by Deek Rhew
Yeah, I know, but from where?
Not sure, but they’re there.
“Hello?” Sam yelled again. “Anyone want to buy some Tupperware?”
He waited, then a door opened. Sam heard the squeak of its rusty hinges all the way across the yard. Three men brandishing large weapons exited the building, accompanied by a big black Doberman.
Don’t do anything they will perceive as threating, Chet informed him.
Yeah, no shit. Is this the type of advice I pay you for?
You don’t pay me at all, so eff off.
Though Sam raised his hands to show he held nothing in them, the action did not seem to endear him to the large men as they approached.
“What do you want?” the first one asked. He had huge shoulders, a handlebar mustache, and, to round out the outfit, a large gun aimed at Sam’s chest.
“I need to talk to your boss.”
“Oh, really? What about?”
“I have information he will be interested in.”
“Uh huh. And what would that be?”
Sam had thought about this exact situation on the way. He had to convince these guys to let him in. “It’s not for you, it’s for him. It’s business.”
The man sneered. “Look, I don’t know what you got or who you think we work for, but I suggest you get on your little bike and pedal your ass out of here before I get even more annoyed than I already am.” He turned and started to walk away, the others following.
“I have inside information on Laven Michaels. I could go to the authorities with it, I suppose, but I thought your boss might be more interested.”
The mustached man turned and came back, regarding Sam. “What exactly do you have?”
“I’m not going to stand out here handing out all I know to some two-bit thug. Now, are you going to let me in or not?”
The man stared at Sam for a long time then motioned to one of the other men to unlock the gate. The third man, who now had the dog on a leash, kept the gun in his free hand trained on Sam. As the gate slid open, an indignant squeal of un-lubricated steel on steel pierced the vacant yard, and Sam pushed his bike through.
“No, the bike stays out here.”
Sam looked around. “In this neighborhood, it’ll get stolen. Besides, what I need is in the bag.”
“Well, that’s just a chance you’re going to have to take. You want to see my boss, you’re going to do it my way. Get what you need, but the bike stays.” Sam had expected a confrontation about his bike and been prepared to leave it behind. He wanted to make the thugs feel in control and less apt to pull the trigger.
Sam got the file he needed from the bike and stepped through the gate. The man with the dog frisked him, relieving Sam of his Sig Sauer.
Metal grated as the remaining men closed and locked the sliding gate. “Let’s go.” They surrounded him as they marched toward the door.
The gloomy light inside the building felt like a weight as the men marched Sam down the hall. The peeling paint revealed large, origin-unknown stains that reminded him of Rorschach tests.
Chet observed each of these inkblots with his usual tact. Dead guy. Murdered guy. Gutted guy. Why do people make such a big deal about this? Seems pretty straightforward to me.
The thugs led Sam to an open door. Inside, a large man sat at a huge wooden desk, reviewing papers that were strewn helter-skelter across its surface.
Sam added the file he had brought with him to the jumble. “I think you should look this over.”
Without looking up, the boss picked up the file and started reading. The room remained silent except for the occasional sound of turning paper. Finally, he said, “So you have a lot of information on my friend Mr. Michaels’ organization.” He looked up. “All very interesting. How did you come by such information and why did you bring it here?”
“I need a favor. Something that needs to be done in exchange.”
The man laughed quietly. “I see. Well you are not in a very good position to negotiate. I have all that I want, and you have…well, nothing.” He shrugged his meaty shoulders as if to say, “What can you do?” Sam did not reply, so the man continued, “Mr. Michaels is, of course, being released soon. The case against him is falling apart, and I see that there is information about that in here too.” He paused and appeared to be thinking.
This was the tipping point, and though Sam kept his face impassive, his heart picked up its pace.
The man behind the large desk regarded Sam for a long time. “Tell me what you want.”
Relief flooded Sam’s veins, and he began to talk.
46
Angel and Monica stopped at a joint only a little nicer than the Stardust Motel Monica had stayed at the night she’d fled the explosion. At two in the morning, fatigue had overwhelmed them, so they’d chosen it at random. Monica lay in bed, listening to the night in search of a threat, but sleep beckoned.
To her surprise, she awoke—alive—at eleven the next morning to drizzly skies. With all that had happened, she’d half expected Tyron to find and kill them during the night. Maybe Peter had taken care of him. Or maybe Peter lay dead in the middle of the dingy restaurant, and even now the madman sought to tie up the little loose end.
She nudged her friend. “Ang, wake up.”
Angel had her arm wrapped around Monica’s waist, a little puddle of drool collecting on the pillow. The corner of Monica’s mouth turned up in a half smile. At fifteen, she and her best friend had slept in this same position, except now they huddled together in a hotel somewhere south of New York while a murderer, with death inked on his heart like a tattoo, stalked them.
“Hmmm,” Angel murmured without opening her eyes.
“It’s late, hon. We should get going.”
“Are we dead?”
Monica smiled. “Not yet.”
“Is Tyron or whatever his name…is he at the door?”
“No.”
