Sky's Shadow
Page 23
“In El Cajon. Not some random farm. Did you actually speak to Cora or did Dapino feed all this nonsense into your head?”
“If Brent and Archer show up there as scheduled, we can have a squad waiting for them. A trap. We can arrest them, finally end this.”
“You’re not thinking clearly.”
“With all due respect, you’re not.”
“I’m not the one making irrational decisions like some schoolgirl with a crush. I saw the way you were looking at him in my office yesterday.”
“I’m admitting I could be wrong about the farm. Just want to take precautions in case I’m right. That is perfectly rational. We can keep up the manhunt in El Cajon. And send a satellite squad to the farm. You have nothing to lose mobilizing Lopez.”
“Except my reputation.”
“You’re his boss. I’m sure he already respects you. And has to listen to you.”
“How’s he going to keep respecting me when he asks what my reasoning is behind Darrington Farm, and I tell him it’s not based on any evidence I can show him, but instead a theory dreamed up by some guy just released from Attica?”
“You’re oversimplifying this.”
“And you’re no longer on this case.”
“What? That’s not—”
“You need some time away to shake whatever spell Dapino’s got you under. Take the rest of the night off.”
“No.”
“That’s an order.”
“Who’s going to lead?”
“Keppler.”
“Come on. He hardly knows anything about the investigation. He’s—”
“I’d rather it were you. But not…this version of you.”
Jordana bites her lip. “The gas-station attendant in Pine Valley who dialed nine-one-one with the tip about the box truck. Did you listen to a recording of the call?”
“Read the transcript. Why?”
“Same. But there’s definitely a recording too.”
“So?”
“You heard the sound of Brent’s voice, right? From that voicemail we have.”
“Where’re you going with this?”
“I bet the gas-station attendant on shift didn’t make that call himself. Brent could’ve gone behind the counter and dialed nine-one-one from the landline. Sent us all here to throw us off.”
“The delusion broadens.”
“If you hear Brent’s voice on that call, would you at least entertain the idea that El Cajon could be a setup? That Brent and Archer could be on their way to another town? If I’m wrong, I’ll stop bothering you. I’ll shut up and leave.”
“That would be terrific.” Wichita makes a call on her cell, talks for a bit. Then hangs up. “Dispatch is emailing me a recording from the gas station.”
Arms crossed, Jordana leans against a parking-lot light pole, its bulb no longer functional. Wichita paces. In a couple minutes her phone dings. She eyes the screen. “Here we go.”
Jordana pushes herself off the light pole. “Play it.”
They huddle around the phone. Wichita starts the file. A male voice streams from the speaker. But it’s not Brent’s. More youthful, like it belongs to someone half his age.
Wichita stops the audio. “Good night, Quick.”
“Wait. This doesn’t necessarily prove—”
“I thought you were going to shut up and take the night off?”
“Hear me out.”
“I already did.”
“We can’t—”
“I’m sorry you let some ex-con get to you. I thought you were stronger than that. Just leave before you make this worse for yourself.”
“A dozen innocent men might die. If you’re too stubborn to make a call to Lopez to prevent that, I don’t care…I will.”
A cocky laugh booms from Wichita. “I think you’re an entitled rich girl who can’t handle hearing no because you’ve always gotten what you’ve wanted. From countless people looking to get into your daddy’s wallet or your pants. Well, I want to get into neither. If you send agents to the farm, I’ll see to it you never work for the FBI again.”
“This is a mistake.”
“Jesus. You’re still at it. I’m going to do you a solid. I’m going to protect you from yourself. Just in case you get any ideas.”
“What?”
Wichita taps her phone. In a few seconds, she says into it, “Lopez. Hope Lucy and the kids are well…Wonderful…Listen, I have a young agent on my team. Jordana Quick. She’s got talent. But also blind spots. She’s been going on about some crackpot theory involving a place in your neck of the woods. Darrington Farm. If you, or anyone else in the Imperial office is contacted about any kind of an op there tonight, don’t okay it. Call me right away. Pass the word to local police as well…Yep, anything at all about Darrington Farm, send them to me…Thanks.”
Smirking, Wichita ends the call. Jordana flips her off, gets in her Blazer, and zooms away.
Sixty-Seven
Tommy sits in the back corner of a Sunny Burger off a freeway. He sips a Coca-Cola, two empty burger wrappers and a box of fries on the tray in front of him. The first meal he’s eaten all day.
His FBI phone vibrates on the tabletop, Jordana calling. “I’ve been making my way toward Imperial County,” he says into it. “Just in case you needed me. Ready to meet up. What’s the word?”
“Turn around.”
“Huh?”
“Don’t come to the farm. Don’t…just go home. Go back to New York. For real this time.”
He stands. “What did Wichita say to you?”
“Maybe she talked some sense into me. I don’t know…everything is…this is all your fault.”
He steps outside. “What did I do?”
“You told me you were done lying to me.”
“I am. I’m getting a bite to eat. Just like you asked. Haven’t touched the case.”
