by Ted Galdi
He has a sip. “So you’re like a billionaire?”
“It’s a family business. Not my personal company. I don’t—”
“You must have a big share of it in your name though?”
“It’s…I don’t know. You like your wine?”
“You next in line to run it?”
“No. No. I’m happy where I’m at.”
“Chasing criminals?”
“What’s wrong with that? Didn’t you come here to do the same thing?”
“Nothing’s wrong with that.” He points at the family photo. “That just seems like a better lifestyle.”
“Napa is a short plane ride away. I still get to see my family a lot.”
“Can you be an FBI agent up there?”
“Sure. But I like it down here.”
“It’s nice here. But—”
“Your wine. You like it or what?”
“Yeah. Yeah, it’s bomb.”
“Good.”
“Jordana Velatti.”
“Jordana Quick.”
He recollects that Google search he did on her in Tijuana, how no results came up for Jordana Quick beside her Quantico graduation. Maybe the last-name change was recent. He peeks at her left hand for a ring. Nothing.
She chuckles as if aware of what he’s doing. “I didn’t change it to Quick because I got married. My mother’s maiden name. With a job like mine, it’s difficult to find a boyfriend, let alone a husband.”
“Why’s that?”
“The hours, obviously.” She has a long sip. “But more than that too. I think it freaks a lot of guys out. The stuff I have to do. The people I have to go after. They don’t come out and say that. But I suspect it.”
“So why’d you change your last name then?”
“If you’re around criminals all day like me, you don’t want them to know your family has resources. Makes you a kidnapping target.”
“Do FBI agents get kidnapped a lot by people they’re investigating?”
“I wouldn’t say so. But still, better to play it safe.”
“You don’t seem like the type that plays things safe.”
She gives him a tilted-head look that’s part agreement, part skepticism. Though he doesn’t want to probe, he assumes kidnap avoidance wasn’t the real motivation for her last-name change. Since her career choice is such a departure from her family’s business, he guesses she went with a different name to define her own legacy in her own field instead of facing constant associations with a famous name on a wine label.
He says, “I told you before I’d be honest with you about what I’m up to. Hopefully giving you my organ-trafficking theory is proof of that. It’d be nice if you could be honest with me too. About the case from the FBI’s perspective. Doesn’t mean I’m looking to insert myself into your investigation. Just want to know if you’re getting…close.”
“I gave the tech team the US burner number. They’re going to dig into that.”
“Can they track him from the signal? The FBI does creepy stuff like that all the time, right?”
She gives him a sarcastic look. “I already spoke to the pre-paid calling company that sold the leader’s burner. Unfortunately the phone isn’t giving off a signal anymore. Not for the last few hours at least. He must’ve shut it off for some reason. Which makes detecting his current location impossible.”
“Even if you can’t trace him in real time, I’m sure you can get access to the phone’s records. There’s got to be a ton to learn about him in those.”
“That’s my hope. Like the majority of pre-paid firms, his rents network space from a national carrier instead of building and operating its own cellphone towers. I talked to an FBI contact at the national telecom corporation that provided his service. They’re compiling a data file for us.”
“What do you expect to get back?”
“All his texts, numbers of incoming and outgoing calls, and locations of the cell towers his burner’s pinged. That location data, even if days, weeks, or months old, can lead us to his identity.”
“How?”
“If we look at the towers his number pinged while it was still on, a pattern will emerge. We expect the highest activity in two geographic areas, one corresponding to where he lives, the other where he works. We’ll search the areas’ residential and employment databases for all White, middle-aged males. Not many names should show up in both places. Those names would belong to men who live and work in the burner’s high-activity zones. A good chance somebody in that subset is the phone’s owner.”
“How soon until the FBI can do that search?”
“I put a rush on the telecom company for the raw data. Then we need our Intelligence analysts to go through it and cross-reference everything. Not easy, but our people are the best. I’m guessing we’ll have a narrow list of suspect names sometime tonight.”
“Sometime tonight. That’s good. I like that.” He holds up his glass.
She clinks it with hers. “Nobody can hide from the FBI forever. If we want you, we have the power to find you.”
Thirty
Glen takes a piss in one of his home’s two downstairs bathrooms. He hits the rim of the bowl, urine spraying off it onto the floor.
“Shoot,” he says.
He clenches his pelvic muscles, stopping the piss, and pulls up his pants.
“Stupid,” he says. “You’re so stupid sometimes.”
He sinks to his knees and cleans the mess with water, hand soap, and wads of toilet paper. A small puddle remains. He takes a deep breath, dabs it with his fingertips, and licks them.
“You deserved that,” he says to himself, keeping his voice low so Cora doesn’t hear from the den.
He flushes the toilet, then walks to her, joining her on the couch. “Hey cutie,” he says.
“How’s your shoulder feeling?”
“Still a little sore.”
She makes a sad face, then goes back to her laptop. She’s working on a new post for the fashion blog she runs.
