The Highest Stakes
Page 21
Jack rubbed at his wrist and sat on the edge of the captain’s desk. “Let’s make a deal. I’ve got some questions, too.”
Franklin said, “Jack—” but Walmart held a hand up.
“Let him continue, Captain.”
“Let’s lay our cards on the table,” Jack said. “I’ll tell you what you want to know, and you tell me what I want to know. I’ll even go first.”
“Let’s see what you have to offer,” Walmart said.
Sergeant Walker had gotten the ballistic report back on the slug Jack gave him last night. It matched the slug retrieved at the warehouse, and was a .40 caliber. Walker had given it to Liddell and Liddell to Jack. Jack now placed the bullet fragment he’d dug from Khaled’s wall on top of Franklin’s desk.
The older agent took a plastic evidence bag from his pocket and tossed it on Franklin’s desk. It was sealed with red evidence tape that bore the logo VCS. This was evidence from the Vanderburgh County Sheriff’s Department. Probably compliments of Sergeant Elkins. Inside that bag were two misshapen metal slugs. They were a large caliber just like the one Walker had found in the warehouse.
“Elkins knew about the slugs before Khaled’s autopsy?” Jack asked. It wasn’t really a question, but he wanted to be clear before he kicked Elkins in the nuts for not telling him.
“These match the one from the warehouse where the ATF agent was shot,” John Armani said. “I’m sure the one you have matches as well, and we know you got it from Khaled’s house.”
“Silvertip hollow-points,” Captain Franklin said.
“The type Killian was shot with,” Jack said. “Proof that Khaled was involved in some way with the shooting.”
“Okay, Detective Murphy,” the older agent said. “Your turn.”
“Okay,” Jack said. “But I have one more question.”
Walmart seemed to be running out of patience, but he held his temper and spread his hands in a magnanimous gesture.
Jack said, “I want to know why you’re interested in Khaled. The truth. And none of this national security shit or I walk.”
Neither agent said anything.
Jack got up and made for the door.
“Wait,” Walmart said and reached inside his jacket, pulling out some pictures. He stood and handed them to the captain, who examined them and passed them to Jack.
The photos were less than useless. The quality was blurry and grainy; worse than a child’s Etch-a-Sketch drawing. The person in the photos was probably a man somewhere between fifteen and one hundred years old. Jack couldn’t even tell what color the man was.
Armani said something about a “specialized unit” and “antiterrorist activities,” before Walmart interrupted and said, “We are tracking a man who is an explosives and weapons expert. We think he’s working for terrorists now. He obtained military-grade explosives and weapons from Khaled Abutaqa. All we are allowed to tell you, gentlemen, is that he is a person of interest to the United States government.”
Jack shook his head, “I told you if you pulled that secret shit I was gone. I’m out of here. Good luck—gentlemen,” Jack said and rose from his chair.
“Sit down, Detective Murphy,” Walmart ordered. He and Armani exchanged a look and both reached in their jackets and produced a new set of credentials. Walmart said, “We haven’t been completely honest with you.” They handed Franklin their identification. Walmart’s identification now showed him to be Paul White of the Central Intelligence Agency. Armani was Allen Thompson, CIA. They had badges to go with the IDs. When they opened their jackets to retrieve their credentials Jack also saw they were carrying guns. Forty-caliber Smith & Wesson’s if he was right. Hmmm.
Paul White, the older agent, said, “I’m sorry for the subterfuge, Captain Franklin. Believe me, it wasn’t a matter of trust. We thought it would be easier for you if you were working with an agency you were on more familiar terms with.”
To Jack he said, “You really are observant, Jack . . . I mean, Detective Murphy.” There was that smile again like a con man spotting a mark. “He should be working for us, Allen,” he said to the younger, more psychotic agent.
“What the hell is this about, gentlemen?” Captain Franklin’s cheeks were red. It wasn’t a good color for him.
“I truly apologize for not being up front with you, Captain Franklin,” Paul White said, and put his credentials back into the pocket of his cheap suit.
