by Rich Foster
“Fuck them!” Harry glared at the people next to them. “Why don’t you mind your own business,” he snapped.
Paula’s mouth turned down in a pout. “Harry if you don’t stop this minute, I’m out of here.”
Harry’s face flushed in anger. “Stop your bitching and finish your food.”
“I don’t have to take this!” Paula’s raised voice brought a wave of silence rolling across the room. She stood up and threw her napkin down on her unfinished meal. “That’s it!”
Harry rose. “That’s what?”
“I’ve had it with you. I quit! And I don’t want to see you again.” Paula’s voice became hysterical. Tears freely flowed down her face.
Harry leaned across the table. “I can replace you real easy, there’s a whorehouse right outside town!”
Paula swung at him. The crack of her hand on his flesh snapped every eye in the room their direction.
“Don’t let the door hit your ass on the way out,” he said glowering at her.
Paula threw the last of her wine at his face. She turned and almost ran out of the restaurant. Harry picked up his napkin and dabbed his face. He looked around at the diners staring at him.
“Show’s over folks!” He snapped, then he walked to the bar.
In the parking lot Paula got in her car and slammed the door. The screech of rubber on asphalt split the night as she roared into the street. A sedan at the curb waited as she drove away. At the second stoplight she turned right. The sedan pulled out from the curb. Staying at a distance it followed her home.
Paula pulled up in front of a two-story house. On the downstairs porch there were two front doors where the house was divided into separate units. Paula opened one and took an interior staircase to the second floor.
Barton cruised past in the sedan. He went around the block and parked one street over. Night shadows lay deep on the street. He disappeared into them. Silently he drifted between two houses. At the rear lot line he went over the fence and settled himself an azalea bush in Paula’s yard.
Upstairs, her apartment lights were on. He watched her move back and forth in front of the un-draped windows. An hour later the living room lights went out. A short time later the bedroom light shut off.
A barn owl called for its mate. A car passed in the street. Overhead a jet silently crossed the sky, its running lights winking. Barton patiently watched. He was accustomed to guard duty and the solitary hours of the night.
A shadow moved against the base of the house. A glimmer of movement rustled the trellis beside the rear porch. Then there was a figure on the roof. Hunched over it moved toward living room window. Something shiny glinted in the night as the man stood erect and worked at the window latch.
Barton raised his gun. A suppressor was on the .22. At this range it would not affect the aim and the sound generated little more than a phfftt. He flipped the laser sight on while aiming below the porch roof. He did not want to warn the intruder. Slowly he brought the sight up. A small bright red dot tracked up the wall of the house. Like a furtive rat it ran up the man’s legs and stopped in the between his shoulders. Intent upon the window latch the man did not feel the touch of death his back.
Barton’s finger slowly tightened on the trigger. The man on the roof lowered his arms suddenly. He dug into his pocket. Barton saw the glimmering light of a cell phone. The man held the phone down by his waist. Must be a text message, Barton thought as he thumbed the laser off.
The target on the roof slipped over to the trellis, climbed down, then came straight toward Barton’s hiding place. The man stepped behind the garage wall and dialed. The phone faintly lit his face.
“What do you mean it’s off?” Irritation and disappointment carried in his voice.
A pause.
“So what if she told him to go to hell? It would still squeeze Grim.”
A pause.
“Well I think it would.”
Barton heard the rasp of harsh, unintelligible words.
“Okay. Okay. Yeah. Yeah. I mean yes, sir.” The man answered obsequiously. He flipped the phone closed.
“Shit!” he exclaimed softly and hurried away from Barton, down the driveway toward the street. Barton waited a moment, then went after him but when he reached the front of the house he only saw a pair of taillights pulling away from the curb. He may have lost his prey but Dirk would not forget the man’s face.
Chapter 28
Sheriff Gaines was filling out the budget projections for his department. Each year it seemed to be stretched a little thinner and tighter. Paperwork of any sort was not a favorite chore, being electronic did not make the task anymore attractive. The annual budget was the worse. That morning, over coffee, his wife of forty-two years commented upon his irritability. He pleaded mea culpa saving the domestic peace. Jane was the key to his happiness and he knew it.
Alone in his office he was unfettered in expressing his annoyance. The deputy on the front counter carefully avoided disturbing him, except for when Gaines bellowed for more coffee.
Two men entered the lobby. Gaines could see them through the glass wall that separated his office from the counter area. He smelled Feds, the same way most crooks could take one look at him and see a cop.
They wore their hair in a military butch. Both wore baggy cloth jackets, ones that were suitable for masking the guns they carried and a fabric that did not make noise when they moved. The overall appearance of their clothes was slightly off, it lacked the sharp creases of professional military or the young Turks at the FBI. Possibly they were with TSA depending on what they wanted. Otherwise Gavin made them for one of the intelligence agencies.
He saw them flash a badge at Deputy Conners who glanced over his shoulder toward him. Gaines raised his eyes as if asking a question. When Conners walked over to the door to speak to him, the two men at the counter reached over the gate, slid the hasp and followed behind. Conners snapped back caught off guard by the movement. The lead man brushed past him.
