Die Again to Save the World

by Ramy Vance

  Martha suppressed a sigh. “I appreciate the offer. But I take my work here very seriously. Even on my day off, which, for the record, today is.”

  The captain raised an eyebrow. “I like that attitude. Either get this thing wrapped up or pass it up the ladder. We need you out on the beat.”

  She nodded. “Absolutely, sir.”

  There was no way she was passing this up the ladder.

  Martha grabbed a cab and booked it back to her apartment. She needed a credible reason to check out this Mr. Sudds place.

  She needed laundry.

  Arriving home, she lamented how small her apartment was. So tiny she could use a beach towel as wall-to-wall carpeting.

  She had moved here right after she got back from Afghanistan but had never even so much as hung a picture or bought new furniture.

  She never told people about her Afghanistan years because it implied something it wasn’t. Originally from Virginia, she’d studied art history in college. She found out very quickly after graduation that there was no real career path for that. After a string of entry-level jobs, she’d signed up to work with a global trucking company that ran routes in Afghanistan.

  Death would be preferable to taking orders from her new supervisor, whose role models included pop stars with an affinity for cupcake bras and whipped cream-shooting tits.

  Rosie the Riveter would be proud.

  The job in Afghanistan had nothing to do with the war. But given that it was entirely possible to die in a minefield explosion during a day’s work, the pay was through the roof. She made good money, stayed in Afghanistan for a few years, and narrowly evaded death a few times. When she got back home, she missed the adrenaline rush and moved to New York for a career in law enforcement. Now, she was finding the boys’ club at NYPD to be a lot harder to navigate than she’d thought. Apologies to Rosie. Maybe a cupcake bra would help.

  Martha sifted through the laundry. Her wardrobe consisted of t-shirts, jeans, tank tops, sweatpants, and work uniforms. She finally found a crumpled cotton dress in the bottom of a basket.

  “Here we go.” She smiled as she shook it out.

  It was a black-and-white floral print that she’d bought on clearance. It looked great with combat boots whenever she backtracked to her hipster, art nerd days at UVA. But, when did she have a chance to do that? About a year ago, she’d gone out with a guy who’d tried to impress her by taking her to an art show. She’d fallen asleep.

  Martha changed out of her work uniform, stuffed the dress into her bag, and ran downstairs to catch a cab. She didn’t know what she might find at Mr. Sudds, but she was out of time on the Canadian case.

  She needed to come up with something fast.

  Chapter Eight

  Martha—Saturday, February 11, 1:46 p.m.

  Mr. Sudds was a corner shop in a seedy part of town. It was a brick storefront building with black burglar bars guarding the grimy windows and the glass door, all of which looked like it hadn’t been cleaned in over a year.

  The words, Mr. Sudds $1.00 cleaners, were painted in shoe-polish red, and a neat, finger-sized hole that could only be attributed to a bullet glared out of the bottom of the door.

  Martha opened the door and a loud bell announced her entrance. The odor was the first thing that greeted her. The whole place smelled like a gas station bathroom. She noticed a wide-open door to the unisex restroom right near the entrance.

  In the lobby, the speckled linoleum was chipped and cracked in many places. Three plastic chairs sat against one wall. A pea-green plastic counter with a manual cash register filled up the rest of the lobby.

  At the sound of the bell, a wide-eyed man emerged from the back room. He was probably in his early fifties, with stringy dark hair hanging to the middle of his neck. The top of his head was completely bald.

  He smiled when he saw Martha. “How can I help you?” His voice was low and raspy.

  She pulled the dress out of her bag and shook it out. “I need to get this cleaned.”

  She held out the garment, and he took it with a quizzical expression.

  “It’ll cost you $1.00,” he told her with a puzzled look.

  “Great. I’ve got a date tomorrow night. I need this taken extra special care of.”

  He shrugged and grabbed a hanger. “It’ll be ready after four.”

  “All right.” She scanned the lobby quickly and didn’t see any evidence of a phone. “Oh, I almost forgot. Do you sell phones?”

