“That’s easy,” Brewer said. “It happened down in Two. I’ll call over there and see what I can find out. They’re probably mad as hell that the Feds came in and stole it.”
“Tell ’em I’ll need copies of the police reports, too. I’ll go by there and pick ’em up.”
“Anything else, my prince?”
“Yeah. Give me Rich Lapell’s phone number.”
“Who?”
“He works for the state. An ET. I’m thinking they called them to process the Fontaine murder since it was in the suburbs.”
“Hey, ain’t you stripped? You’re just John Q. Citizen right now, till this thing is cleared up.”
Colby sighed. Brewer was right. Not having his credentials was going to make things harder. Much harder.
“You still got that duplicate badge you had made a few years back?”
“Yeah.” Brewer’s voice sounded leery.
“Slip it to Leslie for me. And toss in your back-up gun, too.”
“Not only do you want me to put my own career on the line for helping a rogue cop,” Brewer’s voice had an exaggerated whining lilt, “but you want my extra piece, too?”
“I’ll make it up to you,” Colby said. “Tell Leslie to meet me by the car as soon as she has that stuff.”
He terminated the call and settled in to wait. Carmel had given him the location of Fontaine’s murder, but also a five o’clock deadline for plastering Dix’s face all over the evening news. He’d be tried and convicted in the court of public opinion before he was even indicted. And that was coming, too, if Pearson wasn’t dissuaded. Colby needed to come up with something fast.
Chapter 19
The four of them, Knox, Jetters, a gangly pipsqueak from Technical Services, and security chief Hank Meister, stood in the shade of one of the many huge trees that flanked this section of New Genesis property. Across the open expanse of field, perhaps a hundred yards away, they watched one of the Others move, tethered like an upright dog, while one of the security guards gently walked him along. The directional finder Knox held was about the size of a hardbound book. The regular series of beeps that had previously corresponded with the relative positioning of the Other’s inserted microchip became obscured with intermittent static. Knox estimated they were about one hundred yards away. The signal was growing fainter.
Jetters glanced at the geeky technical guy and said, “Dammit. It’s already losing the signal. I thought you guaranteed it would work up to two hundred yards?”
The old man’s expression was severe.
The geek punched his glasses back up on the bridge of his nose and compressed his lips. He glanced apologetically at Knox and reached for the directional finder.
“Perhaps there’s too many radio waves around here.” The geek raised and lowered the finder while keeping his eyes plastered on the lights in the circular scope.
Hank Meister raised his hand to the portable radio mike clipped on his shoulder lapel. “Want me to call them back?”
Jetters ignored him, concentrating his piercing gaze on the tech.
“Sir?” Meister asked again.
“What?” Jetters shook his head, like he’d just noticed a troublesome insect.
Meister’s face tightened. “You want me to call them back?”
Jetters pursed his lips, then shook his head. He immediately went back to berating the technician.
Knox gave the security chief a sideways glance. He hadn’t liked it when Jetters had given Meister the chief of security position. He was ex-law enforcement, and therefore a liability to any of Knox’s unauthorized assignments, even though he appeared to be a classic case of a retired desk jockey, turned useless watchman. Knox remembered the relish with which Jetters had justified his decision.
“The man’s merely a figurehead,” Jetters had said. “Someone to lend an aura of respectability to our enclave. Nothing more. He expects to sit behind a desk and collect a large paycheck for essentially doing nothing.”
Jetters had smiled in his typical, condescending fashion after the words came out, so great was his self-satisfaction. Just like everything else the old fart did, He thought everything he planned was just another stroke of his genius. But Knox wasn’t totally convinced about Meister. It had taken more than a bit of guile to persuade the ex-cop about the “tragic accident” concerning Kirby’s death. The Chief had finally acquiesced, but Knox detected something in the other man’s gaze. A rising wariness, maybe?
It was something Knox would have to monitor, and take care of if the situation merited it.