“What’s this one about?” he asks.
“Maternity chic.”
He pats her thigh, then puts in his headphones and continues his Prince Troy audiobook from his phone. The next chapter opens on the prince and his allies finding disguises in the demon’s realm. One of the men admits he’s scared, tells the others he wants to go back home. But Prince Troy delivers a stirring speech explaining how they’re in a battle of good versus evil and their purpose in life is clear, to fight and win. The man stays.
Cora taps his arm.
He pauses the story. “Yeah?”
“I was wondering…why didn’t you call me?”
He removes his headphones. “When?”
“After the accident.”
“It was just so…hectic. Dealing with the other driver, the Mercedes, then the police. By the time the tow truck took me to the auto body, and I had a minute of quiet, my phone was dead. I usually charge it in my car. Which I of course didn’t have access to.”
“Then what? Your army friend came to the auto body and took you here?”
“Bo.”
“What?”
“My army friend. His name is Bo. You met him at our wedding.”
“Right. So…how did you call him for a ride if your phone was dead?”
“A landline. At the repair shop.”
“You have his number memorized? You don’t even see him that often.”
A moment. “They let me use their computer. I have all my contacts backed up in the cloud.”
“Since when?”
“Recently.” He kisses her on the forehead. “Can we talk about all this tomorrow? I just need to relax after my day, cutie.”
“Yeah, okay. Sure.”
“Speaking of relaxing, I had a great idea before. The hospital gave me the rest of the week off while I heal from the accident. Let’s take advantage of it, drive the Aston Martin up the coast to a resort, pamper ourselves for a few days. How about that one in Dana Poi
nt we always say is so nice when we pass it on the PCH?”
“I don’t really feel like being in a hotel right now. I always sleep better in my own bed.” She pats her pregnant stomach. “And Jade and I need the rest.” She moves her attention back to her computer.
“No problem.” He forces a smile.
The next few days, he wanted her out of the house in case Los Hombres del Vacio made a move on him at this address. But she is just as stubborn as sweet and if she says she doesn’t want to sleep in a hotel, she won’t.
He puts his headphones back on and continues his fantasy story.
Thirty-One
Tommy and Jordana drink wine on her deck. High above San Diego, a tangerine-colored sunset hugging the city. He notices a pair of inch-long lines parallel to each other on the skin of her right knee. They’re faint, only detectable up close, scars maybe a decade old. He believes he knows their cause. Cutting. His ex-girlfriend in high school did it. She’d nick herself on purpose with a blade. The way she explained it, the rush of pain would bring some sort of comfort.
“My favorite part of the apartment,” she says. “Out here. This time of the day. The sky.”
He gazes downward at the cars and pedestrians funneling between buildings. “I used to like looking up at the sky. Don’t do it anymore.”
“Why not?”
“I still see black smoke. The kind I saw when fighting an arson fire. If I stare at the sky long enough, the image of it flashes in my mind. So I don’t look anymore.”
“What was it like being a firefighter? Going into a burning building?”
“When you’re in a burning building, you need to just…do. Your unconscious takes over. It moves you through the rooms. You have to trust it. If you think about the flames, you’ll get burnt.”
“FBI agents go into a similar zone closing in on criminals. You cross a point and…just let instinct take over.”
“Your family must be proud of you.”
“For what?”
“You’re the heiress of a wine empire. You don’t have to work a day in your life. But you chose one of the hardest gigs on the planet. And are pretty good at it if I may say.”
“Oh…well…thanks. That wine empire only exists because America empowered my grandfather to build it. He came here with just a couple bucks in his pocket. Worked hard. Took some chances. And…had success. Being an FBI agent is my way of giving back I guess. To a country that was so good to my family.”
“I wouldn’t call that sort of work giving back. Come on. Not you personally, but the FBI as a whole, does some messed-up stuff. It’s not like it’s a charity.”
“A lot of charities are scams.”
“Yeah?”
“Google it. The FBI isn’t perfect either. I’m aware.”
“Think it’ll ever improve?”
“And become perfect? No. Is anything perfect? Is anyone perfect? What does that word even mean?”
“I don’t know.”
“Me neither. But I do know the FBI is the best resistance we have against our own downfall. Without us enforcing laws, America isn’t America anymore. A lot of people out there want to ruin all this.” She sweeps her hand over the San Diego skyline. “The scariest part is, in their own heads, they think they’re right.”
A pause. “How many charities are phony?”
“I can probably pull a report for you at the office if you really want to know.”
“Nah. Forget it.”
She grabs the bottle of wine from the table and tops off their glasses. “Your family must be proud of you too. For being a fireman for all those years.”
“Oh. Yeah. Definitely.”
“You guys close?”
“Very.”
“Your parents live in Queens too?”
“They moved to the suburbs a couple years ago. Westchester. Wanted more space. More land. Built a big house. My dad designed it himself.”
“He’s an architect?”
“One of the top ones in Manhattan.”
