The Highest Stakes

by Rick Reed

  “So we need to find Quinn. He’s the ringleader. Whatever he is planning can’t be good,” Jack said, remembering the news stories about Chicago. Bodies everywhere. A terrorist attack?

  “These guys aren’t going to let us anywhere near Quinn,” Jack said.

  “But shooting Killian—the attempted murder of an ATF agent—how can they get away with that?”

  “The CIA has covered their asses. Quinn or Khaled will be blamed for shooting Killian,” he said.

  “Jack, if we’re right there are more loose ends.”

  She was right. Moon Pie and Shirl may be targets when they lead White and Thompson to Quinn. And then maybe Jack and Susan and Liddell might disappear. “Why would Quinn involve policemen in whatever he is or was doing? I should have asked the spooks if he did that in Chicago.”

  “What if Moon Pie and Shirl think they’re working for the FBI or CIA? Maybe Quinn fed them a line just like these two CIA guys did with the captain and you.”

  Jack hadn’t thought about it from that angle.

  “So what do you suggest we do next, Detective Summers?”

  She shrugged. “We know there are stolen military weapons involved. They never said what type of weapons. For all we know they have rocket launchers. Quinn was in their antiterrorist unit and we know he is an explosives expert. If we knew more about what happened in Chicago maybe we could get a handle on all of this.”

  “I agree. But I think these guys told me more last night than what is even in the official reports.”

  “A personal agenda, maybe? Quinn, I mean. Not just to cover his tracks by eliminating Khaled. Maybe he has a personal score to settle with the CIA,” Susan suggested.

  “Quinn is an embarrassment to them, but maybe he is going after them. Maybe he has deliberately drawn the CIA here like you said.”

  Jack knew in his gut these guys were here to kill Quinn. He was an embarrassment? Maybe he was selling secrets? John Walmart didn’t look like a hit man, but then Ted Bundy didn’t look like a serial killer. The cocky young agent . . . he was a different story.

  “Maybe you should try the direct approach,” Susan suggested. “If you think Shirl is the smarter of the two, you should talk to him. Tell him you know what he’s involved in. Who he’s working with. How dangerous and crazy Quinn really is. How Shirl may be in danger from these guys. Maybe Shirl will spill the beans.”

  “Not a bad idea,” Jack said, but he thought it was a horrible idea. Shirl was a cop, and an ex-detective. If someone even asked him what he’d had for breakfast, he’d ask for an attorney and invoke the Fifth Amendment. Moon Pie was out of the question. He was probably on steroids, and that makes you paranoid. If Moon Pie thought they were found out, he might become violent and Jack would have to hurt him in a permanent way. The thought of getting in some licks for Killian was appealing.

  “So what do we do next?” she asked.

  “That’s why I’m here.”

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  “I’m going to start charging the city for my gas if we keep this up,” Susan said. She was once again driving because Jack’s Crown Vic would stand out on Moon Pie’s dead-end street. She parked a block over from Moon Pie’s house on a street that ran parallel. The houses were close together, but Jack could look between two of them and see Moon Pie’s front door.

  Jack had insisted that they drive around the neighborhood a few times, and he got a good look at the dump Moon Pie called home. Moon Pie’s house was a run-down ranch style covered in oxidized aluminum siding. The gutters were missing and the insides of the windows were covered with newspaper. In his backyard, one of a string of sixty-foot-high electrical towers marched off to the east and west like a row of giants.

  Jack’s cell phone rang.

  “Did I interrupt anything?” Bigfoot asked. “Like a burglary or something?”

  “Has the ATF called?” Jack asked. He thought they would be wanting an update, if the CIA hadn’t put them on a leash.

  “Pons called and said his boss was on the warpath. Misino apparently received a visit from the spooks. He’s super pissed off that he had to hear it from the CIA about the Chicago disaster’s possible connection to Killian’s shooting. He told Pons to tell you to, ‘take a flying leap.’ But less politely.”

  “Did he mention having his EOD guy take a crack at Khaled’s house?”

  “ATF’s had a vasectomy, pod’na. I told you something like this would happen.”

  “No you didn’t, Bigfoot.”

