by David Grace
“I put him in a cave.”
“A cave? Where?”
Farber licked his lips and looked out the window. Kane waited him out.
“A place off highway 211 in Virginia, about ten miles east of I-81. You get me a deal and I’ll take you to him. Otherwise good luck finding him or the kid.”
“Deals are up to the U.S. Attorney. Let’s get back to the guy who wanted Brownstein out of the way. Who is he?”
“I don’t know. I’ve never met him. He only talks to Munroe. Mr. X is what I call him.”
“You said it was a new drug. What kind of a new drug?”
“What am I, a chemist? All Munroe told me was that this guy had invented some hot-shit drug and that he was going to manufacture it in big quantities but he needed to import some chemical or whatever in order to make it.”
“What do you mean, ‘big quantities’?”
“Big. Like boxcars full. The guy promised Ryan a distributorship from here to Philly, sort of a test market. Once it caught on Munroe figured he could wholesale it to people he knows in New York, maybe even go nationwide. He’s got big plans. He said Mr. X would manufacture, we would wholesale, and the gangs and the mob would handle retail.”
“When and where is Munroe getting his next delivery?”
“Like he would tell me something like that. Besides, I told you that the guy who’s going to manufacture it hasn’t gone into production yet. Munroe said that it was going to be two or three months before we got any product.”
“How does this drug work? What does it do?”
“What does it do? What does any drug do? It gets you high. It fucks you up.”
“Cut the bullshit! Is it a painkiller, hallucinogen, go sleepy, sex enhancer, amphetamine, what?”
“I don’t know. All Ryan said was that it was supposed to get people high. Mr. X told him that the customers were going to be the same people who bought H, speed, coke, weed and oxy. Ryan said Mr. X called it a ‘broad spectrum recreational product’ whatever that means.”
Kane slowed a bit and tried to make sense of what Farber had just told him. Speed freaks and heroin users were looking for different kicks. Junkies wanted to go all soft and floaty. Tweakers wanted a knife-edge, high-voltage kick. How could one pill give both of them the jolt they were looking for? Kane glanced in the mirror. Farber was anxiously calculating the declining mileage between themselves and Baltimore. Kane was running out of time and there was one more big question he needed answered.
“How did you find out we were coming for you?”
“What do you mean?” Farber said, trying to sound confused.
“What do I mean? What the fuck do you think I mean. Your dinner was still hot on the stove when we crashed your place. Somebody warned you. Who was it?”
“Ryan, who else?”
“Munroe? How’d he find out?”
“How do you think? Somebody, Mr. X, talks to Ryan. Ryan talks to me. That’s it. It’s like a fucking underground cell. All I know is that somebody told Ryan that you were on to me and that I had to run, so I did.”
“When did you get the call?”
“When? About two minutes before you kicked in my front door. I saw your guys going over the fence into my back yard.”
Two minutes? Kane thought. That ruled out a leak from the judge who had issued the warrant and also from the D.C. police. Both had known Farber’s house was blown hours before the raid.
“Tell me exactly what he said, word for word,” Kane ordered.
Farber made a “you’re a pain in the ass” face, then pursed his lips as he tried to remember.
“Fine,” he said. “I picked up the phone. I knew it was Munroe because he’s the only one who has that number. He said, ‘What’s your address?’ something like that.” Farber paused. “No, wait. He said ‘What’s your house number?’ I told him ‘817.’ He said, “The guy called me. They’re on to you. Get out now!’ I grabbed my go-bag and went over the back fence. I didn’t even make it to the end of the block before your guys pulled up and headed for my back yard.”
Kane turned the exchange over in his mind.
“Munroe didn’t know where you lived?”
“Nobody knew where I lived. How the hell did you find me?”
“He didn’t ask for your full address, just the house number?”
“I wouldn’t have given him the full address. I almost didn’t give him the number.” Farber twisted in his seat as a road sign slipped by. “Hey! We’re almost into town. I held up my end of the deal. Get me the hell out of here.”
Kane glanced at Farber in the mirror. In uniform or out he was a thug, a brute, an animal wearing shoes. He might last a day, maybe two or three in general population at the main jail but eventually they’d find him curled up on the floor bleeding out through twenty round little holes in his chest, exactly what he deserved. On the other hand, if Ryan Munroe remained ignorant that Farber had been grabbed maybe Mearle could lure him to a meeting. Probably not. Munroe gave new meeting to the word “paranoia” but it was worth a try. And if they got Munroe maybe he would lead them to Mr. X. Kane took the ramp into downtown Baltimore.
“Hey, you fucker!” Farber shouted, throwing himself against the belt. “We had a deal! We had a fucking deal!”
“Relax, I’m taking you to the federal building. You’re the FBI’s problem now.”
“You can’t use any of that stuff I said against me. That was under duress!”
“Tell it to your lawyer.”
“I will. And I’m going to tell him how you–”
“You have the right to be silent. Shut up!”
Farber glared at Kane for a moment then, when he saw that they were heading away from the BPD building, he smiled, laid his head back against the seat and closed his eyes.
