The Outsider

by Anthony Franze

  “That’s why we need to get the envelope back to the court tomorrow.”

  “You want us to break into the Supreme Court?” Sam said.

  “It’s not like we need to break in. The building is open to the public. And you forget, I was a messenger boy—I can get us backstage to the nonpublic areas. It’s not as secure as you think. There’s a police station in the building, but that’s what makes everyone so lax about security. They think once you’re in the building, all is safe and secure. And I know the back halls and security codes.” Gray looked at Sam. “Once you’re in the building, it will be just a matter of putting the envelope back in Justice Wall’s in-box.”

  “Once I’m in?” Sam said.

  Gray gave her a pleading look.

  Sam lay back on the bed, gazing absently at two framed black-and-whites hanging on the bedroom wall. Gray followed her glance.

  “Those were the first pieces I ever sold,” Sam said. “It gave me the confidence to keep going, that I could make a living at it. That a stranger had come in and paid the overpriced amount the gallery demanded I sell them for on consignment just so I could have an ugly little corner of the shop.”

  “A stranger?” Gray said. “You didn’t know it was Arturo?” Gray lay next to her.

  “I made it because of a selfless act of a friend who sought absolutely nothing in return, not even a thank you.” She turned and they faced one another on the bed. “I’m not sure you’re right about the justices. But you tell me what I need to do, and I’ll do it.”

  It was then that it struck him. In all of his longing to be accepted in the world of affluence, of legal elite, to never look back, it was Sam and his family, and even Arturo, who were there for him. Who believed him, who risked everything to help him.

  He was never an outsider. He had just been looking in the wrong place.

  CHAPTER 68

  Gray awoke to shouting coming from outside the bedroom. It took a moment to shake off the grog—to remember where he was—but he leapt up from the bed. Sam instinctively jumped up as well, a confused look on her face. They’d both fallen asleep on top of the made bed.

  One of Arturo’s crew poked his head in the door. “We need to go,” he said. He was calm, but they could hear a flurry of activity in the apartment. Gray hurriedly pulled down the papers he’d pinned to the wall, focusing on the ones from the envelope. He carefully placed them back in the coffee-stained envelope and then into Lauren’s folder. He tucked the folder at the small of his back.

  In the living room, Arturo’s entourage resembled a pit crew at NASCAR, each person performing a designated task. The giant bald guys who guarded the entrance to the projects were collecting all weapons and loading them into heavy green canvas bags; the skimpily dressed women gathered all drugs; and the two hard-looking thugs who never seemed too far from Arturo’s side, his personal bodyguard and consigliere, were inventorying bundles of cash.

  Arturo was nowhere in sight. He wouldn’t have left them, would he? Protect the president of the organization was a first priority, Gray supposed. A teenage boy, he looked about sixteen, appeared in the doorway.

  “The cops has found the way up here,” the boy said. He gestured for Gray and Sam to follow, which they did. Others in the apartment shuffled behind, carrying the duffels and canvas bags. The boy led them down the long hallway to a stairwell. Single file they made their way down two flights. The boy led them to another apartment. This one had been vacant for some time by the looks of it. The walls were unfinished Sheetrock and the floors covered in a film of dust and grime. In the corner of the main room a hole was cut into the floor. The teenage kid gestured to it. Gray and Sam looked down into the chasm. It was a chute, the kind construction crews use to move debris out of a building. Essentially, a giant slide that went down several stories.

  The boy skipped into the hole, and disappeared into the darkness.

  Gray and Sam exchanged a look. Sam then sat at the edge of the opening. “See you down there,” she said. It was almost a question.

  She released her grasp as the chute swallowed her up. Gray waited a long moment to give her time to clear the area before he dropped in.

  Gray skidded down the chute, which was made of plastic. He tried to slow his descent, burning his hands and making squeaking noises with his shoes, as he spiraled down.

  He heard someone following after him from above, so he eased up on the side of the chute. The last thing he wanted was one of the bald giants landing on him. He could see a light at his feet. It grew in diameter as he sped down the final stretch of tube. Finally, he landed in a pile of foam and mattresses. He was in a dim basement. The teenage kid reached for Gray and they locked forearms, pulling Gray out of the landing area just before the others started plunging from the chute.

