Break

by Ty Patterson

  ‘Walking out of the hospital like that wasn’t nice,’ Quindica reprimanded when he joined them.

  ‘Nothing wrong with me. The ribs will heal themselves.’

  They surveyed him critically and shook their heads simultaneously.

  ‘Your face …’ Difiore snickered. ‘You’ve lost your looks.’

  ‘Just bruises. They’ll go away.’

  He wasn’t vain. His appearance was down to genes, nothing more. He checked them out in return. Fine lines around their eyes and lips. Faint shadows of exhaustion.

  ‘Did you two take a break?’

  ‘We slept some,’ the SAC admitted, ‘but there’s a lot to do. Connecting the dots. We needed to get away from OnePP. Your place is quiet …’

  ‘You were concerned for me!’ he chortled.

  Difiore snorted at that. ‘We found the shooter—traces of him … or her,’ she corrected herself when he looked up in surprise.

  ‘Rooftop of that building across the street. Smudge marks in the dust, but no clear footprints or fabric traces. Nothing there except those and the signs of a tripod. Close to eight hundred yards, downward range, no wind. That was good shooting.’

  ‘McMillan Tac-50,’ Quindica held up a baggie containing a deformed bullet. ‘Not common, not rare either. Task Force is locating all such weapons in the country … it’s an impossible task. There will be enough of those with gangs and criminals, but we’ve got to do it.’

  ‘Who was it?’ the detective demanded.

  ‘I don’t know. We’ve been through this before.’

  He braced himself for a hard interrogation, but she surprised him by not pursuing it.

  ‘You meet them,’ she said gruffly, ‘thank them for us. They know you.’ She stopped his protest with an imperiously raised finger. ‘That’s the only reason they didn’t shoot Sheller. They know your history with him.’

  ‘Huh? You figure a friend would let me get beat up like that?’

  ‘Yeah.’ She bobbed her head. ‘That was a good way to wipe your smug grin.’

  ‘I don’t grin—’

  Quindica squeezed his forearm. ‘Thank them.’

  He didn’t reply. If I acknowledge her, I’ll be admitting the sniper is someone I know.

  ‘How have you explained it?’ he asked after a while.

  ‘Task Force shooter,’ the SAC said simply. She met his eyes squarely. ‘Gina and I talked about it. Surviving gangbangers think it was a police shooter. So do the Wards. No reason to present a different story.’

  ‘Bigger picture is more important,’ Difiore said. ‘Whoever they are, NYPD or FBI aren’t interested in them.’

  ‘Darrell and his mom?’

  ‘He taped his phone to his chest and recorded gang meetings. He wanted enough information to strike a Witsec deal.’

  ‘I know about that, not about the phone,’ Cutter admitted. ‘I tried to talk him out of it—he was stubborn.’

  ‘He followed Patchey one night and caught him talking to Sheller. Images aren’t very clear, and there’s nothing audible. Not of use. He let on that he had much more; that he had passed it over to you.’

  He nodded as the dots joined. Darrell bought time for himself and his mom.

  ‘His mother hit the roof when she heard all this,’ Quindica smiled in recollection. ‘There was quite some yelling and shouting there. They’re good, though. You should pay them a visit.’

  He looked up at that. ‘They’re—’

  ‘Back home, Grogan,’ Difiore said impatiently. ‘What do you think we are? He was our CI. Our snitch. That’s how we’ve logged him. They’ll be protected. Witsec too, if they want, but with Sheller gone, that may not be needed.’

  ‘Thank you,’ he said gratefully.

  * * *

  She brushed it away and brought up an array of images on her screen. ‘These are from Sheller’s phone and from that dude’s laptop. Cray. He was a hacker, did time at Lompoc for hacking into the NSA. Looks like he was Sheller’s tech expert.’

  ‘That’s a judge,’ she said when Cutter clicked on the man’s photograph. ‘Southern District of New York. Lawyer.’ When he moved on to the next image, ‘white-shoe firm in the city.’

  City council members, doctors, bankers, doormen, delivery drivers, mechanics, senators, congressmen; Sheller’s network was widespread and across the country.

  Her face tightened at one of the photographs. She didn’t speak when he looked at her.

