Death Never Lies

by David Grace

  * * *

  Danny had almost finished burning a copy of the parking lot surveillance files when Eustace called Kane.

  “How’s it going, partner?” Eustace asked. “You figure out what these guys are trying to smuggle in?”

  They’re not trying to smuggle anything in, you moron! Kane thought. They’re trying to – screw it. What’s the point? “It’s going fine,” he replied.

  “That’s good. I’ve got bupkis here. Do you have any idea how many fucking Metro stations there are? I’m gonna get tennis finger from dialing all these numbers.”

  Tennis finger? . . . . Crap, I forgot to tell him that we found the car.

  “Yeah, that sounds rough. I’ll tell you what. Why don’t you take a break and Danny and I will handle the rest of them when we get back.”

  “Really?”

  “Sure. We’ll do the rest and we’ll check out the bus station parking lots too. You can get yourself some lunch.”

  “Thanks, partner. I’ll leave the list on your desk, you know, in case lunch runs a little long.”

  “OK, look I’ve got to–”

  “Say, Kane, one thing I need to ask you. If you wanted to get us a piece of the Hopper thing, how would you do it?”

  “Grant, they’re not going to let us within ten miles of that investigation.”

  “Sure, sure, you’re right, but, if, and I’m just saying ‘if’ you wanted to try, what would you do?”

  “I’d find the guy making the threats before they do,” Kane snapped. Danny pressed a button and the DVD popped out of the machine.

  “Well, Duh!” Eustace complained. “How the hell am I supposed to do that?”

  Kane glanced at his watch. “Think like the perp and anticipate him.”

  “Which means?”

  Kane felt the seconds slipping away as he watched Danny struggled to shove the jewel case into his pocket.

  “If I were going to kill somebody who was protected by the Secret Service I’d try to get to him through his family. Maybe–”

  “Got it. I think Hopper’s got a daughter. I’ll check her out.”

  “Grant, for God’s sake don’t–”

  “Later, Big Guy.” The line went dead.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Carl Feeney parked the battered F150 next to a truly ancient International Harvester pickup and dipped his head as he neared the bar. He hadn’t seen any cameras when he checked out the place but when you were plotting a murder you didn’t take any chances. He gave the bill on his baseball cap a tug and pushed inside. It was a typical loser joint, cinder-block walls, sticky linoleum floor, bar to the right, tables to the left, pool table and bathrooms in the back, lighting just barely bright enough to distinguish between a glass of vodka and one of bourbon.

  * * *

  Feeney had arrived at this place and at this time by a circuitous route that he hoped was so tangled that the trail could never be traced back to him. He had started with a man he’d met near the end of his tour in Iraq, back when Bush was still President. They weren’t friends. You didn’t make friends with a guy like Clete Garrity. Someplace along the line life had flushed the humanity out of Garrity’s soul like a shirt that had been washed so often that no discernible color remained. Feeney figured that making a living blowing the heads off strangers at five hundred yards would do that to a man. That’s how Feeney thought of him now, not as Clete Garrity but as simply “The Sniper.”

  He’d tracked Garrity down through an old address they’d exchanged after a night of drinking at some base camp back in The Sand. Not that Garrity had shown any effects from the alcohol. Feeney had been sitting there, bleary-eyed, complaining about the pussies running the country while Garrity just nodded and popped another can.

  “I’ve got a job I’d like done,” Feeney had begun when he and Garrity reconnected. Feeney’s eyes shifted nervously around. Garrity just stared at him.

  “A job?” he asked.

  “You know, a job, for a specialist.”

  Garrity gave Feeney a long look then moved his chin a millimeter left then right.

  “If it’s a question of money–”

  “It’s not,” Garrity interrupted. “My time is otherwise committed.”

  Otherwise committed? Feeney almost asked what that meant but caught himself in time. “Is there anyone you can refer me to?” he said instead.

  “I know a guy,” Garrity said.

  “Is he good?”

  “He’s a junkie,” Garrity answered.

  “A junkie? I need–”

  “But,” Garrity continued, “He knows a guy who’s got the right credentials. The junkie could put you two together if the price was right.”

  “Why do I need this junkie? Why don’t you handle the introduction yourself?”

  Garrity gave his head another microscopic shake. “Can’t. The guy knows me.”

  “Yeah, so?”

  Garrity frowned. “People who know you can betray you. If they catch him, he gives them me and if they catch me I could give them you. Nobody wants that. The junkie makes the introduction and you don’t know who the Operator is and he doesn’t know who you are. You can’t give him up and he can’t give you up. More importantly, if they can’t find you, they can’t find me.”

  “But if this guy knows the junkie and the junkie knows . . . .” Feeney sputtered to a stop.

  “Junkies OD all the time. Nobody thinks twice about it.” Garrity took a long swallow of something, it might have been vodka or it might have been club soda. “Are you good with that?”

  What was one junkie in the world more or less? Hell, he probably would be doing the guy a favor, putting him out of his misery.

  “How much?” Feeney asked instead.

  “Is the target a relative or somebody you’re in business with?”

  “It’s–”

  “I don’t want to know any specifics. Is it somebody you know?”

