Body Armor

by Alana Matthews

  Anna’s stomach tightened. Such conversations were always a source of anxiety for her. She felt guilty about her failed marriage, even though the problems underlying the divorce had been mutual.

  Frank’s continued affection for her was obvious. Whenever she was around him, she got the feeling that he was waiting for her to respond to his cues, to fall into his arms and beg him for another try. But she knew that would never happen.

  There was a time when she had fooled herself into believing that she loved him, too, but it had become clear after only a year of marriage that she was simply going through the motions. Neither of them could give what the other needed, and a lifetime of banal pleasantries and passionless sex was not the future Anna had envisioned for herself.

  It wasn’t fair to Frank. Or her. Or Adam.

  “You’re right,” she said to Brody. “It isn’t any of your business.”

  And in that moment, she realized the depth of her fury toward Brody. If he hadn’t left her, she never would have taken up with Frank, and there wouldn’t be a failed marriage to fret over.

  But she couldn’t let that fury consume her now. What was the point? He was trying to help her.

  And that counted for something, didn’t it?

  THE AREA AROUND FIRST Avenue and Pike was not one of Cedarwood’s finer neighborhoods. At the edge of the industrial center of the city, it boasted more liquor stores and tattoo parlors in six square blocks than most people saw in a lifetime, and the women prowling the streets in spandex and short shorts were not charity workers looking for a donation.

  Anna had come down this way only once, on a dare back in high school, and had been scared half to death by the experience. It was the last time she let peer pressure get the better of her.

  Brody took a turn on Worthington, past a small, boarded-up chapel that looked as if it hadn’t seen business in over a decade. At the far end of the street was a grouping of old factory buildings, perched on the edge of the industrial section but long ago abandoned by anything having to do with industry.

  Most of them were boarded up like the chapel, but one looked as if it might have some life to it, and Anna wasn’t surprised when Brody came to a stop out front.

  “Definitely not a job interview,” he said.

  A feeling of trepidation overcame Anna. “I can’t even imagine why Owen would come here.”

  “There’s only one way to find out.”

  The entrance to the building was along the left side. The door had been secured by a chain and padlock, but the padlock hung open and they were inside in only a matter of seconds.

  What they found were the remnants of an old garment factory. Battered industrial sewing machines were laid out in two rows, covered with a thick film of dust. Spools of faded fabric were stacked in a corner alongside a cluster of rusty file cabinets. The only light filtered in through broken windows that hung high along the walls.

  “Are you sure you got the address right?” Anna asked.

  “I’m sure,” Brody said, then he gestured to a set of steps across the room that led up to an enclosed office with an open doorway. A broom was leaning against the wall at the bottom, and the steps looked as if they’d recently been swept, a minimal bit of housekeeping by squatters.

  They moved past the rows of sewing machines, then Brody cupped a hand next to his mouth and called up the stairs. “Hello? Is anyone home?”

  No answer.

  “Wait here,” he said to Anna then moved cautiously up toward the doorway, his palm resting against the butt of the pistol in his waistband.

  A moment later, he was peering inside. “Hello?”

  He stood there a moment, scanning the room, then he relaxed and gestured for Anna to join him. She moved up the steps, that feeling of trepidation still percolating in the pit of her stomach.

  It threatened to boil over when she stepped into the doorway.

  The room beyond had been ransacked, just like Owen’s condo, which pretty much confirmed that they were on the right track.

  There was a cluttered workbench along one side of the room holding a computer and a bunch of electronic gear that Anna couldn’t identify if her life de pended on it. The floor was littered with more equipment and overturned drawers—the plastic, rectangular kind that her father used to have in their garage, full of screws and washers and other workshop doodads.

  The doodads here, however, all seemed to be electronic. Transistors, circuit boards, switch components and other parts that were beyond Anna’s vocabulary or comprehension. The person who occupied this space was obviously an electronics geek.

  Brody flipped a switch on the wall and fluorescent lights came to life overhead.

  “Looks like he managed to tap into the city’s electrical grid. There’s probably a functioning warehouse nearby whose owners are wondering why their energy bill is so high.”

  “So what is this place for?” Anna asked.

  “I’m not sure. But he’s working off the radar, so it’s probably not entirely legal.”

  Brody crossed to the computer on the workbench and studied it. One side of the case had been removed, exposing the various components inside. To Anna, it was nothing more than a jumble of multicolored wires and circuitry, but Brody seemed to know what he was looking at.

  “Hard drive is missing,” he said, then he looked around at the rest of the mess, and spotted something of interest.

  He moved to one of the plastic drawers on the floor and picked it up. A piece of masking tape above the handle had the word TAGS written across it in black marker.

  Getting down on his haunches, he looked around the floor, running his fingers through the debris, but he didn’t seem to be finding what he was looking for. Then his gaze abruptly shifted to a leg of the workbench. Crossing to it, he bent down, pinched something between his fingers and held it up for Anna to see.

  “I think I may have figured out what we’re looking for.”

  It was a tiny, flat disk, about the size and thickness of a dime.

  “The button? Is that it?”

