Dangerous Friends (A Carlos McCrary novel Book 4)

by Dallas Gorham

  Redwood had said to call him at eight a.m. It was unthinkable not to follow his orders. Ponder glanced at his watch. It was eight. He took a deep breath and pressed the send button.

  Redwood answered the phone on the first ring. “What happened, Lamp Post? The package was supposed to be stopped, not destroyed. Why didn’t you deliver the present the way I instructed?”

  “That was Stev—that was Skylight’s fault. He had the trigger. He waited too long to pull it.”

  “I shall deal with Skylight. Is there anything else you wish to tell me?”

  Ponder took another deep breath. “There’s been a complication.”

  Again, that unnerving silence.

  “The girl…” Ponder had to force himself to say it. “The girl… she freaked out when we delivered the present… she ran away.”

  Redwood’s voice was so quiet that Ponder strained to hear him. “And where is she now?”

  “I… I don’t know. I haven’t seen her since the explo—the present was delivered.”

  “This person can identify all of you, and you three idiots can identify me. She is the weak link. In fact, she is a broken link. She was your mistake, your responsibility. You must be the one to remove her from the chain.”

  “If I talk to her… explain why we did what we did… I’m sure she’ll come around. She can be a valuable team member. We don’t want to waste an asset like that.” Or a piece of ass that good. “Just let me talk to her first.”

  “Listen to me, you addicted piece of garbage,” Redwood said, “I shall say this only once. If you delay, she has time to go to the authorities.” His tone sounded like every word was in capital letters.

  “But she’s involved. She can’t go to the cops.”

  “She’ll make a deal to testify against you, Kinetic, and Skylight. You will find her and eliminate her. And, since I no longer trust your judgment, send me everything you know about her—and I mean everything—by encrypted email in case I have to do this myself.”

  Chapter 14

  Snoop put his feet on my coffee table and opened a manila folder. “It’s early days yet but here’s what I have so far. Steven Michael Wallace, PhD, tenured professor of environmental studies at UAC. Forty-two years old. Albany, New York native. Bachelor’s degree from the University of Albany, Master’s and PhD from Yale. Member of the American Association of Atheists, registered Democrat, vice-president of the UAC teachers’ union, and member of the Ad Hoc Committee on Climate Change, whatever the heck that is. He writes lots of articles and editorials for several left-leaning political websites on the dangers of global warming and the use of fossil fuels and the desirability of renewable energy sources. He’s had thirteen letters to the editor printed in the Port City Press-Journal, all related to global warming, opposition to fossil fuels, and Port City Power and its coal-burning power plant. I copied them all, but I haven’t read them yet.”

  I sipped my coffee that was getting cold. “Anything on possible affairs with female students?”

  Snoop grabbed a manila folder from the table. “Yeah, when he was a PhD candidate at Yale, a freshman coed charged him with date-rape. It was a ‘he said/she said’ thing and nothing could be proven one way or the other. There was nothing about it in his student file at Yale since they couldn’t prove him guilty.”

  “Then how did you find it?”

  “I hit it lucky on a Google search. His name came up several times in the Yale Daily News, so I searched the online edition. Pretty sensational stuff. There were women’s lib pickets at his student conduct hearings and some arrests at the demonstrations.”

  “Anything here at UAC?”

  “Nothing on a Google search. He’s either kept his nose clean, or else he’s been more careful.”

  “Okay. What else do you have?”

  Snoop flipped over a page in the folder. “Wallace has been arrested a few times. Most recently for handcuffing himself to the railroad fence gate at the Port City Power generating plant. It’s the gate where the trains bring in the coal.”

  “Who else was involved in that?”

  “None of our persons of interest. A dozen other people, students mostly. One little sidebar—none of the protesters was from Florida. They were all from out of state—mainly from the Northeast. I can get you their names if it’s important. It happened several years ago. Not relevant, except that the arrests mean that Wallace’s fingerprints are in the system.”

  “I concur. What else?”

  “Wallace makes a large outside income from grants to study the effects of global warming or climate change.” He flipped through a few sheets of paper and whistled. “Whoa. Guy has scored over three million dollars in grants in the last five years.”

