar you and an assistant or your supervisor can quickly access to see what you’re doing at that moment. We usually set it only for that one day. Or perhaps what you
did yesterday and what you’re doing tomorrow. Nothing more and nothing to stay on record.”

  Jen said, “Then if I can get the password, let’s try each day until something pops up.”

  “I’m sorry, Jen. But we can’t risk trying more than once.”

  Jen said, “I’m certain they’re shutting down.”

  Isaiah said, “Then it appears we’ll have one shot at getting it right.”

  Jen said, “Tomorrow morning.”

  Isaiah said, “Tomorrow morning.”

  42

  They came for her at 2:30 AM. The baby-faced cop and the short, gangly boxer who had buried his huge fist into her stomach a month before.

  It was Taylor who woke her, frantically knocking on her door, then pushing it open and shouting Jen’s name, only to get muscled out of the way by the boxer, who parked himself just inside Jen’s room.

  Jen was instantly awake. “What the hell are you—?” She sat up, pulling the sheet around her naked body.

  “Get dressed. I’m giving you a ride.”

  By then, the baby-faced cop was right behind him. “Come on, Gene. You shouldn’t be in there.”

  Gene shoved his partner back into the hallway. He switched on the light, and his hungry eyes looked around.

  “Get out of my bedroom.” Jen thought of grabbing the sawed-off baseball bat under her bed but knew he’d be too quick for that.

  Babyface called from the hallway. “Detective Lu, you should probably come along.”

  Gene said, “I told you, get dressed.”

  Jen said, “And I told you, get the hell out of my bedroom.”

  Babyface called out, “Come on, Gene.”

  Gene momentarily turned his head and when he did, Jen lunged out of bed, the heel of her palm flying toward his nose. But he dodged her blow and, with his catcher’s mitt of a hand, shoved her onto the floor.

  He stared down at her naked body and snorted with contempt. He said, “This is the last time I tell you nicely. Get the fuck dressed.”

  He turned his back on her, as if daring her to attack him, and left the room.

  Jen pulled on jeans and a T-shirt. She laced up her low-rise police boots and stepped into the hallway, where Babyface was waiting for her. Gene had gone ahead to the apartment door.

  “You okay?” asked Babyface.

  “Fuck off, you coward.”

  He followed her to the door.

  When Jen reached the door, she said to the boxer, “You put one hand on me and I’ll gouge your fucking eyes out.”

  He laughed in derision but was now keeping his distance.

  “Wait,” she said. “I need my phone.”

  Babyface said, “We’ll just be taking it from you.”

  She called out, “Ava, phone Zach and tell him what’s happening.”

  At the station, Gene said, “I’ve had enough of this one for the night. I’m out of here,” and stomped off.

  Babyface sat her down in the chair next to his desk. Jen said, “What time is McNair arriving?”

  Babyface looked embarrassed.

  “What?” she said.

  “Sometime in the morning. Gene thought …”

  “Am I under arrest?”

  “Gene said …”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Miguel Ortez.”

  “Well, Miguel, your partner’s a thug. That was the second time he’s assaulted me.”

  “You—”

  “You can either play his sick game or you can treat a fellow officer with some respect.”

  “But you’re suspended.”

  “And unless I’m fired, I’m still your fellow officer.”

  “I need to put you in the interview room.”

  “Not a chance.” She stood up. “Unless I’m under arrest, Miguel, I’m out of here.”

  “Shit,” he said. He looked embarrassed but then seemed to suck energy from the air around him. “I am arresting you under the Prevention of Biological Terrorism Law. You do not have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You do not have the right to an attorney for seven days. Do you understand the rights I have just read to you? With these rights in mind, do you wish to speak to me?”

  “Yeah … fuck off.”

  He led her to the interview room and locked her inside.

  She was screwed. And locked alone in a small room. But despite all that, she plunked her head down on the small table and fell asleep.

  Miguel woke her three hours later. She felt like crap. Her mouth tasted like the room, and her neck felt like a rebar had been screwed into it while she slept.

  “What time is it?” Jen asked.

  “Six.”

  He set a paper take-out bag and a coffee on the table.

  “I need to use the restroom.”

  “Do I need to cuff you?”

  “Yeah, right, I’m going to escape on you and have every cop in DC after me.”

  He led her to the restroom and waited outside until she was done. They returned to the interview room.

  “This is bullshit, you know.”

  He looked away.

  “When is McNair coming in?”

  “Maybe around eight. I brought you breakfast.”

  He looked toward the bag. She looked toward the bag.