  ‘Deputy Chief Trejo.’ Quindica gripped the detective’s hand hard, empathetically. ‘NYPD. He ratted on us at Henderson Place. He’s been leaking inside information.’

  ‘You hadn’t logged the address.’

  ‘No, but Gina and I had called the commish and the FBI director. They knew where we were. Rolando made a note on his scratchpad. Trejo sneaked into his office when he was away …’

  ‘He’s had to take a sudden vacation,’ Difiore almost snarled. ‘That’s the official statement. He’s at a safe house. Our team’s interrogating him.’

  ‘The Feds?’

  Quindica’s turn to clamp her lips tightly. ‘There are a few,’ she admitted. ‘As high as SACs. In Wyoming, Texas, Montana, California, a few in DC too. All of them being questioned.’

  ‘What about the politicians?’

  ‘We haven’t acted on anyone else. We don’t want to tip them off just yet. That’s why we’ve kept a tight lid on the shootout. All we’ve told them is a violent gang was busted. We need time to go through everything we found, put the jigsaw together. Just what Sheller was involved in.’

  ‘Drugs, kidnapping, extortion, usual gang business,’ Difiore chipped in. ‘What we’ve gotten so far.’

  Cutter nodded absently as he flicked through photographs, many of which had names and titles at the bottom. ‘Good work,’ he commended them. ‘Identifying all these must not have been easy.’

  ‘It wasn’t. There are still a few more we need to tag.’ She reached over and had begun scrolling quickly when he grabbed her arm.

  ‘Go back.’

  ‘Huh?’

  He nudged her hand away and took over. Flipped back several images and stopped at one.

  ‘We haven’t identified that one. No facial rec, no social media, nothing about him …’ She read his expression. ‘You know him?’

  Cutter stared at the person on screen. Middle-aged, clean-shaven. Narrow face. No special features, scars, nothing remarkable about him.

  ‘Are there any call recordings?’

  ‘There’s a lot in that laptop, but all of it is encrypted. Our team is working on it, but we’ve got nothing at the moment. These photographs are from the phone directory, which was duplicated on the machine. Why? Do you know him?’

  ‘Can you do some 3D fancy stuff?’

  ‘I’m sure our team can do that … Grogan, do you know him?’ she repeated sharply.

  He didn’t reply even then. That faint memory returned, when he had seen the second person in that Livonia bar’s parking lot.

  Quindica took over the screen, played with the keys until she got the photograph inserted in a rendering program.

  ‘We’ve got some fancy tools,’ she said and played with the image until it had fleshed out and presented it in different angles. Front-facing. Profile, looking right, profile, looking left.

  ‘STOP!’

  She froze at Cutter’s yell.

  ‘I’ve seen him.’

  101

  ‘That time in Livonia. I told you I stopped at a bar for a call. That’s when I saw Davis meet—’

  ‘Yeah,’ Difiore waved him to move on. ‘We remember.’

  ‘Mystery Man was in that vehicle. With Sheller.’

  ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘That face in profile, it’s him. But it’s not just there. I know him from someplace else.’

  ‘Where—’

  He reached for his phone and dialed a number, which rang several times before a gruff voice answered, audible even though the call wasn’t on spea
ker.

  ‘ADX Florence, Warden’s Office. Brodsky here.’

  Cutter ignored Difiore’s sharp breath and Quindica’s stiffening. ‘Joe, Cutter here. I need your help.’

  ‘Nothing good ever comes of that,’ the officer grumbled. ‘I was about to leave for home. A warm dinner and my kids. They’re a damned sight more tempting than talking to you.’

  ‘Please. This won’t take more than a minute. I wouldn’t call if it wasn’t important.’

  ‘The last time you called, I had a brutal killing in my prison.’

  ‘Mr. Brodsky.’ The SAC snatched the phone and turned it on speaker. ‘This is Peyton Quindica, FBI Special Agent in Charge, New York Office, sir. Detective Gina Difiore of the NYPD is with us as well. She and I are leading a joint NYPD-FBI Task Force looking into several high-profile crimes. Mr. Grogan’s previous calls to you, sir, those were personal. This is official. I’ll be happy to get FBI Director Bart Jamison to give you a call to verify my credentials, sir.’

