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The Alex Shanahan Series

Page 59

by Lynne Heitman


  A cramp grabbed my side just as I reached the car and I had to stop and lean over to breathe. There didn’t seem to be enough oxygen in the air. I set the mats down, stared at the car keys in my hand, and took a few more deep breaths. I straightened to put the key in the lock. A loud thump. The car shook. There was yelling and shouting. Men appeared from out of the brush and surrounded us. They all had guns. They were all shouting.

  I looked for Jack. He was already pinned against his side of the car with his arms behind his head looking back at me. Someone pushed him toward the front and over the hood and pulled his arms behind him. I felt a hand on my shoulder and something cold and hard against my neck. My hands went straight over my head. I was so scared I didn’t even realize until after I was handcuffed what they had been yelling.

  Federal agents, they’d said. Step away from the car and put your hands behind your head.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  ​Jack and I had been put into separate cars for the drive into the city. We hadn’t had a chance to speak at all, but I had searched out his eyes as they had snapped the cuffs on. He had shaken his head and I had taken that to mean I shouldn’t talk to these people. And I didn’t. I didn’t say one word to the two agents who drove me in. They didn’t attempt to talk to me, and barely spoke to each other, which just made the ride seem longer. After about twenty minutes, a cell phone rang. Mine. I recognized the ring. The agent who was carrying it opened it and turned it off without a word.

  Inside the hangar I hadn’t had time to feel afraid. But now I couldn’t stop thinking about a time when I had gone out hiking late in the day in an unfamiliar place and gotten turned around. I kept remembering the moment, the sinking, gut-stabbing moment when I realized I had taken a wrong turn or chosen the wrong fork in the path and no matter which way I looked, nothing was familiar. Nothing. I was lost. It was getting dark. I knew I was in trouble.

  Sitting in the back of a car in handcuffs, staring at the taciturn profiles of two agents, and thinking about the events of the evening was like an extended, slow motion version of that moment. At least in the woods, I had been able to act, to do something. All I could do here was sit and feel the panic growing.

  The sun was coming up when we arrived at our destination, a nondescript office building in an area of town I didn’t recognize. We took an elevator to the fourth floor. The best and worst moment came when they removed the cuffs and let me stop in the bathroom in the hallway. I was so relieved to have a moment alone. But when I stepped in front of the sink to wash my hands, I glanced in the mirror and wanted to cry. I had forgotten my face was smeared with greasepaint. Twigs and leaves stuck out of my hair at odd angles, and black-stained sweat had dribbled crooked trails down my neck and throat and pooled in my ears.

  I put one hand on either side of the sink, closed my eyes, and tried to let my head drop forward. But the muscles in my neck were so tight, trying to stretch them touched off a sharp pain that knifed across my shoulders and all the way down my back. When I looked in the mirror again, my eyes were full and beginning to run over because I knew I was in over my head—way over my head. What about my new job? What if they found out about this in Detroit? Would I ever get another job? How was I ever going to find my way out of this mess?

  I tried to stretch the muscles anyway, breathing through the pain, reminding myself that I had made it out of the woods when I’d been lost, mostly by being calm, backtracking, and reasoning through a logical way out. Jack had said that I should build the kind of life I wanted. Looking in the mirror at my fright mask of a face, I didn’t know if this was a life I wanted, but it certainly was a long way from any life I’d ever lived. Maybe that was the point. Maybe Jack was right. If I truly was interested in the job in Detroit, I wouldn’t have been drinking beer last night on an open-air deck in Florida, and I wouldn’t be standing here right now.

  Hot water and paper towels took care of most of the paint and grime. Then I went through the door to start searching for the way out of the woods.

  The agents led me into a mostly deserted, generic suite of offices complete with cubicles and identical computers on every desk. Without a word, they left me in a cold, windowless conference room with the door closed. There was no telephone. There was no clock, and I had no sense of how long I spent pacing around the small table, shivering in my damp, sweaty clothes, wondering what had happened to Jack and what was going to happen to me. I concentrated on staying calm. Eventually, the door opened and I was taken to a larger meeting room. This one had a big conference table, a woman, three men—and Jack.