  Feeney hesitated briefly then answered. “No.”

  “Somebody in the government who’s fucking with your business?”

  “No.”

  “A cop?”

  “No.”

  “Political?”

  “Yes.”

  “State or federal?”

  “Federal,” Feeney said after another little pause.

  “Somebody like a bureaucrat or higher up the food chain?”

  “Higher.”

  Garrity considered that for a moment. “That’s a lot of heat,” he said in a distracted voice as if solving a math problem in his head. “The Operator’s going to want at least a million, maybe more. Are you willing to spend that kind of money?”

  “Absolutely.”

  Garrity was silent for a moment then nodded. “OK, my fee for the introduction is a hundred-fifty K payable if the Operator takes the job. If he turns you down we’ll have to figure out something else. I get twenty-five K for my trouble no matter what. Agreed?”

  “What about the junkie, after, you know?”

  “That’s included in the hundred-fifty. Loose ends are bad for both of us.” Garrity pressed the glow-light button on his watch. “What’s it gonna be?”

  Feeney held out his hand and Garrity frowned and slapped it away. “Grow the fuck up,” He snapped and handed Feeney a Go Phone. “I’ll call you in a couple of days and tell you where and when to meet the junkie. What name do you want to use?”

  “Ahhh, John Smith?”

  Garrity’s lips pursed into a thin line. “You’ll be Joseph Green. He’ll be Ray Black. Got it?”

  “I’m Green. He’s Black,” Feeney repeated, fingering the burner phone.

  “Don’t use that for anything except talking to me. Nothing else, not even if your life depends on it. You got that?”

  “Got it,” Feeney said in a rush.

  Garrity gave him another of his hard stares then stood. “I’ll be in touch. Keep that thing on and charged up.”

  For three days Feeney carried the burner phone like a talisman. L
ast night it had rung. Garrity gave him the address of the bar and the junkie’s description.

  “You remember your name?”

  “Joseph–”

  “Don’t say it!”

  “Sorry.”

  “Never trust a phone. Do you remember both names?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s better.”

  “Pick up some cheap clothes someplace for cash. Don’t use Walmart. They video tape all their registers. Find some second-hand store that doesn’t have any cameras. Don’t forget to buy shoes too. And throw it all away when you’re done. Wear a hat and sunglasses, the ones with yellow lenses so you don’t trip over a chair in the dark and break your neck. Throw them away too after the meet. Don’t drive your own car and don’t rent a car. Borrow a car from somebody. Tell them your battery’s dying or whatever. Stick some cotton balls in your cheeks to make them bulge out a little. On the way there buy two burner phones for cash and try to stay off the store cameras. Give the junkie one and you keep one. That’s the only way you’ll communicate with him. You got all that?”

  “Yes.”

  “If you want to change your mind now is the time. Do you still want to do this?”

  “I have to. The future of our country–”

  “I don’t want to hear that shit. I don’t care. This is just business. Do you understand?”

  “Yes. Anything else?” Feeney asked.

  “This is my life here. I take my life very seriously. If you ever, and I mean ever, think about giving me up you remember two things: One, what I do for a living and two, you have a family. Are you understanding me?”

  “I understand you,” Feeney said, his guts suddenly empty and cold.

  “All right,” Garrity replied. “The Idle Hour Bar, two o’clock tomorrow afternoon.”

  “Got it.” The line went dead. Feeney sucked in a shuddering breath and went looking for a bottle.

  * * *

  Feeney paused just inside the Idle Hour’s front door and let his eyes adjust to the gloom. Garrity had told him that the junkie was a thin white man, about six-one with brown hair, a long face and big ears. Feeney peered into the shadows and spotted a cadaverous figure hunched over a table in the back. Feeney had briefly considered wearing a fake mustache but the one he bought at the costume shop looked so phony that he abandoned the idea. Instead he had stopped shaving the day he met with Garrity and this afternoon he greased his hair and combed it forward halfway over his forehead. It wouldn’t fool anyone who knew him but in the bar’s dim light it would make it more difficult for the junkie to pick him out of a lineup later, if it ever came to that, God forbid.

  “Are you Mr. Black?” Feeney asked with his back to the light leaking from behind the bar.

  “Yeah, Ray Black. Who are you?”

  “Joseph Green.” Black glanced toward the door then waved to the empty chair across from him.

  Feeney stared at Black and was suddenly afraid. What if this is a set-up? What if the place is bugged?

  “Let’s sit over there,” Feeney said, pointing to a table in the far corner. Black turned around, then shrugged.

  “Did our friend explain what I want?” Feeney asked once they had moved.

  “Hang on. They’re not big on guys sitting around without buying something.”

  Not liking the lights above the bar Feeney handed Black a five.

  “Coke,” he said. Black frowned at the bill then stood up. A moment later he returned with a cola in a tall glass and made a show of shoving Feeney’s change into his pocket.

  “So, do you know what I want?” Feeney repeated.

  “You’ve got a special job and you want the best.”

  “That’s right. Can you put us together?”

  “That’s up to him. What’s the pay?”

