Blood Trails

by Michael A. Black

  At first Knox had figured that allowing the kid to get his Corvette back would simplify the search. He hadn’t figured on the prick stashing it. After waiting here two hours, it was obvious Matthew had another set of wheels. And there was no telling, given his twisted psyche, just when he’d be back to collect the ’vette.

  Nothing to do now but wait.

  Wait, and contemplate early retirement.

  Jetters had agreed to give him a healthy severance package once this last job was completed, as long as all the bases were covered.

  Knox smiled at the recollection. If the old fart only knew.

  He must have supposed telling me everything would keep him off the hook, Knox thought. And after all, knowing the story was one thing. Being able to prove it was quite another. Especially as fantastic as the claims would be. He’d had a hard time believing it himself. He’d always known that Jetters had some heavy-duty connections, but now that he knew the entire scope of the operation reached all the way to Washington, from the former President’s new heart, to the senator from Massachusetts’ new liver. Secretly cloning organs for the rich and powerful. It was dynamite, and the elite would never want it to come out. To think it all started with some cloning experiments with a serial killer’s DNA. Knox was glad that he’d had the foresight to keep Norton’s original hard drives. Not only would they be worth a bundle, they were the best life insurance policy he could have.

  It was all about thinking one or two moves ahead. Keep them watching your right hand, while you were setting up the next trick with your left. Sleight-of-hand, and he was going to be a very rich man, once this final matter was run to ground.

  Knox checked the GPS monitoring position for any movement. Nothing. But that was okay. Sooner or later the kid would come back for that damn car.

  And when he does, Knox thought, it’ll all be over.

  Colby stood on the sidewalk at Van Buren and Clark, just outside the Metropolitan Correction Center waiting for his cell phone to ring. Inside, he knew Dix was being held in a detention cell and wondered if he was somewhere looking out one of those slit-like windows. Colby hoped that his little fracas at the office had slowed Bosworth and whomever they were sending over for the interrogation. The phone rang in his pocket. He took it out and pressed the button.

  “Yeah,” he said.

  “I’m in position,” Leslie said. “What’s your extension?”

  He heard her giggle. “It’s four-five-two-six.

  None other than his office itself.”

  Colby couldn’t help but smile. “How’d you manage that?”

  “I told him I had to make a sensitive call to Toronto and my cell was still out. He offered his office without hesitation.”

  “I think he’s sweet on you,” Colby said, suddenly wishing he hadn’t. “Anyway, after we get this little matter taken care of, you’d better really call your boss in case he checks the phone records later.”

  “Go for it,” she said as the connection went silent.

  Colby slipped the phone inside his pocket and stepped through the doors, flashing his badge at the guards manning the doors. He had to get this done fast…in the next few minutes.

  “I’m part of a federal task force,” he said. “Here to see a prisoner.”

  The guard asked for the pertinent information and punched Dix’s name into a computer terminal. Colby felt the sweat trickle from his armpits. His internal clock kept ticking away. If only Pearson stays away from his office long enough.

  The guard looked up and shook his head. “Sorry, Detective, but there’s a flag on this prisoner. Gotta have special permission from the SAIC to see him.”

  Colby tried to affix a perplexed look on his face. “Special Agent Pearson put it on there?”

  The guard checked the screen and nodded.

  “He did.”

  Colby chuckled. “You don’t know Pearson, do you?”

  The guard shook his head.

  “He’s a she,” Colby said. “Marion Pearson. A real pistol, too, if you know what I mean.” He gave the guard a knowing, guy-smile. “Carries her penis in her holster, and wants everybody to know it.”

  The guard smirked. Colby took this as a good sign.

  “She’s the one that sent me over here.” He handed the guard one of Pearson’s cards. “Here, call her and confirm if you want.”

  The guard looked at the card for a few moments, then back to the screen, before picking up the phone and punching in the numbers. Colby felt more sweat trickle down as he watched the man navigate through the answering service menu. Finally, he sat up a little straighter, and said, “Is this Special Agent Pearson?” He paused, then recoiled slightly. “Sorry, Ma’am. I meant to say that.”

