The Alex Shanahan Series

by Lynne Heitman

  I crept back to the cover of the crumbling wall, turned up the radio, and gave my report. “Two in the kitchen in the back. Repeat…only two in the kitchen. No sign of number three.”

  “Positions?”

  “Ponytail is standing…leaning against the sink with his back to the window…facing the inside doorway. Judas Priest is sitting at the table…back to the inside doorway…talking on a cell phone. Both have their hands occupied with pizza, beer, cigarette, or phone. No third man. Repeat, no third man in the kitchen. Over.”

  Bo came back. “Third in the front room watching the door and the television. I will take care of this one. On my signal…”

  I waited. The next thing I would hear would be the go sign. When it came, it was a short but ferocious burst over the radio that must have been something like Go! Go! Go! in Bosnian.

  The shouting started almost instantly. Then came the shooting. I couldn’t see anything, but I could hear. I knew when the bad guys were firing, because all our weapons had suppressors. The blinds crashed back against the window. It must have been Ponytail. Whoever it was, when he fell, he pulled the blinds down with him. From my position, it was like a curtain rising.

  Judas Priest was hunkered down beside the refrigerator, clutching what looked like some kind of fully automatic, magazine-fed assault rifle. Timon and Radik were firing from outside the kitchen door. They had him pinned down, but every time they tried to advance, he’d step out and blast away. Judas Priest had only one real chance to make it out of there, and it was through the back door directly across from his position. He knew it, too. He kept glancing that way. The only question was whether they would get him before he ran through it and right into me.

  I got ready.

  He jumped out again and laid down another barrage, but this time, instead of moving back to the safe corner behind the refrigerator, he crashed toward the door and opened it, firing the whole way. The second he moved onto the small concrete patio, both Timon and Radik advanced through the kitchen toward the door. The way he staggered down the steps made it clear he’d been hit, but he was still coming straight at me, which meant I either had to roll out of the line of fire from the house or stand up and shoot him, but he was still moving with such power and authority that I had real doubts about whether I could stop him. An image flashed of me rising from behind the safety of my wall, emptying a clip into him, only to have him keep coming. But then he saw me and raised his rifle, and the adrenaline surged and instinct took over, and I was standing to take my shot when someone yelled, “Down! Down! Down!”

  I dropped to my belly behind the wall and rolled. Five straight shots followed, presumably into the back of Judas Priest. The sound of the shots was subdued, like someone blowing five quick darts through a long pole, which is what a suppressor is supposed to do. Make death quiet.

  I didn’t hear him die. I didn’t hear him gurgle or cry out. But he was dead, lying in the yard, facedown with the rifle still in his hand and blood soaking into his black T-shirt. Bo was the one who had shot him. He was coming toward me now.

  “Are you all right?”

  “Fine,” I said, staring down at the corpse. “You?”

  “Good. Everything is good. Go inside and find Harvey.” He looked around. There was one house that backed up to the alley from which someone could have seen the show. “Go. Go now.”

  Inside the house, the light that bathed the room was too warm for such a cold scene. Radik was standing over Ponytail. Judging by the blood smears, he must have been blown back against the window, turned, grabbed the edge of the sink, and slumped to the floor.

  “We need to turn off the lights,” I said. “Anyone can see in here from the back.”

  Radik didn’t understand, so I pulled out my flashlight to show him and flipped off the overhead light. He got it.

  With my flashlight in one hand and the Glock in the other, I started toward the side of the house where Bo said he’d seen Harvey. It was a rambling floor plan that didn’t make any sense to me. All I knew was that the doors were all closed, and every time I cracked one of them open, I expected to find something bad behind it—either someone coming at me from out of the dark or, worse, Harvey’s body. By the time I got to the last door, my heart was pumping out of control and my lungs straining for breath. It was controlled, but it was still panic. I had to stop. With my back to a wall, I leaned over and put my hands on my knees. Generous drops of sweat rolled from my forehead and dripped onto the floor. When I felt a little less likely to collapse, I opened the last door, shone my flashlight across the room, and found Harvey.

