Thrilling Thirteen

by Ponzo, Gary

  “You don’t want their help, I take it?”

  He shook his head. “I don’t need it. And with their people involved, it’s probably cleaner if no police personnel even come onto this floor, much less into the crime scene.”

  “Well, if you have enough troopers to protect the scene,” Carter said. “I think I have the right person to deal with the locals.”

  “I’m a little short on troopers, but I’ve called the Sheriff for a few deputies to maintain the outer perimeter. We’ll handle the scene itself and the prisoner.”

  “And I’ll provide federal oversight,” Carter said. “Just so no one can make any claims of collusion. Besides, this is officially a corruption case now.”

  “You got it,” the statie said. He turned and headed back down the hall toward the crime scene.

  Carter withdrew her phone and dialed again. Someone answered on the second ring for this call, but there was no warmth in the voice.

  “Special Agent-in-Charge Maw,” he snapped.

  “This is Carter.”

  “I can see that on my Caller ID. What the hell is going on? I just got a call from the commanding officer of the State Patrol Barracks telling me that he has deployed an investigative team in support of our operation inside the city.”

  “That’s correct.”

  “He said that it was at the Rutherford Hotel.”

  “Also correct.”

  “I’m on my way to the scene,” Maw told her.

  “That’s good.”

  “You want to tell me what the hell you think you’re doing, Agent Carter? Besides pissing away your career?”

  Carter smiled to herself. “Actually, sir, I think my career is doing just fine. And unfortunately, yours is about to get a huge boost, as well.”

  “What do you mean? Explain yourself.”

  “I’ve got the Keeper,” Carter said. “And I’ve solved the Kelly Merchant murder.”

  “What?”

  “You heard me.”

  There was a short silence, then Maw cleared his throat. “Well, what about Banks?”

  “He’s in the wind for now.”

  “Well, that’s…that’s just unacceptable.”

  “Listen,” Carter snapped. “I’ve just busted this case wide open, dickhead. And if you want to come take credit for it, you better get your scrawny ass over here and be nice to me. Or my official report won’t say a thing about your critical involvement and stellar leadership in making this happen.”

  The other end of the line was silent for a long moment. Carter considered hanging up on the arrogant bastard, but she hung on out of curiosity.

  Maw cleared his throat again.

  “I’m, uh, about fifteen minutes away.”

  “Super,” Carter said, smiling.

  “Is the media on scene yet?”

  “They will be by the time you get here.”

  “I’ll, uh, I’ll take care of that angle then.”

  “Super again,” Carter said, her smile spreading. “And I’ll need you to keep the local police at bay so the State Patrol can conduct their investigation. With Bureau oversight, of course.”

  “Of course. I’ll take care of it.” There was another pause. Then Maw said in a forced tone, “And, uh, good job, Agent Carter.”

  “Thank you, asshole,” Carter said.

  And this time, she did hang up.

  THIRTY-FOUR

  Sandy glanced out of the Greyhound bus window. The two lane highway was lined with trees. The view was beautiful, even to his red scratchy eyes, but more than that, the nature of the route felt safe. It felt far away from Spokane, the Horsemen, all of it.

  He’d driven poor Arlo’s Maverick out of town, where he’d picked up his false ID and extra cash. Then he drove as far as Ritzville before hopping on the first bus. He’d headed south and now east via what he and his army buddies always called ‘the big gray dog.’

  Get a window seat was the advice every soldier gave the other.

  The state highway eastbound through southern Idaho wasn’t the fastest route home, but it was the smartest. He knew the FBI wouldn’t stop looking for him, but he guessed that they’d be more concerned with unraveling the mess of the Four Horsemen project than initiating a manhunt for him. Especially since McNichol had survived and he’d served up Merchant and Valczinski to them on a silver platter.

  He wasn’t home free. He still had to be careful. A haircut and a change of clothes in Ritzville helped. Keep a low profile. Find his way home. That was probably the safest place in the world right now, since no one knew where that was. Not Brian. Not the FBI. Not even the Army, unless he’d been betrayed there as well.