“Thank you officer. We won’t be needing you.”
Conners looked to the Sheriff for instructions. His boss dismissed him with a partial wave of his hand, as though he was knocking lint off of his desk.
“Do you boys knock?”
The man who first spoke shrugged and took a chair, unbidden.
“We are investigating a matter of National Security. Do you know a man…”
Gaines interrupted. “Who is ‘we’?”
“Your government.”
“Yes, and what bureau, department or agency might that be?”
“I’m not free to divulge that.”
“Then our conversation is over.” Gaines waved his hand again as if the men were pesky flies.
“I don’t think you know who your messing with Sheriff!” The spokesman said coolly. Behind him the other agent stood as still a stone sculpture.
“You’re right. All I know is I have some asshole sitting in my office who claims to be a federal agent but is curiously reluctant to prove it.”
The man in the chair flushed. The muscles in his jaw momentarily tightened. He reached into his jacket, when he brought his eyes up he was looking down the barrel of the Sheriff’s pistol.
“Move slowly, son. The two of you are making me nervous.” Gaines looked anything but nervous. This brought a scowl from the man still standing but the first one let a wry smile pass over his face.
“I think we got off on the wrong foot Sheriff.”
“Well I am a bit testy today, working on the damn budget.”
“Now isn’t that interesting, because if you can help us, perhaps we could help you get some extra federal funding. With the terrorist threats now days there are a lot of federal dollars available for security concerns.”
Gaines smiled broadly. “Sounds nice, but who are you?”
“I’m Special Agent Adam Abel, with the FBI.”
“Who’s your partner?”
“Agent Robert Baker.”
“Bob Baker
, huh? Who comes in next Chris Carpenter, Dale Dunn, Eddie Edwards?”
“Those are our names, sir.” Abel reached across the desk and showed him an FBI identity card and badge.
Gaines shrugged. “So which field office are you out of?”
“Denver, Colorado.”
“And with what can I help you gentlemen?”
Gaines was becoming affable. The gun was back in his desk drawer and he tilted back in his chair as he sipped his coffee.
“We are looking into the background of a man named Harry Grim. Do you know him?”
“A little. He’s a private dick. Doesn’t do a lot of work. I guess he makes enough to get by. What’s he done?”
As Gaines expected Abel sidestepped the question.
“I’m not at liberty to discuss that but I can say it involves top secret information.”
Gaines was getting a bad feeling about these ‘agents’.
“You sure we are talking about the same guy? I mean Grim is lazy. He’d rather fish than do anything else.”
“We believe that is a cover. He is a potential threat to the security of our country.”
Gaines tilted forward in his chair. He lay his arms on his desk, his face showed disbelief.
“Hell, I never would have guessed it.”
“He’s a professional, sir. We’re keeping an eye on him. If he makes a run for it we may require your department’s assistance. May we count on you?”
“Damn right you can!” Gaines almost shouted as he brought his fist down on his desk.
Abel rose. “Thank you, Sheriff. We’ll be in touch.”
The two men left without the second one ever saying a word. Gaines figured him for a trigger man. It surprised him Able the affable brought him in with him.
“Conners,” he called out. When the deputy popped his head in he said, call the FBI in Denver. See how long Adam Abel and Robert Barker have been stationed there. If you strike out there contact Washington D.C. and ask where they are assigned.
Sheriff Gaines went back to his paper work chuckling to himself. His spirits were much improved; he always enjoyed a good farce.
Fifteen minutes later Conners stepped in.
“Neither Denver nor D.C. have an agent by either name.”
“You didn’t tell them you saw the ID’s did you? They find out someone’s using phony badges and their department is going to have a snit fit.”
“No, I said thank you and that was it. What’s going on sir?”
“I’m not sure, but Laurel and Hardy seem to think I am an ignorant, hick Sheriff.”
“Aren’t you, sir?” Conners said with a smile.
The sheriff laughed. “Something is up and it sure isn’t the FBI, but I’d bet another group of initials is involved, CIA, NSA, DIA, TSA, …I don’t know.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Let it ride for now. But run back the security tape from the parking lot camera. Get me a make color and plate on what they are driving. Then pass the word verbally, not via radio, to keep an eye out for them.”
Gaines got up from his desk. “I have an errand to run. I’ll be back in an hour.”
*
Harry hosed off the foredeck of his boat. Barton lounged in a chair on the fantail.
“I should have taken care of business last night.”
Harry shut off the hose. “The guy is our only known face. You drop him and we lose any connection as to whom he is with. Besides, I’d like to keep the action away from Paula if I could.”
“I think you did that with your ruse in the restaurant. If I wasn’t there, your show would have saved her life.”
“You should have seen her Barton. She played it so well, I felt like we were actually having a fight. She overdid it with the wine though, I just bought that shirt.”
Barton finished his beer, crumpled the can into a small ball with his hand before opening another. Harry sat down at the helm and opened one for himself.
“What do we know for sure?” asked Barton.
“Eddie Ames learned something about three prisoners over at the prison. There is something hokey with their names because they all have the meaning “friend” in their name.”