Matthew decided to wear the wig when he checked the UPS Store that he’d set up in the months before he’d begun formulating the plan. Since he had the wig, he felt he might as well use it. Plus, developing a comfort with something new was important, too. Get used to wearing it, so he looked natural. He could dump it if he had to change his appearance quickly. He looked at himself in the rearview mirror, brushing a few errant strands to the side, and then jamming a baseball cap on top to look less conspicuous.
He still looked like a transvestite’s worst nightmare, even with the cap obscuring the unnaturally thick center part. After making a mental note to grab a rubber band inside and pull the excess hair back into a ponytail, he remembered the Blem. They had to look like twins from here on out.
Twins, he thought. More like the master and his identical patsy.
Smiling, he got out of the parked van and strolled leisurely toward the UPS store.
The wig gave him a measure of confidence. Hopefully, even if Knox were watching, he wouldn’t recognize the long-haired patron Matthew had now become. Instant transformation.
But there was no way that Knox could even know about this place. Matthew had taken every measure to make sure this part of the plan remained a total secret, using cash to pay the deposit and fees. There was no way he could be traced here. Still, the thought of Knox being on his trail tied small knots in Matthew’s stomach.
He did a quick look around before he went inside, but saw no one.
“Hi,” he said to the chubby girl with reddish hair and pale skin sitting behind the counter playing on her iPad. As she looked up, Matthew was conscious of her eyes roaming over him, stopping abruptly at the long curling tendrils that framed his face. As a slight smirk tugged at her lips, Matthew felt his anger and rage starting. Who the fuck is she to be laughing at me?
It was all he could do to control the urge to grab her.
“Can I help you?” she asked.
“Yeah,” he said, brushing back some of the hair. “My name is Owen Rand. I’m in box number twenty-three-eighty. I lost my key.
The girl put the tablet down and rested her arms on the counter top. She moved like a sloth.
“I’ll need to see your ID,” she said.
Her skin looked pasty now, her cupie-doll lips drawing back into a semi-smile.
“Sure,” he said, reaching for his wallet. Luckily, he’d been able to get a few personal items from his visit to the apartment, including his laptop. Making another false identification card, and getting it laminated had been simple, but everything was when you were just a little bit smarter than everyone else. “School ID okay?”
“Sure,” she said.
He laid the glossy card on the counter with a snap, watching her greenish-blue eyes move downward. She looked back to his face, then once again at the photo ID. “Wow, you look kinda different now.”
“I’ve been sick,” Matthew said, figuring her infantile mind was having trouble sorting out that it really was him in the old picture. Then suddenly it came to him. He reached up and lifted the hat and the thick wig beneath it, holding it up just enough to give the girl a glimpse of his shaved head. “I’ve been in the hospital. For chemo.”
The cupid lips immediately formed an O-shape, and she looked away.
So easy, he thought. Confront them with something unpleasant to think about, and they forget all about rules and regulations.
“Oh, gosh,” she
said, lifting her corpulent butt out of the chair. “I’ll go check it for you right away, sir.” She flashed him a quick smile as she disappeared into the stock room.
In that instant, Matthew fantasized about sneaking back there, grabbing a handful of those strawberry blond tresses, pulling her head back, and slitting her throat. Of course, that would complicate the task at hand. Still, he thought, I can dream, can’t I?
After driving to Area Two, and using Brewer’s extra badge to substantiate his nonchalant identifying hello, Colby and Leslie were granted access to the big Investigations’ Office. Brewer had been able to find out that a dick named Dave Powers had caught the Laird case initially, but had passed the ball to the Feds, upon an order from Deputy Superintendent Mannion. Luckily, Colby and Powers went way back, having worked together back in the Second District on a few homicides. Powers, always impeccably dressed, stood and shook Colby’s hand.
“Hey, Rog, how’s the book tour going?”
“Could be better. You got one you want me to sign?” Powers grinned.
“Yeah, but I left it in the shitter.”
