Unwanted Company - Barbara Seranella

by Barbara Seranella

  "I already took care of that," Cassiletti said. "Although I couldn't be too detailed about what went on in Tijuana." Mace didn't miss the tone. There were times when having a partner was as bad as being married. He put a smile on his face and spoke with a tone he hoped would mollify. "Yeah? Way to go, Tiger. "

  "Don't get too happy. He wants to see both of us."

  "Don't tell me. Code two, right?"

  "Well, yeah."

  Mace picked up his phone and dialed Earl's extension. Brenda answered, "Captain Earl's office."

  "Hi," Mace said. "Does he have time for us now?"

  "Let me check," she said. A moment later she came back on the phone. "He said to come right over."

  Mace hung up the phone and let out a resigned sigh. He turned to Cassiletti with raised eyebrows and a shrug. "Let's go see whose dick we stepped on this time."

  Mace and Cassiletti walked the long hallway to the captain's office. Two command audiences in as many days was not good. The captain didn't hold private face-to-face meetings so he could pass out doughnuts. He only acted this way when he wanted to issue a reprimand or give not-to-be-misinterpreted, not-to-be-ignored orders.

  They reached the outer office. Brenda looked up from her paperwork to say, "Go right in." Another bad sign. She didn't even use the intercom.

  Earl was standing, gazing out his window when the two detectives entered his office. Cassiletti's report of the most recent activity in the Band-Aid case sat open on Earl's desk. Another man was also in the room, leaning against the low bookshelves, his back to the picture of Captain Earl shaking hands with Mayor Bradley. Mace recognized him immediately. It was Deputy Chief Tumpane.

  "You wanted to see us, Captain?" Mace said.

  "Close the door, " Earl said.

  Cassiletti held the knob twisted open as he closed the door, making no noise as he carried out the captain's request. Mace was always surprised at his partner's capacity for gentleness.

  "I've read your report," Earl said. "This man, Victor Draicu." Earl pointed to a line on the paper in front of him. "You know he's a Romanian diplomat."

  "Yes, sir," Mace said. "He's also been placed at a crime scene." Mace looked at the deputy chief, who in turn was regarding him. "Do you want me to ignore that?"

  Captain Earl deferred to his superior with a nod.

  Tumpane straightened from his casual pose. "As you may or may not know," he said, "the '84 Olympics has a record number of countries competing. One hundred and four, even with the Eastern Bloc boycott."

  "Yes, sir," Mace said, wondering how this bit of politics was going to screw up his investigation.

  "Romania's participation is something we're especially pleased about."

  "I just want to interview the guy, " Mace said.

  "And that's all very proper," Tumpane said. "Just not at this time."

  "And what time would be convenient for everybody?"

  Mace asked, feeling his blood pressure rise. The first hours after a crime were crucial. After that memories faded, evidence grew tainted.

  "July twentieth."

  "You're kidding, right?" Mace asked. "That's six weeks away."

  "By then the games will be safely under way. There's a bigger picture to consider. We need you on the antiterrorist squad. It hasn't been reported in the papers, but threats have been made."

  "You already have a competent antiterrorist unit," Mace said. "I need to stay after this guy. He's going to strike again. He's already accelerated."

  "You have your orders," Tumpane said. "I'm not in the habit of repeating myself."

  "Six weeks, my ass," Mace said, cold with rage.

  "Detective," Earl warned.

  "No," Mace said. "Fuck this." He pulled out the pictures of the murder victims. "She didn't get the bigger picture." He threw the Polaroid of the young Mexican girl on Earl's desk.

  "Let me put it another way, Detectives," Earl said, without looking at the image of the dead girl. "You're off this case. I want all your notes on my desk in one hour."

  Cassiletti opened the door. Mace gathered his photographs and stormed out. His shoulder grazed Tumpane's chest in passing. Cassiletti pulled the door shut behind him. Mace paused at Brenda's desk and put a finger to his lips. She watched wide-eyed as he pushed the interoffice intercom button. Earl's voice came across loud and clear.

  "I told you he wouldn't like it."

  Tumpane responded with, "He doesn't have to like it."