  No chance, he thought. Some vows are too sacred.

  Still, Merchant got his information from someone. Who?

  Probably some clerk at Central Files, Sandy figured. Someone smart enough to guess that the file was bogus, but not someone who knew why.

  No, home was safe. He was sure of it.

  He wondered if Janet received his letter. He tried to imagine her reaction, but after so many years, there were just too many possibilities. Wondering about things like that was a waste of time. He’d know in a few days. A week at most.

  Instead, he let the distance between him and Spokane mount, one diesel fueled, gray dog mile at a time. He left the Horsemen behind. He left Brian behind. He let it all go with every tree that flitted by the window.

  He felt free.

  Almost…free.

  Twinges of guilt worked at the edges of his conscience. He pushed them away as best he could. For the first time since Cal died, he actually felt the beginnings of new hope. Maybe there was a life for him left in this world.

  Just maybe.

  The trees gave way on his side of the road. A huge silver swath of water opened up to the right. The early morning light danced across the wide river, sparkling. He remembered the last time he’d felt this kind of renewed hope. There’d been the same kind of light on the water then, too. Maybe it was some kind of a sign.

  Sandy smiled.

  EPILOGUE

  Cal Ridley drove his truck northward in silence. The hum of the engine filled the cab. The long gear stick vibrated under his hand. The darkness of early morning had begun to fade as dawn crept in from the eastern sky.

  Beside him sat Sandy Banks, also silent. Cal guessed him at about thirty-five or so, though the hard lines of his face either said that he had another five years than that or some hard mileage. Cal guessed it was the latter.

  The two hadn’t spoke since Cal gassed up at the small corner convenience store. He’d handed Sandy a cup of hot, black coffee in a Styrofoam cup. Sandy thanked him for it. That was the sum total of the words between them this morning.

  Yesterday hadn’t been much more verbose. Cal called Sandy on the phone around six o’clock, just after he and Gail had eaten dinner.

  “You ever fish, son?” he asked, after identifying himself.

  “Not that I recall, Lieutenant,” Sandy replied. Cal could hear the liquor in his voice, even though it was carefully controlled. He shrugged. The man was under a lot of stress. The Internal Affairs case involving the death of a domestic violence victim after he’d been at the house on a patrol call for service was still pending. A few drinks might help take the edge off at a time like this. Besides, Gail was in the kitchen pouring coffee and mixing in Bailey’s Irish Crème, so who was he to criticize another man’s drinking habits?

  “I’m going fishing up at Horseshoe Lake tomorrow morning,” Cal told him. “I think you should come with me.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah.”

  There was a pause, then Sandy said, “I don’t have any gear.”

  “I’ve got extra,” Cal told him. “I’ll be by your place at 5:30 sharp.”

  “You know where I live?”

  “Of course,” Cal replied. “See you in the morning.” Then he’d hung up.

  Now, riding quietly together in the cab of Cal’s truck, he was
surprised that the man beside him had yet to ask any questions. Most men didn’t have that kind of patience. Particularly when the pressure was on.

  Maybe he is right for the job, Cal thought.

  At the lake, he found the public access area deserted. It was a long drive up a dirt road to get to the lake, so it wasn’t popular to begin with. On a Wednesday morning, anyone out of bed this early was probably looking for a tee time and not a boat launch.

  Cal backed the truck down to the water. He untied the harness. Without a word, Sandy helped him lift the little rowboat out of the bed and lower it into the water. Cal grabbed the tackle box and two poles and loaded them into the boat. He pointed at the red ice chest. Sandy grabbed it and put it in the center of the boat.

  Sandy waited by the boat as Cal parked the truck. Cal walked down to the launch, his boots making loud crunching noises on the dirt and gravel as he approached. When he was getting close, Sandy finally asked him a question.

  “What’s this all about, sir?” His voice was level and matter of fact.

  Cal gave him a tight grin and shook his head. “Some things are better discussed out on the lake.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Fish don’t have ears.”

