Eye of the Burning Man: A Mick Callahan Novel (The Mick Callahan Series)

by Harry Shannon

  Donato grinned. "Okay. I needed to make a heroic impression, so I've already been around the yard twice. Want to come with me the third time?"

  I followed him into the house. We closed and locked the door. Peanut was curled up on the couch, dressed in pink pajamas and sipping some water from a tall plastic cup. I noticed that she sat up and primped her hair when she saw Donato coming. I got that vaguely sick feeling again. Physician, heal thyself. I stopped and patted her on the shoulder.

  "I think that boy wants you, Peanut."

  "He's nice," she said. "You don't mind?"

  "Don't be silly. Now, what happened?"

  "I guess it was nothing. I'm sorry if I worried you, Mick."

  "Don't be ridiculous. I'm glad you called. Mary still sleeping?"

  "Like the dead."

  "Mick?" Donato, from the yard. "Can you come out here a second?"

  "I'll be right back."

  I stepped out onto the porch, waited for my eyes to adjust. Larry Donato was standing in the far corner of the yard, shining his flashlight on the ground. "This look right?"

  The area around the telephone line was trampled. The panel was open, but the wires had not been cut. I frowned and scratched my chin. I needed a shave. "I don't know, maybe somebody from the phone company? Nothing is damaged that I can see. Is the line still working?"

  "Like a charm," Donato said. "I already checked. But look at this." He moved a few feet away. The pale light from his flash illuminated the succulent garden at the back of the property. "Jesus, now I'm freezing my ass off for some reason."

  "Look at what, Larry?"

  "Where was it . . . over here?" Donato held the light steady. I got down on one knee. Something looked ominous. It was a circular, burned patch of grass, perhaps eight inches around. In the center of it lay a small black stone. The stone had a stick figure scratched on it.

  "I saw you got a lot of Oriental shit on your bookcase," Donato said. "So at first I thought that maybe this was a meditation thing, but didn't you say the asshole that jumped you had a tattoo?"

  "Yeah, and it looked something like that. A stick figure surrounded by flames." I touched the grass. The burned blades crumbled beneath my fingers. I sniffed the cinders and palmed them. They were still quite warm. "It's a burning man, sort of like at that festival."

  "What does it mean?"

  "I don't rightly know, but the lady wasn't hearing things, Larry. Somebody was out here."

  "This some kind of voodoo shit?"

  Voodoo? I thought of Fancy and my stomach clenched. "Maybe."

  Donato knelt at my side. "You're pushing my limits. I'm an officer of the law, remember? Now, I'm always happy to help out a beautiful woman, but I need to know what's going on."

  "Turn out the light, Larry."

  He did. The night closed in around us. We continued by starlight. "I don't know much. That girl I went to get, out in Pomona? That was Mary. She had a pimp, a rich, powerful, bad-tempered dude. This may be a message."

  "Saying you're not out of reach?"

  "Look, nothing is really broken or out of place, nobody got hurt, and I can't prove anything. And what do you want to bet there are no fingerprints on this piece of stone?"

  "No bet."

  "I need one last favor," I said.

  He saw it coming. "No."

  "It's simple. Please don't saying anything to anybody. Just sit on this for a few days."

  "Let's see now," Donato said, "and you're not going to tell me why because . . . ?"

  "Because it's better you don't know." I don't want you complicit in helping someone evade a felony warrant. That could end your career.

  "You know, I plan on making some serious moves on Suzanne, so I'm going to find out eventually."

  "Later, Larry."

  "Oh. Well, fuck you too, then." Donato sighed, got up and jogged into the house, calling back over his shoulder. "I am freezing my butt off. Give me something to drive home in, and we'll call it a night."

  I went inside, grabbed the XL L.A. Rams jersey from the back of the armchair and tossed it to Larry Donato. He slipped it down over his shoulders. Peanut was standing at the kitchen sink. Larry winked at her.

  "Suzanne? I'll call you in the morning. Maybe we'll go grab something to eat, okay?"