  “Did too. You’re the senior partner and lead investigator. You’re always to blame.”

  “I’m with Susan. Is he working?” Jack asked.

  “He and his partner are working. Their district has been getting a lot of drug complaints. Kids hanging outside. That kind of stuff. I suppose they’ll be busy today.”

  “I’ll get back to you,” Jack said. He didn’t want to talk over an open line. Big Brother was probably listening by now.

  Susan said, “You’re going in there, with or without my permission, aren’t you? Once again you lied to me about just doing a drive-by.” She mimicked Jack’s voice and said, “Let’s see where he lives. His house can say a lot about him.”

  “I don’t sound like that.”

  “Well, that’s what you said,” Susan argued. “You want me to be the lookout again, don’t you? Well, this time I’ll let you go it alone.”

  “Do I look like a burglar?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Okay. But think about this. Shirl’s not going to tell us shit if we talk to him. Moon Pie’s crazy. Quinn might have already offed Khaled. The fire at Khaled’s house wasn’t a coincidence. The burned computer, the bullets in the wall, the picture. I’ve got to get in Moon Pie’s house and hope I can find something.”

  An older Cadillac Seville came down the street toward them, the bass from its speakers making the Del Sol pound and vibrate. It pulled alongside and the music died. The arm outside the driver’s window was as thick as a tree trunk, heavily tattooed, with every finger on the huge hand bedecked in gold jewelry. The driver was a white male in his thirties, and his head turned slowly to glare at Jack. “Wha’chu doin’ in my territory, Murphy?” the driver said, “I ain’t got no warrants, and you don’ have enough he’p to bus’ me.” He smiled and showed a row of gold-capped teeth, some with carat size diamonds embedded in them.

  “I’m on a date, asshole,” Jack said. “I thought I’d show her what a sewer looks like. Why aren’t you still in prison, Ray Ray?”

  Ray Ray was a white pimp and a drug dealer among his other hobbies. He claimed membership in the Crips gang in Los Angeles, and wore the “black act” like an extra skin. But Jack knew it was Ray Ray’s only avenue to respect. He knew Ray Ray wasn’t such a bad guy while you were armed. They’d even exchanged bullets last Christmas. The two men glared at each other, then both broke into smiles and bumped knuckles.

  “I heard you shootin’ girls now, Murphy. You one mean motha’ fuckah.” Ray Ray said.

  “Yeah,” Jack held his .45 up where it could be seen. “If you don’t stop interfering with police business—and my date—I’ll shoot you . . . again.” He’d ended the Christmas festivities by shooting Ray Ray in the left cheek of his ample ass.

  Ray Ray laughed and cast a glance at Susan. “You a nice lady, Miss Parole Officer. If you wanna stay that way you watch yourself around this dude. He bad news.” Ray Ray drove away.

  “Real classy guy,” Jack said. “Nothing for you to be concerned about.”

  “I know him.” Susan’s hand came out from under her leg. In her hand was a stainless steel Smith & Wesson .38 Chief Special.

  “He violated parole twice, and I was the one that sent him back,” she said and slipped the .38 in her purse. “You two seem friendly.”

  “It’s a long story,” Jack said. “The short version is we shot at each other one night. He went to the hospital. We called a truce, and now we’re BFFs.”

  Jack turned his at
tention back to Moon Pie’s house. “Moon Pie’s working right now, but if you see a police car, toot the horn and duck down.”

  Susan put a hand on his arm as he started to get out and he saw a new burgundy colored GMC 4x4 truck pull into the driveway of Moon Pie’s shack. A short, squat figure with no neck emerged. “That’s Moon Pie. He’s supposed to be on duty,” Jack said.

  “I guess he took the day off.”

  Moon Pie’s truck was so big he had to hang on to the door to step down. He walked to the back of the house, and only seconds later came back to the truck. His head swiveled like a turret as he looked up and down the street. He then dropped the tailgate, reached in the bed of the truck, and carried a very large box behind the house.

  “Did you see what he just carried in?” Susan asked.

  “Yeah. A new Bose Home Theater system.”

  “I priced one for what will be the common room of my bed-and-breakfast.” She rubbed her thumb and fingers together.