“No.” Colby grinned back, then introduced Leslie. “She’s down here working a homicide case, and I’m sorta, kinda helping her out.”
Powers raised his eyebrows. “Some guys get all the luck.”
“You got a spare computer where I could check my e-mail? Plus, I gotta talk to you about something.”
Powers looked around the office. It was close to three and virtually every desk was occupied. He pointed to one on the far edge of the room that was vacant.
“You can use that one.”
“I may need to print out some stuff, too,” Colby said. “Is it hooked up to a decent printer?”
Powers raised his hand and waggled it up and down, frowning and then flashing a smile. “As good as you’re going to get around here. It ain’t Kinko’s.”
Colby nodded, anxious to get what they needed and leave. Word of him being stripped would spread fast, and the last thing he wanted was Mannion catching wind of him being there.
“I gotta warn you, too,” Powers said, sitting back down in his chair, “it takes forever to download files. I hope you ain’t got no pictures.”
“I’ll let you know,” Colby said, taking two steps forward, then stopping. “Say, I heard you caught a case near and dear to my heart.” Powers cocked his head inquisitively.
“The Laird homicide,” Colby said.
“Shit.” Powers smirked. “I shoulda played the fucking lottery yesterday. I was over there supervising the ETs and setting up a canvass, when word comes down, from the Deputy Superintendent of Operational Services no less, to let the Feds take over.” He sat back and clasped his hands behind his head. “No way I wanted any part of that cluster fuck anyway.” His smile vanished and he straightened up and sighed. “You know who they pinched at the scene, right?”
Colby nodded. “I’d like to see what you got on it.”
Powers opened his desk drawer. “I was keeping a file on it anyway, figuring the Feds will eventually turn it back to us for state prosecution. Once they fucked it up beyond all recognition.” He took out a manila folder with a sheaf of papers in it. A flash of suspicion flickered across his eyes and he extended the file toward Colby. “Here you go. You just curious, or what?”
“I’m working with the Feds on a related case. Task force.”
Powers grunted. “Better you than me.”
If you only knew the half of it, Colby thought.
He and Leslie went across the expansive room and sat at the vacant desk. The computer was on the floor next to it, hooked up to an ancient-looking monitor on one side, and an equally decrepit printer on the other.
Colby turned it on and put in his CPD password to enter the departmental network and open the system, then stood up.
“It’s all yours,” he said.
Leslie moved in closer and smiled. She smelled of delicate perfume, and he admired her flawless profile as she was crowded in next to him.
She accessed her departmental e-mail account and clicked on the message. It popped up with the heading of PHOTOS BORDER CROSSING, with no additional text, only an attachment.
“Can we download these pictures?” she asked. “I’d really like to see what this Krems guy looks like.”
Colby nodded and she started the download. The box opened up on the screen and gave an estimated time of seventeen minutes.
“That’s CPD code for twenty-five,” he said, pointing at the screen.
“I guess we wait on pins and needles, then.”
He took out the paper with the number Brewer had given him for Rich Lapell and dialed it on his cell.
“Crime lab,” Lapell’s deep voice said over the phone.
“Hey, buddy, it’s Colby. How the hell are ya?”
“Fine.” Lapell’s tone quickly became guarded as he added, “Now whaddya you want?
“Such cynicism from a fellow public servant?”
“Come on, I’m up to my armpits in work and ain’t got time to play.”
Colby hesitated, then decided to put all his cards on the table. “I need a big favor.”
“Don’t you always?”
Colby gave Lapell a quick run-down of his needs, without mentioning Dix or being stripped. “I already faxed over a copy of my preliminary findings to Special Agent Pearson.” Lapell sounded perplexed. “He said the Feds were taking the lead on it. Had a suspect they figured to tie in to both homicides.”
“Yeah,” Colby said, “and I’m working with the task force. Trouble is, I’m over at Area Two running down a lead and I need those copies bad.”