“Breaking into the suspect’s father-in-law’s house and locking him in a closet isn’t an action you’d consider touching the case?”
He runs a hand through his hair. “That was…before. And I never lied about it. I admitted to you the thing I did with the fake fire at the hotel. You never asked me how I knew Cora was there. So I never told you. Figured the less you knew the better.”
“Omitting a key piece of information is no different than lying. You sent me into my meeting with Wichita looking like a fool.”
“Screw Wichita.”
“No. She screwed me. I’m off the investigation. You got me suspended same as you did Gabor. What’s next? You going to get me killed same as you got him killed? I just need to…get away from you.”
“Jordana?”
“What?”
“You don’t sound like yourself.”
“I haven’t sounded like myself since I met you. You’re…bad for me.”
“Get Wichita out of your head. This isn’t about her. It’s about the twelve men at—”
“I’m on my way there. I’m going to evacuate the barrack myself. In the event your story is true. Which it probably isn’t.”
“What about the trap for Brent and Archer?”
“There is no trap. I’m evacuating, then leaving. Wichita isn’t authorizing any law enforcement at the farm.”
“She’s going to just let them get away?”
“She, like everyone else, still thinks they’re in El Cajon. Because they likely are. If your farm theory isn’t total BS and they actually show up there, I’m definitely not attempting an arrest. Going up against those two without backup is suicide.”
“Do you have any idea what I had to do to get you that intel from Cora? And now you’re letting the FBI just piss it away?”
“You’re blaming this on me?”
“I wasn’t at the meeting with Wichita. You were.”
“You mean the meeting about how you’re ruining my career?”
“What about my career? Any chance I had left of being a fireman again is gone. I had to tell Stince about pulling the alarm. I’m now a repeat
offender. Worse, a perpetrator of a fire crime. No department will ever go near me.”
“No department was going near you regardless. Because you’re a felon, Tommy. You don’t have a career anymore. And you won’t have one in the future. But I do. And I’m not going to let you deteriorate it more than you already have.”
“Feel superior enough yet, Miss Billionaire? Or do you need to insult me a couple more times for the full effect?”
“You want to hear something sad?”
“By all means.”
“I was starting to have feelings for you. But it did nothing but cloud my thinking. I’m really looking forward to you going back to New York and never seeing you again.”
“Maybe I was starting to have feelings for you too. But not anymore. Not after I see what you’re really about.”
“Definitely not anymore with me either.”
“Good.”
“Yeah. Really good.”
“Bye Jordana.”
“You’re not hanging up first. I am.” She hangs up.
He kicks a garbage can, the lid flying off. A couple who just got out of their car gets back in. Tommy stands in the parking lot alone.
Sixty-Eight
Jordana races toward Darrington Farm. A tear flows down her cheek. She makes a call on speakerphone.
“San Diego County Sheriff’s Department, Pine Valley Substation,” a female voice says on the other line.
“This is Special Agent Jordana Quick, FBI San Diego.”
“How can I help you, Agent Quick?”
“I’m part of the Glen Brent investigation. A nine-one-one call came in from a gas station in your jurisdiction earlier. Five one four Prinamack Road.”
“Stanton’s.”
“Stanton’s Fuel and Food. Yes. Can you send a car over there for me?”
“For?”
“The phone correspondence from the attendant was brief. I’d like to get more detail out of him. If he’s still on shift, have the officers conduct an interview. If he’s not there, have them speak to whomever is, find out where the original attendant lives, and visit him at his house.”
“All right.”
“Have them call me on this number as soon as they get in touch with him.”
“Will do.”
“Thank you.” Jordana hangs up.
She drives in silence for about an hour. Her phone rings on speaker.
“Quick,” she says.
“Hello there,” a male voice says. “This is Officer Tanner, out of Pine Valley. My partner and I just left Stanton’s.”
“Was the original attendant still working?”
“He was there. But he wasn’t working.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“We found him in the supply closet.”
“Oh.”
“Brent and Archer must’ve forced him to make the nine-one-one call. Before….well.”
“Before what, they killed him?”
“They didn’t just kill him.”
“What?”
“One of them, or both of them…I guess it doesn’t matter…took some liberties with him. Likely while he was still alive, before they slit his throat.”
“What do you mean, liberties?”
“His forehead. With the knife. Had these Xs and Os on it. In like a grid.”
“Like tic-tac-toe?”
“Yes. Like tic-tac-toe.”
A pause. “Thanks for the update, Officer Tanner.”
“Wish it were a different update.”
“Same. Same. So long.”
“Bye Agent Quick.” He ends the call.
She gazes at the dark hills on the horizon. Takes some time to process the cruelty behind the gas-station attendant’s forehead. But isn’t able to. She doesn’t understand it.
So Tommy was right about the diversion in El Cajon. But he’s still a lying asshole. She tells herself to stay focused. In about twenty minutes she arrives at Darrington Farm. And traverses the property’s service roads until spotting a one-story barrack surrounded by acres of shadowy fields and woods. She gets out of her car, bangs on the door.
