“For who?”
“That’s what I don’t know. And before you ask—no, I haven’t found anything that links it to Unix or Kemper. Yet.”
“There was no other information?”
“Just a single administrator’s name.” She pulled the notebook closer. “G.—the initial—Farrow. Does that mean anything to you?”
Gordon, he thought. Still at it after all these years.
“It does, doesn’t it?” she said.
He shook his head. “No.”
“Are you sure?”
“I am. Are you going to write about all this?”
“Based on a single unattributed source? I don’t think my editors will go for that. That’s why any other names you can give me will help.”
“I think I’m done for the day.”
“When can we meet again?” she said.
She was trying to stay calm and professional, he knew, not wanting to spook him, but he could see the excitement there. She’d come to this meeting prepared, had done her homework based on the little he’d told her the night before.
“I’ll call you,” he said.
She put away the recorder, closed her notebook, sat back. “Talking about this, does it help, or hurt?”
“What do you mean?”
“It sounds like you’re still struggling with some things yourself.”
“Who isn’t?” he said.
After she left, he drove back into the city, slow-crawled past Dugan’s, not sure why. The door was still sealed, yellow tape strung across it. Dark windows like empty eyes. He imagined what it looked like inside, blood on the floor and worse. For the first time, he felt anger.
He found an internet café in a strip mall, logged on to a computer. Unix Technologies had no website at all he could find. Core-Tech Security’s site was nothing but the same corporate logo as on Bell’s card—arrows and lightning bolt—and a link that said “More About Us.” When he clicked on it, it sent him to a page with a cartoon of a man driving a bulldozer, and a caption that read “Under Construction! Check Back With Us Soon!”
A white pages search turned up four Gordon Farrows, one in Ohio, one in San Francisco, another in Maine, and a fourth in Falls Church, Virginia, a D.C. suburb. He clicked through into a map program, punched in the address, saw it was a three-hour drive.
He took a discarded sheet of copy paper from the recycling bin next to a printer, wrote down the address, and headed back out to his truck.
Twenty-One
Tracy called Alysha on her way back to the office.
“How’d it go?”
“I got a lot,” Tracy said. “More than I expected, but not as much as I wanted. What’s the situation there, Harris around?”
“He’s in a meeting. He had one of the interns looking for you a little while ago. Ted Bryson was asking too.”
“They can wait. I’ll be there in ten minutes. Meet me in Rick’s office.”
When she got to the paper, she used the back stairs. Rick was at his desk, Alysha in the chair across from him, a notebook open on her knee. Tracy closed the door behind her, took another chair. Rick’s office was smaller than R.J.’s, a simple bookshelf, an untidy credenza piled with newspapers. On his desk was a plexiglass cube with a baseball signed by Steve Carlton.
“Let’s hear it,” he said.
“What Devlin told me is the tip of the iceberg. This is substantial, Rick. It’s bigger than I thought.”
“What’s new we didn’t have yesterday?” he said.
“An explanation of how Acheron operated, and where. Confirmation that Colin Roarke and Devlin and the third man, Bell, all worked for them.”
“But all of it still off the record?”
“I’m working on that.”
He looked at Alysha. “And you? Feeling the love?”
“Everything Tracy’s got so far checks out. Devlin’s Florida address is a P.O. box, but it’s legit. We’re still waiting to hear back on his military records. No criminal history I can find, and he doesn’t come up anywhere else on LexisNexis. Whatever he’s been doing all these years, it’s been on the down-low.”
“I’m a little concerned about what we’re getting into here,” Rick said. “We don’t know what this guy’s motives are, why he’s decided to talk to us. We don’t know much about him at all.”
“My gut feeling is he’s exactly who he says he is,” Tracy said. “He has a friend who got killed. He wants to see someone punished for it.”
“Or punish them himself. You think of that?”
“I have. But all the same, there’s a much larger story here.”
“You think he knows who the Dugan’s shooters were?” he said.
“No. But I assume he has pieces of the puzzle we don’t, that he isn’t willing to give us yet. I think he will if we’re patient. I didn’t want to push too hard, make him skittish.”
“Are we getting played?” he said.
Tracy looked at Alysha, then back at Rick. “It’s always a possibility, but that doesn’t make the story any less real.”
He sat back, laced his fingers behind his head.
“This story goes nowhere without someone on record,” he said. “You know that as well as I. A one-source story is bad enough. A one-source story where the source insists on staying anonymous is a nonstarter, regardless of what he tells you.”
“I have a call in to this Unix Technologies,” Alysha said. “I left a message with their HR department, trying to find out if Devlin or Roarke or Bell were ever actually listed as employees. They’re saying everything has to go through their public affairs division. No one’s called me back yet.”
“I’ll go down there if I have to,” Tracy said. “Knock on their door, see what they say then.”
“He didn’t give you any other names, off the record or not?” Rick said.
“No, he wasn’t ready for that.”
“Then the question is, will he ever be?”
“Let’s hope,” she said. “I’m doing my best.”
“I know you are.” He sat up straight. “R.J. asked me to pull you off this. He says you have other obligations.”