  “So he has a financial interest in global warming. Anything else?”

  Snoop set down the manila folder. “I only had a few hours to work on this. How about we continue this after lunch?”

  “Okay. Keep working here while I’m gone.”

  “You’re not eating lunch?”

  “I’ll grab a sandwich on the way to the Port City Police HQ. I’m going to see what the cops have on the bombing so far.”

  Chapter 15

  Jorge Castellano looked up from his desk and greeted me in Spanish. “Sit down, Chuck. Anything to get a break from this paperwork. Ever since they made me lieutenant, I don’t have time to be a real detective anymore.” He pushed a pile of paperwork to one side.

  I set a Krispy Kreme donut box on his desk and plopped into a chair.

  Jorge’s eyes got wide. “I just finished lunch. How am I going to find room for donuts?”

  I continued in Spanish. “There’s always room for donuts. You’ll find a way.”

  Jorge tore open the box and selected one with multi-colored sprinkles. “So, what have you been up to, amigo?”

  “Same old, same old. Slaying dragons, rescuing fair maidens. Tote that barge and lift that bale.” I snagged a chocolate-covered one.

  Jorge washed the donut bite down with coffee. “What you hear from Bob Martinez?”

  “Last week he sent me an email with a picture of a Tahiti beach. He was drinking something with an umbrella in it under a grass hut with a girl in a bikini.”

  “Where do things stand with Martinez and Graciela? I worry about that girl.”

  “I had dinner a few nights ago with her friend, Miyoki Takashi. Miyo said Graciela was in rehab again somewhere in New York.”

  Jorge shook his head. “Such a beautiful girl; such a tormented soul.” Tormented soul sounded beautiful in Spanish: alma atormentada. Of course, most things sound beautiful in Spanish. After all, garbage dump is botadero de basura.

  “Drugs, what can I say? Once you get involved with them, it’s hard to get loose.”

  He leaned over the box and studied the donuts. “Whaddya think that one is?”

  “Looks like a jelly-filled.”

  “I know that. I meant what flavor?”

  “Want me to sample it for you?”

  “Not hardly.” He bit off a chunk. “Raspberry. You bring me donuts when you want a favor.”

  “You detective lieutenants don’t miss much, do you? Who’s working the railroad bombing case?”

  “It only happened last night, but it’s not our kind of case,” said Jorge. “The FBI grabs stuff like that, along with Homeland Security. Those two agencies are probably duking it out and getting in each other’s way. I’d just as soon stand aside instead of spinning our wheels trying to work with those three-letter agencies.”

  “But there are state crimes involved. Won’t you have a liaison?”

  “It only happened last night, amigo. I’ll probably assign Kelly Contreras and Bigs Bigelow, but I’ll tell them not to get bent out of shape about it. I’d bet a steak dinner against one of these donuts that the Feebs wouldn’t cooperate with them even if they did ask. Besides, Kelly and Bigs are kind of busy with homicides. You do know that we do that sort of thing around here, right?”

 
“The train’s engineer and conductor were killed. That’s two homicides.”

  “Okay, big guy, it’s obvious you want a pipeline to the investigation—unofficially of course. Tell me what’s going on.”

  “Off the record?”

  Jorge spread his hands. “You know me, Carlos. You always trust my judgment. Now spill it.”

  I laced my fingers across my stomach. “Hypothetically, suppose I had a client who was in the wrong place at the wrong time and might have been there and witnessed the explosion and might be guilty of felony murder. But he or she didn’t intend to commit a felony or to hurt anybody. He or she didn’t know there would be a bomb. I need to get my client out of this mess. Hypothetically.” I bit off another chunk of donut while Jorge digested my hypothetical.

  Jorge stroked his chin. He drummed his fingers on his desk. He gazed in my direction without seeing me. I could almost hear the wheels spinning in his mind as he debated with himself. “So whaddya intend to do with this information? Hypothetically.”

  “Find out who’s responsible for the bombing, collect the evidence to convict them, and deliver it to the feds in exchange for them leaving my client out of it. Hypothetically.”