  “Hard to say, but I’d like to get a closer look at this thing.”

  “I don’t understand,” Anna said. “What is it?”

  “I could be mistaken, but have you ever heard of an RFID tag?”

  “RFID?”

  “Radio frequency identification.”

  Anna shook her head.

  “What about Owen?” Brody asked. “He ever mention anything about security devices?”

  “Not a word. Why?”

  “If I’ve got this thing figured right, Owen paid a visit to this guy with five thousand dollars in cash in his pocket. And like you said, he wasn’t buying drugs.”

  Brody showed her the disk again. “He was buying one of these. And the simple fact that the drawer marked ‘tags’ is the only one that’s completely empty leads me to believe that whoever trashed this place thought the same thing. Only they missed one.”

  “I still don’t understand,” Anna said. “How could that thing be worth five thousand dollars?”

  “It may be worth a lot more than that.” Brody pocketed the disk before taking Anna by the elbow. “Right now I think we’d better head out. It’s getting late and we’ve spent enough time in this godforsaken neighborhood. It’s not safe here after dark.”

  Anna didn’t argue.

  Her uneasiness hadn’t waned, and the sooner they got out of here, the better she’d feel.

  Brody flicked off the fluorescents and they moved together down the steps, Anna noting that the light from the windows was nearly gone now, the sewing machines little more than dark silhouettes in the dim room below. Someone could be hiding down there and they’d never know it.

  As they reached the bottom of the steps, Brody tensed and moved in front of her, bringing his gun out again. A precautionary measure, she was sure, but a welcome one.

  They continued past the sewing machines, Brody carrying himself like a man who was ready for just about anything. They re
ached the exit door without incident, however. No bogeymen jumped out of the darkness.

  Anna let out small sigh of relief as they stepped out side, feeling her uneasiness dissipate as they moved around the building to Brody’s bike.

  But just as they pulled their helmets on and were about to climb aboard, she heard the roar of an engine as a pair of headlights came to life—

  —and a familiar green van headed straight for them.

  Chapter Nine

  Brody was in motion before he even saw the gun.

  He pushed Anna to the ground as the guy in the passenger seat stuck an arm out his window and the weapon flashed. A bullet rocketed past Brody’s head, gouging the wall behind him.

  Shielding Anna, he brought his own gun up, returning fire.

  Once. Twice. Three times—in quick succession.

  The first shot clipped a side mirror, the second one went wild and the third punched through the windshield, hitting the driver in the center of his chest.

  He slammed back against his seat then slumped forward, his foot falling heavily onto the accelerator.

  The passenger—whom Brody assumed was Santa Claus—grabbed hold of the wheel, sheer panic on his face. But it was too late. The van shot forward and swerved sharply, the momentum tipping it onto its side.

  It crashed down and slid toward an adjacent factory building, the scrape of metal against blacktop assaulting their ears. It smashed into the side of the building, knocking a hole through it, the impact rupturing the van’s gas tank. Suddenly flames erupted, filling the air with thick, oily smoke.

  Trapped, the thug formerly known as Santa crawled across the dead driver and tried to climb out his window, but something was holding him back.

  “Help me!” he squealed. “Help!”

  Quickly checking to make sure Anna wasn’t hit, Brody sprang toward the van, the flames growing higher with every step he took. He leaped onto the vehicle, scrambled to the thug and yanked his arms.

  “I’m stuck,” the man screamed. “Pull harder!”

  Brody doubled his efforts. “What are you people after? Who sent you?”

  But the thug kept screaming, too blinded by panic to respond.

  “Who sent you?”

  The thug begged Brody for help, and Brody tugged at him with all his might, but the guy wouldn’t budge.

  “Brody!” Anna called from somewhere behind him, and he turned, realizing the flames had grown perilously high.

  Smoke filled his lungs and he coughed, expelling as much of it as he possibly could, but he didn’t let go of the thug’s arms, trying desperately to shake him loose.

  Then he felt Anna’s hands on his waist, her fingers slipping into the belt loops of his jeans, tugging him back toward the blacktop.

  “It’s too late!” she shouted. “You can’t do any thing!”

  Brody knew she was right, but he tried again anyway. He yanked with everything he had but it wasn’t enough. As the flames grew even higher, threatening to consume him, Brody released the thug’s arms and stumbled back as Anna dragged him away from the burning vehicle.

  They were several yards clear when he felt a rumble under his feet and the gas tank finally exploded, sending up a ball of fire and smoke, the impact knocking Brody and Anna to the ground, abruptly cutting off the thug’s tortured squeal.

  They lay there, Anna wrapping her arms around him protectively as they watched the blackened shell of the van shudder and burn.

  “Oh, my God,” Anna murmured. “Oh, my God.” Then Brody turned to her and said, “I think it’s finally time to call Frank.”

  THEY TOOK THEM BACK to the sheriff’s office and put them in separate interrogation rooms.

  Brody had been expecting this. It was the way investigations worked. You were guilty until proved innocent, no matter what the courts might say. He also knew that despite being known to the deputies, he and Anna would be regarded with suspicion until the details of the incident had been discussed, analyzed and regurgitated. Again and again.