She felt her stomach tighten. “What did you tell him?”
“That I wasn’t sure what you two had going yet, that I wanted to see what it was before making any decisions.”
“You’re equals, right?” Tracy said. “He can’t overrule you.”
“No, but he can go up the chain of command to Irv. Then it’s out of my hands.”
“Can you fend him off?”
“That’s not the way things work here. These days we’re all—”
“Team players,” Tracy said. “I know. I heard the speech.”
“But if I were to make an argument to keep you on, a lot of it would depend on what we had in front of us. The more we have, the easier it is to defend.”
“Got it,” she said.
He leaned forward. “Write what you have, type up your notes, send them to me. I’ll talk to R.J. No promises.”
“Will do,” Tracy said. “Thanks, Rick.”
Back at her desk, she powered up her terminal, started to go through her emails. There was one from Harris, time-stamped 11:30 a.m., that read “ARE YOU HERE?” She deleted it, then opened a New Story template, started to type. A lede had come to her in the car:
The Daily Observer’s investigation of the murder of six men at a city tavern has revealed a possible connection with a shadowy private military company that has been involved in covert operations around the globe.
Good nut graf, she thought. Now all you have to do is back it up.
There was a tangled pair of earbuds in her pencil drawer. She straightened the cord as best she could, fit in the earpieces, plugged the other end into the recorder, and hit Play. When she heard Devlin’s voice, she began to type.
Ted Bryson stuck his head over her cubicle wall, said, “Hey, Quinnster. Got a minute?” He wore a sweater vest over a shirt and tie.
She
ignored him. He waved a hand back and forth above her. She paused the player, left the earbuds in, looked up at him. “What’s up, Ted?”
He came around the divider, leaned against her desk. “R.J. wanted to get us together for a meeting today, talk about some upcoming stories.”
“I just saw his message,” she said. “But my plate’s kind of full. I’m working on something for Rick. I’ve got calls to make, notes to transcribe.”
“On what?”
“Who’s asking?”
“Just curious,” he said. “Normally reporters file their skedline in the system. I didn’t see anything with your name on it.”
“I know how the sked system works, Ted.”
“Which made me wonder what you were working on that R.J. wasn’t aware of when I spoke to him.”
“I don’t know what he is or isn’t aware of,” she said. “You’d have to ask him.”
“I will, and I’ll relay our conversation to him.”
“Fine.”
“I still want to sit down with you for a few minutes, go over some things. R.J. said you’d be able to make a few phone calls for me. I’m leaving in a little while. Kid’s soccer practice. You have time to talk now?”
She raised her hands off the keyboard, made typing motions.
“How about I swing back this way around six-thirty?” he said. “Will you be free then?”
“I’m sorry,” she said. “Today’s Tuesday? I have a spin class at the Y at seven, and it’s across town.”
“Spin class?”
“What, you don’t believe me?”
He frowned. “All right. How about tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow’s good,” she said. “Let’s definitely do it tomorrow.”
“Right,” he said, and walked away.
She switched the recorder back on. Alysha pedaled her chair across the aisle and into Tracy’s cubicle.
“Careful,” she said. “We’re all going to be working for that guy someday.”
“If any of us are still here.”
“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you? You’ve been sleepwalking around here the last month like you’re waiting for the ax to fall. Now you’re acting like some kid fresh out of J-school just got her first byline.”
“Life is short,” Tracy said. “And energy is the only delight.”
“You just make that up?”
“No, that was Blake.”
“The country singer?”
“Close enough,” Tracy said.
Twenty-Two
A single road led in and out of the development. The guard booth out front was unmanned, the gates up. Devlin drove through, slowed to cross a speed bump. The Ranchero would stick out here, but he’d draw more attention on foot. It wasn’t a neighborhood where people walked.
Side streets branched off the main road, circled around and into cul-de-sacs. The houses were all McMansions, some with stone walls in front, gated driveways. All set far enough apart to give the illusion of privacy.
It took him five minutes to find Farrow’s address. It was in one of the farthest cul-de-sacs, a sprawling, three-story house with detached garage. The garage door was closed, the driveway empty. A short flight of steps led to a side door.
He parked across the street beside a high hedge, looked up at the house. No signs of activity, the windows dark. He considered going up, knocking on the front door, wondered what he’d say if Farrow answered.
You’ve come all this way, he thought. Do something.
He took one of Bell’s Core-Tech cards from his wallet, wrote his cell number on the back. He got out, crossed the street, looked through the garage window. Empty. He went up the side steps, tucked the card into the screen door there. Anyone pulling into the driveway would see it.
Walking back to his truck, he saw a dark Chevy Tahoe come up the street into the cul-de-sac. He got behind the wheel, swung the Ranchero around, drove past it without slowing.
The gates were down now, though the guard booth was still empty. In his rearview, he saw the Tahoe behind him. A flashing red light began to revolve on its dashboard.
He pulled to the curb just short of the gates, shifted into neutral. The Tahoe pulled in behind him. Red light bathed the inside of the Ranchero.