  He paused again and Colby suppressed a grin. Leslie was apparently laying it on pretty thick. He hoped the timing would hold out.

  “There’s a Detective Colby here, CPD, ma’am, I mean special agent— in charge. He wants to see a prisoner you—” he stopped and recoiled slightly again. “Okay, I will. Thank you.” He hung up and shook his head. “Shit, I see what you mean.” Colby plucked Pearson’s card from the man’s hand.

  “Special Agent-In-Charge Pearson,” the guard said, giving a haughty lilt to his voice, “that’s what she told me to call her, said to tell you go on up, and that there’s two more agents from the task force on the way over.”

  Colby suddenly felt the urgency in his gut. The clock was ticking. He pulled his jacket back and removed his Sig Sauer. “Where can I check this?”

  The guard pointed to the left and picked up his phone. “I’ll have him brought to the interview room on the fifth floor for you.”

  After securing his pistol in the lockbox, Colby literally ran to the elevators. The slow ascent seemed to take forever. Finally, the doors opened and he was escorted down a narrow hallway to the door of the interview room. Hopefully, he’d be able to get in and out before the stooges arrived. “On the way over,” Leslie had told the guard. Her message to make it quick. He felt a pang of regret involving her in the subterfuge, but he had to get in to see Dix, and she was his one shot. Besides, she didn’t work for Pearson. She wasn’t even a citizen of this country. When it came right down to it, the Fed couldn’t do squat to her. Maybe he could nix giving her any more assistance, but from what she’d said last night, her investigation down here seemed to have run its course. That was something else, too. Her investigation ending meant she’d be leaving soon. How did he feel about that?

  His mental rumination was cut short by two guards escorting Dix, who was still clad in his civvies, but without belt and shoelaces, into the room. Dix had a brocade of white stubble on his cheeks and they’d taken his toupee. He looked shrunken and old.

  “I shouldn’t be too long,” Colby said to the guards. They nodded and left.

  Dix sat across from Colby, who kept glancing over his shoulder at the door.

  “I only got a few minutes. The Feds are sending the goon squad over.”

  “Figured as much. Man, it’s good to see you.”

  “What the hell happened?”

  “I fucked up.”

  “Tell me something I don’t know. What the hell were you doing at Laird’s?”

  Dix frowned and twisted his head away, looking at the wall as he spoke. “I was shadowing the guy, figuring maybe I’d catch him in the act. Or at least get a lead on who’s been working with him.”

  Colby stared at his ex-partner. “How do you know so much about the case?” As soon as he said it, the answer came to him. Their night of drinking, Dix sleeping on the couch, the misplaced file…Dix must have realized it, too, because he bit his lip and looked away.

  “Sorry, Rog. I just wanted to be a part of it again.”

  Colby blew out a slow breath and glanced at his watch.

  “Apologize later. What do you remember?”

  Dix leaned forward. “After I talked to you on the phone, I got the bright idea that I might be able to reason with Laird. Convince him t
o talk to me.” He paused. “Lame, I know, but if you remember, I was the one he opened up to before.” Colby nodded.

  “Well,” Dix said, “I got nothing, so I left him my cell number, giving the old spiel, if you want to talk, call me. I leave, and then he calls me back before I even got back to my car. I figured he was coming around.” He frowned. “No fool like an old fool, I guess.”

  “So you went back?”

  Dix nodded and scrunched up his mouth. “I walked in there, and the next thing I know, something hit me like a ton of bricks. I was on the floor, couldn’t move, then I musta blacked out.” He shook his head. “When I come to, I was kinda groggy. I start to get up, and all of a sudden a bunch of Feds are drawing down on me. Laird’s dead. Shot. And there’s this damn gun on the floor next to me.” He looked Colby straight in the eyes. “I swear to you, I ain’t never seen that gun before in my life. It was a Beretta nine mil, for Christ’s sakes. You know I never messed with anything other than a Smith or a Colt.”

  “What did Laird say to you when he called?”

  “I dunno. Something simple like, ‘Dix, come back.”

  “He called you by name?” Dix thought for a moment, then nodded.

  “Describe for me going in the room again,” Colby said. “Did it feel like somebody cold-cocked you?”

