Death Never Lies

by David Grace

  “There’s a light over the rear door. I got a real good look at him before he took off.”

  “I don’t suppose he paid with a credit card?” Kane said.

  “That’ll be the day. This is a cash business.”

  “Which way did he go?”

  “The last I saw of him he was heading around the building, up toward the street. I couldn’t tell you where he went once he hit the sidewalk.”

  Kane made a note and tried to think.

  “Is there anybody who might have seen which way he went? A bouncer, a security guard, a street vendor? Anybody?”

  Evelyn shrugged. “There are lots of people around here at night but nobody permanent, nobody who’s always out front keeping watch.”

  “Regulars? Hookers? Maybe a cabbie who picks fares up here?”

  “Sorry.” She gave Kane another shrug.

  Greg sighed and slipped his pad into his coat.

  “Thank you, Ms. Brouseau. You’ve been very helpful.”

  “My pleasure. I hope you catch him.”

  Kane stood and she led him back through the club. He was halfway out the door when she stopped him.

  “Agent Kane – what did he do?”

  “In addition to his other victims he murdered a cop,” Greg told her with ice in his voice.

  “So, this is personal.”

  “I’m not going to let him get away with it if that’s what you’re asking.”

  “Good, good for you.”

  Kane tried to figure out the expression on Brouseau’s face. Determination? No, he decided, satisfaction. As the door swung closed behind him he heard her begin to sing softly to herself: “You don’t think of them as human. You don’t think of them at all.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  Kane knew that after dark he would need to have an agent canvas the neighborhood with Farber’s picture. More hours lost. Halfway to his car he paused and scanned the street. Was there anyone here right now who might have seen Farber? Greg spotted a guy tending a coffee cart halfway down the block.

  “Were you around here last night?” Kane asked, holding up his creds.

  The vendor, a thin black man in his twenties, glanced at Kane’s ID.

  “No,” he said, forcing a nervous smile.

  “What time did you go home last night?”

  “Seven?”

  “You don’t sound very sure.”

  “What time did it happen, whatever it is you’re asking about?”

  “Eleven.”

  Instantly, the man relaxed.

  “No way, man. I was long gone by then.” He handed the photo back.

  “Who might be around here that late?”

  The guy just shrugged and fiddled with his stack of paper cups. Kane put the picture back in his pocket and headed up the street. At the corner he mentally flipped a coin and continued straight on for another block. Over the next ten minutes he talked to a guy behind a card table piled with pirated DVDs, the mailman and a couple of hookers getting an early start on their evening’s work. He was halfway past the alley fifty feet north of Burger World when he paused and peered into the shadows for signs of life. He spotted a Samsung refrigerator carton wedged in between two dumpsters and cautiously approached. A gray face peeked out of the end of the box then ducked back inside.

  “Hello?” Kane called.

  “Go away!” Kane couldn’t tell if the voice belonged to a woman or a man.

  “I’m looking for someone.”

  “I won’t tell! You can’t make me tell!” the voice, a female Greg decided, shouted back. He stared at the sagging cardboard for a second or two then turned away.

  When he reached the intersection he heard a clattering sound and around the corner he spotted a hunched figure rummaging through a trash can. The man straightened, dropped three aluminum cans into a garbage bag at his feet and bent over to dig deeper into the bin, finally emerging with two empty Snapple bottles just as Kane drew near. He gave Kane a quick once-over then snapped him a little two-fingered salute.

  “What can I do for you, detective?” he asked. The skin protruding from his fingerless gloves was a greasy black and the face above the once-beige trench coat was more gray than white. He looked to be in his mid-forties but life on the street wears a man down so his real age was anybody’s guess.

  “I’m looking for someone. Have you seen this guy in the last couple of days?” Kane gingerly handed over the picture. The man made a show of squinting at it and moving it closer then farther away as if a fog was obscuring the image. Finally, he looked back at Kane.

  “What’s he done?”

  “I just want to talk to him.”

  The guy hesitated then studied the picture again. “Are you a friend of Starky’s?” he asked suspiciously.