  "I'm just saying they don't call him the Hound Dog for nothing. "

  "Well maybe," Tumpane replied, "we'll have to throw him a bone."

  Brenda and Cassiletti exchanged worried glances. Mace let go of the intercom button. "Let's get out of here."

  As usual, Cassiletti followed.

  * * *

  Back at his desk, Mace dumped his notes, sketches, and photographs related to the Band-Aid Killer into a cardboard file box. He withheld copies of the photographs from Tijuana since officially they were not part of the murder book of events. He also withheld copies of the videotapes from the Bank of America and the Gower apartment building's surveillance cameras.

  When the phone rang, Cassiletti answered. He listened a moment, then said, "Yeah, here he is."

  Mace took the receiver. "Yeah?"

  "It's Steve. You want to catch some lunch?"

  "Uh, yeah. How about an early one? I have some extra time on my hands."

  "Wing Fu's in twenty?"

  "That'll work. I'm bringing my partner," Mace said, casting a sidelong glance at Cassiletti. Cassiletti's expression reminded Mace of a schoolyard wallflower who'd been picked for the team.

  * * *

  Wing Fu's Bar-b-que was located on North Broadway in the heart of Chinatown, five minutes away from Parker Center. When Mace had first come to work downtown, he'd been having lunch one day when three boys no older than fifteen came in to shake down the owner. Mace followed the kids into the parking lot, where he and Cassiletti were fully prepared to knock some respect into the punks. To his surprise, it was Wing Fu himself who came to the boys' rescue. Later Wing Fu explained that although he appreciated the effort, the tong's levies were duly factored into his cost of doing business. And besides, where would Mace be when they burned his place down at three in the morning?

  The restaurant was nestled between the Best Western Dragon Gate Inn and the Friendly Hair Salon, with its pictures of Caucasian hairstyles in the window. They parked in front of the Hualuan Book Company. The sign on the door indicated that tax services were also offered there.

  Because the day was already promising to be hot, Mace pulled the car under one of the large blossoming coral trees that lined the block. He liked how the tree's persimmon-colored flowers and intricate branch patterns harmonized with the neighborhood architecture. Even the Methodist Church across the street had gambrel rooflines with upswept eaves and was painted lacquer red.

  The smell of seafood and steamed bok choy overwhelmed him when he stepped out of the car. Chinese women holding black umbrellas strolled the busy sidewalk. He and Cassiletti gave them right of way, then walked the short half block to Wing Fu's. Colorful tasseled paper lamps hung over the opaque storefront window of the restaurant. A life-size gilded lion, to the left of the front door, raised a paw in welcome. Steve was already inside, seated at a table for four beside a small Buddhist shrine adorned with fresh fruit and flower offerings.

  Mace and Cassiletti took the seats on either side of him. The three men had the place to themselves. After the waiter took their order, Steve showed Mace a blue folder with a State Department logo on it and beneath that the word: SECRET.

  "You can keep a secret, right?" Steve asked.

  Mace looked at his partner. "We're both good." Cassiletti sat a little straighter in his chair.

  "I did some more asking around about your guy, Victor Draicu," Steve said. "Much to my surprise, I received some answers." Steve passed them the folder. "Open it," he said.

  "How did you get this?" Mace ask
ed.

  "I know a guy who knows a guy," Steve said.

  Mace folded back the cover. The first thing he saw was a photograph of a red Folger's coffee can—one pound. Underneath the photo was an assayer's form. PLUTONIUM—239 had been highlighted. There was also what appeared to be some sort of bill of lading. The words on this document were written in Cyrillic script. The letterhead included an address in Chernobyl, Russia. The shipping destination was an address in Kozlodvy, Bulgaria. On the right-hand sides of the papers, there were columns which listed weights in kilograms.

  "What am I looking at?" Mace asked.

  "An inventory of weapons-grade plutonium ingots, salvaged from nuclear weapons. Approximately twenty tons of the stuff are produced annually—a sight more than needed for use in weapons. In Eastern Europe, they're experimenting with conversion facilities to reprocess plutonium-239 into reactor-grade plutonium. Four kilograms of this shipment never reached its intended destination. just to give you an idea of what we're talking about, one kilogram would be enough to create a bomb half the power of the bomb that destroyed Nagasaki."