  Jorge nodded. “Okay. I’ll assign the case to Kelly and Bigs. By the time you get wherever they are, they’ll know to expect you.” He held a finger up. “Don’t tell them what you told me. They might not be as discreet as I am. In fact, I know that Kelly wouldn’t be. In spite of the fact that she has the hots for you—or maybe because of it—she won’t cut you any slack. Kelly arrested you before. She’ll do it again if she thinks you’ve obstructed justice.”

  I shook my best friend’s hand. “Saying thanks isn’t enough.”

  “Don’t forget—you gave me Krispy Kremes.” He grinned as I walked to the door. “I hope you haven’t wasted them.”

  “Krispy Kremes are never wasted.”

  While I drove to the North Shore Precinct HQ, I thought about Jorge’s throwaway remark that Kelly Contreras had the hots for me. If she did, it was news to me. Still… I put the thought aside. I had a client problem to solve.

  Kelly was on the phone when I walked through the door of the North Shore Precinct squad room. She waved me into a chair. “We’ll be there at nine o’clock tomorrow, Gene. See you then.”

  She extended her hand for me to shake. Did she grasp my hand a little too long? I shoved the question aside.

  “Hi, Kelly. Did Jorge call you?”

  She smiled again. “Jorge said I should cooperate with you, but off the record. Tell me what’s going on.”

  I paused for a beat to telegraph that the answer would be no. “I’d love to, but I can’t. But Jorge wants to help my… project. Is that enough for you?”

  She waved a hand. “It’ll have to be.” She put her hand on my forearm. “So, what can I do for you?” Kelly always puts her hands on me somewhere, but that’s the way she is with everybody—she’s a toucher, right?

  “I need you to find out everything about the railroad bombing last night. What do the Feds know, where are they looking, who do they suspect, everything.” I shut up and waited.

  “Wow, you don’t ask for much, do you?” She studied my face for a moment.

  I studied her in return. I’d asked her to do something that was against her training—maybe even illegal. She would weigh the issue like she did most decisions: the interests of justice, friendship, duty, boss’s request, legal issues, what her partner would think. She tapped her chin with one manicured finger. “Okay. Bigs and I will see the Special-Agent-in-charge tomorrow morning.”

  “Anybody I know?”

  “Gene Lopez. You know him?”

  “Yeah, we worked together a year ago. He wouldn’t remember me though.”

  “Oh, he’ll remember you, Chuck. Everyone remembers you.”

  I approached the Federal Building security station carrying two cappuccinos. “If I can set these on your table, I’ll show you my PI license. There’s a pistol in my shoulder holster that I have a license to carry. I’m here to visit the FBI office upstairs.” I set the two cups on the wooden table next to the metal detector. One of the guards stepped back and placed his hand on the butt of his pistol.

  “You’ll have to check your weapon with us,” said the other guard.

  “What if someone tries to mug me in the Federal Building?” I showed him my license.

  The second guard smiled and relaxed. The first guard didn’t get the joke; he looked nervous.

  I smiled. “Shall I hand you my weapon, or would you rather remove it yourself?”

  The second guard stepped toward me. “You can hand it to us, sir.”

  “You think I’ll be safe without it?”

  The second guard accepted my holstered gun when I unclipped it from my belt. “Who knows? You’ll have to take your chances with the rest of us.” He handed me a receipt for the gun. “FBI is on the sixth floor.”

  Special Agent Eugenio Lopez squinted at me. “Don’t tell me… the Simonetti case last year.”

  “Right.” I set the two cappuccinos on his desk. “You still drink cappuccino?”

  He snapped his fingers. “You have a good memory. McCrary, wasn’t it?”

  I answered in Spanish. “Still is. Carlos McCrary. Good memory yourself. Call me Chuck. Good to see you again, Agent Lopez.”

  “Call me Gene and speak English. Some of the guys get their panties in a wad if I do business in Spanish. Makes them feel left out when they can’t eavesdrop.” He grinned. “Sit down, Chuck.” He picked up the cappuccino. “This isn’t an official call or you wouldn’t try to bribe a federal agent with one lousy cappuccino.”