  “Thanks. But this is still bullshit.”

  He left the room. She checked the red recording light, saw it was off, and prayed that the boxer had really had enough. Someday she’d get her revenge, but she knew it wasn’t going to happen on his turf.

  Eight o’clock, Jen thought. Maybe McNair really only wanted to ask her some questions or, hell, fire her. If she arrived on time and questioned Jen for an hour and fifteen minutes, she could still make it to the EOB by nine thirty, when Ava went inside.

  She pretended to convince herself that was going to happen. She’d still make it on time.

  She waited. She didn’t have her phone, but she still wore a watch. So named, apparently, because that was what she was spending too much time doing with it. The seconds acted like minutes and those seemed like hours. Six o’clock eventually became seven. Seven finally became eight. Still no McNair.

  Miguel came in and told her his shift was over.

  Jen said, “You can’t leave me in here.”

  “Is it true?”

  “What?”

  “What Gene said you did?”

  “What did he say?”

  But Miguel wasn’t going to play that game. Without another word, he locked the door behind him.

  8:15. 8:30. 8:45.

  She couldn’t stop herself from checking her watch and obsessively checking it a second later. It wasn’t going to happen. Even if McNair showed up now, even if she was going to drop the charges before Jen was booked, even if Jen was just being fired, there was no way she’d be out of there on time. All that Jen had done, all for nothing.

  9:00.

  “Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit.”

  9:05. 9:06.

  Numbness. Her one chance to get into the EOB and just maybe steal that password. About to vanish.

  The electronic lock clicked. Jen glanced up. The recording light was still switched off.

  The door swung open.

  Les marched into the room.

  “Turn around,” he barked.

  “What the—?”

  He slapped cuffs on her.

  “You fucker,” she snapped.

  “Shut up.” He grabbed her arm and yanked her out the door. Frog-marched her past the desk where an officer, a woman who hadn’t been there when Jen arrived, was scowling over some paperwork.

  Les said to the woman, “Tell Gene he owes me big time for doing his dirty work.”

  Out they went. He shoved her toward a parked car. Held down her head and pushed her into the back seat. Drove a block, swung down a side street and into a parking garage. Pulled her out. Unlocked the cuffs. Let out a hoot of laughter and gave her a back-slapping hug.

 
; Jen was stunned.

  Even more so when Zach leapt out of another parked car.

  “You total shit,” she yelled at Les with glee.

  He shrugged immodestly while Zach hugged her.

  She looked at her watch. 9:20.

  “Shit, I—”

  Zach said, “Come on.”

  The three jumped into the other car, Zach gave it directions, and off they charged.

  Zach said, “Ava and Taylor phoned. It sounded like the same cop who punched you.”

  “It was.”

  “Good,” Les said. “I hope I caused him some shit.”

  “How did you—?”

  Zach interrupted her. “After they called, I went straight to Les’s and—”

  “Jen,” Les said, “I hate what they’re putting you through. I, well—fuck the job. You’re one brave woman.”

  “You didn’t bring my phone by any chance?” she asked.

  “I figured you’d have it,” Zach said. “But I got you this.” He held out a cheap phone. “Sorry, it’s the best I could find on the way here.”

  Then he held up two other phones and handed one to Les.

  Jen said, “Aren’t you the crafty one.”

  “I put these numbers in each of your new phones. Gabe and Isaiah’s, too.”

  She told them she had been placed under arrest.

  Les said, “I don’t know how much time until the alarms go off. An hour, two, maybe, if you’re really lucky.”

  They were nearing the EOB.

  Les said, “Sorry, Cobalt, but I’ve gotta run.”

  Zach shot Jen a concerned look. “Want me to come with you?”

  She shook her head. “Best you hang with Gabe so you two are together when I call.”

  She beamed at them as she hopped out of the car. The two men in her life. Her boyfriend. And her partner. She hoped she wouldn’t spend the next 30 years writing them letters from prison.

  43

  Ava said, “I was giving up on you. Are you …?”

  “I’m fine. A misunderstanding, but it’s all cool.”

  They rushed inside to security, joining six expensively dressed people.

  “Hey, all,” said Ava. “Let me introduce Jen Lu.” Two of them glared at Jen’s jeans, black cop boots, and vintage T-shirt as if they represented a major disease vector, but perked up when Ava said, “Dr. Lu’s brilliant PhD dissertation was on the antebellum years here in DC. She may be taking over my job. But sorry, no questions to her today, she’s got a bad case of laryngitis.”