  He was lying in a heap in the corner, still wearing the suit jacket he’d had on that morning. I stumbled into the doorway, but something stopped me there. It was the sight of him, so still and crumpled, that kept me from rushing to his side, because if I did, if I reached down and turned him, I might find his eyes fixed in a death stare. I might find his skin long cold. Maybe not even murdered, just dead from the stress on his weak system. I was so afraid that I was too late. But when I saw his chest rise, fall, and rise again, I went and knelt beside him. I put my hand on his shoulder and felt the life still in him. He moaned when I turned him. It was the most beautiful sound I had ever heard, and when he opened his eyes, it was a smile that he saw and not just the tears.

  “Harvey, it’s me. We’re taking you out of here. We’re taking you home.”

  He blinked at me, and I knew he recognized me. “Leave me alone.” He tried to roll away from me. “Let me go. Let me die.”

  Not what I expected. It ticked me off. “Goddammit, Harvey, you are not giving up. Not here and not now. Die at home if you want, but right now we’re getting out of here.”

  I grabbed his other arm and pulled him up into a sitting position. His head and shoulders flopped forward. He was in full rag-doll mode. I slid behind him, put my arms under his, and locked my hands across his diaphragm.

  “Help me as much as you can,” I said, hoping he could—and would. When I finally got him upright, he wasn’t steady on his feet, but I needed only a second or two. All in one maneuver, I let go with one hand, slipped under one of his arms, and draped him over my back. I huffed and puffed a few times and lifted. He wasn’t as heavy as he used to be, but he was still deadweight, and I staggered until I found my equilibrium. Then I carried him out of there.

  When I got to the front room, Timon was gathering weapons into a pile on the floor. Bo was there, standing very still over the body of the third man, the one he must have dispatched when he came through the front. He was looking at the corpse with an expression I had never seen, and I wondered if he knew his victim. Slowly, he crouched and pulled at the man’s shirt, baring his chest and an amazing webbing of tattoos that covered him practically from head to toe.

  Bo called for Timon. He walked over and looked where Bo was looking, but he didn’t say anything. Then Timon crouched, too, pulled out his knife, and did something really strange. He grabbed the dead man’s pants at the knees and sliced them open. Timon stepped back, and Bo said something, and there was a rushed exchange that I didn’t need to understand to feel the deep concern.

  “Bo?”

  He seemed almost dazed when he looked at me. “Give me the weapon.”

  “What? Oh.” He wanted the Glock back. “What’s going on?”

  “You must leave here,” he said. “You must take Harvey and leave at once.”

  Chapter Ten

  I wanted to take Harvey to the emergency room, but Bo said we couldn’t risk it. He said they would look for us there but didn’t bother to tell me who. He said we didn’t have time to discuss it and that Radik would take us home and keep watch. Watch for what? The ride home with the sleeping Harvey and the English-challenged Radik was completely silent, leaving me plenty of time to wonder. Also to think about what had just happened. While the adrenaline had been flowing, I hadn’t felt much of what I had seen. Now I was starting to.

  The bodies. The blood. The smells. I saw th
e tattooed man lying on his back with both eyes open. They were blue. Pale blue. There was a third hole between them, and there was no weapon in his hand. I didn’t have to wonder why. The look on his face told me everything I needed to know. He’d had no warning, but maybe that was part of why we were all still alive and Harvey was in the backseat on his way home.

  Or maybe it was just murder.

  Bo must have given Radik specific instructions, because when we got home, he carried Harvey into the house and put him in his wheelchair, then did a complete sweep of the inside while we waited in the foyer. Once I had the all clear, he went outside, presumably to patrol, and I wheeled Harvey into his bedroom. As I was trying to work out the logistics of how to get him into bed, he stirred, and then he opened his eyes and blinked at me.

  “Where are my glasses?”