* * *
Special Agent Leonard Franks glanced at his watch and noted, unhappily, that it was still a little over an hour until quitting time. It had been a perfectly tedious day filled to the brim with reports, meetings and then more paperwork. He had just moved his mouse into the next vacant box on the form when his land-line beeped.
“Franks.”
“Hello. This is Homeland Security Agent Gregory Kane. I understand that you were the primary on the Ryan Munroe case a couple of years ago.”
“Yes, I was,” Franks said, sitting up a little straighter. “How can I help you, Agent Kane?”
“Do you recall the names of the two Baltimore County deputies who were transporting Munroe when he went missing?”
What the hell? Franks paused for a moment then answered: “Mearle Farber and Jason Kane. Kane? Any relation?”
“He was my nephew,” Greg said and struggled to keep his voice from breaking. “Mearle Farber murdered him.”
Franks’ skin began to tingle and he waved for another agent to tap the call.
“How do you know that?” Franks asked, stalling for time.
“Because Farber admitted it to me.”
Franks stood up and motioned for his team.
“Where are you now, Agent Kane?”
“I’m in the lobby of your building. Mearle Farber is my prisoner. I’m here to turn him over to you. Will you please come down here and lock up this son of a bitch,” Kane said in a voice barely his own, “before I change my mind and take him out and shoot him in the head.”
Franks pulled on his coat and started running for the elevator before Kane had even hung up the phone.
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
Ray Black paced his tiny room and went over everything again but he still ended up with the same frustrating results.
The day after the meeting with Mr. Green he had called to ask for his money. Green had not picked up. Then he called the operator he had introduced Green to. Donald also didn’t pick up. Black called several times more over the next few days but all he got was the automated “The person you are calling is not available” message. Weeks later that changed to “The number you are calling is no longer in serv
ice.” Screwed again.
When did my life turn to shit? he asked himself for the hundredth time, but unlike the previous occasions this time his answer was When I took my first hit of speed. It didn’t matter that it had happened while he was still in uniform, when he was on a mission where falling asleep would likely mean getting dead. Damn, that stuff made him feel invincible and there’s nothing a warrior loved more than feeling like Captain America.
Dozens of times in the last couple of years the words “I’ve got to get myself clean” had drifted through his brain but they were merely fleeting notions, like the gaze of someone driving through a city in which he never intended to stop and put down roots. On the few occasions when he might have been ready to give up the stuff Black had been too broke or too fucked up to actually do anything about it.
After his meeting with Mr. Green, Black had twenty-five thousand dollars in his pocket. I’ve just set up somebody I don’t even know to be murdered, Black realized as he looked around the filthy tavern. They’re all hopeless losers, he thought and then he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror behind the bar. He was a fucking loser too, worse than them, he realized. At least they weren’t supplying killers for hire.
As he stared at the face of the man he’d become, a man whom he didn’t recognize and one he didn’t want to know, Black promised himself, I’m not going to be this guy anymore. The next morning he signed himself into the New Beginning Treatment Facility. It cost him fifteen thousand dollars but he figured the chance of turning Mr. Black back into First Sergeant Arnold Demeter was worth it. He hit a bad spot a few days after he finished his rehab and felt the speed tempting him like a departed lover suddenly appearing on his doorstep and begging to be let back into his life. Then he saw the news about the attempted murder of Justice Hopper and his guts knotted. Was that the hit Mr. Green had wanted done? Had he gotten himself in the middle of the attempted murder of a Supreme Court Justice? Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!
The day he had made the introduction Black was so strung out that he hadn’t really thought about who was going to be the target or how that was going to affect him. The only thing on his mind was the money and the drugs it would buy. Shit! What had happened to his brain? It was a half million dollar job. It had to be somebody big. And the hit had failed.
The whole government, the FBI, Secret Service, U.S. Marshals, they were all going to be on this like flies on shit. They were all going to be looking for him. If Black needed any incentive to stay clean that was it. He was so frightened of spending the rest of his life in prison that even the thought of getting juiced made him sick to his stomach. He immediately started checking the neighborhood for cars he didn’t recognize, ducking into front doors and out the back ones. Was anyone watching him? Was he being followed? He had just started to relax, then he heard a buzzing from inside his kitchen drawer.
What the hell? Black yanked it open and saw the burner phone rattling around between the can opener and the cork screw like a big black roach.
“Hello?”
“Mr. Black, have you seen the papers?” Green asked.
“What?”
“I told you half up front and half when the job was finished. A deal’s a deal. Where do you want to meet to pick up your second installment?”
Black’s brain was spinning. The deal was that the second half would be paid as soon as the operator took the job, not when it was over. And besides, Donald had missed. The target was still alive. Why would Green want to pay him when the operation had failed?
“Meeting?” Black mumbled. “When?”
“When do you want your money?” Green thought Black sounded like he was stoned out of his mind. Fucking stupid junkie.
“I’ll call you back,” Black said and dropped the phone like it was radioactive.