  “Who’s Starky?”

  “Everybody around here knows Patrolman Starky,” the man said softly but with an edge to his voice.

  “I’m not with the D.C. police.” Kane held up his ID.

  “Homeland Security? You look like a cop to me.”

  “I used to be. Baltimore PD.”

  “I can’t say I saw him,” the homeless man said. His eyes flicked down, then he looked back up at Kane. “I can’t say I didn’t.” When he returned the photo his grimy cuff slipped back and Kane noticed a tattoo of three stylized wings above a sword.

  “Interesting ink.”

  “That’s from another life,” the man said and quickly pulled down his sleeve.

  “My name’s Greg Kane.” Kane held out his hand. The homeless guy stared at it for a second then grasped it lightly with his stained glove.

  “Randy Foy.”

  “What was your MOS?”

  After another little pause Foy said, “I was just a grunt. A lowly 11B.” He gave Kane a weak smile.

  “82nd Airborne?”

  “The 173rd. Courage and Strength,” Foy said, his smile fading as he looked down at his stained coat and worn-out shoes. “But, hell, that was a long time ago.” He looked back at the picture still in Kane’s hand.

  Kane knew what he wanted. By the hungry look in Foy’s eyes a ten would spark a sudden improvement in the homeless man’s memory. Greg slipped the picture into his pocket but when his hand came out it was empty.

  “I didn’t get any lunch,” Greg said, ignoring the disappointed look on Foy’s face. “Is there a decent restaurant around here?”

  “Burger World down the street’s OK.”

  “How about someplace a little nicer.”

  “There’s a Denny’s a block over.” Foy pointed at the cross street and to the left.

  “Let’s get some lunch. My treat.”

  Foy uneasily ran his palm over his grimy coat. “I don’t think–”

  “It’ll be fine. You’re with me.” Kane put his hand on Foy’s shoulder and guided him forward.

  When they walked into the restaurant the nineteen-year-old girl running the hostess stand lost her practiced smile but Kane just pointed to a booth by the window and told her, “We’ll take that one.” She froze for moment then grabbed a couple of menus and led them to their seats. Kane slid the plastic menu across the table to Foy. Randy seemed confused by all the choices and eventually defaulted to a double cheeseburger, fries and a chocolate shake.

  “Afghanistan or Iraq?” Kane asked after the girl had taken their order.

  “Afghanistan – Kunar Province mostly.” Foy’s eyes clouded over for a second then snapped back into focus. “Nothing like this over there,” he said glancing around at the vinyl benches and Formica table tops. “How about you?”

  “I never served,” Kane said in an almost embarrassed tone.

  “Then how come you recognized my tattoo?”

  “In my job you run into a lot of guys with tattoos. It pays to learn what they mean. . . . And a lot of guys who claim to have served and never did. You get to learn how to recognize the fakes pretty fast.”

  “I wish I was a fake. I wish I’d never joined up,” Foy said
staring at Kane with sudden heat, then he looked away. “Do you want to know what happened to me? How I ended up here?” Not knowing the right answer, Kane just shrugged.

  “Nothing,” Foy said with a sudden, bitter smile. “I didn’t get shot. I didn’t get blown up. Not one damn thing.”

  Kane started to speak but then the girl brought their food. The way Foy tore into his burger Kane wondered when he had eaten last. When the shake was down to the dregs and all that was left of the fries were broken crumbs Foy looked back across the table and smiled.

  “Thanks. That’s the best meal I’ve had in a while. Man, I miss those shakes.”

  “Sure,” Kane said. “My pleasure.”

  “You want to show me that picture again?”

  Kane slid it across the table. Foy glanced at it and pushed it back.

  “Yeah, I saw him. Eleven, eleven-thirty last night. I was up under the heat vent at Burger World. He passed me and went on up the block, away from the titty bar.”

  “Any idea where he was going? Did you notice if he turned down any of the cross streets?”

  “Sorry.”

  “Well, thanks.”