  “Pricey, huh?” he asked.

  “A couple of grand at least. You don’t hook one of those up to a thirteen-inch black-and-white television.”

  As if to prove Susan’s words, Moon Pie got up in the truck’s bed and wrestled a large flat box to the tailgate. He could barely get his arms wide enough to hold it. Jack saw it was a big-screen television before Moon Pie carried it around the back.

  Moon Pie came back, climbed into the truck, and pulled out. As he drove out of Jack’s view, Jack could see the license plates.

  “He has temporary plates on that monster. Thirty grand easy. How can he afford all of that stuff on a cop’s salary? I mean, ignore the dump he’s living in,” Jack said. Getting inside the house was no longer necessary.

  Susan pointed out, “Maybe he cashed in a 401(k).”

  Jack didn’t buy it. Image was everything to someone like Moon Pie. If he had that kind of money, why was he buying these expensive items and still living in a shack like that?

  “So what now?” Susan asked.

  “We’re going back to your place. I’ve got some errands to run,” he said.

  * * *

  Jack left Susan’s house and drove his Crown Vic to Reverend Payne’s. Seeing Moon Pie with all the new toys gave him an idea. Payne had a relative who worked for a credit bureau and could get financial reports, which Payne didn’t mind sharing for a small fee.

  If he’d brought Susan with him, Payne would have insisted on making coffee and having a chat. Jack was in and out in less than five minutes, and a hundred dollars lighter than when he’d arrived.

  He left Payne’s place in Rosedale and called Liddell.

  “I’ll meet you in your office,” Jack said and hung up. If the CIA were listening they would either think Jack was on his way to police headquarters or they wouldn’t have a clue where he was going. He hoped Liddell could avoid being followed.

  Jack sat at a table in Donut Bank where they couldn’t be observed from the street, and had coffee waiting when Liddell showed up. Liddell turned up the collar of his sport coat and comically looked left and right, hands jammed into the coat pockets.

  “You’re a riot,” Jack said.

  “Do I look like a spook?” Liddell asked.

  “Yeah. I couldn’t see you unless you turned sideways and stuck your tongue out. Then you look like a hernia.”

  “I went by Shirl’s place,” Liddell said. “He’s living with an exotic dancer named—get this—Angel. According to court records Shirl got divorced about two years ago. His ex took her maiden name back and is now Kathy Malbon. Shirl must have been boffing Angel while he was married because before the divorce Angel filed a couple of complaints on him. Stalking, harassment, the usual stuff. Then, shortly after the divorce Angel dropped the complaints. Guess they kissed and made up. I couldn’t find anything on Shirl’s ex-wife, Kathy Malbon. No address, no record, nothing.”

  “What about Angel?” Jack asked.

  “Five-foot-three, strawberry blond, a hundred pounds, green eyes, busted nine times for prostitution and twice for possession. She’s no angel. All her addresses were ‘pay-as-you-go’ motels, but after the divorce, she used Shirl’s apartment in Parkside Terrace for her address, and voilà, no more arrests. There’s no way to get inside, Jack. The complex is huge and people were coming and going like fleas to a circus.”

  Jack had made arrests at Parkside Terrace Apartments. It was like one of the housing projects, but populated by more criminal types. If Shirl was living there he was either getting a hell of a deal to work off-duty security for the place, or he was really on his way to the bottom. Jack told Liddell about his trip to Moon Pie’s, the expensive toys, and his visit to Reverend Payne. “Payne should get in touch soon with financial histories on everyone. You owe me fifty dollars, by the way.”

  “Put it on my tab, pod’na. We’ve got the right cops,” Liddell said. “Now we just have to sit on them and hope they lead us to Quinn.”

  Jack said nothing.

  “What? You have another plan,” Liddell asked.

  “No. You’re right, Bigfoot. But I have a feeling we’re running out of time. These two CIA guys blew their cover for some reason. Maybe they thought they could keep better tabs on me and that we might get lucky and lead them to Quinn,” Jack said.

  “Maybe they’ve heard about your reputation for pissing everyone off and hope you’ll take this heat if this all goes south and we have another Chicago incident.”

