by Van Fleisher
She called Hawke to tell him that she’d advised Vijay. Hawke asked to see her.
***
Hawke was calm and even somewhat apologetic as he explained to Zoe that he was temporarily suspending her, pending a full investigation. Quietly, almost trance-like, Zoe handed over her ID and badge. She returned to her office, her mind swirling in a hundred different directions. When she left, it took a few moments thought to decide to go to her place or Demi’s. And that thought brought her full circle to her pressing concern of the morning, which seemed like days, rather than hours, ago.
She decided that she needed to confront Demi with her concerns about snooping, so she picked up two bottles of wine to help satisfy the urge that had hit her earlier, and which had now increased tremendously.
***
When Zoe arrived, Demi was home. She gave Zoe a hug and a peck on the cheek and said, “I’m so glad you’re here. I just got a call assigning me to Protection as part of the presidential candidate protection program. I’m flying out tonight – in two-and-a-half hours, actually – to Manchester, New Hampshire, and I have no idea of how long, what the rotations are, or anything else, so I’ll call you as soon as I know something.
“It was a real surprise,” she continued. “I’ve been asking for a shot at Protection for a long time but was told that I wasn’t ready or qualified. I guess with all the presidential candidates getting protection; they had to scrape the bottom of the barrel. But I’m sorry, how was your day? Why are you home so early?”
Zoe wasn’t sure if she should laugh or cry, but this wasn’t a good time for a talk. She didn’t want to intrude on Demi’s good news, “The usual. I just needed some down-time.”
“OK, but you look down … or tired.”
Zoe tried to smile, and she hugged Demi. “Hmm, tired, for sure. But with you gone, I can catch up on my sleep.”
Demi noticed the two bottles of wine and asked, “You’re not planning on partying without me, are you?”
Zoe got out a small laugh, “No. Just stocking up.”
“OK! But I better finish packing. My ride will here soon. Please stay here for a while. It would make me feel much better.”
And so, sadly, Zoe watched the one person she cared for, and loved, (if she were honest), pack her bag and head off, for who knew how long.
Zoe unenthusiastically ordered a Margherita pizza with arugula and uncorked one of her wine purchases, a chardonnay. Her pizza arrived, but Zoe’s mind was racing. She was sure that there was a connection between the Boston area gang killings and the political ones – the justice murder and the attempted assassination of the presidential candidate. She knew where the Recipient information was coming from and vaguely how it was being received, but not who was receiving it.
The Boston office was convinced that the gang shootings were carried out by the local Russian mob. If this was true, did the Russian mobsters share their ideas with another, more powerful group? How and when did they coordinate this … and with whom did they communicate? Perhaps the one ‘good guy’ in Boston, Lev Panova, could be squeezed to see what he knew. And then there was the guy in D.C. who clubbed her. Who was he? Could she ID him from photos? She made a mental note to pass Panova’s photo to the Des Moines office to see if the person who witnessed the shooting could recognize him.
All of these questions were posed in the context of the obvious question: could this be a Russian government operation? And all of these questions were posed within easy reach of her wine glass, but a stretch, literally, for her pizza.
She dozed off and then woke up an hour later, staring at her untouched pizza, and almost empty wine bottle. Fifteen minutes later, she had finished both and had established a new drinking record for herself by a mile … or at least two glasses. She numbly stumbled into bed.
***
Zoe was awakened from her chardonnay-induced slumber by her ringing phone. It was the FBI’s dispatch office telling her that there’d been a shooting in Nevada and giving her the Special Agent-in-Charge’s name and number. She called the SAC at the scene, who gave Zoe a quick summary. It was another execution out of the same playbook. A presidential candidate had been killed by a Final Notice Recipient, who was killed by a ‘good guy’ who just happened to be there. Nevada had some of the least restrictive gun laws in the nation, so it was not out of the question.
Zoe asked why the candidate didn’t have Secret Service protection, and she was told that the candidate had refused it.
She asked for and received details of the ‘good guy.’ He was a Nevada resident and a Final Notice recipient.
Zoe jotted down the details and realized how blind she was without any advance warnings, compared with the Des Moines incident earlier in the day. And that triggered a sensation similar to a hard slap in the face or a bucket of ice water over her head; she had automatically gone from sleep to an active FBI agent despite being suspended.
She called dispatch to let them know that she was not the contact point, and the dispatcher apologized for the earlier call. Sadly, she’d been reminded of her situation and realized she was of no use to anyone … and she was alone.
***
Chapel Hill, North Carolina. The AA session had just adjourned, and Professor Judith Smith approached fellow member Brian Wilcox to ask a favor. This Chapel Hill chapter of AA was known as the Democrats’ AA and was another indication of the division facing the country. A couple of years ago, the members decided that the last thing recovering alcoholics needed were arguments about politics, which were literally driving people to drink.