  Dix’s mouth twitched. “No. I ain’t never felt anything like it. It was like I was paralyzed. My muscles wouldn’t work.”

  “Could it have been a Taser or a stun gun?”

  “Didn’t have those when I was on the job.”

  Colby thought for a minute, then glanced at his watch again. Time was getting short and he couldn’t afford to bump into somebody from the taskforce coming to interview Dix. That’d land him in the Internal Affairs office in a hurry. He stood up and motioned for Dix to do the same.

  “Take off your shirt.”

  “What for?”

  “Just do it and turn around,” Colby said. “You, bashful?”

  Dix frowned and stripped off his shirt. Colby scrutinized his back and saw two small bumps in the center. He ran his fingers over them. Dix jerked at the touch. “Shit, what’s that?”

  “Taser marks. We’ve got to get a photograph of them.” He took out his cell phone and snapped a picture.

  Dix began tucking in his shirt. “You know any good lawyers?” Colby asked.

  Dix shrugged. “Not too many anymore.”

  “Okay, I’ll find one. Tell him to get proof of those marks before they fade. In the meantime, don’t give any statements to anybody.”

  “Like you need to tell me that.”

  “I mean it, Dix. They’ll probably be sending some guys to double-team you.”

  “Feds? Shit, what they gonna do? Slap my pee-pee?”

  “Bosworth’s working the taskforce. They might send him, thinking he’d be able to butter you up.”

  Dix snorted. “The day I can’t handle a scrotum like him, is the day they’ll be pissing on my grave.”

  Colby looked at his watch again.

  “I gotta get going. Can’t do us any good if I get suspended.”

  “Stay outta trouble, partner,” Dix said. “One of us in the shitter is bad enough.”

  “Is there anything else you can think of that happened while you were there? Anything or anybody out of the ordinary?”

  Dix thought for a long time, then shook his head. “To tell you the truth, it’s all kind of fuzzy.”

  Colby grabbed one of his cards from his inside pocket, scribbled his cell phone number on the back, and handed it to Dix.

  “Well keep going over it,” he said. “And call me if you think of anything.”

  Dix nodded, then compressed his lips. Colby thought he saw his ex-partner’s eyes mist over.

  “It looks bad, don’t it?”

  Colby took a deep breath, then patted Dix on the shoulder. “Hang tough.”

  Chapter 17

  While Colby waited back at the restaurant for Leslie to extricate herself from Pearson’s clutches, he scribbled notes on his pad. His cell phone kept vibrating, but each time he checked the incoming call, he saw it was the LT’s number at the District. He couldn’t afford to answer it. Once he was ordered to report, to explain Bosworth’s broken nose, no doubt, they’d hang him out to dry. And he had things he had to do. Number one was to figure out a way to clear Dix before the Feds crammed a frame around him that was so tight he’d need a jar of Vaseline to get out of it. Still, if Dix was being straight with him, then his innocence should become clear sooner or later.

  Yeah, he thought. In a perfect world.

  He thought it over again. Caught at the scene, a positive GSR test, the murder weapon, probably with his prints on it, nearby, and a revenge motive that Pearson could serve up for dessert. This probably meant they wouldn’t be able to clear the copycat cases, but they could try to blame that on Dix: He killed Laird, thereby eliminating the chance to figure out the identity of his accomplice in the copycat murders. Pearson had insinuated he liked Dix for those, too, but that case would take time, and would probably be unprovable. But Dix was certainly on the hook for Laird and Fontaine, and Pearson was going keep turning the screws. Federally, they could hold him for seventy-two hours before bringing charges, rather than the forty-eight the CPD was bound by, which gave Pearson that extra edge. He had dreams of breaking Dix down and getting a confession.

  Colby smiled. That was going to prove more difficult than they thought. Bosworth couldn’t rough Dix up, either. The interviews would be videotaped. Colby suddenly wondered if he’d been recorded earlier? That was another reason not to answer the LT’s calls.

  The waitress came by and refilled his cup. He’d already drunk a pot full, and his bladder was feeling the call. He got up and went to the washroom, and when he came back he saw Leslie sitting at his table.