  "All right," Mace said. "You've got my attention." He passed the folder to Cassiletti, who studied it for a moment and then handed it back.

  "Have you ever heard of Operation Courtship?" Steve asked.

  "No," Mace said.

  "It was formed in 1980 after President Reagan was elected. The Carter administration ran the intelligence community down to nothing. Operation Courtship is a combined effort between the FBI and the CIA to bring us back up to snuff."

  "How are they doing that?" Mace asked.

  "The main focus domestically is to recruit assets: foreign ambassadors, embassy staff. Courtship agents spend months observing. Then psychiatrists review all available information on the prospect for signs of receptivity: how they dress, how well they speak English, how interested they seem in American customs and society."

  "Blackmail?" Mace asked.

  "No, I think that's generally accepted as nonviable. But vices are always useful: sex, gambling, booze, drugs. Your basic food groups."

  "Is this where the two women from the Gower apartment come in?"

  "Bingo. But there's more." Steve held up the photograph of the Folger's coffee can. "Three months ago, this container was found in the trash inside the stadium where the Romanian Olympic track-and-field team drills. The coffee can had been filled with sawdust, and in that sawdust traces of weapons-grade plutonium-239 were detected, most probably part of the above missing shipment."

  "Not good," Mace said.

  "This is where Victor Draicu enters the picture. Which reminds me . . .Steve said, reaching into his coat pocket for an envelope. "Victor's brother is Bela Draicu, the First Deputy Atomic Energy Minister of Romania. " He opened the envelope and removed a photograph, which he handed over to Mace. The picture was of a large room with comfortable-looking sofas, dramatic flower arrangements, and a fireplace large enough to roast a pig in. "American embassy in Romania. The brothers Draicu are standing together by the fireplace."

  "Who are these other guys?"

  "Americans, other diplomats, probably half of them spooks."

  "Can I keep this?" Mace asked.

  Steve looked at the picture for a few seconds. "I'll make a copy and bring you back the original."

  "All right," he finally said. "But I can't give you any of this other stuff."

  "No problem," Mace said, sliding the photograph into his pocket. "I'm sure I'll remember all the pertinent details. So you think this guy Victor might know where the plutonium is? "

  "I think it's only logical to assume that he's here to market his goods. I don't think I need to mention how dangerous the plutonium would be in the wrong hands."

  "Which would be anybody's but ours?" Mace asked. Suddenly, another piece of the puzzle fell into place. What the voice on Munch's limo tape had said that didn't make any sense until now: Pakistan has came in at three hundred and twenty thousand.

  "The feds want to know who's buying and when and where the product will be shipped. Victor Draicu is their best and only ticket in to those proceedings?

  "So they need him on the streets," Mace said. I think we can push Iran to three thirty.

  "They have him under around-the-clock surveillance," Steve said.

  "Well, their surveillance ain't worth a shit," Mace said. "I've got seven dead that I know of."

  "l don't mean to sound cold," Steve said, "but it's the law of large numbers." He hunched forward, spreading his hands out to either side. His voice dropped. "When you think about it, seven isn't that many. If you exposed this guy now, he would be declared persona non grata and sent back home. Sure, he'd be out of your yard."

  "You think that's all I want?" Mace asked, his voice tight,

  "Hey, I'm not the enemy here," Steve said, raising his hands in mock surrender.

  "What are you?" Mace asked.

  "We're off the case," Cassiletti suddenly said. Up until then, he had been silent, observing the exchange between the two men like a fan at a tennis match.

  Mace glared at his partner.

  "Until July twentieth," Cassiletti added.

  The food arrived. They stopped talking to eat. The waiter hovered over them and asked if everything was all right. They nodded with full mouths, and the waiter retreated.

  "So they want you to do nothing, huh?" Steve asked.

  "That's right," Mace said.

  "Who gave the order?"

  "Tumpane," Cassiletti said.

  "Pogue," Steve muttered. He sipped his tea and took another bite of fried rice. "I don't suppose knowing what's at stake makes this any easier for you."