  Jack said, “I don’t trust either of them any farther than they can blow me. And, by the way, you know who was off work today.” He meant Moon Pie.

  “His partner was probably off too,” Liddell said. “The schedule must have been wrong. I’ll run home and put on a disguise then we can split up and follow them both.”

  “Seriously, stay there. I may need some help later. I got this.”

  “I’m getting into this spook stuff,” Liddell said.

  “I’m going to the hospital and check on Killian before I do anything else.”

  Chapter Thirty

  Jack pulled the Crown Vic into a “Doctors Only” parking space and went to the hospital’s gift shop, He bought a couple of magazines for whoever was staying with Killian and a bottle of Evian water for himself.

  Through the glass wall of the gift shop, he saw CIA Agents White and Thompson step off the elevator. He got behind a rack of magazines and books—not knowing why he was dodging them—but something about their purposeful stride told him to stay out of their way. If he hadn’t gone to the gift shop first he would have run right into them.

  When they were out of sight he got on the elevator they had come from. It still had the smell of strong cologne. Eau de Spook. Kind of a sissy smell for a G-man.

  Getting off at Killian’s floor, he could hear Katie’s voice coming from the area of the intensive care unit. She was yelling at someone to “Get the hell out of here.”

  He ran down the hall and turned the corner. The first thing he noticed was that the police guard was not at his post. Then he saw Katie squaring off with a woman in a white coat.

  “That’s my gal,” he said under his breath and took Katie’s wrist before she could threw a punch at the doctor—or nurse.

  “Whoa. Let’s all settle down now,” Jack said, and struggled to control Katie.

  “Mrs. Murphy,” the woman in the white coat was saying, “you’d better think twice before you assault a federal agent.”

  Jack gave the woman a second look. She was wearing a white jacket that was easily mistaken for a lab coat. Her blond hair was cut in that severe chop that most women in law enforcement seemed to favor.

  “What’s going on here?” Jack demanded and noticed that two nurses were staying behind the nursing station counter. He had always thought nurses were tough. They dealt with unruly patients and lifted people into and out of beds like they weighed nothing. If you messed with them, they would clean you off the bottom of their white shoes. But these nurses were showing unusual restraint.

/>   The female agent pulled a badge from her pocket, but didn’t have a chance to show it or say anything before Katie got in the woman’s face. Katie said, “This bitch and two other goons threw us out of Killian’s room!”

  Jack was surprised at her language. Katie was a sixth-grade teacher and he had never heard her use a curse word.

  Katie continued to invade the other woman’s space and said, “Killian was barely conscious, and these assholes pushed their way into his room and . . .”

  Jack almost yelled, “He’s awake?” He was so pleased to hear that news, he had to fight the urge to slug the woman himself and rush to Killian’s room.

  The agent again tried to speak, but Katie was a step ahead of her.

  “Just shut up. I’ll explain this to my brother, Alan,” Katie said.

  The agent gave Jack the once-over. He was fairly sure she wasn’t falling for the “brother” routine.

  Katie took Jack’s hands and said, “Alan, Killian regained consciousness about twenty minutes ago, but two Gestapo agents waltzed in here like . . . like . . . like they owned the hospital or something and ordered us out of the room. Then this bitch shows up and tells us we can’t see him. Barbara is complaining to the hospital administrator.”

  She wasn’t done. “I refused to leave and they threatened to arrest me. And now this one . . .” she said, pointing a finger in the woman’s face, “is accusing Killian of being part of some terrorist plot.”

  Katie turned toward Jack and squeezed his hand until it hurt.

  “She’s looking for Detective Murphy, too,” Katie said. “Apparently he’s a part of the plot.”

  Jack was stunned. He might have violated a few department policies, maybe pissed these guys off, but he wasn’t involved in a criminal conspiracy and definitely wasn’t a terrorist. But, under federal law they could lock him up for days without charging him. Was that their plan? Were they trying to get him out of the way? If so, why? He thought they had all agreed to play nice. Apparently the CIA had put this bullshit plan together so fast that they had neglected to show this agent a photo of him. If they had she would have pulled a gun instead of a badge.