CIA Agent White continued, “This investigation truly does have national security implications, and I’m going outside my authority to even tell you this much.” He looked from Jack to Franklin to make sure they understood the seriousness of what he was telling them.
“Captain Franklin, we’re here because we need your assistance. Again, I’m sorry for the deception. Believe me, I would be angry too. I can see now that the deception was unnecessary,” White said and looked to his partner to support him.
“You have our apologies,” Agent Thompson grudgingly added.
Franklin seemed mollified. Jack wasn’t. He was still on the hook.
White said, “Detective Murphy has done excellent work. Even if his methods are slightly, how do I put this . . . ?”
“He’s irritating as hell,” Franklin suggested and just like that they were all friends again. Except Jack. He was once again low man on the scrotum pole. Satisfied that he had made his point, White pulled a different picture from his jacket and passed it around. This photo was much better than the blurred ones they had shown earlier. The guy in this photo was scary looking, with eyes that were empty, soulless. He was like Allen Thompson on crack.
“This is John Quinn. Not his real name,” White said. “He was in our counterterrorist unit but he no longer works for the CIA. Or for any other U.S. government agency. We were telling the truth when we said he may be working for terrorists.”
“In other words he’s gone off the reservation, and he’s in Evansville,” Jack said.
“He’s here all right,” White said. “About six months ago a shipment of military equipment was stolen. Fort Hood army base. Do you know about the incident in Chicago a month ago? You may have read about it in the papers.”
“Are you talking about the bombing? The financial district?” Franklin asked.
White nodded. “That’s the one. Over two hundred dead. Hundreds injured. Millions of dollars in damage. Suspected terrorist attack. Most major train stations, subways, and airports closed for hours. More millions of dollars lost. All because of Quinn.”
Jack asked, “You think Khaled supplied the explosives to Quinn?”
Thompson gave him the look and said, “That’s why Khaled is dead. He was a loose end.”
The rest of their information was brief. There was no mention of Shirl and Moon Pie. So maybe the assholes were lying again.
They had finished their part and were all looking at Jack. So he lied. “I’m trying to run down Killian’s snitches, but those ATF guys keep their sources close to the vest. Like I told you, I got on to Khaled because he sold a .40 caliber handgun to Eddie Solazzo a few years ago.”
Allen Thompson asked, “We knew that, but we didn’t know police detectives could enter someone’s house illegally and dig around in a wall to recover evidence. Isn’t that against the law?”
“I’d say bite me, Allen, but I don’t know if there’s a vaccine for that.”
White put his hands up and said, “Stop. It doesn’t matter at this point who did what. From now on, I expect Detective Murphy to turn everything he comes across over to us. Even if it is just remotely involved.”
Franklin said to Jack, “We’ll talk later about your ‘visit’ to Khaled’s.”
Jack responded, “Yes, sir. I won’t let you catch me pulling a stunt like that again.” To Thompson he said, “And if you ever lay your hands on me again, I’ll make you into a real spook. Capish?”
Captain Franklin made a show of looking at the wall clock and said, “I suggest we all get to work. That is, unless you have something else
you want to add, Jack.”
“No, sir. I’m meeting Liddell in a few minutes. I don’t suppose I can have a copy of the photos to show him,” Jack said. To his surprise, White handed the pictures over.
“I’ll keep you informed of anything we find, Captain,” Jack said, and as an afterthought he added, “And I won’t keep these guys in the dark.”
Captain Franklin said. “If Deputy Chief Dick was aware you had ‘visited’ this weapons dealer’s house he would finally have you.”
Screw Double Dick. Twice.
Chapter Twenty-eight
The meeting hadn’t turned out well, but it was better than a sharp stick in the eye. Jack didn’t intend to share squat with the CIA. His sworn oath was to uphold the constitution and protect the citizens of Evansville. He would do things his way. His dad had said, “Doing the right thing isn’t the best thing to do. It’s the only thing to do.”
He drove west to Donut Bank. Liddell stopped there each morning before work and was probably in a sugar coma by now.
John Quinn. Not his name, the CIA said. If the CIA were to be believed, Killian was a casualty of an arms deal gone bad, Khaled had supplied the arms, and Quinn had killed Khaled. But that didn’t explain the two policemen Coin saw. Quinn must have had accomplices that the CIA hadn’t found. Or did they know about Shirl and Moon Pie?