  “You know,” Foy said as if the idea had just occurred to him, “maybe I could look around for him. You know, walk the neighborhood, keep a watch out.”

  “Keep a watch out?”

  “Sure. Twenty bucks?” Foy asked with a different kind of hunger in his eyes.

  “I could get you into a program,” Kane said. “Help you get off the sauce.”

  “Nah,” Foy said, smiling. “That won’t work.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because you can’t get straight unless you want to get straight, and I don’t.”

  “Maybe some counseling–”

  Foy waved Kane’s words away.

  “Do you have a pill that will make me forget, something that’ll let me unknow what I know?” Foy’s face grew hard then he forced himself to relax. “It’s not what you think. I didn’t get shot or get blown up, not me, personally. . . . Look,” Foy said, struggling to explain, “you meet a guy, have some beers, find out where he’s from, how he met his girl and then, boom, some asshole blows his arm off and he’s gone and a new guy gets his bunk and he tells these stupid jokes and you find out that he likes olives on his hamburger and the next thing you know they’re shoveling pieces of him into a body bag and then the guy who sleeps in the rack across from you and three down who looks like Opie and can draw like a son of a bitch goes out one morning and comes back without a face. And it never fucking stops. You just sit there and watch these guys get fed into the meat grinder day after day and pretty soon you don’t want to know them. You don’t want to talk to them. You don’t want to hear about their girlfriends or how their little sister wants to be veterinarian or that their mom makes this great fucking blueberry bread pudding. You don’t want to know anyone, but you can’t shut them out. They just keep coming and they just keep dying, or worse, and it never stops.”

  Foy covered his face with his hands and shook his head as if that might drive the memories away. A few seconds later he wiped his eyes with a napkin and gave Kane an embarrassed little smile.

  “So, thanks for the offer and everything, but what I was and what I am . . . fuck, it’s like loving hot dogs and then taking a tour of the sausage factory. You can never go back to what you were before you knew.”

  “The booze will kill you, Randy.”

  “So what?”

  “Randy, if–”

  “Look, Mr. Kane, I know you mean well but you can only fight something for so long before you finally realize that you just can’t win. So, thanks for the offer but I’ve given up. It’s not so bad. Life is a lot easier when you’re not chasing after anything, when you stop fighting it and you just take things as they come. When I’m loaded I actually feel pretty good. That’s the only time the thoughts go away, the only time I can forget. So,” Foy scraped up the last few fragments of fries. “What do you say? Twenty bucks and I’ll keep my eyes open for this guy?”

  Twenty bucks for eyes on the street? Kane thought. That’s a bargain. What the fuck should I care if he pickles another chunk of his liver on my money?

  “No fucking way!” Kane growled.

  “Look, for ten I could–”

  “Not ten, not five, not a penny! I’m not giving you any money for booze. Come on!”

  Foy looked as if Kane had slapped him and Greg half dragged him from the booth.

  “Is your manager around?” Greg asked the girl at the hostess counter. She looked from Kane to Foy then hurried away. A few moments later she returned with an Hispanic guy in a short-sleeved white shirt.

  “Can I help you?”

  “Agent Kane, Homeland Security,” Kane said, showing his ID. “This is Mr. Foy. He’s helping us with an investigation.” Kane pulled out his wallet and began counting out bills. “Here’s a hundred-twenty-five dollars.” Greg shoved the money into the manager’s hand. “I want you to start a tab for Mr. Foy. You feed him until this money runs out. Call me when it does. Give his waitress a 15% tip.” Kane glanced at Foy then turned back to the manager. “No refunds. No take out. And if he brings in any friends they have to pay their own way. This money is only to feed him. It’s just for food. Do you understand?”

  “Ahh, I’m not sure we can–”

  “Did you ever serve?”

  “What?”

  Kane pulled up Foy’s sleeve and exposed the tattoo.

  “173rd Brigade. Kunar Province.”

  The manager stared at the blue-lined wings then nodded.

  “My dad was a marine at Lai Khe, in Vietnam.” He picked up the hostess’ pen and wrote down Foy’s name and the word “Date” at the top of one column and “$125” at the top of another. “We’ll run a tab.”