  He frowned, set the dress on the counter, and leaned on his big meaty knuckles. “What does this look like, a Verizon?”

  “Uh, I just heard you sell them,” she stammered. “I need it for something I’m doing, and I thought I’d ask.”

  He studied her. “What are you doing?”

  She was acutely aware that he hadn’t said “no” yet. “I’ve got a lot of clients. One’s gotta protect one’s privacy, you know.”

  “Hmm.” He narrowed his eyes. “What kind of clients?”

  The creepy way he stared at her made her skin crawl. But, it was just the kind of lead she wanted. She said a silent Hail Mary to Rosie the Riveter, leaned over the counter, and let her cleavage show. “Oh, you know…”

  She didn’t finish the sentence, but he smiled and clearly took in the view. Then he reached under the counter and twirled a Nokia 2720 flip phone in his dirty fingers.

  “These old phones are hardly on the market anymore. Totally untraceable. Sell for a premium these days. I only have one left. My personal one, but I could give it to you if you give me something in return.”

  She was still leaning over the counter, letting him see what he wanted. “And what would that that be, exactly?”

  “Dinner, drinks. Tonight.”

  Martha leaned in closer. “Tonight is no good. I've already got plans. Next weekend, however, I could do that.” She fingered the phone in his hand. “After all, you’ll have my number.”

  He smirked, and in a slow, deliberate move, he pushed the phone into her bra, his hand giving her breast a firm squeeze on exit. “You have a nice day, Miss…” He looked at her expectantly.

  “Rosie,” she said as she stood and pulled the phone out of her shirt.

  “Rosie,” he repeated. “The dress will be ready after four.”

  “I’ll see you then,” she said as she turned to leave.

  “I bet you will.” She saw him unashamedly stare at her ass in the reflection in the window.

  She left Mr. Sudds and checked out the alley beside the shop. She saw a white van with a giant marijuana leaf on it. Several crates sat around it, waiting for loading.

  Now, this was suspicious.

  Not seeing anyone around, she stepped closer to inspect it. There were several crates already in the cab of the van, all labeled with various chemicals for cleaning.

  Outside of the sheer volume and the fact that the van was oddly marked, there was nothing out of the ordinary. Maybe this was a delivery van supplying the entire area.

  Weed and cleaning supplies. Sounds like quite the niche market, she mused.

  Then she saw that one of the crate’s latches was busted. She glanced around—still no one—so she hopped inside the van. The inside of the van was grimy and dank, with hand tools and dirty rags.

  She stepped around old trash to inspect the busted crate. “Sheets of metal mesh? What the fuck?” she whispered.

  “Hey!”

  Martha jumped as she heard the shout.

  A well-built man who was probably in his early forties was pointing at her. He was wearing a white hoodie with stripes on the shoulders. As soon as their eyes connected, the man said, “Fuck, you’re early.”

  “Excuse me?” The man looked familiar, but Martha couldn’t quite explain it. He reminded her of a friend of hers who she’d known since grade school, only older and with a giant scar on his face.

  She jumped out of the van to confront him. But before she could get a chance, he pushed her hard to the ground. Without a word, he spu
n and started running.

  With a quick hip flex, she got to her feet and ran after him. For a guy with his kind of bulk, he was fast.

  She chased him for several blocks, but when she was sure she had lost him, she stopped, leaning over on her knees to catch her breath.

  “Fuck,” she muttered. “Fuckity fuck fuck fuck!” She couldn’t shake the feeling that she knew him from somewhere.

  She returned to Mr. Sudds, but the van was already gone. Either the perp doubled back quickly, or someone else moved it. Either way, her lead was gone.

  But not totally evaporated.

  She had confirmed two vital facts. One, Mr. Sudds sold the Nokias, and, two, they were definitely up to something. Although what was up with the metal mesh, she didn’t know.

  Hailing a cab, she pulled out her phone as she got in and called Zach. As she waited for him to answer, she scrolled through the recent call list on the Nokia, seeing only one phone number. Aha!

  “Hello?” Zach answered.

