Death Never Lies

by David Grace

  Danny made a confused face then started typing. Five minutes later Kane handed Wren the printout containing Giselle Edwards’ name and address.

  “How did you connect her to Farber?” Wren asked.

  “Good police work,” Kane said and winked, hinting that he had done something illegal that he didn’t want showing up in the file.

  “All right,” Wren said. “You’re going to stake her out?”

  “If you’ll get me the manpower.”

  “Tell Immerson what you need. I’ll see that you get it. Good job.”

  Wren stood and Greg and Danny followed suit. “What do we do now?” Danny asked once Wren was gone.

  “I’ll tell the boss that we need to have a team stake out Giselle Edwards’ home.”

  “But she has nothing to do with Mearle Farber.”

  “We need Wren to think that she does.”

  Just before lunch Farber got a call on his burner phone.

  “They’re on to your girlfriend, Giselle,” Munroe warned him. Franks was listening on an earphone as Farber responded, following the script they had printed out for him.

  “Well, you’d better get me some cash and a clean ID,” Farber threatened a minute later, “because if they catch me I’ll give them the professor.”

  “Who?”

  Franks thought Munroe sounded honestly confused.

  “The professor. Your boss.”

  “How would you know that? I don’t even know who he is.”

  “I used to be a cop, remember? Anyway, how I know is not important. You just tell him that he’d better get me what I need if he wants to stay off the fed’s radar.”

  Munroe thought that over then said, “I’ll make a call” and hung up.

  * * *

  Kane had just started briefing Giselle’s surveillance team when Franks called. Greg excused himself and retreated out of earshot.

  “Munroe went for it,” Franks told him, clearly excited. “He claims he won’t be able to get Farber a good ID until tomorrow night. We still have to work out the details of the meet.”

  “They’re stalling,” Kane said.

  “Of course they’re stalling. And, yes, they’re planning to kill Farber as soon as he shows up. Your turn. Who’s the professor?”

  “Elliott Bellingham,” Kane told him after a moment’s hesitation. “He used to teach at Yale. Now he runs a company call Eco-Safe Technologies in Richmond.”

  “A Yale professor is Mr. Big? Are you kidding me? What’s he a professor of, International Drug Dealing?”

  “Microbiology, DNA, genes, things like that.”

  “And one day he woke up and decided to become a criminal mastermind? Are you insane?”

  “He’s got a plan to save the world.”

  “Better living through chemistry?” Franks taunted. “Do you have any actual evidence on this guy?”

  “We will once you connect him to Munroe.”

  “So this is another one of your hunches.”

  “I call it logic, deduction and superior intelligence. Besides, it worked, didn’t it?”

  “That remains to be seen. . . . Fine, what’s your plan?”

  “Bellingham’s going to be talking to Munroe. He may or may not meet with him. You’ll have to stake out Bellingham’s home and office, tap all his phones and intercept every cell transmission to and from both locations. Then you’ll have to backtrack them to the phones on the other end.”

  “The judge is going to have a heart attack when he sees our warrant request.”

  “Bellingham’s suspected of planning to import tons of prohibited chemicals to use in the manufacture of toxic substances. That’s a WMD case. That means you’re in the FISA court. A FISA judge will give you a warrant for anything you want.”

  “Fuck! You want me to blanket intercept a Yale professor’s home and office phones under a FISA warrant based on your suspicions? Do you have any idea what’ll happen if you’re wrong and the professor finds out what we’ve done? The word ‘shit-storm’ doesn’t begin to describe it. It’ll be on the front page of every paper in the country. We’ll be subpoenaed to testify in front of a congressional committee. You’re gambling with our jobs here.”

  “And what do you think will happen if this guy sells a few million doses of a designer drug and people find out that we knew what he was up to and we didn’t do anything because we were afraid it might hurt our careers? You want to talk about a shit-storm, think about that.”

  “God damn it, Kane, what kind of a jackpot have you gotten me into? I’m screwed if I do and I’m screwed if I don’t! You know what I should do? I should give this case back to you then you can go get the FISA warrant. Your guys can sit on this professor. How about that?”