  Sandy didn’t laugh, but he didn’t question Cal, either. The two men clambered into the boat. Cal pushed off. He clicked on the tiny outboard motor that ran off a car battery. No gas engines were allowed on this lake, which was one more reason why it was his favorite place to fish.

  Cal headed straight out to the center of the lake. The two men rode in silence, almost a re-enactment of the trip to the lake in Cal’s truck. When he finally cut the little motor, the boat continued to drift slowly in the direction of travel.

  “I brought you a closed face reel,” Cal told him, holding the pole out. “You know how to use that?”

  Sandy shrugged, took the pole and examined the device. “Push the button to cast, release and reel in?”

  “Exactly. Give me your hook.”

  Sandy unhooked the barb from the eyelet and held it out toward Cal. The veteran lieutenant threaded a worm onto it expertly. “Throw that out there and see what happens.”

  Sandy flicked the pole, sending the hook and bobber a fair distance from the boat.

  “Nice,” Cal grunted, then set his own hook. He cast off in the opposite direction.

  They sat for a while in silence again. Sandy stared at his bobber. Cal twisted open a small flask and added some Bailey’s Irish Crème to his lukewarm coffee. He sipped it a few times. Finally, he said, “You got yourself into a bit of a jackpot, didn’t you?”

  Sandy glanced over at him. “Yeah,” was all he said.

  Jesus, Cal thought. This kid really holds things inside.

  Except he wasn’t a kid, even if he seemed like it to Cal. He was a man, a cop. And according to his personnel file, a veteran of the war in the Middle East. Cal wondered if what Sandy had seen there had anything to do with how closed off he seemed now.

  “You talk to the shrink about it yet?” he asked.

  Sandy nodded.

  “And?”

  Sandy actually smiled slightly, though there was a certain darkness to the expression. “Isn’t that supposed to be confidential, Lieutenant?”

  “It is,” Cal said. “But out here, I’m just Cal. And we’re just fishing.”

  Sandy eyed him for a long moment, as if gauging his sincerity. Finally, he said, “I told the doctor what he needed to hear so that he could tell the Chief what he needed to hear.”

  “So that you could get back to work,” Cal finished for him.

  “Exactly. If that’s where things are going.”

  “But you didn’t tell him the truth.”

  Sandy took a deep breath and let it out. “What’s the truth, anyway?”

  “I think,” Cal said, “that the truth is you did the best you could do.”

  Sandy shook his head. “No. I made a mistake. Because of that, an innocent woman died. If I’d done the best I could do, she’d still be alive. And the guy that killed her would be in jail. Not on the run in some other state.”

  “I read the reports,” Cal said. “Sounds to me like you did what anyone else would have done. There was no reason to believe she was lying to you about him being in the house.”

  “I should have searched the place,” Sandy said. “I had probable cause to arrest him for domestic violence assault. I should have been sure he wasn’t there.”

  “I imagine she was pretty convincing.”

  “She was scared to death of him.” Sandy shook his head. “If nothing else, I should have waited until she left to her sister’s house. I should have made sure she was safe.”

  “Maybe,” Cal relented. “But it was an honest mistake. We all make mistakes.”

  Sandy met his eyes. His own were hard, but full of pain. “Don’t you understand? I failed her. And the cost of that failure was her life.”

  “I have it on good authority that the review panel is going to clear you of any wrongdoing on this,” Cal told him. “You’ll get reprimanded for negligence, plus forty hours of suspension. But they won’t find any malice. You won’t lose your job.”

  “It doesn’t matter what they say. I don’t deserve to carry a badge,” Sandy said. “I’m think I’m going to quit.”

  “Now you’re feeling a little bit sorry for yourself,” Cal told him. The end of his line twitched. “Oh, there you go. A little nibble.”

  He felt Sandy staring at him, but he focused on the end of his pole. When nothing happened after a while, he sighed. “Either too smart or not hungry enough,” he said with no hint of dejection. The fish would be back. Or another one would.

