by Ponzo, Gary
She frowned. “So we’ll just sit here anyway, because our boss is a moron.”
“He’s a moron who wants a promotion,” he said.
“To what? Head-Dipshit-in-charge?”
“Doesn’t matter what you call it when it comes with a pay raise and a cushy office back in D.C.,” he told her. “That’s why this case will make exactly when and how he decides, based on how big a splash he can make with the operation.”
“I hate politics,” she muttered.
“Better get used to them,” he said. “You won’t see retirement if you can’t navigate those waters at least a little bit.”
“Those waters are full of sewage as far as I’m concerned.”
“True.” He smiled. “Which is a good reason not to rock the boat too much.”
EIGHT
Sandy sat parked in his Mazda, sipping diet Coke. He watched the house mid-block. A dark green rancher with glossy white trim, the place had a neatly manicured lawn and a knee-high white picket fence surrounding the front yard.
Someone is trying to keep up appearances, Sandy thought.
He glanced at his watch, which was usually a mistake. Surveillance was long work. It required patience. Clock-watching just made things drag on more slowly and diverted his attention from what he was supposed to be doing.
Ten-thirty-eight. That’s what the slightly luminescent green hands on his watch read.
Sandy took another sip of his diet Coke and leaned back. What was Jeff Odoms up to tonight, he wondered. So far, the man seemed to live a structured, boring existence. He worked for a textile company down on Monroe Street. From what Sandy had discovered in his research, the job was probably a solitary one that involved piecing together smaller pieces of fabric into a finished product. Of course, Odoms could be a supervisor or even mid-management. The information Sandy was able to uncover on the Internet only listed the very top echelon of the company.
Somehow, though, Odoms didn’t seem like the manager type. He seemed more like the quiet, dependable employee who kept to himself.
Every day after work, Odoms went home. This routine had been interrupted only once and that was for a trip to the grocery store. Once home, Odoms remained there. No trips to the bars. No dates. No buddies over for the Gonzaga basketball game. Just Odoms, all by himself.
Sandy noticed that the light to a front corner room stayed on longer than all the rest. He figured that was where Odoms kept his computer. The light burned well into the night. When it finally went out, the bathroom light and then the bedroom light came on for a short while each before Odoms retired to his slumber.
The light was on right now. Sandy stared at it.
I wonder what he’s doing in that office every night? He thought, not for the first time. He imagined Odoms scouring the Internet for images that fed his fetish. Based on what he read in the file about the crimes Odoms had committed, those images were likely violent, degrading and sick.
In short, Jeff Odoms was exactly the kind of criminal that the Four Horseman had been created to deal with. That’s why Sandy couldn’t simply file the case away after he read it. If he had, he knew that the images of those two fifteen year old girls would haunt him mercilessly for the rest of his life.
He half-considered adding Detective Randall Cooper to the hit list for bungling the case so badly. Had he not mis-stepped so egregiously, the judge would not have suppressed most of the evidence. With that evidence in play, Sandy doubted any jury would have failed to convict Odoms.
This project wasn’t formed to rescue stupid or lazy cops from bad police work, he groused silently. It was created to right grievous wrongs. To set things straight. To give justice a second shot at being served. In Odoms’ case, justice should have been rendered the first time around. All the pieces were there. Cooper just flat out fucked up. Repeatedly.
Police work was like every other profession, Sandy knew. You had your hard workers and you had your lazy ones. You had smart, motivated, dedicated cops and then you had some who were just coasting along at the minimum accepted standards.
Like Detective Randall Cooper.
Despite his distaste for Cooper’s handling of the case – or his entire existence – Sandy couldn’t let Odoms slide. What he did was too horrible. The fact that he got away with it, regardless of the reason, only made it more horrible. As soon as Sandy read the file, he knew that if he had ever believed in what the Horsemen represented, he had to finish this last job. Maybe there would always be another job waiting in the wings that would go undone, but at least he wouldn’t know the details of those.
Those victims wouldn’t have names.
Like Mariko.
Like Suzume.
The corner light went off. A moment or two later, the small window up high on the side of the house illuminated. Five minutes later, it also went dark. The back corner window lit up behind shades for a few minutes, then became black.
Sandy looked down at his watch. Eleven-oh-four and Mr. Jeff Odoms was tucked away in his bed.
Sandy sat in the car for a while longer, considering. He had his go-bag in the trunk. He could dispense with this job tonight. Finish it. Then he’d be free to move on and leave this life behind. The last Horseman could ride into the sunset.
But he knew that he was forcing the issue. Being too hasty. For one thing, he needed to scout out the back yard again. More importantly, he needed to see if he could prepare the back door for swifter entry.
Not tonight, he decided.
The next morning, he followed Odoms to work. Once his target was inside, Sandy felt comfortable that he’d stay there until the end of his work day. He waited an hour just to be sure, then drove to the post office where the drop box was located.
He figured that the only way to get a message to The Keeper that the project was over would be to close the mailbox. He wasn’t even sure if that would work, but he couldn’t think of another way.