“Good. Okay, give me ten more minutes.” She snored, light puffs of air emanating from her slack face.
Monica chuckled and stroked her friend’s hair. The girl had given up her life in The Cove and had then put that life at risk for Monica several times now. Ten minutes didn’t seem like too much to ask.
An hour later, Monica and Angel picked up a map of New York City and made a plan to get to FBI headquarters.
Then comes the hard part. “So,” Monica started, “what are we going to do when we get there? It’s one thing to say we’re gonna waltz in and demand to see Jon, but actually getting results is a completely different matter. They’ll probably just throw us out. Then what?”
Angel shook her head. “Don’t overthink it, Mon. We’ll just walk up to the front desk, tell them who you are, and ask to talk to Jon.”
“Just like that?”
“Just like that.”
Monica gave her friend the once over as if really seeing her for the first time. “You know, you’re pretty good at this sort of thing.”
“I know, right? These last few days, I’ve been thinking about going into law enforcement. I could do a hell of a better job than Crew Cut.”
“That wouldn’t take much. But honestly, I’m really proud of you. No matter what happens and how this thing plays out, you need to go to school and follow through with it.”
“I will.” Angel sounded business-like, but a satisfied smile played on her friend’s face as she started navigating the busy New York City streets.
* * *
The area around 26 Federal Plaza had been cordoned off, so Angel and Monica parked the car several blocks away. Angel strode with purpose. She didn’t hesitate before barging through the door of one of the most powerful law enforcement agencies in the world.
They had to pass through a metal detector then watch as burly and well-armed security guards went through their purses before being allowed in. Monica trailed in Angel’s wake as she marched up to the front desk.
A middle-aged woman, hair in a tight bun and wearing way too much blue eye shadow, asked if she could help them, though her severe face told them she would prefer to do anything but.
Angel looked her in the eye. “We need to talk to Jon. Can you call him down please?”
The receptionist gave them a placating smile that said she dealt with crazies and egomaniacs all day. “We have several Jon’s. Do you know his last name?”
Angel looked at Monica. “He told me it’s Smith,” she said, “but somehow I don’t think that’s his real name.”
Angel turned back to the receptionist. “Then no.”
“I see. So what is this in regards to?”
“This woman”—Angel put her hand on Monica’s shoulder—“was in the Witness Protection program. Only your agents screwed up and let someone almost kill her, several someones actually. She got away, with no help from anyone here I might add, and”—she flicked her hand toward the woman’s desk—“shouldn’t you be writing this down?”
The receptionist shot her a condescending look. “No, I think I can remember it. So your...what? Client? Are you her lawyer?”
“No, she’s my friend.”
“Okay, so your friend was in Witness Protection? What is your friend’s name?”
“Her real name is Monica Sable, but your goons gave her the ironic name Susan Rosenberg.”
“I see. And why was she in the Witness Protection program?”
Angel sighed. “Is it really relevant? Seems like we should be telling this to an actual agent.” She paused for emphasis. “Not the secretary.”
The woman bristled, but, to her credit, remained calm. “I need to have a little more information before I know if I am going to call one of our ‘actual’ agents or if I am going to ask my uniformed friends to escort you from the premises.”
Angel scoffed, the words failing to intimidate her. “Fine. She overheard some mob guys planning a hit, and the FBI needed her as a witness so they could put them in jail. Only instead of protecting her, they stuck her in a shitty little town in the middle of nowhere. The bad guys found her and blew up her house.”
“So you’re telling me she survived being blown up in her house?”
“No.” Angel huffed and rolled her eyes. “Obviously she wasn’t in the house. Her boss, Lisa, was. Look, we’ve been driving for days. Someone from the mob almost killed us, twice, and for all we know, he’s still out there. Are you going to call someone to come help us or not?”
The receptionist’s pinched face spoke to her exasperation, but instead of asking them to leave, she sized Monica up. “Who was the defendant you were testifying against?”
“Laven Michaels.”
For a second, the woman’s eyes widened. She picked up a phone and whispered into it, then returned the receiver to its cradle. “Someone will be down in a few minutes. Please take a seat.” She pointed to a bench on the other side of the foyer.
Once they made it out of earshot, Monica leaned over, giggling. “‘Shouldn’t you be writing this down?’ Girl, you have balls. Big, brass ones.”
“It’s all about intimidation with these people.”
“How do you know all this?”
Angel shrugged. “Haven’t you ever watched TV?”
A few minutes later, a nondescript man in a dark suit approached them. “Hello, ladies. I am Special Agent Martin, please come with me.” He led them to a handle-less door.
Fear and trepidation gripped Monica’s heart as their new friend typed in a number on an inset keypad.
“What is it?” Angel asked her.
“Déjà vu.”
“Well, love, it’s what’s gotta be done. I’ll be with you this time.”
That helped, though it didn’t entirely quell the quaking in her heart.
The lock buzzed open, and they stepped across the threshold.