  I was so wound up and happy to see him I almost started right in with my compulsive questioning. What happened? Who are these people? What is going to happen? Am I going to jail? Am I screwed for the rest of my life?

  But the room had a bad vibe, and Jack didn’t even look at me. I assumed everyone there was a federal agent, although no one had bothered to identify which agency, and it hadn’t been written on the door. They were all dressed casually except the one who was standing. He was about my age, mid- to late-thirties, blonde, blue-eyed, and proportioned like an athlete in a well-cut suit. Not the football player kind with a neck as thick as his waist, but more like an extremely fit golfer, or a world-class tennis player. He must not have gotten the memo about casual dress day.

  “Please sit down.” He spoke in my general direction, but not exactly to me.

  I had just been nose to snout with a crazed dog who had wanted to rip the flesh from my bones, so a guy in a suit in a conference room didn’t seem all that intimidating.

  “Who are you?”

  “Damon Hollander. I’m a special agent with the FBI.”

  So this was the famous Agent Hollander, the one who had treated Pat Spain with so much respect. I checked out the others around the table. They all looked so damn smug in their clean polo shirts and neatly combed hair. “Can I see some identification?”

  Agent Hollander reached into his inside suit pocket, whipped out a thin black wallet, and flashed his badge and ID. He did it with such cool, dramatic intensity I knew right away it was his favorite part of the job. The phrase Junior G-man sprang instantly to mind.

  “Sit down, please.”

  I took the seat across from Jack, who finally glanced up. He had also washed the black from his face, so it was easy to read his expression, and it wasn’t what I had expected. He was supposed to be angry. I was entitled to be scared and angry, but he was supposed to be bristling with uncomplicated outrage at this high-handed treatment we were receiving from his former employer. He wasn’t. He was subdued.

  Damon joined us at the table, pulling his chair out far enough that he could sit with his legs crossed. After he was settled in, he unbuttoned his suit jacket and smoothed it so that it dropped loosely at his sides and wouldn’t wrinkle.

  “We have a little problem here,” he announced. “You people have stumbled into a federal investigation.”

  He was looking to Jack for a response. Everyone in the room was, including me. After an uncomfortably long silence, I spoke up. “What are you investigating?”

  “I can’t discuss that with you.”

  “Are you investigating the murder of John McTavish?”

  “You’d be better off staying out of this discussion, Ms. Shanahan. We’re giving you the benefit of the doubt, so the less you say, the better off you will be. The less you know, the better off you’ll be.”

  “It’s good to hear you’re so concerned for me, Agent.”

  He offered yet another smug expression, from what seemed like an endless assortment. He reminded me of all those young, strapping corporate officers that used to work at the airline. Young alpha males, every one, with the blessed-by-the-gods attitude. They had all come from the best schools, all dressed alike, all thought alike, and because of it had been given more responsibility than they had ever earned. Only this man carried a gun and had behind him the full force and authority of the federal government. Or did he?

>   I glanced around at the less-than-official-looking offices. “Agent Hollander, you followed me tonight. You stuck a gun in my ear, put me in handcuffs, and dragged me down here. You are now holding me against my will. By what authority have you done all of this?”

  “He won’t tell you.” All eyes shifted to Jack. He was alive after all, and though his voice was thick and halting, it sounded wonderful to me. “And he won’t answer your questions because he wasn’t supposed to be out at that hangar tonight. Isn’t that right, Damon?”

  The young agent merely tipped his head in an attitude of patient benevolence. Jack sat forward in his chair and for the first time seemed to be present in the room. I started to review the events of the evening, trying to remember as much as I could, starting with the overheard conversation between Jimmy and Wide Mouth.

  “You didn’t follow her,” Jack said, watching Damon for a reaction. “Or me. You were already out there.” He nodded to the people sitting around the table. “You’re the ones who are securing the hangar.”