  “Zach, I think we have a winner with Mr. Sudds. I noticed an ATM across the street. Can we pull up the CCTV footage for the last two weeks? Also, run a check on this phone number.” She gave him the number.

  The phone went silent as Zach did his thing. A few minutes later, he said, “The number is for an office building lobby. Some food distribution company. Mostly imports from Canada. As for the CCTV footage, that’s going to take some time."

  She’d expected as much. “Cool, I’m on my way back to the precinct. See where you can get on the CCTV footage.”

  “Will do, Chief,” Zach said, hanging up.

  Chief, huh? she mused. She really liked the sound of that.

  Chapter Nine

  Martha—Saturday, February 11, 3:13 p.m.

  Martha arrived back at the police station, and Jake was the first to greet her. Jake was the very definition of tall, dark, and handsome. He was ex-Marine and could probably still run circles around military recruits. His hair was short and close-cropped, and his brown eyes glinted with intensity.

  Although he could be hard on her, Jake was one of the only officers she knew that truly valued her insight and grit. He was a good man, and she was glad he was on her side. They were often partners when out on patrol.

  “The captain wants to know everything you’ve got on the Canadian,” were Jake’s first words. “We’re going in on this guy, or we’re pushing it up to the investigative unit.”

  “I’m not pushing this up the ladder.” Hey, I didn't sputter, she remarked to herself with pride. This wasn't the first time the captain or Jake had told her to 'send it up the ladder.' “Why the sudden interest? Before it was all, ‘you’re wasting your time.’ Now I got the great and all-powerful Jake bugging me.” She was finding her courage now.

  “Great, yes. All-powerful, hardly.” Jake rested his hands on his hips. “Look, Martha, I know you want to be a great cop. I know the guys around here don’t make it any easier.”

  Martha rolled her eyes. “Who said that? I don't need a teacher coming in and—”

  “I’m not blind,” he interrupted. “These guys are tough. I get it. You want off the Tampon Squad.”

  Martha held up a hand. “The what, now?”

  Jake cracked a smile and stared down at his boots. “I’ve known these guys for years. They’re real good guys once you get to know them, but they can also be massive assholes. We all can. It’s an occupational hazard.”

  Martha snorted. “I don’t need your pity, Jake.”

  “Good, ‘cause you don’t have it. But what you do have is my experience. You’re a rookie, and you’re in over your head. Your ego won’t let you admit it. It happens to all of us. But you’ve got to know when to stop.”

  She folded her arms. “Thank you for the advice, but I’m not in over my head.”

  He raised an eyebrow and cocked his head. “As to your second question, the reason we’re into it now is because of what happened at the border.”

  “What happened at the border?” she asked.

  “Not now,” Jake told her. “First, let’s get into your notes and see if there’s anything there.”

  “Let’s.” She led the way to her cubicle and sat at her computer.

  Jake stood against the wall and rested his wrist over the top. She could smell his cologne and tried not to let it distract her.

  Next to her, Zach pounded away on his computer. As soon as he saw Martha, he gave her a smile that said he had something. Martha shot him a look that said, ‘Later,’ and to her pleasant surprise, he got it.

  Sitting down, she turned to Jake and said, “This is what I’ve got on the Canadian.”

  He peered at her screen as she showed him the map. “These are the five places where the related crimes were committed.”

  “Right.” He pointed to crime scenes and recalled the victims’ names. “Salinas, Gutierrez.”

  “Overland, Roberts, and Matthews,” they both recited in unison.

  “Exactly,” Jake agreed. “We know these are all connected because they all have suspects that mentioned…”

  “The Canadian,” Martha and Jake said together.

  Martha smiled. “Now, we know that the Canadian communicates through disposable phones. We confiscated the ones in the Salinas, Matthews, and Roberts cases. They all used the same type of phone.”

  “Really?” Jake pursed his lips. “I wasn’t aware of that.”

  “Nokia 2720, a disposable flip phone.” She brought up the five-mile retail radius map. “These are all the retailers within that ten-mile radius. We figured he was buying loads of them, one for every conversation.”