  Brody was paired off with Joe Wilson, who sat him in a chair in the tiny room then left him to stew there for close to an hour before questioning him.

  It was a technique that was supposed to wear a suspect down, but Brody had used it so many times himself in the old days that its effect on him was zilch. He leaned back in the chair and thought about that squealing thug trapped in the van, wishing he could have pried the guy loose before it had exploded.

  Brody had seen enough death and torture overseas to have developed a strong aversion to it, and despite what Santa had tried to do to Anna, the fool hadn’t deserved the fate he’d suffered. It also would have been nice to question the guy and hopefully gain some insight into Owen’s death.

  Did this mean the search for the killers was done? Were these guys the brains behind the crime, or had they simply been following orders?

  Brody was banking on the latter. The two hadn’t struck him as mental giants.

  Identifying their bodies, however, would take time, patience and a certain amount of forensics skill. And if there were no dental records on file, and the van turned out to be stolen—which seemed likely—the department might never know who the two men were.

  Which meant the investigation into Owen’s death literally hit a wall before it had really gotten started.

  Brody was thinking about what his next move might be when the door to the interrogation room flew open and Joe Wilson stepped inside.

  “You should have taken our advice and left town, Carpenter.”

  Brody stared at him. He was really sick of Wilson’s condescending tone. “No offense, Joe, but it’ll have to snow in Bermuda before I ever take advice from you.”

  “See what that attitude’s gotten you? Now you’re looking straight down the barrel of a double-homicide rap.”

  “It was self-defense and you know it.”

  “Yeah? Where’s your proof?”

  “Come on, Joe. Just ask your partner’s ex-wife. She’ll corroborate. It was the same vehicle used in the attack against her and the same two guys. They shot first, and I did my job.”

  Wilson snorted. “Your job? I don’t know if you noticed, hotshot, but you’re not a deputy anymore.”

  “Thanks for the reminder,” Brody said. He knew it was another attempt to get him riled up, make him do something he’d regret, but he didn’t take the bait.

  “Besides,” Wilson continued, “all I saw at the crime scene was a burnt-out shell and two crispy critters. Nothing there that necessarily connects them to the attack on Anna.”

  “You’re kidding me, right?”

  “Videotape from the garage is pretty fuzzy, Carpenter. We got nothing on the driver and the other one was hiding behind that Santa suit. So we could be talking about two completely different guys. And for all I know, you’re the one who shot first.”

  Brody was silent for a moment as he tamped down the heat rising in his chest. Then, in measured tones, he said, “Is this really the game you want to play?”

  “To be honest? No. But those two goons are the least of your worries.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Wilson pulled a manila folder out from under his arm and dropped it on the table. “Take a look.”

  Brody slid it toward him and opened it. Inside were autopsy photos. Shots of a guy in his mid-forties who looked as if he’d spent way too much time in the bathtub. His skin was bone-white, almost blue, and flaking off his body.

  “We pulled this guy out of the river yesterday,” Wilson said. “Take a guess what he did for a living.”

  “No idea.” Brody had never seen the guy before.

  “He was an electronics whiz who lived and worked in that garment factory you broke into.” He paused. “But you already knew that, didn’t you?” He showed Brody a broad, self-satisfied grin that did little to hide the sneer behind it. “And that makes body number three, my friend. Looks like you just hit the trifecta.”

  ANNA WASN’T SURPRISED when Frank
walked into the interrogation room.

  He’d let her stew in here for a while, and that alone irritated her. But either he was oblivious or just didn’t care. He seemed to be struggling with his own irritation.

  He pulled a chair out and sat. “What the heck were you thinking, Anna?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Going to the South Side? Getting involved in a shootout, for God’s sakes?”

  Anna sighed. “It’s not as if we planned it. Those guys came out of nowhere. Just like last night.”

  “And if you weren’t out there running around with that fool Carpenter…”

  “What’s the matter, Frank? Are you upset because he’s doing what you won’t do?”

  Frank said nothing for a moment, clearly trying to put his irritation in check. He studied her patiently.

  “Carpenter’s a loose cannon, Anna. He’s interfering with an ongoing investigation—and so are you.”

  “What investigation? All you ever seem to do is ask questions and file reports. Brody showed you the note he got from Owen and—”

  “Have you told him the truth?”

  The question stopped her. “About what?”

  “Have you told him why you were so anxious to get hold of him in the months after he left?”

  All the fight went out of Anna. Those months had been foremost in her mind lately, but she’d obscured them with thoughts of Owen. And she supposed her anger had prevented her from telling Brody what she’d wanted so desperately to tell him almost four years ago.

  “Not yet,” she said. “I’ve been working up to it.”

  This was a lie. She’d known she’d have to spill all of her secrets eventually, but she hadn’t even tried at this point. The emotional price was just too heavy for her right now.

  “Don’t,” Frank said suddenly.

  “What?”

  “Don’t tell him. He’s the one who ran out on you, and there’s no reason he has to know.”

  “Come on, Frank, that wouldn’t be fair. Sooner or later I’ll have to.”