  I reached out to pat his jacket. “They’re in your breast pocket. How are you feeling? Are you injured?”

  “Just tired. Very tired.”

  “What can you tell me?”

  He looked at me hard, as if he were trying to pick me out of a Where’s Waldo? puzzle. Part of it was the fact that he didn’t have his corrective lenses on, but much of it, I was sure, had to be due to the trauma he’d just suffered. I wouldn’t get much from him before he got some sleep, but I had to get my basic questions answered.

  “Harvey, where’s Rachel?”

  “I…I do not know. Is she not with you? Is she all right?”

  “She’s not with me. She sent me to Quincy to an empty house. There was no husband or jewelry or photos or anything else. Why did she do that?”

  “An empty house?” I hoped that his confused look was because he hadn’t known about it.

  “Yes. She moved out last week in the middle of the night. It seems to me she wanted me out of the way so that whoever grabbed you could do it without interference. Does that sound right?”

  “No. Why would she do such a thing? Why would she have to? I would have gone with her, had she asked.”

  Sadly, that was probably true. Rachel had to know that. There would have been no need for the elaborate subterfuge just to get Harvey to go somewhere with her. “Do you know who took you?”

  “No. I…” He tried to reach up and rub his eyes, but his arm was a little floppy. “I cannot remember much. I have been sleeping.”

  “What can you remember?”

  He looked around his room, as if absorbing the familiar might sharpen his memory. “We were listening to music, Rachel and I, and…” He squeezed his eyes shut. One of his arms slipped off the armrest, which caused him to tilt slightly. “She left. She had to go, and then I was alone in the music room—”

  “The room upstairs with the turntable?”

  “Yes. It was our music room when she lived with me.” The thought seemed to relax him, but only for a second. “Someone came up the stairs. I thought it was you, but they put a bag over my head. They put me in a vehicle, in the back of an SUV, perhaps. I was lying flat. I tried to think about how long the trip was, but I was disoriented. I was…” His voice trailed off.

  “Did they speak?”

  “No one spoke. I asked them several times who they were and what they wanted. They would not answer.”

  I sat on the corner of his bed and looked at him. “Harvey, the FBI was here earlier. They were asking questions about Roger Fratello and Betelco and some cash they found in Brussels.” I looked for a reaction. There was nothing but dazed confusion. “They believe you helped Fratello flee the country after he defrauded his company. Is that true?”

  “I do not know where Roger Fratello is.”

  My stomach tightened. “But you do know him?”

  “I might. Perhaps a client? I…” He looked as if he wanted to answer my questions, but he’d been without food or medicine for hours, and he was fading fast. “Must we speak of this now?”

  I gave it one more shot. “Rachel was the outside auditor for Fratello’s firm. Could she have been the one involved in this somehow? Is that why she was here this morning? Maybe she was looking for your help?”

  “Help…yes. But I cannot remember. I cannot…” He shook his head. “I cannot go another second without washing the stink of this ordeal from my skin. I must shower.”

  “I need you to tell me about Fratello. I need details. I need—”

  He lifted his hands with difficulty and began to unbutton his shirt. “I can do it myself.”

  On a normal day, he could have. He had the kind of modified shower with a seat, plenty of handrails for maneuvering, and enough pride that he could still find a way to take care of the deeply personal aspects of his self-care. It was pride and, I suspected, fear that crossing that particular threshold would take him downhill fast. Faster. This wasn’t a normal day, but he still had his full measure of stubbornness.

  “Just tell me one thing. Do you know where Rachel is?”

  He shook his head. I had never had to wonder before if Harvey was lying to me, but I wondered then.

  I helped him unbutton his shirt and peel it off. Then I pulled his T-shirt over his head. Without letting him notice, I checked the soft white expanse of his back and then his chest for bruises or cuts. Saw none. I took off his shoes and socks. He unzipped his own fly, and I helped him stand so he could step out of his trousers. It was all very clinical and mechanical until he was stripped down to his boxers.