  “OK,” Jake didn’t seem convinced, but Martha kept going.

  “Mr. Sudds.” She moved the cursor to a point on the map. Then she produced the Nokia from her pocket and tossed it on the desk. “They’re a dry cleaner's that sells phones under the table for under-the-table deeds.”

  Jake looked impressed. “How do you know that?”

  “He only gave me the phone once he was under the distinct impression that I needed it for ‘clients.’”

  Jake raised an eyebrow at her euphemism.

  “And check this out…” She flipped open the phone and pulled up the number. "That's to the building of a major food distribution company. A company that distributes maple syrup."

  “Fuck me,” Jake said, running his hands through his hair. “The border crossing…"

  “Excuse me. I ain’t fucking anyone,” Martha quipped.

  Jake ignored her. “You want to know why we're suddenly interested in the Canadian? On Wednesday the eighth, up at the border, there was a shootout with local PD and a bunch of truck drivers smuggling…ahh…maple syrup.”

  Martha frowned. “Maple syrup? That’s the border shit you were talking about?”

  Jake nodded.

  “Who gives a fuck about maple syrup?” she asked.

  “When a cop is killed because of it, everyone.”

  Martha couldn’t believe what she was hearing. The Canadian had to be involved in the shootout. He had to be. There was a dead cop on the line. That meant the brass would be on everyone’s asses to get him. Right now, Martha had the biggest lead.

  She had wanted to fly under the radar on this, solve it herself, but with everything, this was too close to keep to herself.

  She called Zach over, and he sheepishly approached. “What did you find out?”

  “In front of him?”

  Damn, Zach was loyal. She was starting to like the kid. “Yes, please.”

  "OK, but you’re not going to believe this.” He sat and opened his laptop. “I retrieved the CCTV footage from the ATM across the way. This guy shows up.”

  He fast-forwarded to a guy wearing a hoodie with stripes on the shoulders, his face covered by his hood. Next to him stood another man in a fedora. His face was also hidden from the camera, but not because he was being slick. He was just being annoyingly fashionable.

  Next to them was the same van with t
he marijuana leaf on it. “Holy shit, I saw that van earlier today. That hoodie guy is the asshole who knocked me over.”

  Jake shook his head. “So what? Delivery vans would show up all the time.”

  “Not with scarred assholes who hit first and ask questions later,” Martha insisted.

  “Dude hit you?” Jake raised a concerned eyebrow.

  “More like knocked me down, but yes, he didn’t want to engage. And he said I was ‘early,’ whatever that meant.”

  “Another wacko?” Jake suggested.

  Martha shrugged, turning back to the screen. “What else do you got?”

  Zach fast-forwarded the footage again. “They chat for about ten minutes, then the hoodie guy hands the other one a burner phone.”

  “Nokia?” Martha asked.

  Zach nodded. “Yep. Then go their separate ways. Hoodie Guy on foot, Fedora Guy gets in a fancy car.”

  “Did you get the license plate?” Jake asked.

  Zach shook his head. “Couldn’t get a good shot of it, but I did manage to follow them both using other CCTV cameras around the city. The Hoodie Guy disappears two blocks later.”

  Martha pressed her lips together. “You think he got lucky?”

  Zach laughed at the thought. “No way. No one is that lucky. With those stripes on his shoulders, he ought to stand out. No, either he knew where the CCTV cameras were and ghosted us, or he time-traveled or some shit like that. Now, Fedora Guy, he wasn’t so slick. Watch.”

  The feed followed Fedora Guy’s car through the city for about fourteen blocks until it stopped in front of a fancy investment skyscraper with an overblown modern sculpture out front and out stepped Fedora Guy, sans fedora.

  “Fuck me,” Martha said.

  Jake winked and said, “I ain’t fucking anyone.”

  “No.” Martha almost didn’t believe what she’d seen. “Do you know who that is?”

  Jake leaned in to take a closer look. “No.”

  “That’s Alister Pout, the Canadian tech investor and creator of RedBook.”