  “How’d you know where I was at?” he asked.

  “I’m a detective, remember?” she said. “This is the same table we sat at earlier. I’ve known you long enough to establish that you’re a creature of habit.”

  He allowed himself a quick smile. “Any problems with our buddy Pearson?”

  “None. I didn’t even see him at all while I was in there. And I made a point of calling Toronto just in case he checks.”

  Colby nodded. She was sharp. He felt a twinge of regret again at involving her in his conspiracy. After all, it wasn’t her battle.

  “So, what did your friend say?” she asked.

  Colby gave her a quick run-down of his short session with Dix.

  She appeared to hang on each word. “And what’s our next move?”

  He reached over and touched her hand. “Look, this isn’t your fight. I’ve involved you enough in this. I don’t want you to get in trouble.”

  She frowned and shook her head. “You can’t do it alone. Isn’t that obvious?”

  He thought for a moment and nodded. “But—”

  “No buts,” she said. “I’m with you on this. However, I do have to do a few things on my own case while I’m down here, one of which is that e-mail I mentioned before.”

  “Okay,” he said, reaching in his pocket for his cell phone. “I’ll need to make a few calls first.” It rang as he held it in his hand, and he glanced at the number, wondering if it was Kropper again.

  But it wasn’t. It was the office, all right, but it was his own desk. Thinking of someone rifling through his stuff when he wasn’t there, he pressed the button and said, “Yeah?”

  The voice on the other end spoke in a hushed, but hurried whisper.

  “Rog, it’s Ray Brewer. You’d better get in here ASAP.”

  Knox was growing bored as he sat in his car across from the high, cyclone fence with the barbed wire strands running across the top. He reread the signs, for the thousandth time: RENTAL STORAGE FACILITY, with 24 Hour Access/Video Surveillance printed in smaller letters beneath it. The Corvette was in there someplace. The GPS had told him so hours ago, but it wasn’t quite accurate e
nough to show him exactly which shed Matthew had stashed it in.

  Knox took a deep breath and considered his options. He could continue waiting it out, certain that the punk would show up sooner or later. But what if it was later? Could he really afford to let him stay on the loose that long?

  The credit card transaction that he’d monitored earlier this morning on the dead tech’s American Express told him that Matthew had rented other wheels. But finding out exactly what kind was too risky. No matter what cover story he came up with to get the information, if the car rental clerk sensed too many red flags, he’d call the cops. It wouldn’t do to have Matthew stopped and possibly arrested before Knox caught him. Then the game would be over, and he’d have to pass Go and not collect his million dollars from Jetters.

  Not that the old man had any idea he was going to pay that much. But once Matthew was delivered, and Knox was relaxing on a beach somewhere in the Cayman Islands, he’d call Jetters and explain how his retirement parachute needed more fluff. What choice would the old fart have? Especially after he found out that Norton’s hard drive and laptop had survived their owner, after all. That was the beauty of it. Jetters would have to pay-up, or be exposed for what he was: a man who’d tried to play God, and ended up making a deal with the devil instead. Knox smiled. It was almost Faustian. No, he thought, more like Frankenstein.

  Matthew searched his deepest recesses trying to muster up a sense of loss about Morgan, but felt the same after he’d killed the first victims: nothing. He was a bit disappointed, but only that they would never meet face-to-face now. After all, he did have the man’s genes, his DNA, but it wasn’t like they were family.

  Someone cut him off and he slammed on the van’s brakes, holding down the horn and giving the other driver the finger. He turned and saw an older woman riding in the car next to him staring. He gave her the finger, too, then managed to compose himself.

  It wouldn’t do to fall apart now. What was that line from Yeats? Things fall apart, the center will not hold? Something equally useless like that.

  Uselessness. He wondered how much longer he had. If his “father” had implanted one of those damn genetic triggers he’d found out about when he’d managed to crack the old bastard’s hidden research files. When he’d found out who he really was, or should he say, what he was? That was when he’d found out his relationship to the Others, the Blems, and how each of them had a predetermined life-span determined by the preset genetic trigger. His own file contained no mention of one, but this last time, they’d had him sedated, who knew what the old bastard had done to him?