“How exactly did you find it? Who’d you get it from?”
Jarvis shook his head. “No one you’ll be able to talk to. They knew me, too, like the dead kid.”
Rayford’s patience ebbed. “Jesus, what’s going on here? Are there going to be more of these?”
Jarvis leaned back against his car and crossed his arms. “I don’t know what the hell’s going on, but I think someone is distributing a fast-acting chemical weapon to operatives in different parts of the country. The kid in Tarzana, the guy here, they were part of that. The list has the rest. I didn’t get to interrogate the guy in Wisconsin who I think is shipping the stuff out. He didn’t seem to be very talkative while we were together.”
Rayford rubbed his face. “This is way out of my jurisdiction. I don’t wanna lose my cases to the Feds, brother-in-law or not, but I need help. There’s an anti-terror department in LAPD. I’ll make the call.”
He pulled out his phone but stopped. “You know you’re going to have to back off. You can’t be mixed up in this. They’ll run all over you – pull your license if you get in the way.”
Jarvis stood and went around the door to get in the car. “All the guys I’ve met were Middle Eastern. They knew me. They must’ve known Brin. And we were in the Gulf together. It’s no coincidence. This is going federal, but I’m in it either way.” He started the car. “You need me, call. But you probably don’t want to get too close.”
Rayford started to argue, and stopped. “We’ll have a sit-down with my brother-in-law, at least share the information. Then we’ll see.”
Jarvis closed the door and backed out of the spot. Another envelope containing the original sheets he got in Racine sat on the passenger seat. There were three pieces of paper in it. The envelope he’d given Rayford held two sheets.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Jarvis held back one page because it contained a name he recognized. All the others would be hard to find by the FBI and cops – word had probably gone out about the explosion in Tarzana. And the deaths at the distribution center in Racine. The folly at the coffee shop would seal it and whoever was calling the shots would tell the other cells around the country to go underground. But only for a while. Once the investigation failed and attention turned to other news headlines, the poisoning would start again. Jarvis could stop it.
He headed home to pack a bag. He could make the 2:00 pm flight to JFK if he hurried. A black SUV parked in his driveway made him think the 7 o’clock non-stop was more likely. The front seat was empty; at least it appeared to be as Jarvis squinted through the tinted windows. The front door of his house, though, was open. The government plates on the SUV weren’t forged so he left the Glock on his hip and went inside. He expected one Fed to be standing off to the side, positioned behind anyone coming into the room. The partner would be straight ahead, facing the door. They’d be cautious, but not paranoid since Rayford would have given them a heads-up on who Jarvis was. He swiveled his head left and right as he walked in. There was no one. Only one man, wearing a standard issue black suit, lace-up shoes, and black tie, sitting at Jarvis’ small living room table blowing steam rising from a mug. It was Jarvis’ favorite Colombian blend. The Fed’s sunglasses were on the table and he sat with his side toward Jarvis instead of facing him. His knees were bent as he blew the steam and Jarvis caught a glimpse of checkered socks, black and gray and white. Not standard issue. The whole tableau was the equivalent of a lion rolling over on its back, exposing its belly to show vulnerability – to show trust.
“Can I get you a scone to go with that?”
The Fed looked up and over, as though he hadn’t heard Jarvis’ car pull up and every step he’d taken since. “I checked. Only some stale Oreos in the top shelf of the pantry.”
Jarvis snickered. “They’ve been there since I moved in. Help yourself.” He went into the kitchen and poured a mug of his own. There was an easy silence. Coming back to the dining room he took the seat to the agent’s left. “Should I ask for a warrant? Or is breaking and entering SOP for Feds now?”
Leaning back in the chair, the black suit smiled. “Ahh, c’mon, the door was practically unlocked.”
“So, FBI? NSA? Girl Scouts?”
“Hey, if I were the Girl Scouts I’d’ve brought better cookies.” He looked Jarvis up and down. “Timmons. Anthony. Homeland Security. Bet that was your next guess.” Timmons pulled out an ID wallet from his inside jacket pocket and flashed it briefly. Jarvis didn’t look. Everything about Timmons screamed legitimacy.