  "Okay." Peanut blushed, busied herself with tightening her robe.

  "Callahan? One more thing." Donato opened the front door.

  "Sure."

  "Don't ask me to keep any more secrets, okay?"

  "I won't. Thanks." I followed him to the door and watched him drive away. I went back inside. Peanut had gone into the bathroom, probably to avoid being teased about Donato. Another emotion had replaced the pang of jealousy. Damn it, I envy them. The way they look at one another, the things they're both thinking and feeling right now. It had been many years since I'd allowed myself to fall in love.

  I went to the bathroom door and tapped. "Sleep well."

  "You too," Peanut said. She was busily brushing her teeth. I went back out into the living room, stood in one place for a long moment, thinking about Leyna Barton, then shook off the maudlin mood and went to the kitchen.

  I opened the cabinet and removed a can of cat food; clicked my tongue and listened for paws on wooden floorboards.

  Silence.

  I opened the back door and called for Murphy, but saw no sign of the old dude. Perhaps startled by all the activity, he refused to come in.

  I checked that all the doors and windows were locked and tried, with little success, to sleep. Then I noticed that the red light on the bedside answering machine was blinking. I listened to the morose voice, and then replayed the message again. Jerry had phoned me from Nevada.

  I did not return the call.

  SEVEN

  "Is anyone here in their first thirty days of sobriety?"

  The leader was a short, rotund woman in a red pants suit. She had silver hair and a grin-inducing, squeaky voice. She looked around the room, and eventually her eyes came to rest on Mary. After a few seconds of silence, she blushed and got to her feet. Peanut was sitting beside Larry Donato, who had come along out of curiosity. We all applauded along with the others.

  "My name is Mary," she said, for the very first time. Her voice trembled. "I am an alcoholic and a drug addict."

  It was another warm night. Mary was well scrubbed, and seemed healthy again. She wore a bright yellow dress, very little make-up, and a ribbon in her hair. She was a completely different person. This was a change I'd seen often in my years in the program, but had never completely gotten used to. A few minutes into the sharing, the leader chose her. Mary reddened, but spoke clearly and forcefully. "I feel like I have learned a lot in the last couple of weeks, but I'm on pretty thin ice. I still want to get high a lot of the time."

  "Hey," a woman said, "you're not the only one."

  Laughter. "You guys tell me not to think about anything but staying clean, but it's hard not to be afraid of my past catching up to me. There are a couple of people I never want to see again, some legal problems, that sort of stuff. And some of the things I did . . . well, I would rather not remember."

  "Just the wreckage of the past," a man whispered, half to himself.

  "But some of these people are bad. Scary. Does anybody know what I mean?" A few people nodded. "But I guess I will just have to keep taking it one day at a time, or I'll never get my thirty days. Thank you."

  She sat down to applause. Peanut leaned past Larry Donato and squeezed her hand.

  Some of these people are bad, and scary. I felt uncomfortable and glanced up. A heavily made-up girl wearing sunglasses was staring right at me. I almost waved but caught myself. She looked familiar at first, but then I couldn't place her. She broke eye contact, turned and walked out of the room. Probably someone else who's seen the billboard, I thought. Take it easy.

  As the next person shared, I got to my feet and went to the lavatory. The room had gray tiles with black grout and smelled of antiseptic. I threw w
ater on my face and washed my hands. Someone else entered the room hurriedly; more footsteps followed, and my survival instincts kicked into high gear. I turned carefully, while reaching for a paper towel.

  Three men dressed in business suits. One wore sunglasses. The tallest was a skinny man in his thirties with auburn hair and a light dusting of freckles. He stayed by the door and quietly slid the lock into pace. My pulse jumped up a notch. The shortest, a stout middle-aged man who was nearly bald, stood next to the one in sunglasses and kept his arms folded over his chest. Laurel and Hardy. I felt giddy. What was it that Mary had said about the past catching up to her?

  The third man removed his sunglasses, folded them, and tucked them neatly into his pocket. He closed the distance to the sink, washed his hands daintily and dabbed his face with a wet towel. He had clear, intense hazel eyes and neatly combed blond hair. He turned, face only inches away from mine. His breath smelled of mint.