  “Yeah, my Port City cop friends demand a dozen Krispy Kremes.” I set my cappuccino on his desk.

  “They have higher standards than I do. I’ll roll over for a cappuccino any time. What d’you need?”

  “Who’s working the railroad bombing from last night?”

  “I am. Or at least my team is. Why’d you ask? You got information?”

  “No, but I thought I might be able to help.”

  “How?”

  “As a consultant, as a sounding board, as an independent set of eyes on the case.”

  “What’s your interest in the case?” He grabbed a notepad and pen.

  I shrugged. “This is the first domestic terrorism case in Port City. You know I was Special Forces, right?”

  Lopez smiled. “Yeah, I checked you out last year. I remember you earned a Bronze Star in Iraq.”

  “It was Afghanistan. All I got in Iraq was my first Purple Heart. But that’s not important. This bombing… it offends me deeply. I want to help catch the bad guys.”

  “Unh-uh. Not good enough, Chuck. I think you have a dog in this fight. What’s your interest, really?”

  “The television news said you have three persons of interest shown on the security video. You think three people were enough to pull this off?”

  “Chuck, you know the drill. I can’t comment on an ongoing investigation. I’m the one asking questions. Do you know anything I should know?”

  I spread my hands, palms up. “Maybe I could learn something unofficially that you couldn’t learn officially. The guys you use for informants hate you; the guys I use may not love me, but at least they don’t hate me. They’re less likely to lie to me than they are to you. Whaddya say? We work together?”

  “Chuck, the Bureau’s job is to suck information like a vacuum cleaner. We don’t share information with outsiders.”

  “I’ve got another advantage you official guys don’t, Gene. As a private citizen, I don’t have to worry about due process and search warrants and such.” I leaned back in my chair. “Sometimes I hear things on the street. But I need information to evaluate any rumors that I might hear before I could help. How many perps did there have to be to pull this off?”

  Lopez set the pen down and aligned the notepad with the edges of the desk. He moved his cappuccino to one side and placed both hand
s on the desk. It was like watching a professional athlete put on his game face. He posed as straight as a flagpole—and as expressionless. “This is a Federal investigation. I am a Federal agent.” I could hear the capital F when he said it. “If you know something, you are required by Federal law to be forthcoming or you would be obstructing justice. What do you know about this, Mister McCrary?” He waited.

  “So I’m not ‘Chuck’ anymore. I only asked how many perps you think were involved. The television said three. How many is it, Gene?”

  He relaxed a little. “Look here, McCrary, I’ll arrest you if you so much as look at me sideways. Tell me what you know forthwith, or I’ll put you under the jail.”

  “Wow, now I’m not even a ‘mister,’ just a last-name lowlife ‘McCrary.’ You must be the bad cop. No, Gene, that’s not the way to do bad cop, although ‘forthwith’ is a great word choice. If you’re gonna be bad cop, you oughta have a good cop in here too. That way you soften me up by using words like ‘forthwith’ and the good cop gets the information when I’m scared out of my wits.”

  He started to reach for his intercom.

  “Gene, before you call for backup—which isn’t necessary since I’m unarmed and won’t resist arrest—let’s think this through. If you arrest me, what then? My lawyer knows I’m here and she will be down here in…” I glanced at my watch. “…thirty-five minutes if I don’t call her and tell her I’m okay. And she’ll file a writ of habeas corpus and bring a suit for wrongful arrest and maybe false imprisonment and kidnapping—she goes a little overboard sometimes. Everybody will waste time and get their bowels in an uproar over nothing.” I leaned back in the chair. “And I will still say that I don’t know anything and I only want to help.”

  I laced my fingers across my stomach again. “Or… you can level with me and maybe I can help you find your bombers. I get paid by the hour, so it doesn’t matter much to me either way. Which way you want to go?”

  I had told Lopez something important if he was sharp enough to hear the words I hadn’t said. A client was paying me to find out about the bombing. If Lopez were smart, he’d realize I did know something. But he couldn’t prove that I did, and the only way to find out what I knew was to cooperate.