Quinn was a killer who had gone off the reservation and was setting up his teepee in Evansville. Jack could almost forgive Quinn for killing Khaled—hell, he wanted to kill Khaled himself—but he couldn’t forgive him for shooting, or allowing to be shot, a good man, a husband, a father, a dedicated ATF agent. They had left him for dead.
* * *
Jack found Liddell sitting in a corner booth at Donut Bank. On the table in front of him were a small plate with two cinnamon twist donuts and an extra coffee mug for Jack.
Jack eyed the two twists and asked, “Has Marcie got you on another diet?”
“She don’t need to ’cause I can eat all this stuff and still be built like Arnold, or even the Rock.” Liddell stuffed a cinnamon twist in his mouth and talked around it. “But I’m much better looking—and taller too.” He pushed the extra mug at Jack and said, “Get some coffee. I already paid.”
Jack was going to say he was proud of Liddell for showing restraint, but he knew it wouldn’t last the week. Liddell was just pacing himself like a horse in a pastry race.
Jack took the cup to the counter and filled it with black coffee and sat down.
“Thanks for the coffee, Bigfoot.”
Liddell inhaled the last cinnamon twist. “I control the donuts, they don’t control me.”
“Where’d you hear that?” Jack asked.
“Donut Eaters Anonymous,” Liddell said. “We meet a couple times a week.”
Jack filled his partner in on the meeting with Captain Franklin and the two phony FBI/CIA guys. He told Liddell about Quinn and handed him the photos of Quinn the CIA had supplied.
Liddell studied the pictures. “So these guys were CIA masquerading as FBI? And they say Khaled was getting guns from a military base and Quinn was behind it.”
Liddell slid the pictures back to Jack and said, “I’m just thinking out loud, but it seems to me that if they knew about Khaled, they would have had someone watching him before the gun deal. Maybe they were there when Killian was shot. Shouldn’t they have at least tipped the ATF off about the guns or explosives? I mean, this guy blew up Chicago, for Christ’s sake!”
Jack said, “I thought about that. Killian got the information from Coin. He wouldn’t have had any idea the CIA was interested. They didn’t exactly say they were part of an antiterrorist outfit, but they did say that Quinn had gone rogue. But, you’re right. If they knew this activity was taking place here, they should have warned someone. Us or the ATF. I don’t know if they were there when Killian was shot, but they are indirectly responsible.”
Liddell licked his finger and wiped up the leftover cinnamon sugar on the plate. “I vote for Quinn doing Killian and Khaled. Both of them were shot in the same way. The shooter may have thought Killian was dead. The shooter is probably Quinn.”
“I don’t think the CIA wanted Quinn stopped by us. Or by Killian,” Jack said. “The younger one, Allen Thompson—isn’t geared right. I don’t think they’re here to arrest Quinn.” He didn’t want to think the CIA had shot Killian to keep him from interfering in the gun deal, but it was possible. The only thing he knew about spooks was what he’d read in books or seen on television, and none of it was good.
“So. What are we doing today, pod’na?”
“Elkins is apparently convinced these guys are FBI agents, so we can’t contact him anymore. I’ve been ordered off by the captain, and I don’t trust Elkins not to go to the phony FBI and pass on whatever we ask him or tell him. I guess we’re on our own.”
Liddell finished his coffee and stood. “I’ll talk to the ATF. Maybe they can check out the CIA guys and see if that’s who they really are.”
“Not a good idea, Bigfoot. Whether these guys are FBI, CIA, NSA, or anything else, they’re here, and must already have serious connections. If the ATF starts making inquiries the CIA will find out. I don’t want us getting shut down.”
“So, where are we going?”
Jack said, “You’re going to find a motor patrol assignment sheet. I need to know when Moon Pie is working today?”
“You’re going to look around Moon Pie’s place while he’s out?”
“You think I’m a burglar or something, Bigfoot?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, keep it to yourself,” Jack said.