  A long silence. A chair creaked. A bottle opened and a sigh.

  ‘Cutter?’

  ‘Yeah, I’m right here.’

  ‘This lady is who she says she is?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘I’m going to shoot you next time I see you.’

  ‘I’ll give you the opportunity.’

  ‘What do you want to know?’

  ‘I used to meet you when I was in prison.’

  ‘I remember, Cutter. Let’s not rehash history.’

  ‘One time I came to your office, you were watching a meeting on your screen. Jeff Sheller had a visitor.’

  ‘Gunner? Heck, Cutter, you expect me to remember all his visitors from all those years ago?’

  ‘He wouldn’t have had many. You’ll have recordings. You don’t destroy them.’

  ‘We don’t record their conversation.’

  ‘It’s the video I’m interested in.’

  Brodsky grumbled and cursed, but Cutter knew it was an act.

  The warden had to be taken into confidence for Farhaan Zaidi’s insertion in the prison, and over time he and the special forces operative had become friends. That the official had been a Ranger helped create a bond.

  ‘I have close to fifty videos with me. Where do I start?’

  ‘Do you have a record of when you and I met?’

  ‘My life was good before you entered it, Cutter,’ Brodsky grouched. A drawer opened. Stationery rattled. ‘Let’s see …’ he said to himself. ‘Yeah, here we go. Good thing I keep a journal.’

  The sounds of pages flipping, a toneless whistle, a grunt. ‘Here we go. There’s just one day that our meeting coincided with a visitor. I’ve got the clip with me. Where can I send it?’

  Quindica gave him a cloud address and swiveled the screen toward herself to log in.

  ‘Got it, sir,’ she nodded.

  ‘Can I go now?’

  ‘Stay a moment,’ Cutter requested. ‘Let us go through it.’

  The SAC opened the file, turned the screen towards them and pressed play.

  It was years old, but the camera angle was good. Sheller, bull-like, his back to them. His visitor seated across from him at a table in a large empty room. An armed guard in the distance.

  ‘That’s him,’ Difiore said, comparing the video to the photograph she had on her phone. ‘No doubt about it.’

  ‘You got a name for him, Joe?’ Cutter asked his friend.

  ‘I figured you’d ask me that. Doug Mease. Sheller’s cousin from Texas. Take down his address. That’s the only time he visited.’

  ‘Did Sheller have any other family visit?’

  ‘Nope. Only his lawyer.’

  ‘Thanks, Joe. I owe you one.’

  By the time Brodsky had hung up after more grumbling, Quindica and Difiore had gotten on their phones.

  ‘That address is fake,’ the SAC said presently.

  ‘I doubt that’s his cousin. As far as I know, Sheller had no family.’ Cutter wrinkled his brow.

  ‘I got a hit.’ The detective snapped her fingers, drawing their attention. ‘There’s a Doug Mease who did time … here’s his record. Partner in an accounting firm. Convicted for tax fraud. Served in Otisville. Here’s his prison photo.’

  It was a match.

  ‘Where’s he now?’

  ‘No record. Dropped off the face of the earth.’

  Cutter looked down the hallway blankly as he tried to make sense of it. Why would a convicted accountant be so important to Sheller? Did he keep the Lions’ books?

  ‘Anything from your task force?’ he asked his visitors. ‘Cray’s laptop might have something on Mease.’

  ‘Not yet. He’s likely to be just another white nationalist, a fan of Sheller’s. The gang made use of his accounting experience.’

  He nodded. His guests were thinking along the same lines as he was. But something nagged at him.

  Otisville …

  He did an internet search for the prison on Difiore’s laptop. The first few hits were of notable prisoners. He browsed past them, conscious of the women looking over his shoulder. Ponzi scheme convicts, former politicians, conman hustlers …

  His fingers stopped scrolling at a name just as Quindica gasped.

  Kevin Rubin.

  102

  ‘They were in prison at the same time,’ Difiore exclaimed as she brought up the presidential candidate’s rap sheet. She read it aloud, searched for his records and found no link to Mease.

  ‘Nothing beyond their time in Otisville. Cutter? CUTTER?’ She shook his shoulder.