“You guys move pretty quickly.”
Timmons drank some more coffee, appreciatively. “Yeah, we got a flag when the old woman keeled over, plus the little fireworks in Tarzana. This morning the FBI station chief in town got the word from some local cop. Seemed to piece together pretty easily. Except for you.”
Jarvis nodded.
Timmons leaned back and crossed his hands on his stomach. He looked at Jarvis a long time. Jarvis managed to still his racing heart. Or at least to keep from laughing at the intimidation attempt. He held the agent’s stare, softly and unthreateningly, but inexorably. “I get that you’re a war hero or something. And I get that your pal Brin is important enough to you that revenge seems like a natural course of action.” He said ‘course of action’ as if he were teaching a class on business practices. “But you’ve already gotten yourself in pretty deep.” Jarvis noted that ‘pretty’ seemed to be Timmons’ favorite adverb. “Could be some trouble for you, going cowboy in the Palisades.” Timmons looked for a reaction. Jarvis disappointed him. The disappointment elicited a sigh.
Jarvis drank some more of the coffee. So did Timmons.
“Y’know, a Fed trying to get to the bottom of this might want to haul you in for some serious questioning. Here in LA,” and he paused for effect, “or out in Racine.”
“You guys work really fast…” Jarvis assumed his guest knew about everything he’d done in the last forty-eight hours. “So what would keep that agent from wanting me to spend my evening in an interrogation room?”
Timmons smiled warmly. “Well, it’d be more than an evening, probably a few days, and might just result in the loss of a license to practice being a private detective here in California. Or anywhere covered by Homeland Security. And it’s a pretty big homeland.”
“I was thinking of making muffins, Special Agent. Would you like blueberry or banana nut?”
This got a laugh and Timmons came forward, setting the mug down on the table a little harder than he needed to. “Jarvis, do us both a favor – you more than me – stay outta the way. If this is a terror cell, you’re gonna get stung hard if you obstruct or even look like you are. Let us do our jobs.”
Timmons took another sip and stood. He slipped a card from his pocket and balanced it on top of the mug. “Give a ring if you think of anything you didn’t tell the locals. Or if you get itchy to go out and try to do something to help your pal. I’ll talk you out of it.”
Jarvis let the Fed find his way out. He waited to hear the heavy thrum of the engine work its way down the street before he got up and headed upstairs to pack his bag. He could still make the early evening flight to NYC. Timmons’ card went in his back pocket.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Tail winds cut thirty-five minutes off the flight. The taxi dropped Jarvis off on 57th between Sixth and Seventh Avenues. The back entrance to the Parker Meridien on 57th St. was subtle. A short awning protected an automatic sliding glass door. The cool autumn air on the street was immediately repelled by the blast of heat emerging as the doors slid open. The entry fed into a small vestibule with a second set of glass doors which didn’t open until the first had closed behind a visitor, like a bank trying to ensure a horde of robbers didn’t come bursting in at once. Instead, the second door opened into a narrow café lined on either side by dark, heavy furniture – benches and stuffed chairs – backed against walls. Even in the brightest of midday suns, it was dim and intimate. Tourists and locals came for sanctua
ry or temporary escape, sipping mixed drinks or hand-made hot chocolate. The path between the two sets of seating was narrow enough that two people walking abreast would barely miss brushing the knees of patrons. It was crowded, despite the late hour. Jarvis strode through and as he passed the bar to his left in the middle of the café, he nodded to the old man who’d worked there for a decade. As he reached the other end and was about to step through the open wrought iron doors leading into the cavernous hotel lobby, the waitress who’d been taking the order of a young couple at the last table stood. She turned just as he passed and they locked eyes. Neither stopped, but both smiled. He whispered as he passed.
“Penny.”
She stepped past him in the opposite direction. “Jarvis.”
He carried the smile along the marble floor and to the registration desk. The Dutch girl tapping on a computer looked up and smiled.
“I have a reservation for this evening. Maybe two nights. Jarvis.” He pulled out a credit card.