Professor Smith headed up the Middle Eastern Studies Department at the University of North Carolina, which had just been criticized by the U.S. Department of Education for failing to portray Christianity and Judaism in a sufficiently positive light. Vera DeVoyd, U.S. Secretary of Education, was essentially stating that if schools didn’t follow the Administration’s line on Israel or compare Christianity favorably to the Muslim faith, the Department would pull their funding. DeVoyd maintained this position, even though she had moved to allow religious groups to provide taxpayer-funded services for private schools, such as training or interim teaching roles.
DeVoyd had been criticized and ridiculed since she was appointed, and questions were fairly asked about her qualifications. Perhaps if the requirements for the position of Secretary of Education had been: wealthy Republican donor, extreme right-wing Christian, complete ignorance of the First Amendment, no relevant experience as an educator, and did not attend or send her children to public school, she would be superbly qualified; but at least – until her appointment – those weren’t the qualifications.
But back to Professor Smith and Brian Wilcox. Wilcox was a gun enthusiast, and Professor Smith knew that he had a small arsenal at his home, which was a half a block from where she lived. Brian and her late husband, Gary, had been good friends for a long time.
“Hey, Brian, enjoy the session?”
“Eh, better than sitting in a bar, I guess,” he joked, lamely. “How ‘bout you?”
“It was OK. I was mostly lost in thought, thinking about getting a gun for protection. Ever since Gary died, my son, Robert, has been after me to get a gun to protect myself. He’s a gun nut ... sorry, he shares your passion for guns.”
Brian laughed, “No problem.”
“I don’t want a gun in the house, but I told Robert I was getting one, so, could I borrow a gun for tomorrow?”
Brian turned serious, “Having a gun in the house could be a good idea if you have proper security for it and training, but it’s a major responsibility and comes with some dangers.”
Nervously, Judith replied, “I don’t think I’d be a good fit with a gun, except for tomorrow. Can you help me out?”
“OK. I get it that you want to appease your son. And it’s not like you’re goin’ to kill someone.”
They both laughed, but Brian’s was genuine.
“Sure, I’ve got one that any gun nut would approve,” he s
aid with a smile. “Better give you a clip full of ammo, so he knows you’re safe.”
Relieved, Judith thanked him, “Thanks, Brian. You don’t know how much this means to me.”
Professor Smith had a private meeting with Secretary DeVoyd first thing the next morning.
***
CHAPTER 18 – CRIMINAL JUSTICE
Boston, Massachusetts. Anthony “Tony” Vinzano entered the one building he never wanted to enter and hoped he never needed to: the Boston Police District E-18 headquarters in the Hyde Park area of South Boston. Tony’s grandfather had been stationed in Italy near the end of World War II. He met and fell in love with a young Italian girl, who, at nineteen, was considered “beyond her prime” by her parents and villagers. She was smart, funny, beautiful, and due to some Italian colonization misadventure in Africa, she was very dark-skinned. Both Tony’s grandfather and his love survived the war, and the young woman became his future grandmother.
They had one son, Louie, who looked, well, Italian. Louie’s son Tony, however, carried his grandmother’s African genes, and when little Tony started getting bullied, Louie moved his family to the more diverse area of Hyde Park. Things there were better for Tony, both at school and with friends, but then, after a long illness, his mom died when he was twelve.
The price of medical care and the loss of Tony’s mother took its toll on both Tony and his father – mentally as well as financially. Because of his wife’s medical bills, Tony’s father had to sell their house, and they moved into a small rented apartment, not far from where they’d lived for almost ten years. His dad’s job in a small local factory allowed them to make ends meet, but that was all.
Five years later, Louie lost his job when the factory closed, and over the next few months, the small savings he’d squirreled away disappeared, and he started going into debt. As if that wasn’t enough, Louie found out that he had twenty days to live, based on the VT2 watch he received when the factory closed.
Louie was devastated that he wouldn’t live to see his son grow up, and also that he was leaving him nothing for the future except some debts. When Vik Vasin first approached him, Vik’s offer sounded too good to be real, even though to do the deal, he’d have to kill someone. Still, Louie would be dead in less than twenty days, and leaving fifty grand to Tony was a pretty convincing argument. He’d killed a few people in Nam, so what was one more? It wasn’t a woman or a kid, and Vik said it was a bad guy. Of course, Vik wasn’t such a good guy either, so Louie was cautious. But finally, the lure of the money outweighed the crime, and he said yes.
Tony was scared to death because the cops had always treated him a little bit differently than his white schoolmates. Not as bad as the extremes he saw on TV, but enough to make him wary and nervous when they were around, knowing what they could do. Now, he was about to enter their house and go deep into uncharted waters.
The desk sergeant on duty, a burly African American with thinning short gray hair, was an old hand, and as he sized Tony up, he saw a frightened teenager. He also knew there were many sub-sets to that category, including those with reasons like: ‘about to do something bad’ … or ‘had done something bad’ … or simply, those scared of the police. So, the sergeant asked how he could help. Tony told him that he wanted to report a murder, and the old sergeant asked Tony to have a seat while he made a call.