  "You mean easier to do nothing about this asshole? Easier to sit back while he kills again?"

  "What choice do you have?"

  Cassiletti's head swiveled back to Mace. Mace pushed back his plate. "I think you've gotten too used to sitting on the sidelines, Steve."

  "What the fuck does that mean?" Steve asked.

  "Nothing. Maybe you're happy playing messenger boy."

  "You're out of line," Steve said. "And you're out of your league."

  Mace reached into his sports-coat pocket for the photographs of the murder victims.

  "What's this?" Steve asked.

  Mace said nothing. He just closed his eyes as if in pain and clasped his hands behind his head. "Um-hmm," he said, almost to himself. He let another moment of silence pass, then let out a long sigh, and opened his eyes. "Tell me again how this law of large numbers works." Cassiletti's expression betrayed nothing, but it was obvious he was waiting.

  Steve finally broke the impasse. He dabbed his mouth with his napkin, then threw it down on his empty plate. "All right, so what do you want me to do?"

  "What you do best, buddy," Mace said, grinning. "Keep your eyes and ears open, be there if I need backup."

  "You're going to owe me big-time," Steve said.

  "Just think how well you're going to sleep at night."

  Steve pulled out his notepad. “Tell me who and where, and don't worry about how well I sleep."

  "I don't think the guy is stupid enough to go back to Munch's house, but we should probably keep a unit there any way The boyfriend lives across the street. We can set up there." Mace handed him the picture of Victor Draicu taken outside the Gower apartment building. "I've had some duplicates made."

  "What about the spook?"

  "I'm working on that."

  When the check arrived, Steve picked it up.

  "You sure?" Mace asked.

  "Yeah," Steve said. "I'll just put it on my expense account."

  "C'mon, Tiger," Mace told Cassiletti. "Let's hit it."

  "Where are we going?" Cassiletti asked when they got to the car.

  "El Segundo."

  "Where the sewer meets the sea?"

  "We're going to go see a guy I know," Mace said. "He works at the Aerospace Corporation, and what he can do with a computer and a videotape will flat blow your mind."r />
  * * *

  Ellen stared at the mirror above the bed. After Tommy had brought her to the motel she'd unpacked, taken a bath, and fallen into a deep, dreamless sleep. Now it was morning. Time to get to work.

  She dug out her book and flipped through the names. Her finger stopped on a guy she called John Z. He was also Mr. Reliable. John was a quiet black guy. He always paid promptly, came in five minutes, and never talked much—just a sweet, shy smile when he finished. Perfect.

  She dialed his number.

  "Hello," he said.

  "Is this John?" she asked.

  "Yes, it is. "

  "This is Ellen, been a while."

  "Yeah, it sure has. How are you?"

  "I was wondering if you'd like to get together."

  "Um, yeah. When?"

  "Well, how about now?" she asked.

  "Yeah, all 1ight," he said. "Where are you?"

  She named the motel. "Room Three."

  "I'll be there in an hour," he said.

  "Great," she said, wondering why she didn't feel more pleased at the prospect of making some easy money. She took a long time applying her makeup, washing it off and reapplying it three times before she gave up. Must be these damn lights, she thought. They're too goddamn harsh. When John knocked on the door at eleven, she about jumped out of her skin. That's when she realized she'd been hoping he wouldn't show.

  "Showtime," she told herself in the mirror. just get it over with." She answered the door and let him in.

  "Hi," he said, his head tilted downward, raising his eyes just enough to meet hers. There was that shy, almost reluctant smile of his. She took his hand, led him to the bed, and started to undo his belt.

  "Oh, here, wait a minute," he said, blushing and backing up. He reached in his back pocket, pulled out his wallet, and took out two twenties. She accepted the money and laid it on the nightstand.

  "I know you like to get paid first," he said.

  "Yeah, thanks," she said, unbuttoning her blouse. She hoped he didn't notice how she avoided touching his skin as she took the bills. He wasn't unpleasant, far from it. He always showered first, never tried to get her to kiss him. No, John understood all the rules and abided by them faithfully. It wasn't him. It was her.