He waited, watching the Tahoe in his mirror. Two men got out, came toward him, one on each side. They were dressed the same, dark suits without ties.
He rolled down the driver’s-side window. A big hand appeared on the sill. The man looked in. His hair was military-cut, his jaw pitted with acne scars. “Shut it down.”
The other one shone a flashlight into the truck bed.
“You fellas cops or private?” Devlin said.
“I need you to shut off your engine, and step out of the vehicle.”
“On what authority?”
“Mine. You’re trespassing.” He pulled up on the lock stem. “Out.”
“You two have badges, IDs you want to show me?”
“Shut it down.”
The second man came up to the passenger-side window. The flashlight beam played across Devlin’s face. He squinted, turned away.
“Last time I’ll tell you,” the big one said. “Out.”
Devlin engaged the parking brake, switched off the ignition. The engine coughed once and died. “Coming on kind of strong for the neighborhood watch, aren’t you?”
“Step out, or be dragged out. Your choice.”
“You work for Core-Tech?”
The man stepped back, and Devlin saw the automatic in the hip holster beneath his jacket. “Out. Now.”
Devlin opened the door, got out. The big man said, “Let me see some ID.”
“You first.”
The second one came around the front of the Ranchero, turned off the flashlight. He was smaller than the other one, but looked wiry, strong.
“This is private property,” he said. “What are you doing here?”
“Visiting a friend.”
“ID,” the big one said.
The other man held up the Core-Tech card. “You leave this?”
“What if I did?”
“Okay,” the big one said. “If that’s the way you want it.”
His right hand went beneath the jacket, past the holstered automatic and a pair of handcuffs. It came out with a stubby black stun gun.
“Hold on,” Devlin said. He back-stepped, bumped into the door.
“ID. I won’t ask you again.” The flashing light turned the man’s face red, pale, then red again.
“He’s serious,” the second one said.
“If it means that much to you,” Devlin said. He pulled his wallet from his back pocket.
“Take out your license,” the big one said.
Devlin felt something building inside him. Screw it, he thought. Enough of this.
He lobbed the wallet at the big one’s face, came off the door. The man pulled his head back to avoid it, brought the stun gun up and around. Devlin stepped in close, blocked his arm from the outside, and drove the heel of his right hand into the man’s nose.
It rocked him back. He took two staggering steps, more surprised than hurt. Then he grunted, came in fast with the stun gun, and Devlin sidestepped to stay outside it, hooked the man’s calf with his right leg, and hit him again the same way. He went over and landed hard, the stun gun clattering on the blacktop. Devlin kicked it away.
The big man scrambled to his feet, drew his gun. Devlin moved in quick, got behind him, locked his left forearm across his throat, pulling him close and off balance. He made a choking sound, and Devlin got a hand on the gun, took it away from him.
“Right there,” the second one said. He was in a shooter’s stance, gun extended, feet apart.
Devlin kept the big man in front of him. The second one seemed calm, but his finger was on the trigger. If he fires, he’ll go for the head shot, Devlin thought. Is confident enough to think he can do it.
Devlin held up the gun to show it was no threat, kept his arm tight
around the big man’s throat. He thumbed the magazine release and the clip slid out, landed on the blacktop. He knocked it away with his foot, then shoved the big man forward. He stumbled, almost fell, then turned quickly.
“Don’t, Cody,” the second one said. “Just step aside.”
For a moment, Devlin thought the big man would come at him anyway. But something had changed in his face, a realization of how quickly Devlin had moved, turned the situation around.
“To the side, Cody,” the other one said.
The big man moved away, touched his nose. Blood was spotting his shirt.
Devlin grasped the gun’s slide with his left hand, pulled it back sharply. The chambered round popped out, hit the street. The second man nodded. Devlin tossed the empty gun aside.
The man lowered his weapon slowly. Devlin held his hands out to the sides, to show they were empty.
Cody sniffed, wiped at his nose, bent to pick up his gun.
“Leave it,” the other one said.
Cody straightened. Devlin could see he was building up his confidence again. Devlin waited, wondering which way it would go.
The second man holstered his gun. “You almost got shot.”
“I know,” Devlin said.
“This range, no question.”
“Weren’t there better ways of handling this?”
The second man smiled. “Probably.”
“Then why don’t you go ahead and call Gordon now.”
“The major? I already did.”
“And what did he say?”
“He said he’s on his way.”
Twenty-Three
I should be pissed at you,” Farrow said. “In fact, I think I am.”
They sat in a finished basement, Farrow on a leather couch, Devlin in a cushioned chair. There was a small bar against the wall. On the other side of the low-ceilinged room, a wide-screen television, pool table, and a heavy metal cabinet. An open door showed a bathroom. Cody stood at the sink in there, head tilted back, a bloody handkerchief held to his nose. The second man stood by the bar, casual but close.
They’d waited on the street less than five minutes before Farrow had shown up, driving a black Ford Bronco. Now it was parked in the driveway alongside the Ranchero. The Tahoe was out front. They’d entered the house through the side door, the second man holding it open for them. He and Farrow had spoken for a moment out of Devlin’s earshot before they’d come in.
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