  "I fucking hate California," he said, softy. "The appalling heat. The foul odor of smog."

  "So leave."

  "I want to, Mr. Callahan, truly I do."

  "That happens all the time." I manufactured a wide smile.

  "What does?"

  "That radio guy. I guess I look a lot like him. People come up and ask me for autographs and stuff. Silly, huh?"

  Something slammed into my kidney. I moaned and sagged forward. Four strong arms caught me from behind. I measured the distance to the third man's testicles, but held myself in check. Who are these people?

  "Guys, that was very rude."

  "My name is Fields, Mr. Callahan," the dapper man said. "Agent Jack Fields of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, Baltimore Division. I work with a group called the Innocent Images Initiative. I am also a liaison with the U.S. Department of Justice, Criminal Division, with respect to Child Exploitation and Obscenity."

  "Your mother must be very proud."

  Knuckles struck my other kidney. This time I kicked out at Fields, but the agent had already stepped to one side, and I only managed to knock over the trash container.

  "What the hell did I do, what is this?"

  "Knock it off," Fields said. He frowned at his subordinates. "There's no need for that yet."

  "Yet? That's comforting. Do you mind if I ask to see some ID?"

  "Not at all." Fields opened his calfskin wallet, flashed an FBI identification card listing his name and phone. I committed the number to memory.

  "Agent Fields, what the hell are you hassling me for, especially at something as benign as an AA meeting?"

  Fields began trimming his nails. I noticed that he wore a new Rolex. "I wanted to ask you a few questions in private, and it would have been inconvenient had you decided to have an attorney present. This way we can have a candid, off-the-record conversation. Are you reading me?"

  I just stared. "So far. Go on."

  "You turned up in a surveillance photograph, and that fact disturbed me."

  "Why is that, Agent Fields?"

  "A public figure like you should be very careful about the company he keeps, Mr. Callahan. If a photograph like this were to fall into the wrong hands, especially after our investigation is finished and the subject goes to trial, the implications for your career prospects would be dire."

  Now I was genuinely curious. "Would you mind letting me see the photograph you're talking about?"

  Fields slid a brown envelope from his jacket pocket. I started to reach for it, but the other two men still held my arms from behind. Fields opened the envelope and slid a couple of eight-by-ten color prints into his hand.

  A tall man was standing in the shadowy street, holding a gun pointed down at the ground. He was talking to a small, handsome black man with a withered left arm. Fields showed me the second shot, and in this one my face was visible.

  "Fancy."

  "So you admit you're cozy with the little prick?" It was one of the agents behind me. Fields shot the man an annoyed glance.

  I sighed. "Cozy is not the word I would choose."

  "What word would you choose, then?" Fields relaxed a bit. "Please do define this relationship. I shall be most attentive."

  "Quid pro quo," I said. "First, was this picture taken by a camera on some kind of timer?"

  "Why do you ask?"

  "Because I want to know if you saw what happened a few seconds before and after the photograph was taken."

  Fields studied me without expression. Finally he answered. "This particular photograph was taken by a camera hidden in a deserted building. It takes a shot every sixty seconds, and then forwards each image to our central computer. Satisfied?"

  "Yes, and don't worry. All you missed was me getting into a scuffle with the two street punks Fancy sent after me."

  "And why was that?"

  "First have these honor students let me go. I think you and I can do some business."

  Fields nodded. The other two agents released me and stepped back. Someone knocked on the restroom door. The short, bald agent said, "Out of order, man. Somebody took a dump and it backed up all over the place. Sorry." The footsteps went away.

  I continued to address Fields. "A girl Fancy was pimping and using in porn called me for help. She wanted to get sober. I went out to get her."

  "And?"

  "That's it."

  "How old is this girl?"

  "I don't know for sure, but she is well into her late twenties, maybe even thirty."

  "Can I talk to her?"

  "Not yet, she's newly sober and shaky. She already tried to run once. I want to give her a fighting chance."