  “Um…do you need me to—”

  “I can manage from here, thank you.” He tried to turn his chair and roll himself to the bathroom. Left to his own devices, it would have taken hours. I pushed him in, turned on the shower, and made sure a fresh towel was in reach. I went back to the bedroom to find his pajamas and robe hanging on a doorknob. When I got back, he was listing to the right in his chair.

  “You should have let me go.”

  “What?”

  “I was ready to go.” He turned his head slightly. “You should have let me.”

  I had hoped that his wishing to die had come from the stress of the situation, but he looked like a man who had already given up. I hoped that a shower and a good night’s sleep in his own bed would change his outlook. All I said was, “I’ll be right out here.”

  I hung his bedclothes on the inside knob and pulled the door almost closed. The clothes I had stripped from him were piled on the floor across the room. I didn’t feel comfortable pawing through them, but maybe they could tell me what he couldn’t. Or wouldn’t.

  There were no coins or keys or wallet in his trousers. Those would all be in the desk drawer in his office. His cell phone was missing, presumably taken by the kidnappers and inadvisably turned on at some point. His schedule of medication was in a side pocket. The only other item was a photograph. It was Harvey in younger, healthier days. He was standing with Rachel at some scenic overlook. The sight of Harvey in sunlight was enough of an oddity, but to see him smiling was stranger still. With his arm around Rachel’s waist, he was gazing upon her as if she were some kind of rare hothouse flower. Rachel was gazing at something off camera. The photo paper was soft and fringed around the edges, the way pictures get when you take them out and look at them often. As much as I disliked the woman, he obviously took comfort in seeing her face. I set it on his nightstand, leaning it against the base of his reading lamp so he could look over and see it if he wanted to.

  The clothes offered up nothing more beyond the stale and pungent odor of a helpless man stiff with fear. I piled them into a corner and took the medicine list to the prescription stash in the kitchen. I pulled out everything he should have taken and didn’t while he was missing. He could figure out what he could skip and what he had to catch up on. I put the pills on his bedside table with a glass of milk, which is what he typically used to push them all down.

  For a brief moment, I gave consideration to calling Ling to let him know that Harvey was home. I even took out the business card he’d given me and stared at it. Calling him would have been the safe thing to do, the right thing to do. Instead
, the phone rang. Not my cell but Harvey’s land line. I went into his office to take the call.

  “Harvey Baltimore’s office.”

  “Goddammit, Shanahan, don’t you ever return phone calls?” It was Dan. “I left you about a hundred messages on your cell.”

  “What are you talking about?” I dug into my pocket for my phone. “I don’t have any—” Oops. I had turned it off before the big rescue and never turned it back on. When I did, I found seven messages waiting: five from Dan and two from Felix.

  “Sorry. We were out getting Harvey back.”

  “You got him? How is he?”

  “A little worse for the wear. I think he’s really depressed.” I left it at that as I dropped down into Harvey’s desk chair. “Did you find something?”

  “I’ve got one word for you. Are you ready? Afghanistan.”

  “What about it?”

  “The U.S. invades Afghanistan, right?”

  “We did, yes.” I clamped the receiver between my shoulder and ear and began straightening the stuff on the desk. I needed to be doing something.

  “In towns and villages and mud huts all over the country, Marines are rolling in through the front door and terrorists are running out the back.”

  “Is this at all relevant to the case?”

  “They’re leaving all their shit behind, like bomb-building instructions and maps and computers and memos and all the internal papers and documents and other crap that goes with running an organization, be it an airline or a terrorist ring.”

  “Memos from Osama?”

  “Right, right. Expense reports. Performance reviews. Anyhow, there’s this bumfuck little village south of Kabul called Zormat. In Zormat is a house. In the house is a closet. In the back of the closet is a big black Hefty bag.”

  “If you say so.” When the surface of the desk was straightened, I started in on the drawers. I collected a bunch of loose binder clips and put them back in their box.