  “Thanks.” Kane gave the manager his card then steered Foy toward the door.

  “I’d rather have the money,” Foy said anxiously looking back through the glass.

  “I know you would, Randy, but I’d rather you stayed alive a little longer in case you change your mind. I’d really like you to change your mind.”

  “That’s not going to happen.”

  “I guess we’ll see.”

  “It’s too late for me.”

  “Well, it’s not too late for me.” Kane noticed the manager watching them through the doors. “Good luck, Randy,” Greg said and headed back to the street.

  “Wait!” Foy called and jogged after him. “I lied,” he said when he reached Kane at the curb.

  “You lied about being in Afghanistan?”

  “I wish. No, I lied about the guy in your picture. When I saw him I was just coming off a good high and I got the really stupid idea that maybe I could get a couple of bucks out of him for another bottle. It took me a block to catch up to him and when I got there he punched me then he threw me against a wall. He scared me. Some soldier I am. One day I’m in Afghanistan fighting the Taliban and the next some civilian shoves me and it scares the piss out of me. I would have told you, eventually, after I drank up your money. Sorry,” Foy said, looking down.

  “Where was he going the last time you saw him?”

  “I’ll show you.” Foy checked the traffic then jogged across the street with Kane following behind. A hundred yards farther up he took a right and then pointed toward the end of the block. Kane’s eye was drawn to the “Belaire Motel” sign with the “a” flickering excitedly in the dim afternoon light.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  Half a dozen questions raced through Kane’s head, the foremost of which was “Is Farber still there?” closely followed by “How long is it going to take me to get a team down here?” Just as Kane pulled out his phone he heard Foy mutter, “Shit!” and looked up to see a D.C. patrol car pulling to the curb. The window whirred down and the cop in the passenger seat glared at Foy.

  “Did you forget what I told you, Randy? “

  “I just–”

  “You just earned yourself a
trip to the station.” The door cracked open and Foy took a step back. Before the cop could get out Kane pushed Randy behind him and pulled out his creds.

  “Agent Gregory Kane, Homeland Security. This man is my CI.”

  The cop, the black plastic bar on his chest said “T. Starky,” glared at Kane’s ID.

  “He never told us he was working with HS.”

  “He wasn’t supposed to.” Kane glanced from Starky’s unhappy face toward the Belaire Motel then back again. “How would you guys feel about helping me take down a wanted felon?”

  “Wanted for what?” Starky snapped.

  “He killed a cop.”

  “Are you shitting me?” Starky half-shouted, his eyes turning mean.

  “A Baltimore County Deputy Sheriff working prisoner transport. The mope was paid to break the guy out. You two interested in helping me take him down?”

  Starky glanced at his partner then turned back to Kane.

  “Where is the son of a bitch?”

  “Holed up in that motel.” Kane pointed down the block.

  Starky popped the lock on the back door. “Get in.”

  Kane shook his head. “We can’t take the chance that he’ll spot your unit. We go in on foot. After we get the room number and a passkey one of you will need to cover the back in case he decides to go out the bathroom window. The other two of us will go in the front. He’s armed and dangerous.” Kane pulled a paper from his coat. “I’ve got an arrest warrant.”

  “Fuck your warrant. The son of a bitch killed a cop.”

  “I need him alive.” Starky looked like he had bitten into something he thought was chocolate and it turned out to be shit. “I need him to rat out the guy who paid him to kill the cop. . . . Are we clear?”

  Starky hesitated then nodded. “Yeah, fine, we don’t kill him – unless he makes us. What about him?” Starky pointed at Foy.

  “He did his job. He found this asshole for us. He stays here. . . . Randy,” Kane said, turning toward Foy, “You clear out. We’ve got this now.”

  Kane expected Foy to nod or give him a wave or just leave but he did none of those things. For a moment he just stood there then he began to mumble “Oh, shit. Oh, shit. Oh, shit. Not again. Oh, shit,” and tears began to trickle down his cheeks.