47
Monica’s sense of déjà vu deepened as Martin lead them down a familiar white hallway and back to a small room that could have been the twin of the one she’d been in before. The sensory recall slammed into her like a speeding New York taxi.
He set up three chairs around a small round table and left.
Monica couldn’t sit and began pacing. “Ang, are you sure about this?”
“It’s a hell of a time to have second thoughts. You know there really isn’t any other choice. What else are we going to do? Keep running for the rest of our lives?”
Monica stopped. “It’s an option.”
“It’s not an option. Besides, this time you’re not alone. Between the two of us, we’ll kick their ass.”
She frowned. “You mean like at the restaurant?”
Angel took a seat as though she had the whole thing figured out. “Look, we had it under control. If that Peter guy hadn’t shown up, we’d have thought of something. Besides, compared to the mob, these FBI guys should be a walk in the park. At least they have to follow the rules.”
Monica heard Angel’s words, but she didn’t believe them. The FBI had been in control of her life—dictating what she could and couldn’t do, flying her in to testify, questioning her every move, listening in to her conversations, herding her like they were sheepdogs and she the only member of the flock—for so long, she didn’t remember how it felt to not be under their thumb. They made the rules and seemed free to change them at any time to suit their needs.
A half hour later, Martin returned, carrying a clipboard and a pen. He took the empty seat. “Hello, ladies. Sorry for the wait.”
What had taken thirty minutes? Another intimidation technique? A chance for them to change their minds?
Angel must have wondered the same thing. “Where have you been? Why did it take you so long to get something to write on?”
Martin stared at her. “I didn’t catch your name.”
“Angel Humbolt, and I don’t like being kept waiting unnecessarily.”
“Noted.” Martin wrote something on the clipboard. He turned to Monica. “I understand you are Monica Sable?”
She nodded.
“And you are in Witness Protection?”
“Yes. My new name, my alias, is Susan Rosenberg.”
“I see.” Martin scribbled some more on his clipboard.
“We are here to see Jon.” Angel tapped the table, an impatient look broadcast on her face.
“So I’ve been told.”
Angel held up her hands. “Well?”
“Well, I need to confirm your story before we can contact him.”
Angel pushed Martin’s clipboard onto the table, staring him in the eyes. “It’s not a story. Your agents screwed up, and if it weren’t for her quick thinking, she’d be dead.”
He continued to stare at Angel, but asked Monica, “Where were you relocated to, Ms. Sable?”
“Walberg, Arizona. It’s a total shithole.”
“Do you have identification?” The agent turned his attention to Monica.
She dug out her Arizona driver’s license. “I don’t have my real one. The agents took it.”
“I will need your identification too.” He spoke at Angel but did not bother to look her way.
Angel frowned at Martin. “Why?”
“Standard procedure.”
“It’s the line they use for everything illegal they do,” Monica informed her.
Angel pulled out her California driver’s license and handed it to him.
Martin studied their IDs then stood. “Please be patient, ladies. I’ll be back.” He opened the door to leave.
“Wait,” Angel called.
He turned, his eyebrows raised as he regarded her.
“Can you do something about these?” She picked up one of Monica’s hands, showing him the handcuffs.
“Probably. Once we run the police reports to verify you aren’t wanted, we’ll talk about it.” With that, he left.
“Jesus, really?” Angel flipped off the closed door.
&
nbsp; “Really. This is pretty much what happened last time. I was pissed the first time too. I think they leave you in here to wear you down.”
According to Angel’s watch, which they had to rely on this time, Martin had been gone for over an hour when the door opened again.
“It’s about time…” Angel’s eyes grew wide when a different agent entered the room. “Who are you?”
Amusement flicked across the man’s face. “You must be Angel. I’ve heard so much about you. My name is Jon.”
“You’re Jon?” Angel appraised him. “You’re shorter than I pictured.”
He chuckled. “And you’re exactly the way I pictured.”
They sat opposite each other, squaring off in silence for a few heartbeats.
He then turned to Monica. “You surprised me. First of all, we closed your case because we thought you were dead. If it wasn’t your ashes they pulled from that house, whose were they?”
Angel threw her hands up in the air. “Seriously? You don’t know?”
“Well, sometimes even we don’t know everything. See, that’s why we interview witnesses, to gather all the information.” He turned back to Monica. “So, if you know the answer, please enlighten me.”
“That was my boss, Lisa Bunder. She owns...owned the lawyer’s office where I worked.”
“Ah, that explains that.”
“That explains what?” Angel leaned in as she had done with Martin. “If you want information from us, it has to be give and take. Monica was kept in the dark too long.”
Jon’s eyes lit up with an emotion resembling amusement. “It explains the missing persons report filed by Lisa’s husband. He was the primary suspect in a foul play investigation. Seems they had a very…tumultuous relationship. We had a working theory he got tired of her and did something about his little problem.”
Monica nodded. “Yes, she and her husband had issues, and sometimes, she stayed the night with me. She was a pain in the ass, but she was my friend. Your agents messed up, and because of that, she’s dead.”
“That may be true, but it seems that you were the one who messed up.”