  "And what if I say I am just going to talk to her anyway?"

  I shrugged. "I have an LAPD officer sitting in the next room. There are also several attorneys present. A couple of them are friends of mine, and one does personal work for the Mayor. I will have the local law involved, and her ass covered up, in less than thirty seconds. It will take you months to get her in for a deposition."

  "You're a prick," Fields said, a small hint of admiration in his tone. "Just so you know, according to our latest information Fancy is probably aware of that hidden camera. That may be the only reason you're not pushing up daisies."

  "Gee, does that mean I owe you one?"

  "You think you're bad, don't you?" Laurel said. "He thinks he's bad."

  "Me? I'm a pussycat." I kept my face pleasant. Kidnappings and child pornography. What if this ties into Blanca and her missing nephew? "Now you answer me something, Fields. Are you trying to tell me that Fancy makes and distributes kiddy porn over the Internet?"

  "I'm telling you he is under suspicion," Fields said. He reached into the envelope for some other photographs. "Take a look at these."

  A small African-American boy was naked, crying; apparently being fondled by someone wearing panty hose over his face to distort his features. I thought of Blanca's nephew Loco again. Damn, could it really make sense that it was Fancy who ordered that boy kidnapped? The man who kidnapped Loco was described as white. Weren't all of Fancy's boys black or was it maybe just the ones I saw?

  I looked down again. Another photo showed a nude Oriental-looking girl wearing eyeliner and lipstick. A third showed a prepubescent white boy and a heavily made-up little girl kissing and fondling one another.

  I gave the photographs back to Fields. "You've made your point." But I need to know if you're for real before I tip my hand. Why slap me around in a toilet if you're who you say you are?

  "Good. You don't need any further motivation?"

  "No."

  "Then let me inform you of something else," Fields said. "I take my work seriously, Mr. Callahan. I take it very seriously. You might say that I am on a bit of a personal crusade, here. If I can prove what I suspect is true, your Mr. Fancy is going to go down in a big way. Would that bother you?"

  "No. This crap is as distasteful to me as it is to you."

  "Then I need your help. What do you know that we don't?"

  An awkward silence followed. He's barga
ining. He is a self-centered and ambitious man. He won't believe me unless he thinks there's something in it for me, too. "Look, I think we can work something out."

  "How?" Fields asked.

  "You know I do radio, so you probably know I used to do investigate reporting. I want to get back into it. I've been talking to a network about doing a new television show."

  "So?"

  "You help me, I help you. I want you to feed me a solid exclusive on your investigation, smashing a ring of child pornographers. Do we have a deal?"

  Fields studied me. "Maybe we can do business."

  I nodded. And just maybe I'll buy enough time to decide what to do, and how to approach this if Fancy does have Loco.

  "How did you get on to Fancy's operation in the first place?"

  "For more than a decade, there has been one primary ring operating in the United States." Fields coughed daintily, as if offended by the restroom's odor. "They are gigantic, and no one seems able to touch them. A cynic might say that it's because they have some friends in high places. I'm a cynic."

  "Me too."

  "Our sources tell us that now a second production and distribution ring has popped up, and this just in the last several months. It's a small-time operation but seems to have caught on fast. And because of that, it already has a great deal of capital. It is growing rapidly enough to be a serious concern."

  "And you think this new guy is Fancy."

  "Do you know the work of Stephen Whitelaw? He is at Buchanan International Security, the software firm near Glasgow, Scotland."

  "I remember reading something about him. He was trying to find a way to track what he called the dark side of the world-wide web."

  "Correct. It was his people who tipped us to a second U.S. ring, and how rapidly it was growing. Father Rinaldi did the rest."

  "I have heard of a Father Fortunato Di Noto. Do they work together?"

  "No, but it was Father Di Noto who inspired Father Rinaldi. These gentlemen are a great help to us. They work with our agents by going on line pretending to be teens looking for older lovers, or pedophiles looking for kiddy porn. When they identify a contact, they pass the information along."

  "And you put the ring out of business."