He wished for the thousandth time that Lieutenant Cal Ridley was still around. He was the original Keeper, the mastermind behind the entire project. He recruited each of the Horsemen. He laid out the ground rules, the safety precautions, all of it. After two years, though, word came that he had been diagnosed with throat cancer. He let the Horsemen know he was dying and that he was passing the torch. What he didn’t tell them was who the new Keeper would be.
That was better for everybody, he told them the last time they met. The Keeper didn’t know who the Horsemen were and the Horsemen didn’t know who the Keeper was. He created a double-blind operation that kept each cell safe if one were compromised.
Sandy had wondered why Ridley hadn’t done the same thing with the individual Horsemen, too. Eventually, though, he came to understand. What the Horsemen did was difficult, even if it was righteous. It flew in the face of what they’d learned as cops or even what they’d learned as citizens. It was beyond law. That took a toll on a man. Having some fellowship softened that experience. It gave him a sense of fraternity that counter-balanced the guilt that seeped in.
Seeped? Hell, it flooded in. That’s why Hank quit, and now Brian, too. It might have been what gave Bill the heart attack, for all he knew. And the truth was, that was why Sandy was going to call it quits himself.
As soon as he finished with Odoms.
Sandy parked his car in the post office lot. He headed inside. At the window, he bought a single stamp. He walked over to the outgoing mail slot, stuck the stamp on the corner of his letter to Janet and slipped it through.
Good journey, he thought. See you soon.
Along one wall, a slew of different forms were available. He searched until he found the one he wanted. Carefully, he filled out the form cancelling the rent on the post office box. On the authorization block, he scrawled an illegible signature that he hoped would pass muster.
He knew he couldn’t take the form back to the employee at the window. Instead, he folded it so that the name of the form would be staring the postman in the eye when he delivered ma
il to the box. Sandy removed the key from his key ring, since he’d need to leave that in the box, too. He used his key to open up the mail slot.
A dark yellow manila envelope filled the small box.
Sandy stared at it for a long while.
Another job.
He wrestled with his thoughts until he realized that he had to take the file. Whether he worked it or not, he had to take it.
Sandy pulled the envelope from the box. He slid the closure form into the box, pressing the stiffly folded upright part against the rear. He weighted it down with the mailbox key.
Then he took a deep breath.
Once he closed the mailbox, he was done. There would be no more jobs. Odoms would be the last. There’d be no more. The Keeper would find this drop box to be a dead end. The Horsemen were finished.
Sandy swung the mailbox shut, closing it with a sharp click. Then he turned and strode out of the post office for the last time.
Back in his car, he tossed the unopened envelope onto the passenger seat. He started the car and pulled out of the parking lot into traffic. He would have to go to the office to file this case. That would also likely be his final visit. He’d review the Odoms file again while he was there.
Sandy’s eyes flicked to the rear view mirror. Out of habit, he continuously scanned his surroundings. He noticed a medium blue sedan, probably a Taurus, two cars back and in the next lane over. Something nagged at him about the car. He knew he’d seen it recently on a couple of occasions. Initially, he thought it was coincidence. He thought he was just seeing a common make, model and color. Of course, once you started noticing a particular type of car, they suddenly appeared everywhere.
But no, this was the same car. He wasn’t sure right away how he knew, but he knew it. As he watched the car in his mirrors more closely, the little facts that told him it was the same car started to add up.
The design of the dirt at the edge of the wiper blade’s range was the same.
A small, pinpoint dent on the passenger front bumper. Not enough to worry about fixing, but enough to just barely notice.
A slightly bluish tint to the day headlights that indicated a strong Halogen or similar bulb.
And probably the biggest tip-off of all, two people in the front seat. A man and a woman. The woman was driving. They both wore suits, jackets and all.
Sandy clenched his jaw.
Cops.
Had to be.
Not locals, though. City detectives didn’t wear suits, except maybe to court. They wore khaki’s or slacks and a collared shirt. Maybe a tie, but rarely a jacket. And definitely not while out in the field on some sort of surveillance. In fact, if city cops were following him, he’d expect them to be in jeans and a T-shirt, blending into the local population.
That meant Staties. Or Feds.
A cold sweat broke out all over Sandy’s body. Avoiding the police had been second nature for him on this project, but that was mostly restricted to the times when he wrapped up an assignment. That was why he conducted such exhaustive prep work – so that his short, few minutes of exposure went like clockwork.
But this was something different than getting caught in the finishing moments of a job. This was pro-active work, not reactive. It wasn’t happenstance, but planned. And that meant something else entirely. Something more dangerous.
Sandy took a deep breath and let it out. He kept driving, maintaining an outwardly calm composure.
“Who the fuck are you guys?” he muttered to himself.
Now that he knew they were there, he had an advantage he didn’t have before. He couldn’t let them know that he was aware of their presence. If he did, one of two things would happen. If they were prepared to arrest him for something, a blown cover would probably hasten that event. But if they thought their cover was still in place, they might hold off for a while longer. He didn’t know how long, but any time at all was a gift right now. It gave him the opportunity to think, to decide on his course of action.
On the other hand, if they weren’t ready to arrest him for something, they’d react to the blown cover by setting up new surveillance, which he’d have to spot all over again. Doubtless, it would be better.