  Gray was shaken up, but nothing was broken. The kid led them to an exterior basement door. He opened it a crack and treaded quietly up the stairwell, like a Vietnam tunnel dweller from the movies. At the top, the kid pulled out a hand mirror, scanning the area. He then whistled outside, and gestured for the group to come quickly. Gray and Sam climbed the damp stairs as fast as they could without getting a foot full of broken glass or needle poke. There was a rumble of motorcycles.

  At the top of the stairwell, men on two bikes were waiting for them under the purple morning sky. There was a strong breeze, and it was finally starting to feel like January in D.C. The bikers gestured for them to hurry, and they climbed on. Gray clutched the biker’s middle as they sped off. Sam’s bike went a different direction. Gray looked back and the rest of the crew were climbing into a white van.

  Then came the sirens.

  Gray closed his eyes as the bike zigged and zagged, jumping curbs and making sharp turns as the sirens grew distant. At last they ripped into the narrow drive of a boarded-up house and to an overgrown mess of a backyard. The biker let Gray off and then sped away, never showing his face. Sam was already there in the urban jungle. Neither of them spoke.

  Arturo appeared out of the broken screen door of the ramshackle house. He held a smile and waved them inside. “Just like the movies you love so much,” he said with a grin.

  Gray followed Arturo into the house, Sam at his heels.

  The place was decidedly not like the apartment in Madison Towers. No expensive over-the-top renovation hidden by a dilapidated exterior here. It was exactly as one would expect. Dank and dark. Filled with the smell of chemicals and human filth. Masses sprawled about the gutted interior.

  “Don’t worry,” Arturo said, reading their thoughts. “We won’t be here long. We just need to stay until things cool off. Feds must’ve tracked you to my place, the phone, maybe.”

  Gray didn’t mention that Agent Milstein once had Arturo in her sights. That Gray had given Milstein the tip to look for Arturo at Sam’s art show.

  Sam remained quiet. Eventually, she said, “I need to use the restroom.”

  Arturo grimaced. “I’m not sure you’ll want to use one here.”

  “I’ll be fine,” she said.

  “Let me walk with you, at least,” Arturo said.

  “I got it,” Sam said and stomped away.

  Gray walked to the window, opened a crack in the sheet that hung as the curtain, and peered outside. “Quite a sophisticated operation you have going, complete with an escape plan and safe house. You know, there’s a whole straight world out there that could make great use of your talents.”

  Arturo smiled. “No fun in that.”

  “I guess your girlfriend didn’t have time to decorate this place, huh?” Gray said.

  Arturo gave a dry laugh. “This ain’t one of mine,” he said.

  “No?”

  “All my places are too hot right now. I got protection from the cops on the beat, but your shit is bringing in the Federales, so they gonna be all up in my spots.”

  “Who’s place is this then?”

  “Only Ortiz would run such a shit hole.” Arturo gave a rakish grin.

  �
��Razor?”

  Arturo nodded.

  “You guys reached a truce?”

  Arturo let out a big laugh. “You been gone a long time, but not that long. Nah, I just thought, Where’s the last place anybody would look for me or mine?”

  It made sense. But it also was brazen as hell.

  “I’m sorry I’ve created so many problems for you,” Gray said. “I had no right to ask for anything, much less taking these kind of risks. I haven’t exactly been a good friend.”

  Arturo looked at Gray for a long moment, like he was debating whether to say something. There had to be some resentment, some anger, that Gray had ended their friendship. Gray hoped Arturo would get it out on the table. After a long silence, Arturo said, “You remember Christmas Eve in fourth grade?”

  Gray thought about it. He shook his head.

  “I came over after he gave me a beating. I guess that happened a lot, so probably no surprise you don’t remember. But you gave me a gift.”

  “Now I remember,” Gray said. “The Pokémon card.”

  Both men smiled.

  “It was a Charizard, first edition,” Gray said.

  “You didn’t know it,” Arturo said, “but I was coming over to say good-bye.”

  “Good-bye? Where were you going?”

  Arturo cocked his head to the side. Gray then understood.