“Yes, Mr. Jarvis. I have you in a Delightful Park View room, but was able to upgrade you to a Junior Suite, if that is acceptable.”
“Yes, that is acceptable.” He waved off the bellman after slipping him a five. The girl swiped his credit card and handed it back with two room keys and another huge smile.
“I hope you have a wonderful stay. My name is Jasmine. Please don’t hesitate to call if there is anything I can do.”
She was at least five years too young for the offer to mean anything other than excellent customer service and Jarvis avoided leering. He returned the smile and headed to the elevators. The 19th floor was for Platinum members of the hotel chain’s frequent-guest program. Membership had its rewards. A private salon just off the elevator served everything from light breakfast to late night drinks – self-serve after 9 p.m. It was close to 12:30 a.m. and Jarvis opened the club room door with his key and found the fridge with a very cold Rolling Rock waiting. He carried it back to his suite which, despite the Junior monicker, was as big as his living room at home. Tossing his bag on the bed he twisted open the beer and sat in a newly upholstered chair facing a television screen larger than the one at home. He quickly found ESPN and put his feet up on the ottoman. Only the light from Sports Center and a glimmer of lamps in the park across the street nineteen stories below shining through the drapes cut the darkness of the room. He finished the beer and relaxed as the hockey highlights played. Sleep was still at least a couple hours away. As the credits ran across the screen, he got up and put the room keys in his back pocket. The ride down to the lobby was unbroken, as if he were the only resident in the enormous hotel. The narrow café had cleared out a little and he found a table closer to the outside door. His waitress started to come over from the bar and Penny tapped her on the shoulder. A brief conversation ensued and when the horse-trading ended he was smiling up at her as she put a scotch, neat, on the low table in front of him.
“I missed your call last week.” There was no rancor in her voice, only playfulness. He hadn’t called. Not last week and not since he’d been in NYC three months ago. But they’d already been through all that after the first time they’d met and he hadn’t called the next day or when he’d returned to LA. Nor had she. Now it was a rhythm and neither one minded.
“Machine must have been broken.”
She laughed. Only a few years older than front-desk Jasmine, she teased him. “What kind of machine? Oh, you mean one of those olden thingies, before voice mail.”
He avoided making a crack and instead sipped the scotch. She bent down so her face was close to his and asked if she could get him anything else. Tiny, exquisite earrings caught the light from a chandelier above. The earrings he’d sent to her a few weeks earlier, making sure they arrived on her birthday. Casual didn’t equal meaningless, no matter how infrequently he saw her.
“No, I’m good. Got everything I need right now.”
Her laugh was a burst of warm, sweet air. She turned gracefully and put the leather folder containing the bill on the table. He watched her go and sipped again, two great pleasures. Signing his name and overtipping, he finished the scotch over the next few minutes and went back to his room.
He was ten minutes into a CNN broadcast at a little after 2 a.m. when he heard the soft rustle of a key card in the locking mechanism and the handle gently turn. He feigned sleep until he felt the weight of a knee on the bed next to him. With a sudden lunge, he sat upright and took her into his arms, startling Penny enough to elicit a squeal of surprise and then something more.
“Thank you for the earrings,” she murmured into his neck as she melted to him.
Without taking his hands off her back, pulling her closer to him, Jarvis flipped off the television. The heavy white comforter cushioned their weight as he spun their bodies and suddenly he was on top of her, looming and predatory. She laid back and he leaned in close, kissing her neck, her collarbone, the round of her shoulder.
“I miss New York some times.” He began to unbutton the starkly white shirt she wore in the café. She reached in with both hands and pulled the shirt apart, the sound of threads straining to hold buttons in place popping in succession. He laughed and ran a finger gently along the thin lace at the top of her bra. Jarvis made a guttural sound and he kissed the soft skin above one breast and she let out a breath.