  “Half a mil,” Feeney said figuring that if the contractor wanted more he’d ask for it. The number seemed high enough to hold Black’s interest.

  “My end is ten percent,” Black said. “In cash, in advance.”

  Black’s face was lined and drawn, his eyes puffy. He barely moved his jaw when he spoke but Feeney caught a glimpse of the meth-rotted teeth behind his lips. Feeney laughed.

  “Your fee is $50K, half when you introduce me and half when he finishes the job.”

  “All of it when I put you two together.”

  “You think I’m an idiot? You think I’m going to let you give me the phone number for one of your scumbag friends and then hand over fifty K?”

  “I’m supposed to put you two together and just trust that you’ll pay me?” Black replied.

  “The man who told you to meet me has already vouched for me so let’s stop screwing around. If you don’t want to get fifty grand for making a phone call he’ll find me somebody who does.”

  Black rubbed his hands on his thighs and stared down at the table as if it held a crystal ball.

  “Here’s how we’ll do this,” Feeney said a moment later. “I’ll bring twenty-five K in cash. You make the call and I’ll talk to your guy. If he takes the job I’ll give you the rest of the cash.”

  “How do I know I’ll get my money on the back end?”

  “You can get twenty-five thousand and the promise of twenty-five more for making a phone call or you can sit here with your pockets empty while you try to figure out where your next meal is coming from,” Feeney said with a sneer. He hadn’t gotten rich without being able to read people. This guy was circling the bowl and he knew it.

  “You think you can talk to me like I’m some punk!” Black demanded. “I put guys in the ground who would make you shit your pants. I won the fucking Bronze Star so don’t treat me like some half-breed who’s come to your house to clean your toilets!”

  “Sorry, I didn’t mean to come off that way,” Feeney apologized. “The offer stands. Twenty-five in cash once your guy agrees to the meeting and another twenty-five after he takes the contract.”

  Black glared for a second longer then looked away.

  “Fine,” he said and downed the last of his beer.

  Feeney passed Black the burner phone he had bought that morning.

  “I’ve put my number in the address book. You call me when your friend’s ready to set up a meeting. Don’t use that phone for anything else.”

  “I’m not a moron,” Black muttered and slipped the cell into his pocket.

  Two days later Feeney got the call. They agreed to meet that afternoon but Feeney insisted on a different location and borrowed a different vehicle from the employee lot. He would have liked to have met at night but then he would have had to use one of his own cars. He picked a different bar even gloomier than The Idle Hour.

  “Did you bring it?” Black asked once they had gotten a couple of beers. Feeney nodded toward the paper bag he had placed on the empty chair. “I want to see it.”

  “Help yourself,” Feeney said, sick of the bullshit.

  Black pulled the bag into his lap and peeked at the five bundles of bills inside. Squinting against the gloom he riffled three of the stacks to be sure they were hundreds all the way through not just hundreds on top with ones inside. Black put the bag back on the extra chair and hit a button on his phone.

  “It’s me. He’s here. Pot’s right.” Wordlessly, Black handed Feeney the cell.

  “Black tells me that you’re looking for a contractor,” the voice said.

  “I am. When can we meet to discuss the project?” The caller laughed.

  “We’re not going to meet. I’m not going to see your face and you’re not going to see mine.”

  “Then how’s this supposed to work?”

  “Take the phone someplace private and call me back in a couple of minutes.”

  So, Feeney thought, this was it. He was supposed to hand twenty-five thousand dollars to a junkie and walk away. If this was a rip-off then Black would disappear out the back door with the money and the guy on the other end would never pick up. Or he could grab his paper bag and walk out, end of story. H
e stared into Black’s eyes but saw only hunger. Fuck it! Feeney stuck the burner phone in his pocket, hit the sidewalk and headed for the alley next to the bar. The contractor picked up on the fourth ring.

  “Where are you?”

  “In an alley. I’m alone. What do I call you?”

  The Operator laughed. “I don’t care – Donald Trump.”

  “I’ll call you Donald. How is this going to work?”

  “Who’s the target?”

  “High level. Political. Federal.”

  “Who specifically?”

  There it was. If this was a setup, if it was a Fed on the other end and he answered that question he was going to go to prison for a very long time. Or, he could walk away and forget the whole thing. But then who would save America from becoming a police state? Fuck it! He had risked his life for his country before. He would risk it again.

  “Supreme Court Justice George Hopper,” Feeney said and silently counted off the seconds, listening for the scream of sirens and Federal Gestapo Agents yelling for him to get down on the ground.

  “That’s a big job,” Donald said at last. “It’s going to be very, very hard.”

  “Are you saying you can’t do it?”

  “I’m saying that it’s very, very hard. . . . Still,” Donald continued a moment later, “a man like me likes a challenge.”

  “So, you can do it?”

  “I can do anything. But it’s going to cost you. One and a half.”

  “I told Black half a million.”

  “I don’t care if you told Black a dollar ninety-nine. I’m telling you a million and a half.”

  “How about we split the difference? One million.”

  “How about we don’t.”

  “I can do a million and a half for the entire job but I’ve got other expenses here. Black, the guy who put Black and me together, other costs, you understand.”