  “That’s not going to work. Remember I told you that I have a leak? I’ve got it narrowed down to either Sebastian Wren, the Special Assistant to the Principal Deputy Undersecretary for the Office of Intelligence & Analysis or his boss, Roger Dawson, the Principal Deputy Undersecretary for the Office of Intelligence & Analysis. I can’t take a piss around here without Wren and Dawson finding out.”

  “Are you kidding me? The Special Assistant to the Deputy Undersecretary?”

  “Or his boss.”

  “I couldn’t even fantasize about getting a warrant on either of them without the approval of the Attorney General.”

  “That wouldn’t work. Even if I had enough hard evidence to convince the AG Wren’s boss would hear about it before you were out of the building.”

  “Shit! Shit! Shit!”

  “Relax. This guy’s dirty and we’re going to be heroes. We just have to get him to lead us to Munroe and then grab them both.”

  “You haven’t left me any way out. Was that your plan all along?”

  “My plan is to give you the biggest bust of your career. You can thank me later.”

  “Yeah, sure I will. Crap!” Franks was quiet for five seconds then Kane heard him sigh. “All right. I’ll get the warrant and I’ll put a tracker on his vehicles too.”

  “No, don’t do that. He’s smart. He might check. If he finds a tracker he’ll know we’re on to him and then he’ll know that the meeting with Farber is a set up. If that happens he’ll never go near Munroe and we’ll lose them both. You’re going to have to tail Bellingham the old fashioned way. Besides, I doubt that he’ll meet with Munroe face to face. If you can record him giving orders on one of his burner phones that should be enough, especially if you grab Munroe and are able to convince him to testify.”

  “Did you think that plan up all by yourself, Kane? Because it stinks. Bellingham might not call. If he calls we might not be able to detect it or decrypt it. He might not say anything incriminating, and the chances of the call actually getting us close enough to Munroe to grab him are crap, not to mention that Munroe will probably never cooperate even if we do capture him.”

  “Do you have a better idea?”

  “No,” Franks growled and hung up.

  Kane pocketed the phone and returned to the conference room to finish setting up his phony stake-out. After that, all he could do was wait for Franks to get his warrant and then for Bellingham to take the bait.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

  Carl Feeney weaved through the parking lot and tried to hold the pizza box level. Distracted, he almost dropped it when the corner caught on a passenger-side mirror that seemed to dart into his path. It had been two days since he had left the dummy package of money for Ray Black. Had Donald just killed the addict and left town? Shouldn’t he at least have called and confirmed that he’d taken care of the problem? Feeney had carefully watched the news but there had been no report of a man being found dead in the Idle Hour’s alley, but then a junky dying from an overdose wasn’t really news, was it?

  Feeney juggled the pizza and dug into his pocket for the Expedition’s remote.

  “You owe me money,” a voice said from behind him. Feeney spun around, bumping the box against the driver’s side window and sending it
flying. “You’re lucky that was only your dinner,” Black said, pointing toward the pizza upside down on the ground. “That could just as easily be you lying there.”

  “How did you–”

  “Find you, Mr. Carl Feeney of 191 Shiloh Lane where you live with your wife, Cynthia, and your daughter, Robin? What you should be asking me is what’s going to happen next?” Black just stared.

  “What’s going to happen next?” Feeney finally repeated.

  “You’re going to pay me the twenty-five thousand you owe me and another twenty-five as a penalty for sending your friend to kill me.”

  “What? I left the money–”

  “Shut up! I’m not in the mood for any of your bullshit. Do you read me?”

  Feeney looked from Black’s scowling face to the gun tucked into his belt and nodded.

  “Did you or did you not ask me to find you a hit man for a big job?”

  Feeney stared at the gun then nodded.

  “Answer me when I ask you a question!”

  Feeney nervously looked around to confirm that no one was near.

  “Yes.”

  “Did you promise to pay me fifty thousand dollars if I connected you to a hit man and he agreed to take the job?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did I connect you with a hit man and did he agree to take the job?”

  “Yes.”

  “How much did you pay me?”

  “Twenty-five thousand.”