“Kind of stretches the credulity?”
Harry nodded in agreement.
“Yet Ames didn’t have zilch in those files. So why did he die?”
“Maybe they thought he had more? Or perhaps he did, they found it in the burglary during the funeral and they don’t know about the memory stick?”
“If they found what they were looking for they would be gone. I think they are afraid that I have whatever it is.”
“That makes you a man with a large target on his back.”
“Precisely why you are here my friend.”
“Be nice to take a peak in the prison files and see what it was is missing on the stick.”
“Sure. How do you plan to get in there?”
“I got a friend, name is Ziegfeld. He does magic with a keyboard and a computer. He be to a computer security program what an auto pick be to a door lock.” Barton slipped into the grammar of the ghetto, with a grin on his face.
Harry picked up a chamois and wiped the hull down. “What are you waiting for, boy? Give him a call.”
“Yes, em, oh great, honky master.”
Harry was almost done drying the boat when he saw the Sheriff coming toward him.
“Permission to step aboard?”
“You got a warrant or something?”
“I just want a little talk.”
Harry waved him on. Gavin’s eye coolly took in Barton whose eyes appeared closed as rested, tanning his already black skin.
“We need to talk, Grim.”
“About what Sheriff?”
“Your case, Eddie Ames, why your house blew-up.”
“My client fired me. I sent her a final bill. You said Eddie’s death was an accident. And the insurance people says my house was too.”
“Cut the crap Harry. I had two unsavory individuals asking about you this morning. Do you know them”
“What did they look like?
“One was tall and silent. He wore a beard and mustache but they might be fake. Looked like a natural born killer. Sound like anyone you know?”
Gaines’s eye drifted over to Barton as he spoke. Harry shook his head no.
“The other guy is heavier set, pale like he spent more time in an office. Blue eyes, about 5’ 10” around 190 pounds.”
“Never met either of them.”
“I think you will. Better if you watched your back.”
Harry nodded again.
“Anything you should be telling me about.?”
“I don’t think so Sheriff.”
“Don’t hold out on me Grim. I let them believe I thought you were a dolt. I know your not.”
For a minute Harry said nothing. Then he spoke.
“I’ve got nothing you could take to court. No evidence just some suppositions. The best proof I have is that those guys walked into your office today. If I get anything you can use, I’ll give it to you.”
“Fair enough. But don’t screw with me Harry. If I find out your dirty I’ll take you down.” Gaines’ flinty eyes stared hard but Harry held his gaze. With a final glance at Barton, the Sheriff stepped off the boat.
Before he left he added, “Watch the company you keep, Grim.”
Harry opened a fresh beer. “Sort of odd, the spooks going to the Sheriff?”
“They're be looking for free information and planting ideas in case you disappear.” Barton flashed his hands open like a magician doing a trick.
“Why not shoot me?”
“They already took a run at you and missed. They’re probably afraid a second time might stir up questions. It’d be easier if you just disappeared. Of course staging that fight with Paula plays into their hand. Makes her safer but makes your departure believable. No house, no girl. Why not take off? You seem to be a thorn in their flesh.”
&
nbsp; “Lot of people say that about me.”
Barton’s cell phone rang. Harry heard only one side of the call.
“Ziggy. What’s up?”
“No this would be about business not pleasure.”
“You'll be doing it cuz you owe me!”
“We all gotta eat Zig. I hear your pain but if you’re not available for me, I might not be able to save your ass if ‘you know who’ comes back to town.”
“I want into the computers for BOP.”
“No it ain’t a whorehouse it’s the Bureau of Prisons.”
“Yeah I know they’d love to show me around and stay for ten to twenty but I ain’t got the time.”
“I need information on ADX Praxis and everything you can grab on three guys who been doing time there.”
Barton spelled the names.
“Best you cover your trail. Some unpleasantness seems tied to this shit.”
“Like what? Well I can tell you, the last guy who took a look is dead.”
Chapter 29
Calder Hill was smugly satisfied with success. He was Lord of the Manor at Praxis. He wielded the power to make or break a man. He could assign a guard to duty that was so dangerous that a life insurance agent would want to cancel his policy or he could put any man on easy street.
It was within his grasp to allow a ready supply of banned luxuries into those criminals who were able to pay. He drew a cut of all contraband that moved through his prison. Drugs, women, cell phones, almost anything except freedom was available for the right price.
On his desk lay a letter from The Bureau of Prison informing him he was retained as Warden at ADX Praxis for three more years. After that Calder calculated he would retire to his beach house on the beach of the Cayman Islands, where he could spend his days picking up conch shells on the beach, a stone throw’s away from his off shore account where he stashed his money, safely away from the prying eyes of the IRS and BOP auditors.
The pleasantness of the moment was dispelled by his administrative assistant announcing, “A call is waiting, sir. Mr. Van de Meer’s office is on the line.”
He took the call with a sense of apprehension.
“Calder, here.”
“Send Nadim Wafi to the medical clinic for a physical. Make sure other prisoners see him. Then put him back in his cell.”