A few minutes later, a younger, well-built white guy came out and invited Tony to follow him through the door marked “Authorized Personnel Only” to a small interview room. He introduced himself as Sean Lombardi, a homicide detective. He asked Tony’s name, and upon hearing it, he smiled and said, “Ahh, a fellow Italian. That’s rare around here. Most everyone else is Irish. I think I got this job because my mom is Irish, and she gave me my first name. So, Tony Vinzano, I understand you want to report a murder. What’s the story?”
Tony began to tell Sean the story of a guy offering his father, Louie Vinzano, $50,000 to kill Frank DiVinci. He showed him the photo his father had secretly taken of the “guy” and then given to Tony.
Sean asked how Tony knew this, and Tony explained that about a month ago, his father took him aside and told him that he was dying and that it would happen soon. He’d asked his father how he knew that, and he’d pointed to his watch, the one they call the “Death Watch.” Tony was wearing it now.
His father told him that he was going to have to do something bad to make sure that Tony could finish high school and find a job. He wouldn’t say what, but he said that $50,000 would be deposited in Tony’s savings account and that if it wasn’t, by the time he died, to go to the police with this photo and tell them the story.
Sean tapped on his keyboard, and the files of the DiVinci-Vinzano shooting came up. Sean asked, “So you didn’t know your father was going to kill someone or who it was until it happened?”
Tony had been more comfortable telling the story, but now, answering questions, he became more nervous and mumbled, “That’s right.”
Sean asked another question that sent Tony’s fear factor, soaring, “Why didn’t you tell the police about this right after it happened?”
Tony stammered, “I was scared. Scared of the police because my father had killed someone, scared that the friends of the guy my dad killed would come after me, and scared of the guy in the photo.”
“So why tell me now?”
“Because I promised my father, I would. My father did an awful thing for me, and it wasn’t easy. My father was a good guy. He was so sad when my mom died. Of course, so was I, but they were so happy together. He would have a bad day, and my mom would put her arms around him, and his bad day would go away. As my mom got sicker, I could see how much pain she was in, but when Dad got home, she lit up to make him happier. It was so hard for him, and then he does this thing for me that is so far from who he is, was ...,” Tony teared up and took a few deep breaths, “I couldn’t let him down.”
Sean was moved and said, “Thanks, Tony. What you’ve done by coming here today took guts.” He asked Tony if he’d like some water or a soft drink while he got something prepared for Tony to sign. He stood up, put his hand on Tony’s shoulder, and told him he’d be right back.
When he returned with some papers to sign, he asked Tony if he was still living at the same address, and Tony told him, yes.
Sean looked at him and said, “What you’ve told me today will upset the people involved with these murders. I live a few blocks away from you, and I’d feel a whole lot better if you stayed with my wife and me for a couple of weeks until it’s resolved. My son is off at college so you can use his room. You’d be doing me a huge favor if you say yes.”
***
Sean and a couple of his colleagues huddled together after Tony left, poring over the DiVinci-Vinzano murder files. The scenario that they had initially been pieced together – of Vinzano shooting DiVinci and then DiVinci getting the last gasp lucky shot – seemed much less credible now. They were able to ID Vik Vasin from the photo, and it was like turning on the light as one by one, they began to recall the other murders by unrelated, motiveless perpetrators who had also received their Final Notices. They noted, too, the interest of the FBI. So, they contacted the Boston field office to give them the latest update.
When Sean apologized to his fellow officers for leaving early, because he was picking up Tony Vinzano, who would be staying with him for a while, there wasn’t even one good-natured put-down or eye-roll.
***
Quincy, Massachusetts. Alek didn’t need a long time to think about whether to continue helping the FBI before taking the system back online. Vijay could now honestly say that he stopped the feed, and he didn’t need to know that Alek would switch it back on. Vijay’s arrest hit Alek hard, and he redoubled his efforts to find the feed destination.
He called his FBI “counterpart,” Ninad, to explain why the system had shut down and why it was back up. He also emphasized the need to keep it all low key. Then they discussed the mysterious data feed. Al
ek explained that the feed’s destination address was associated with a virtual private network, making the location impossible for him to identify. He asked Ninad if the FBI had tools to crack it, but Ninad told Alek about Zoe and the growing urgency to stop the killings. They didn’t have the time.
Alek had a thought. He posed a question: “Why don’t I just kill the mystery feed and see what happens? Maybe it will rile the beast and prod it into the open.”
Ninad agreed. “Great idea! Give it a try.”
So, Alek killed the mystery feed and began the wait.
***
Not that far from the Boston Police, District E-18 headquarters, the Boston FBI had done their best to make Vijay’s arrest as easy as possible for him. They had treated him with respect and even ordered whatever food he wanted for dinner. He ordered a Thai green curry.