The lights stayed on and an hour later Penny slept deeply curled in one corner of the bed, her back pressed against Jarvis’ torso. His hands were behind his head and he stared into the ceiling. Brin and the name of the man he was here to see consumed his thoughts. Deep relaxation embraced him and gave him focus. Every so often, there was no sleep at all, not even the single hour that sustained him. It gave him great clarity when it happened, but also an edgy emotional state the next day. He listened to Penny breath, shallow and regular, as he planned his visit in a few hours to the loft in Greenwich Village.
Chapter Twenty-Four
By 5:30 Jarvis was in the Starbucks across the street while Penny slept deeply, sprawled across the bed. He didn’t need to look at the address on the sheet in his coat pocket. Three years earlier he’d been in NYC tracking a teenager who’d left LA either to make it on Broadway or punish her parents for being overly indulgent. She was staying with two other runaways and a guy who sold heroin during the day and beer in a dump on Houston St. at night. Skipping the subtleties, Jarvis had punched the guy in the nose hard enough to feel gristle dislodging and dragged the girl out by the scruff of her neck. She mewed and howled, but didn’t really resist – he could sense relief under the protestations and unwashed hair. He was making his way down the hallway of the pre-war three story walk-up with the girl in tow when a door opened. A man popped his head out to check on the commotion and his eyes met Jarvis’. They recognized one another instantly. The man wasn’t sporting a beard any more and the Kalashnikov rifle was missing but Jarvis would know Mohan even if he’d been wearing a Halloween mask. The man pulled back quickly. Jarvis lengthened his stride, which resulted in the girl having to move her legs comically fast to keep up. He put a foot in Mohan’s door before it could close. He didn’t really want to have a chat with the man he’d last seen in an interrogation room in Afghanistan but he also didn’t want to be shot in the back. This was one of those small-world coincidences he could have done without.
The door popped open easily because Mohan had pushed it shut quickly and moved back into the apartment before making sure it had latched. Jarvis had a hand on the borrowed gun in his belt, the other pushing the girl to the wall in the corridor. He didn’t draw the gun. He saw Mohan in the middle of the one-room studio, heading toward a closet on the other side.
“How ‘bout you just stay right there.” Both stood still, the tableau interrupted only by the girl starting to whine that she was going to run away. Jarvis kept his eyes on the man.
“What are you going to do?” There was fear in the voice, stronger than the bluster of confidence Mohan was trying to convey.
Jarvis pulle
d the girl in from the hallway and pointed her to a chair on the right. “Sit.” She opened her mouth but quietly sat. “What’re you doing here, Mohan? You involved in this shit with the girls?”
No answer. Jarvis put his hand more firmly on the .38 but did not pull it – the gesture was enough. “How’s your leg?” It had been more than half a decade since Jarvis had shot Mohan while freeing Brin. Mohan wasn’t holding the camera, or a blade to cut off Brin’s head. He was just an asshole with a gun standing around and puffing out his chest. Jarvis had seen him being interrogated and hadn’t been impressed with the man’s intelligence or commitment.
Mohan’s initial fear was subsiding and mostly what was left was hate. “Fuck you, Jarvis. You can’t do anything here, I am not a prisoner of your shit country now.”
Jarvis nodded. “Looks like you’re doing pretty well for yourself.” He looked around the room that resembled a junkie’s shooting gallery more than a living space. The girl was confused. She looked at Jarvis’ hand, still on the gun. Like a tennis match, she shifted back to the man in the middle of the room who’d been heading to an open closet. “Why don’t you go ahead and grab whatever you were going to get from in there?” Jarvis pointed his head to the junk-filled closet.
Mohan’s face began to set like cement. Jarvis had seen the transition before on the faces of Mujahedeen in the street when an American walked by. Jarvis pulled his .38 out smoothly without looking away from Mohan. The girl gave a little screech and curled up in the chair. Mohan’s eyes widened and for an instant he was a wild animal, deciding to attack rather than retreat. Momentum teetered in the room and he shifted his weight unconsciously toward the closet. Jarvis flicked off the safety hard, making a clicking noise that filled the room. Mohan’s eyes transformed the animal anger into plain old fear and he was once again the cowardly accessory to an almost-murder in a basement in Kandahar.
Dead East Page 9