* * *
Clouds drifted across a perfect blue sky. Kids played in the little park across the street from Susan’s house. A young blond woman sat on a park bench staring at nothing and sipping from a paper cup, ignoring the perilous acrobatics being performed on the jungle gym. Susan’s Honda was in her driveway.
Jack had decided that between Moon Pie and Shirl, the little muscle head was the weak link. Maybe he’d left something in his house. Like a diagram of a bank with pictures of bombs drawn on it near the safe. Liddell had found out Shirl and Moon Pie were working the day shift. Liddell had also discovered—and Jack was embarrassed to admit he himself hadn’t thought to check—that Moon Pie and Shirl’s patrol district included the warehouse where Killian was found. He didn’t think they would show up on the North Side of Evansville, but . . . So Jack needed a lookout.
He needed to keep Liddell out of as much of this as possible. The fact that the CIA hadn’t wanted him at this morning’s meeting was a good sign that they weren’t focusing on him. Besides, with Liddell at headquarters, he could help out in other ways.
So Jack’s options for a lookout were Katie, her sister Moira, or Susan. Katie would never go for what he had in mind, and Moira was a deputy prosecutor. Susan had already helped with one burglary, and look how well that had turned out.
Jack Murphy’s Law says: “In for a penny, in for a pound.” He was in luck. Susan’s Del Sol was parked in her driveway. He parked on the street. Before he could ring the bell, the door opened and she stood there smiling.
“Come here often, sailor?” she asked.
“Actually I have . . . that is, I have something to ask you.”
“I saw you pull up out front. I’ve got coffee.”
“Coffee would be great,” he said, and hoped it was from the Keurig. Her brewed coffee had the flavor of swamp water. They went to the kitchen and sat on bar stools. She handed him a steaming mug of black stuff from an old cofffee percolator. The kind with water in the bottom, a basket of ground coffee on top, and it was heated on the stovetop. He looked into the mug and thought: This ought to be interesting. He took a sip and it was surprisingly good.
“I found my aunt’s old percolator in the attic. Pretty good huh?”
“Very good,” he admitted. “This is quite impressive,” he said.
“You’re just saying that.”
“That’s not true, Jack. You piss other people off too. So, what’s your question?”
He skipped over the part where Katie visited while he was naked, told her about his six a.m. call from Franklin and his little talk with the FBI-turned-CIA.
“Those two FBI guys that were messing with Miz Johnson-Heddings yesterday were actually CIA,” he said.
Here’s another difference between men and women. Susan was angry the CIA guys had lied, whereas Jack objected to them even breathing the same air he was. She expected the truth, whereas, he expected to be lied to by his government. In fact, he considered it his right as a taxpayer and it was about the only thing he got from the government for free.
When he finished telling her about the two bullets the Sheriff’s Department had recovered from Khaled, she asked. “Do you think the CIA shot Killian? And Khaled?”
Jack shrugged, but said, “They want us to believe that Killian was shot by Khaled, and Khaled was then killed by this Quinn guy. They brought up the bombing in Chicago not long ago.”
“That was Quinn?” Susan’s eyes widened.
“According to the spooks, anyway,” Jack answered. “But, yeah. I can believe that one. And I think Khaled supplied him with the explosives. Maybe he just came to Evansville to eliminate Khaled as was suggested.”
“But you don’t think so”
“I’m not sure,” Jack admitted. “But my gut is telling me that he needed Khaled—at least one more time. Thus the arms deal Killian was looking into. Maybe Quinn killed Khaled after he got what he wanted. The CIA wants me to believe Quinn’s done here, so why are they sticking around?”
“Khaled is—was—on parole, so it follows that if the CIA was interested in him they would know to come to my office. But how did they know about Eddie, and why take his files from the office?”
“Exactly,” Jack said. “Captain Franklin was the one that thought of Eddie Solazzo, and the CIA are pretty much embedded in his office. Big Brother is listening and all that shit. But I think Quinn has accomplices. Moon Pie and Shirl for starters. The CIA hasn’t talked about anyone helping Quinn, except for Khaled, but I’m sure they know something. They’ve known everything else.”