“Didn’t Pearson disseminate them?”
“He thinks dissemination has something to do with birth control,” Colby said, hoping Lapell’s natural cop animosity toward the Feds would override his skepticism. He heard the other man sigh, and took it as a good sign.
“All right, what’s your fax number?” Lapell asked. “But the next time we get a body dumped on the Ryan, I’m gonna expect tit for tat.”
Colby opened the desk drawers and found an area detective’s card. The fax number was on the bottom, and he read it to Lapell.
“Okay,” the state cop said right before he hung up, “but you’re gonna owe me.”
Favors and markers were the life’s blood of investigations, and Colby said he was fully prepared to honor the marker whenever Lapell called it in.
If I’m still around to do it, he thought as he went to the fax machine and waited.
He hoped his little info-gathering trip would come off just as smoothly. He flipped open the file Powers had given him and began perusing it. It was chock-full of scribbled notes and crime scene sketches. A full report from the ETs, as well as the report from the Medical Examiner, would be forthcoming, but right now he had the basics. He looked around, scanning the office for any sign of “inquisitive brassholes.” The lieutenant’s office was empty, so he felt a bit safer. Leslie walked over to him and asked if she could use the phone.
Colby took out his cell phone and gave it to her. “Use this instead. I don’t want any trace of our visit to be left here right now.” She nodded.
“In fact, I need to go use the copy machine,” he said. “And I’m waiting for a lengthy fax. Stay here and make sure nobody else grabs it, would you?”
“For you, dear, anything. But…” She took out her own cell and shook her head. “Let me see if I can get a signal on mine from here.” She punched a few digits, waited, then made a circle with her thumb touching her index finger. “This is Detective Labyorteaux. Is Inspector Graven there?”
Colby left her and strolled toward the copy machine. Powers was on the phone and not even looking his way. Resisting the urge for another quick glance around, Colby took the sheaf of papers out of the manila file and flipped through them, checking for staples. He found several, and plucked them out before setting the papers in the copying tray. His cell phone rang, startling him.
“Yeah,” he said into the phone, hoping it wasn’t Lapell telling him the fax was off.
But an automated voice began speaking, informing him that he was receiving a collect call from the Metropolitan Correction Center, and asking if he’d accept the charges.
He waited for the message to run its course, then pressed the accepting button. He pressed the button to begin the copying, too. The papers began their trek through the machine, the greenish light seeping from under the closed lid.
“Hey, buddy,” Dix said. “How ya been?”
“They finally let you make a call?”
“Yeah. Bosworth and some tight-assed fed were here trying to get me to give it up.” His tone had an exhausted edge to it, despite the forced merriment.
“You talked to them? I told you not to.”
“Relax, I eventually told them to go pound sand. I just wanted to feel ’em out. See what they had.”
Colby felt a surge of frustration and anger. Why hadn’t Dix done what he’d told him to do and just requested a lawyer? Every scumbag who’d been through the system knew enough not to talk. But then again, it was just like a cop to think he could play the system to his advantage. The only problem was, it was like playing a game of tag with a Bengal tiger.
Colby heard Dix laugh. “Man, you really did a job on Bosworth’s schnozz, too. Looks busted for sure. I asked him if some Thirty-Fifth Street hooker closed her legs too fast.”
Colby chuckled. He could picture Dix’s flawless delivery. The papers had circulated through the copying machine and he collected them as he stuck the originals back in the manila file.
“What did he say to that?”
Dix laughed again. “Nothing. He just turned as red as a ripe tomato.”
“I still haven’t found you a lawyer,” Colby said. “So don’t talk to them again if they come calling.”
“I won’t.” Colby detected a hesitancy in Dix’s tone. “You finding anything out?”
Colby decided not to mention his current suspension status. Dix had enough to worry about.
“Working on it.” He began to walk back toward Leslie at the far side of the room, casting a quick look at Powers, who was still busy on the phone himself.
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