Nobody pays money they don’t have to for a job that went bad. There is no Santa Claus. Jesus, they’re going to kill me, Black thought. The words “loose end” kept shooting through his brain. What was he going to do? What could he do? He could run. They probably wouldn’t be able to find him. Probably. Maybe. But running was a coward’s play. Screw that. He might be a burned-out recovering junky but he wasn’t any fucking coward! Well, if I’m not going to run then I’m going to fight, Black decided. The problem was that he was all alone. The operator was a pro and Black had nobody to watch his back. He needed help. How the hell was he going to get anybody to stand up for him?
Black paced the floor and twisted the problem around and around until he finally came up with an idea. It wasn’t a good idea. In fact, it scared the piss out of him. It was risky and dangerous and even if it worked it would screw up his life forever. And what if he was wrong? What if Green wasn’t out to kill him? Another twenty-five thousand in cash would give him a shot at a new job, a whole new, and better, life. Maybe he wouldn’t have to jump off that cliff after all. Money? Fight? Escape?
Hell, he could set up a money drop and see what happens. There were ways he could reduce the risk. If it didn’t work he could always fall back on Plan B. An hour later Black called Green and told him where to leave the cash.
* * *
“You called it,” Feeney told Donald. “He couldn’t resist the money.”
“How did he sound?”
“Like a junky with shit for brains.”
“So the meet is on?”
“He wouldn’t go for a face to face. He wants me to tape the money to the back of the dumpster behind the Idle Hour bar.”
“I don’t like that. When are you supposed to leave it?”
“I figured you’d need time to scout the place so I stalled him until two tomorrow afternoon. I told him I would have to get the money from three different banks in order to keep each cash transaction under the ten-thousand dollar federal reporting limit. . . . Are you there?” Feeney asked after several seconds of silence.
“For a brain-dead addict that’s a half-smart plan. He can sit back and watch the alley if he’s worried or even pay somebody to pick up the package for him.” Donald was silent for several seconds. “Before you make the drop call and tell him that you had to get the money in twenties in order to keep the banks from getting suspicious. Make up six stacks of fake bills, each about an inch thick. Put twenty dollar bills on the tops and bottoms and seal them all in an oversize, yellow, padded envelope. And tape it closed real good to discourage anyone from peeking inside. If anybody but him leaves that alley with it I’ll be able to spot it and follow them.”
“What if he doesn’t show up?”
“Oh, he’ll show up all right. The only thing on a junky’s mind is getting high. To get high he needs money. If you’re supposed to leave the money at two I’ll guarantee you he’ll be there to grab it before three.”
“What if he rips the package open and realizes it’s a fake?”
“You’re a regular question box, aren’t you?” Donald sighed and forced himself to take a breath. “Look, I know what he looks like and he’s not getting out of that alley alive. If he sends someone else you can bet that he’ll be nearby because he won’t want them getting greedy and running off with his cash. Satisfied?”
“All right, all right. I just want to make sure that we’ve covered all the angles. I’ll call you when I’ve delivered it.”
“Don’t bother. I’ll be in place, watching, hours before you get there.”
Feeney hung up and went searching for latex gloves and a pair of scissors.
* * *
Donald checked out the Idle Hour’s garbage bins just after dawn. There were only two ways in and out – down the dead-end alley along the back side of the building and through the bar’s back door. Donald jogged to his car and retrieved his tools. He quickly drilled five angled tap holes through the back door and into the jam then he dipped a handful of four inch steel screws in cyanoacrylate and screwed them home. Just to guild the lily he injected the rest of the “super glue” into the crack between the door and the jam. Nobody was going to open the alley door until the
owner got a contractor down here to cut the thing free. OK, Mr. Black was going to have to enter and leave the alley from the street if he wanted to get his money.
Donald moved his car then returned on foot to do a careful search of the neighborhood. He found the place he wanted across the street and two buildings down. Weathered planks faced a gate across a passage along the side of an old bakery. Years ago they had probably used the walkway to hand-truck sacks of flour to the basement where the ovens were located.
Donald scanned the street then cut the chain and pushed the screeching gate out of the way. The boards hid him from passersby and the gap along the hinged edge was wide enough to give him a good view of the entrance to The Idle Hour’s alley.
Donald slipped out and retrieved a can of 3-in-1 Oil from his trunk. It took a bit of effort but he was eventually able to swing the old gate open and closed without making any noise. He peered through his monocular and confirmed that no one was going to get in or out of the alley without him being able to check them out. Donald put a square of foam rubber on the filthy concrete and settled in to wait for Mr. Green to leave the package and then for Mr. Black to make a grab for it.
Two seconds after Black entered the alley Donald would be out of his bolt hole and halfway across the street. He figured he would be on Black from behind while the junky was still hunched over the dumpster. After that events would dictate how things went. If possible Donald planned to hit Black in the back with a five second burst from his stun gun, then jab him with a mixture of enough heroin and speed to kill three men. If worse came to worst and Black spotted him and turned to fight, Donald had a suppressed .22 that would be no louder than an old man’s cough. A couple in the chest to slow Black down and three in the head to finish the job. Junkie dead in an alley. The cops would call it a Public Service Murder and head straight for the donut cart.
Donald took a long pull from his water bottle and leaned back against the brick wall to wait for his prey.