No, his best move was to pretend he was unaware of their presence. Take advantage of the time he had. Gather what intel he could from counter-surveillance.
And decide what the hell to do.
Sandy turned right on Indiana instead of left. What he couldn’t do was lead them to the office, just in case they didn’t already know about it. They’d seen him go into the post office, that much was already certain. He didn’t have the key anymore, so they couldn’t link him to the box with that. Of course, the piece of mail sitting on his passenger seat would provide all the connection they needed.
Shit, he thought. Shit, fuck, motherfuck.
If they were on him, they no doubt knew where he lived. He could head there. Take the file inside. Destroy it. Make a plan.
But what if they piled out of the car after he parked and started for the door? Then they’d have him red-handed, with a smoking gun.
And as far as that was concerned, his .45 and the suppressor were hidden in the floor of his bedroom. They may or may not find it in a search, but if they did and they knew which cases to link it to, he was screwed. Done like dinner. They’d do a ballistic match and it’d be a slam dunk. Even a mope like Randall Cooper couldn’t make enough mistakes to blow that case. And he doubted that the likes of Randall Cooper were in the car that was following him.
Then again, their surveillance techniques weren’t the greatest. A real surveillance job would be more coordinated and involve several cars, both ahead and behind the target. So maybe this was a fishing expedition of some kind, to find out about him.
Or maybe they were just the lead car and this was an arrest operation.
An arrest operation organized by who? Feds? State Patrol? And how much did they know?
Sandy’s mind whirred. This was the first time in twelve years that he’d been followed. That alone was unsettling. Beyond that, there were too many questions. Too many unknowns.
He had to make a decision.
Take a chance and play out the string.
Sandy cursed under his breath. Could he afford to risk going home?
No. He was on the second floor. If he went inside his apartment and they decided to move on him, he’d be trapped with no escape route except shooting his way out. And that was a losing proposition.
He had to slip surveillance. Then he had to get rid of this new file. After that he could figure out who the hell was following him and what he was going to do next.
His heart thudded in his ears. He wiped his sweaty hands on his jeans, then turned on the radio and adjusted the station. J. Geils came on, singing about his angel in the magazine centerfold. Sandy barely heard the words. He watched the flow of traffic carefully. At every intersection, he looked for the opportunity to time the light so that he made it through the yellow and his trail car caught the red. He knew that if they broke the red to come after him, all bets were off and they were set to arrest him. If they waited, he had a little breathing room.
At Monroe, he got his chance. Indiana ran into Northwest Boulevard here, turning sharply to the northwest for the arterial. The light turned yellow as he was two car lengths away. He held his speed, trying to appear as if he were casually going through the intersection. There was no need to hurry. The light turned red when he was mid-way through the intersection. He looked in his rear-view mirror. The blue Taurus was caught behind a green Volvo that had stopped for the light.
He continued along Northwest Boulevard, watching carefully. The Taurus made no effort to get around the Volvo or chase after him.
He breathed a sigh of relief. They were a soft tail.
Good.
He sped up slightly, but stayed in the left lane until he knew that he was far enough away to be out of view from the intersection behind him. Then he switched into the right-hand lane.
He caught the red at Maple, but he was first in line so he made a quick right hand turn onto the northbound arterial. He kept his speed with the flow of traffic, watching his rear view mirror. There was no sign of the Taurus.
At Garland, he turned left. He drove the eight blocks or so to Belt, still watching for any tail.
He saw none.
At Belt, he turned north. He made his way almost to Wellesley, then turned into the large shopping center that ran from Belt clear over to Alberta. He was in the midst of a huge Wal-Mart lot, complemented by hardware stores, a strip containing a bank, a Starbucks, a liquor store and a Safeway grocery store.
Sandy found an empty parking stall and stopped. He sat there for fifteen minutes, carefully scanning the area for any surveillance units. He saw nothing suspicious. He stepped outside his car and searched the sky for air coverage. If this was a big enough operation, a helicopter wasn’t out of the question. He saw a commercial plane flying low toward the airport and a jet of some kind in the distance, but nothing that raised any suspicion.
Feeling a little safer, he turned to his car. He searched the wheel wells and under the body of the car for any sort of GPS device. He knew that the transmitters today were small, even tiny, so he carefully combed the underside of his Mazda.
A pair of footsteps approached. Sandy expected them to pass by, as several shoppers already had. These didn’t. A pair of glossy wing-tip dress shoes stopped a few feet away from him.
“Car trouble?” came a male voice.
Sandy tensed. This could be it. Maybe their surveillance had been better than he thought. Or maybe there was a GPS unit and he just hadn’t found it yet. He’d been there long enough for them to regroup and send in the troops.
“Just looking for a leak,” Sandy said, keeping his voice even.
He slid out from under the car.
The man stood near the rear of Sandy’s Mazda. He looked about forty. His blond hair was short, reminding Sandy of how a banker would wear it. Or a cop. He wore a casual polo shirt and slacks. No gun or badge. The only thing on his belt was a PDA in a square holster. Both hands held plastic Wal-Mart bags.