  He focused on her.

  ‘You drifted off. Are you okay?’

  ‘Yeah,’ he replied distractedly.

  ‘What’s on your mind?’

  ‘Something Jake Horstman said. That Sheller was working on something big. Mease, Rubin, the Rising Lions.’

  Difiore turned pale. She pushed her laptop away and turned to him.

  ‘Do you realize what you’re implying?’

  He nodded slowly. ‘Kevin Rubin, who has a good shot at being president, is a white supremacist. Everything about him since he left prison is a sham.’

  The only sound that followed was their breathing.

  ‘No,’ Quindica said hollowly. ‘It’s just a coincidence. Mease met Sheller in ADX for his own reasons—’

  ‘Look at the timeline,’ Cutter urged. ‘Search for Rubin’s TV appearances.’

  Difiore brought up a schedule of the candidate’s interviews.

  ‘The holdup at the bodega. Several other stores were hit that day. Rubin went on TV afterwards and criticized them. Tizzard’s rally—’

  ‘That was in Arizona. And—’

  ‘Wanna bet Tizzard and Sheller didn’t know each other? The shootout at the bodega again, The Elitist … every white nationalist violent incident, Rubin goes to the media. You still think it’s a coincidence?’

  Quindica bit her lips, played with a loose curl of hair and moved uneasily on her chair. ‘Grogan, if this is true … this is big.’

  ‘Understatement,’ Difiore said drolly.

  ‘I can’t go to the director with just this,’ the SAC said helplessly. ‘He’ll want more. You can’t move against a presidential candidate, one as high-profile as him, with something so circumstantial.’

  ‘It’s brilliant,’ Cutter replied unheedingly. ‘Mease and Rubin come together in Otisville. We’ll never know whose idea it was unless they confess. He comes out of prison and makes a show of reforming. Sheller throws in with them. He orchestrates supremacist violence. That’s the plank for the candidate. He denounces it. Calls for tougher policing, better law enforcement … it goes down well. Who doesn’t want that?’

  ‘Their end goal?’

  ‘Power. Imagine what they can do when they have the country in their hands.’

  His lips thinned grimly when Difiore couldn’t hide her shudder.

  ‘Grogan, did you hear me? Jamison will throw me out of his office if I go with this.’

&n
bsp; ‘Your task force might find something on Cray’s computer.’

  ‘If they don’t?’

  ‘I have an idea.’

  103

  ‘Have you heard from Gunner?’ Mease asked Rubin the next morning as he accepted the cup of coffee the candidate handed over.

  ‘Me? No. You have the communication line with him. We agreed about that.’

  ‘He’s not answering his phone,’ the strategist frowned as he looked out at Central Park. ‘We talk every day.’

  ‘He must be busy. He’s got a gang to run.’ The candidate looked up sharply. ‘That report on the news. Melrose building. That’s where you meet, right?’

  ‘Yeah. It’s cordoned off by the cops. What have they told your company, the one that owns it?’

  ‘What’s on TV. They busted a drug gang. You think it was the Lions?’

  ‘Nope.’ Mease shook his head decisively. ‘Gunner would have told us. Besides there’s no way the NYPD could have contained that. Our sources would have told us, as well. I tried Trejo; he’s gone on vacation and not answering either. But no. Whatever went down there doesn’t affect us.’

  ‘Good,’ Rubin smiled broadly, ‘because I’ve got news. Guess who’s coming to interview me tonight?’

  ‘Kevin,’ Mease said irritatedly, ‘you know I don’t do guessing games.’

  ‘Ellen Ronning!’

  The strategist gaped at him. ‘Ronning?’

  ‘Yeah. Her team reached out yesterday. They want to do a live profile on me. Farley accepted instantly. He and Parsons are on the moon.’

  The former accountant was stunned. Ronning, who had one of the highest viewerships in the country, was known for making or breaking politicians with her incisive questioning and exposés. She was at the forefront of every presidential election, interviewing the front-runner candidates, picking apart their policies and pledges. She didn’t endorse anyone, but there was correlation between a favorable interview by her and the election winner.

  She had stayed away from Rubin, however. She had declared publicly several times that any interview with him would be biased because of his distasteful past.