  Damon had no reaction, but I remembered that Jimmy had referred more than once to the “fucking Feds.” That didn’t necessarily mean anything, but he had also said the assholes had left the lights on again. He’d said they had to get out before someone came back. If the two men in the car had been Jimmy’s security, as we had assumed, why would Jimmy have been worried about them? On the other hand, why would the FBI be securing a hangar that housed a stolen aircraft?

  “A secret hangar full of stolen aircraft parts,” Jack said. “How does that fit into your investigation? And why doesn’t anyone know about it?”

  Damon’s delicate hands stiffened just enough to convince me that Jack was right. I didn’t know exactly what it meant that he was right, but he was. We weren’t the only ones who had snuck into the hangar. Jimmy had, too, only he’d had a key.

  “You’re not with the Bureau anymore, Dolan. You don’t get to ask the questions.” Damon checked his watch and looked at me. “I’m requesting that you turn over the logbook that was stolen from the Air Sentinel crash site. And don’t even bother asking how I know you have it. I won’t tell you.” He stared at me as if my complete predictability bored him.

  “I’m not denying I have it.” Who had told him that? Why wasn’t he asking for the ring as well? I glanced over at Jack. A little help would have been nice.

  Damon had followed my gaze. “Don’t concern yourself with Mr. Dolan. You’re the one who hired him. Without you, he has no reason to be involved.”

  That’s when it occurred to me that Jack must have already had discussions with Damon Hollander. Jack hadn’t… surely Jack hadn’t told him about the logbook. I looked at the other agents, the two men and the woman. They seemed to be following the conversation closely and contributing nothing. I wondered why they had to be here. The whole thing was making less and less sense.

  “Agent Hollander, do you or any of your colleagues here drive a nondescript sedan? One that’s the color of a kidney bean?”

  “Why do you ask?”

  “No reason. Maybe I should give the book to Air Sentinel. Or Barbara Walters.”

  “Stealing evidence from a crash site is a federal offense,” he said. “I can subpoena the evidence if you refuse to cooperate.”

  “I didn’t steal it from the crash site and you know it. I think you know who did.”

  “You’re withholding it.”

  “Does it have something to do with your investigation of John McTavish’s murder?”

  “Go home, Ms. Shanahan. Turn over the evidence and go home.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I’m telling you to.” Agent Hollander’s pitch had changed ever so slightly. He was getting frustrated.

  “Do you normally have good luck with this approach, Agent Hollander? ‘Do as I say for reasons I won’t tell you.’”

  “Why are you protecting Jimmy Zacharias?” There was Jack again, dropping another bombshell out of nowhere. “Here’s how I’ve got it figured, Damon. Jimmy stole the parts from the site in Ecuador with the intention of reselling them on the black market. He got them into Miami. I don’t know how, but he did. The Bureau found out, because it’s pretty damned difficult to hide an entire Triple Seven stolen from a high-profile crash, even from you. But instead of hauling Jimmy in, and Avidor, and everyone else who was involved in this thing, you’re covering it up. You’ve got the lid on. You told Jimmy to stay away from the hangar, locked the door, and put two guys out front. Why would you do that?”

  Jack was on to something. I could feel it. The other agents in the room had gone perfectly still.

  “All I can figure is you want Jimmy out on the street, at least for a while longer, and maybe that’s because he’s one of these high-class confidential informants you’re supposed to have. As if Jimmy could be a high-class anything. But that’s neither here nor there. What’s important is that it would be a pretty big coup for a kid like you at this point in your career.”

  “What would?”

  “Nailing an international drug lord.”

  “Drug lord?” Damon seemed sad that anyone could be so misinformed, but he didn’t deny it.

  “Let’s let our imaginations run wild. You’re set up here off-site in some kind of ongoing operation. Let’s say your target is a big fish from Colombia named Ottavio. It wouldn’t hurt your career to be the one who reels him in, and you seem like the ambitious sort. Would it be fair to say you would do anything, or you would let your source do anything, to make that happen?”