“I’ve always been into architecture.” She grabs her phone. “What’s his company’s website? I’m sure they have a portfolio up.”
“They’re really private. Not online. All the business is from word of mouth. They don’t do advertising, nothing like that.”
“I see.”
“A California girl.”
“What?”
“That’s you. California girl.”
“New York boy.”
“Yeah. New York boy.”
She stares into his eyes, holds her gaze a couple seconds longer than she ever has. She may be inviting him to kiss her. He wants to. But something stops him.
He turns his head, pretends to point at something on the street. “Look at that.”
“What?”
“Some guy. He was like juggling or something.”
“I don’t see.”
“He just turned into an alley.”
He swigs half his wine. And thinks about how his mother hurt his father. If he kissed Jordana, then became close to her, he assumes she’d hurt him one day too.
“It might be a few more hours until the analysts get back to me with the suspect list,” she says. “Until then, think it’ll be good to get out, unwind a little. Want to do something with me?”
He smiles. “Okay.”
Thirty-Two
Tommy, in virtual-reality goggles, spins the wheel of a street-racing arcade game, his red car on the projection in front of him hitting a sharp turn. Before he and Jordana came to the arcade, he showered, changed into a collared shirt, and put on cologne.
“You’re about to get smoked,” she says from the plastic driver’s seat next to his.
Her pink car goes into turbo mode, zooming past his. It crosses the finish line first, “WINNER” blinking above it.
“How’d you get an extra turbo?” he asks, removing his goggles.
“Secret,” she says, removing hers.
“Not fair. This is my first time playing. I don’t know the secrets.”
“That’s called the advantage of experience.”
“How often you come here?”
“Maybe once a month. Great place to blow off steam.”
“I haven’t been to a spot like this since…man, since I was maybe ten.” He glances at the rows of high-tech simulation games. “Different then. Addam’s Family pinball. Mortal Kombat machine. Simple. None of this crazy computer stuff.”
“They have a room of old-school games in the back.”
He nods at his goggles. “Kind of scary how advanced all this is getting. Do you see computers being able to think soon, like in movies?”
“They already think. AI. As for the debate of whether or not they’ll become conscious, like how humans are, no way.”
“Why not?”
“We don’t even understand where our own consciousness comes from. So how can we expect to design the same thing in a computer? That’s just as silly as someone giving out a recipe for a dish they never cooked themselves.”
“I read this journal article in prison that said if computer scientists can just create enough like electrical connections, like circuits, billions of them same as there are billions of cells in the brain, then consciousness would just sort of pop up, like it just would be born on its own, without a recipe.”
“Nah.”
“Sounds reasonable enough, no?”
“Scientists can be full of themselves. So certain. But they contradict themselves just like everyone else. There’s a universe, no a multiverse. Smoking is good for you, smoking is bad for you. Just because their minds are smarter than most other humans’, doesn’t mean they can create a human mind.”
“Hmm. Yeah. Maybe not. I don’t know.”
“No person is God.”
“You believe in God?”
“Not the kind from the Bible. Robe, beard, that whole thing. But in a higher power…yeah. You?”
“Got to be some sort of higher power, right?”<
br />
“If you had one question to ask it, what would it be?”
A pause. “How do I unlock the secret turbo in Fury Street Racing so I have a Goddamn chance at an even match against Jordana Quick?”
She giggles. Then cups her ear with her hand. “God’s silence.”
“While I wait for my answer, let’s check out that old-school section.”
She leads him across a floor of teenagers and through a doorway with a sign over it styled like Blockbuster Video’s logo. They play Skee-Ball. While talking about their favorite childhood TV shows, the likelihood of aliens existing, overrated black-and-white movies, whether or not moustaches are cool, and Trent Reznor’s transition to film scores.
Their Skee-Ball playing leaves them with heaps of tickets. They take them to a prize counter, trading them for a stuffed zebra, then progress to the establishment’s restaurant area and sit at the bar.
“What’re you drinking?” Tommy asks. “It’s on me.”
“We’ll split it.”
“No way. You’re letting me crash.”
“I’ll do one, just one. Margarita.”
He orders it, plus a beer for himself.
“That is frickin’ adorable,” a female voice says.
They turn to it. A late-twenties woman with glasses and pigtails sits a couple stools over, pointing at the zebra. She presents a stuffed owl about the same size, says, “We went with this. We named him Hoot.”
The mid-thirties man next to her nods at Tommy. He nods back.
“Cute,” Jordana says. “We didn’t name ours yet.” She turns to Tommy. “What do you think?”
“How ’bout Zeb?”
She chuckles, nods.
“Adorable,” the tipsy, pig-tailed woman says. “How long you two been dating?”
“Oh,” Jordana says. “No. We’re not dating. We…work together I guess you could say.”
“Get out. You totally look like a couple.”
“You guys…dating?”
The woman flashes a wedding ring. “Nope. Marrying. Is that even a word?”