  “But that card,” Arturo continued, “I knew that it cost a lot. You worked so hard for your money. At your dad’s shop. Mowing lawns in Northwest. You didn’t take the easy way, like me. But you spent the money on me. I realized that someone did care about me. Someone would miss me.”

  “You were right about that.”

  “I promised myself two things that night.” Arturo swallowed. “One, that I’d never turn out like him. And two, that I’d always be there if you needed me. I’m happy I got to keep at least one of the promises and help you.”

  Gray thought he saw a sheen in Arturo’s eyes. Old emotions crowded Gray’s chest. “You’re not like your father.”

  Arturo looked away.

  “You’re not—”

  They both startled at the sound of the scream from upstairs. Sam. They bolted simultaneously toward the stairwell. Gray took the stairs two at a time, Arturo close behind. At the top was a landing and long shadowy hallway. A blur of figures, the sounds of a struggle. The scene came into focus, two men attacking Sam. One was behind her, arms locked around her, the other approaching from the front.

  Sam used the man trapping her from behind as a brace and raised both legs, kicking the other man, who was coming at her in a staggering grope. She slammed both feet into his face, which sent him flying backward and he landed in front of Gray, hands covering his bloody face. Sam then planted her feet and charged in reverse, ramming the other man’s back against the wall. By the time Gray and Arturo had reached her, she had things under control.

  Gray opened the bathroom door, which let in some light. It was then that he saw the fury in Arturo’s face. Arturo grabbed the guy closest to the bathroom, the one who’d held Sam from behind, as he started to run off. Arturo clutched the man’s stringy hair, and rammed his face into an exposed stud on the wall. He did it over and over until the man dropped to a pile on the floor. The other guy was still on the ground holding his bloodied face. When he saw what happened to his friend, he started scampering away, trying to get to his feet. Arturo’s heavy boot came down on the guy’s back between the shoulder blades. Arturo started to stomp the man. Gray stood there, frozen. By the time Gray snapped out of it, Sam was already at Arturo’s side, pulling him away, screaming for him to stop. Arturo kicked the man, who rolled down the stairs. Arturo stepped slowly after him.

  At the bottom of the stairs the man was twisted up, not moving. Someone bolted out the front door, the light eliciting moans from the drug zombies sprawled inside.

  “Shit,” Arturo said. “He’s gonna go get Ortiz’s crew. They’d love to find me here. We gotta go.” He put a cell phone to his ear.

  In the plush rooms of Arturo’s apartment with all the partying and playful banter, even here talking about a Pokémon card, it was easy to forget what their old friend had become. But Gray realized that we’re all our fathers’ sons. Whatever Arturo had become, it didn’t matter. Gray’s plan wouldn’t work without him.

  CHAPTER 69

  Milstein and Cartwright stepped off the grimy elevator. They were met at the door of Arturo Alvarez’s apartment by two young agents manning the entrance.

  “They called in the big dogs,” one of the agents bellowed, putting out a fist that Cartwright reluctantly bumped with his own. “Missed you at the game last week,” the young agent said.

  “Yeah, been busy as shit. I’ll try to make next week’s game. Wouldn’t want you youngsters to forget how it’s done.”

  The agent laughed and held open the door. Milstein was thrown by the elegance of the interior.

  “Scotty,” an agent from the task force called out to him. Cartwright went over and shook his hand. Was there anyone Cartwright didn’t know in this town?

  Milstein sauntered over to them and the agent gave her a nod.

  “I need to ask for this guy’s decorator,” Cartwright said with a chuckle.

  “I know. Guy mistook the projects for the Ritz-Carlton, right?”

  Cartwright shook his head in admiration. “Aaron around?”

  The agent pointed his chin down the hall to the back of the apartment. “Not in the best of moods, so watch yourself.”

  “I always do, buddy.”

  Milstein followed as Cartwright walked toward the voices in a bedroom at the end of the hall.

  The stylishly decorated bedroom had nearly a dozen agents milling around. Task forces always resulted in too many bodies mucking up a scene.