  All eyes shifted back to Damon. He was tightening up again, but in a controlled way. It was hard to see, but it was there in his voice and in the way he held his head. He seemed to communicate most directly through the angle of his head.

  “I don’t know what it was like in your day, Dolan, but even if that were true, we have specific policies and guidelines as to what sort of activities will be tolerated from a confidential informant. Even you can remember that.”

  “How about stealing an airplane? Would that be tolerated? What doesn’t hang together for me, Damon, is that you’re a drug guy. You’re after Ottavio, and Jimmy is a parts man all the way. Parts and the occasional weapons deal. Even if Ottavio is in on this Sentinel parts scam, that wouldn’t be enough for you. You want the big-time bust. Not some pissant, penny ante parts rap.”

  Damon crossed his soft hands over his knee. “That’s a pretty complicated theory,” he said, “coming from someone like you, Dolan. I’m amazed your brain can still handle complex thought.” He turned to me. “I’m afraid Mr. Dolan has misled you and put you at risk. He’s wrong about this, among other things. But I suspect he can get confused.”

  “Why would he get confused?”

  I had asked the question without thinking and was immediately sorry because I knew I had done exactly what he wanted. And I had an idea what the answer was going to be. I saw it in Jack’s face, which was tense enough to make mine hurt. I saw it in the deep furrow that creased the bridge of his nose, and the way he stared straight down at the table. And I saw it in Damon’s keen interest in my reaction to what he was about to say.

  “Dolan here spent most of his time with the Bureau in a bottle. That’s why he’s no longer with us. He’s an alcoholic. They called it early retirement”—his eyes slid over to Jack—“but he was fired. You knew that, didn’t you? That he’s a slobbering, falling-down, blacking-out drunk?”

  I didn’t look at Jack, but at the other agents around the table, the two men and the woman, and I understood why Damon had wanted them there. Only one of them, one of the men, had the decency not to stare.

  Damon had asked me a question and was waiting for my response. I gave him the only one I could, the only one that made sense, given the circumstances. “Yes, I knew.”

  “I don’t think so. If I were you, I’d think carefully about whether or not you want to trust your future, maybe even your life to someone like him. I wouldn’t.”

  It was best, I thought
, not to prolong this conversation, so I sat quietly and stared, as Jack did, at the tabletop.

  “Your cars,” Damon said, smoothing his tie, “are in the back. Ms. Shanahan, I’ll send an agent over to your hotel to pick up the logbook and give you a receipt.”

  When Damon stood up, so did the others. When Damon looked down at Jack as if he were a despicable waste of a human being, so did the others. Jack’s hair was a mess and his eyes looked as if he’d been up all night, which he had. He still had a trace of camouflage paint on his chin and under one ear. He held himself perfectly still and endured the scrutiny, and I had the strong feeling it wasn’t the first time he’d felt it. The fluorescents overhead threw light that was bright enough to catch the flecks of gray in the stubble on his chin, and harsh enough to show all the lines in his face. And I felt such a sense of loss from him. For him.

  “You’ve been gone from the Bureau for three years,” Damon said, “and you’re still screwing up. Don’t screw this up for me.”

  Chapter Twenty-six

  I found Jack just where he’d said he would be. He was the only patron at the Miramar Coin Op Laundry, a laundromat situated in a quiet enclave in the shadow of downtown Miami under a canopy of tall, leafy trees. The space was narrow and deep—what the real estate agents in Boston refer to as a floor-through. He was unloading a machine all the way in the back, taking out a load of whites and pushing them into a dryer. It was quiet enough that when he slotted his quarters, I heard them fall.

  When he turned, I knew he hadn’t slept since I left him early that morning. His face was almost gray, as if he’d been sketched in charcoal, and his eyes were as sad as the shabby surroundings. “I see you found me,” he said.

 

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