It opens, revealing a Latin man in boxer shorts and nothing else, his hair tousled as if from sleep. He looks at her with a confused squint to his eyes.
“You and everyone else in there need to leave,” she says.
The confused squint remains.
“English?” she asks.
He shakes his head no.
She slides her phone from her pocket and taps on it for a while. Pulls up a news article on Brent and Archer with their photos. Shows her screen to him. His expression doesn’t budge. She barges into the barrack and flips on the lights, illuminating a space tight with six bunk beds and three metal dressers, its walls covered in posters of pro soccer players and musicians. Heads rouse from the mattresses.
She steps to the nearest bunk, presents the photos to the worker on the bottom bed. “Do you know who these men are?”
No reply. She repeats the presentation and question to the worker up top. No response. She asks the room, “Do any of you speak English?”
A moment. “Poquito,” a chubby-faced man says. Which she believes means a little bit.
She scampers to him holding out her phone. “Do these two look familiar?”
He glimpses the screen. “No.”
“Can you read that headline? Do you know what the word murder means?”
He sits up. “Si. Yes. I know.”
“There’s a good chance they’re coming here. Soon. You and your bunkmates need to get out of here.”
He rubs his eyes. Glances at the screen. Then the men around him. Then Jordana. “Why they coming here?”
“It’s a…long story. And it doesn’t matter right now. What does is staying safe. You need to leave.”
He stares at her for a while, skepticism in his face.
“Do you know what the FBI is?” she asks.
“Of course.”
She shows him her badge. “I’m an FBI agent. You can trust me.”
The skepticism in his face is replaced with fear. He says something in Spanish to the others. It provokes fast side conversations.
“Jesus,” she says to herself. Then to the English speaker, “I’m not here to deport anyone.”
“You’re a federal agent. They nervous.”
“They can’t afford to be nervous. Neither can you.”
“Nobody has reason to kill us.”
“It’s not a good reason. But I can assure you there is still a reason. Look outside. It’s just me, one car. If I was here to deport twelve men, I’d have a team, at least a couple vans.”
He peeks out the window at the Blazer. “Then what we in trouble for?”
“You’re not in trouble. I’m here for your safety. That’s it.”
“Promise me?”
“Yes.”
“So what you need us to do?”
“Anything but stay here.”
“We no have cars.”
“I’ll…bring you somewhere. In mine.”
“Where?”
She gazes at the floor for a bit. “Is there another big structure on the farm that can fit you all?”
“Main barn. Other side. About five mile from here.”
“I can take you all in two trips. Just…stay there for a while. When everything is stable, I’ll send someone over to give the okay to come out.” She checks her watch. “We have less than an hour. Tell them we need to get moving.”
He translates the plan to the others. They throw on clothes and shoes and follow her outside. Six pile into her car. She brings them to the barn. They push the big door open and enter. She zips back, picks up the second group, and drops them off. They close the door, no external indication anyone is inside. She rests her head on her steering wheel, lets out a long exhale. She did it. They’re safe.
She takes a service road toward the property exit. In the woods near the barrack she detects movement. She rolls to a stop.
Peers into the darkness. Now just stillness. She glimpses the console clock. Not quite three AM yet. Brent and Archer seem too punctual to arrive early. Probably just a big animal.
She tells herself to keep driving. Even if the movement were human, she already resolved to avoid an arrest attempt. But something in her keeps her from leaving. Maybe it’s a desire to prove herself to Wichita. Maybe to her father. She decides the reason doesn’t matter. And steps out of the car.
From the trunk she grabs a flashlight. Flips it on. The fingers of her other hand unclip the holster on her waist. Then wrap around the handle of her pistol. Her feet tread the pavement. Then cross onto the grass. A rural quiet pierces everything around her. The barrack. The rows of crops. The trees.
She enters the woods where she saw the movement. Shines her beam ahead. Rocks. Barks. Bushes. No people. She moves the beam ninety degrees to the left. A similar view. She turns to check behind her. A male arm locks around her throat.
She drops the flashlight. A thumb digs into a pressure point on her wrist. She drops the gun. She turns her face toward the man’s. She sees one of his eyes. The other is covered in a patch.
Sixty-Nine
Jordana tries breaking free from the eye-patched man’s clutch. But can’t. He clearly has some kind of training, a technique to the way he grasps her.
“I’m an FBI agent,” she says. “You—”
“I know who you are.”
“You’re going to be in deep shit if you don’t let me go.”
He sniffs her neck. “Ah. I’ve been wondering all day what that would be like. Nicer than I even imagined.”
She shudders.
“Why’d you empty the barrack?” he asks.
“What? What barrack?”
“I watched you do it from the woods.”
A pause. “I’m just…doing my job.”
“Doesn’t look like you’re on the job. Where’s your partner? Where’re all the other cars? High-profile case like this, I’d think there’d be at least twenty.”
“They’re on the other side of the farm. They know where I am. They’ll be here soon.”
He chuckles. “Should I be scared?”
“Yes.” She jabs her thumbnail into his eye. Then elbows him in the rib, spins around, and knees him in the crotch.