  A tech was sealing up a laptop in an evidence bag, and a photographer was taking shots of some papers that had been pinned to the wall. Supreme Court Police Chief Aaron Dowell was studying the collage, shaking his head. Dowell flicked them a weary glance but didn’t say hello.

  Cartwright sidled up to Dowell. “You got a bead on them yet?” Cartwright asked.

  “No. They had an escape route planned. Pretty sophisticated for drug dealers.”

  Cartwright didn’t respond. Wisely so. Milstein knew Dowell would be embarrassed that his team let an entire crew slip through its fingers.

  Dowell turned his scowl to Milstein. He gestured to the wall. It was primitive, but a pretty good replica of what agents used to connect dots in an investigation. Sometimes it was the only way to see the bigger picture. Dowell pointed at a stick-figure drawing of two dismembered bodies. Ben Freeman’s murdered son and girlfriend. “Your friend Hernandez is pretty proud of his handiwork.”

  Milstein just stared at the wall.

  Dowell blew out an exasperated breath. “If the kid wasn’t so keen on calling only you, I’d have you off this case.” He made a noise of disgust and stormed out. The other agents, with the exception of the tech, followed after him.

  Milstein examined the gaps in the crime scene wall. Gray had taken some of the pages with him. Why? Milstein turned to Cartwright. “If Grayson is a killer, why would he go to the trouble to do all this?”

  “You said he’s smart,” Cartwright said. “Maybe that’s exactly the question he wants us to be asking.”

  “Not you too?” The task force had gone from tunnel vision, focused on Kevin Dugan as the prime suspect, until he inconveniently turned up dead, to an equal level of certainty about Grayson. Milstein’s instincts had been correct. Dugan was a John Doe found in the Anacostia River. His body was too decomposed to identify, but it looked like a suicide. He’d been dead a year. Milstein decided not to throw it in Cartwright’s face.

  Cartwright said, “Look, someone inside the Supreme Court building was involved, you’ve said that from the start. Someone smart, sophisticated.”

  “Grayson has an airtight alibi for Christmas. He couldn’t have taken the couple from Unio
n Station.”

  “You said it yourself—this was a game. Usually games have two players. And games typically start with childhood friends. Gray had help from one of his.”

  “Arturo Alvarez is a street criminal. Turf and drug murders don’t fit Behavioral’s profile. And he and Grayson don’t have any connection to the Whitlock case.”

  “Ha,” Cartwright said. “You were the one who initially wanted to talk to Alvarez. And the crystal ball squad has been wrong before. Maybe Hernandez just read about the Whitlock girls and it stuck—he decided to use them as a decoy for whatever game he’s playing. He tries to feed you the justices as the perps, but we know that ain’t right. It’s another diversion. And several witnesses saw Hernandez’s car run down the solicitor general. I’m sorry, Em, but have you considered that maybe it isn’t just task forces that get tunnel vision?”

  A long silence fell between them. Milstein didn’t want to admit it, but maybe Cartwright was right. But, then again, maybe he wasn’t.

  CHAPTER 70

  Arturo’s crew retrieved them from the drug den. Gray and Sam bounced around in the back of the Dodge van, sitting on a bench that ran the full length of the vehicle. Arturo stood, holding a handle affixed to the side.

  “Sam told me you have a plan?” Arturo said.

  Gray nodded. “We’re gonna return the envelope to the justices. Let them think the game is still on. They may not know Lauren took it, so we’ll put it back, and when they go to complete the final challenge, we’ll be waiting.”

  “What final challenge?” Arturo asked.

  “The envelope’s last two pages. One was ‘the thirty-seventh law clerk.’ They killed Dora Baxter and I was next, so that challenge was in play. But there was one more challenge on the last page.” Gray showed Arturo the page from the envelope.

  FILSTEIN SWING VOTE. WEDNESDAY. A RACE. FIRST THERE WINS. LEAVE 1FS @ 7PM.

  He explained what it meant: Douglas and Wall would race to kill the “swing vote” on the Filstein case, Justice Cutler. Maybe Cutler had told them she was switching sides again. Or maybe they’d just had enough of her. In any case, when Wall and the chief arrived at Cutler’s house, Gray, Arturo, and Sam would be there to stop the attack.