  He looked over at Sandy. “You have to move on, son. You can’t carry the weight of these things around with you. Mistakes happen. Make up for it if you want, but don’t carry it around like this.”

  Sandy stared at him, but his expression softened. He surprised Cal, as tears formed in his eyes but didn’t fall. “Some mistakes are too big to let go,” he said, his voice cracking.

  Cal got the distinct impression he wasn’t talking about the domestic violence victim from a week ago.

  This kid has been through some kind of hell, he realized. Was it his father that did this to him? His mother? Or a woman he loved? Whoever it was, the DV victim last week was not the first time Sandy Banks had failed someone important to him with disastrous results. Cal was certain of it.

  “Who did you fail?” he asked in a low voice. “Who was it?”

  Sandy shook his head. A couple of tears fell heavily from his cheeks and splatted on the floor of the boat. He wiped his eyes. “It doesn’t matter. I can never make it right. It’s too late.”

  “Maybe,” Cal said. “But maybe not.”

  “No,” Sandy replied. “It’s too late.”

  “It’s never too late for redemption, son,” Cal said. “My wife assures me of that every Sunday.”

  Another nibble came at the end of Cal’s pole, followed by a large bend. He felt the familiar vibrations of a fish on the line, but he didn’t reel it in right away. Instead, he ignored it, and watched Sandy.

  Sandy returned his stare with an open and frank gaze.

  Cal smiled. “Son, here is what is going to happen. I’m going to reel in this fine specimen of rainbow trout. And then I’m going to tell you about something special that you were tailor-made to be a part of. A way you might be able to make up for some of those mistakes you won’t let go of.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Justice,” Cal said, turning the knob on his reel. “I’m talking about a little bit of justice.”

  THE DIPLOMAT

  By

  Ethan Jones

  THE DIPLOMAT. Copyright © 2014 by Ethan Jones

  First edition: February 2014

  This work would have not been possible without the great support of my wife and son. I would like to thank Ty Hutchinson, Kenneth Teicher and Claude Dancourt
for their helpful suggestions.

  To join my Fans Mailing List click on the following link: http://eepurl.com/HIG7r

  My blog at http://ethanjonesbooks.wordpress.com is the place to learn about my future works. You can also follow me on Twitter at https:/twitter.com/EthanJonesBooks or find me on Facebook page at http://www.facebook.com/pages/Ethan-Jones/329693267050697

  To my family

  Chapter One

  Lagos, Nigeria

  March 20, 2:10 p.m.

  Justin Hall examined the ever-changing faces of the crowd around the square, searching for the man expected to approach him and collect the ransom for the hostage. The metallic briefcase stuffed with untraceable bills totaling the sum of one million dollars lay next to his feet, underneath the plastic coffee table. His SIG P228 pistol rested inside his concealed waistband holster.

  The man kidnapped four months ago was a senior Canadian diplomat working for the Department of Foreign Affairs, Trade and Development, in the Trade Promotion Programs branch. He had arrived in Nigeria for a high-level conference of the United Nations Office on Drugs and Crime, and his vehicles had been attacked by masked gunmen on the outskirts of Lagos. The diplomat’s four bodyguards and his assistant had been killed in the firefight. The convoy’s two Land Rovers, hijacked by the gunmen, were found burned two days later about ten miles north of Lagos. But there had been no news about Martin Duncan until a week ago. A local rebel group—Free Niger Delta, who had been waging war against the Nigerian government over the last ten years for control of the Niger Delta’s vast oil riches—had placed a call claiming they had Duncan, and had provided unquestionable proof of life.

  The Canadian Intelligence Service had dispatched one of its best field operatives to arrange for the exchange. Justin had made possible the rescue of two aid workers kidnapped in Port Harcourt in Nigeria—about four hundred miles southeast of Lagos—and had spent over a decade hunting and killing terrorists all over the world. He was the right man for the job of prying Duncan from the terrorists’ claws in case the exchange went sideways.