  “So, you owe me money, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Here’s how it’s going to be. You’re going to put fifty-thousand, in cash, in this locker at the bus station.” Black handed Feeney a key. “And then we’re never going to see each other again. Agreed?”

  “Yes,” Feeney said, his eyes darting back and forth between the nearby cars and the gun in Black’s belt.

  “Was there something you wanted to ask me?”

  Feeney licked his lips then said, “What about, you know?”

  “Your friend who was supposed to kill me when I picked up the package?”

  Feeney tried to hold Black’s gaze then gave him a slight nod and looked away.

  “I told you to answer me when I ask you a question.”

  “Yes,” Feeney mumbled.

  “I’ll tell you what,” Black said, smiling. “I’ll answer your question if you’ll answer one for me. Deal?”

  “What do you want to know?”

  “Was Hopper the hit you hired him for? Was your operator the idiot who set off that bomb in D.C.?”

  Feeney studied his shoes for a count of five then mumbled, “I didn’t tell him to do that. It’s all your fault!” Feeney complained. “I asked you for a professional not a lunatic. If you had found me a sniper instead of some crazy man then Hopper would be dead and you’d have gotten your money.”

  Black gave his head a disappointed shake and laughed. “You asked me to find you a guy to murder a Supreme Court Justice and now you’re complaining that he wasn’t Mr. Normal? Psycho is the price of admission for that job.” Black waited for some response from Feeney then shrugged. “OK, my turn. You can forget about your guy. He’s out of the picture. Permanently. So if you have any ideas about asking him to take another shot at me you can forget them. Was there anything else you wanted to know?”

  Feeney tried to think but his brain wouldn’t work.

  “You’ve got until five p.m. tomorrow to leave the money. After that I’ll come to your house and we’ll have another talk. Maybe I’ll tell your wife and daughter what kind of a guy you really are. Do you want that?”

  “You’ll get your money,” Feeney promised.

  “You’re damn right I will.” Black glanced at the tomato sauce leaking into the asphalt. “You better buy yourself another pizza before the family starts wondering if something’s happened to you.”

  Feeney paused for a moment then headed back the way he had come.

  * * *

  It had taken Feeney several hours and not a few lies to get his hands on fifty thousand dollars in cash. Sure, he could have walked into First Federal and handed the teller a withdrawal slip and told her to give it to him in hundreds but all that was going to do was guarantee him a meeting with the manager. Why do you want all this cash, Mr. Feeney? Are you in trouble Mr. Feeney? Do you want me to call the police Mr. Feeney? And the transaction would be remembered. So he pulled the money from different accounts in different banks over several visits.

  Feeney glanced at the clock over the ticket counter – 1:27 p.m. He just wanted this whole nightmare over with. He took a quick look around but no one seemed to be paying any attention to him. The bank of lockers was along the back wall. The blue, plastic cover on the end of the key said “319.” Feeney shoved a handful of quarters into the slot then opened the door. The locker was empty. He pulled the manila envelope from under his coat, slipped it inside then re-locked it. For a moment Feeney wondered what he was supposed to do with the key then realized that Black must have kept another copy. Feeney angled toward the trash can to the left of the front door but just before he reached it two men grabbed him from behind and two more, shouting “FBI! Don’t Move! FBI!” leapt in front of him and pointed guns at his head.

  Feeney froze and found himself unable to think. What was happening? FBI? How? What did they want? Did they know? His stomach seemed suddenly full of ice and his legs had lost their hold. Rough hands pulled his arms behind his back and he felt cold steel crush his wrists.

  “You’re under arrest for murder!” one man shouted and Feeney felt like a puppet whose strings had been cut. Sound faded in and out. “. . . you say can be used against you in a court of law,” he heard before he lost focus again. A sea of faces were staring at him in worry and surprise. Two of his captors began to drag him toward the door. He tried to twist around and ask them what this was all about and where they were taking him but all his strength had fled.

  * * *

  “I understand that the arrest went as planned,” the man in the gray suit said once they had taken their seats.

  “The subject was taken into custody at one-twenty-nine this afternoon. They found fifty thousand dollars in cash in the locker and the key still in his hand. We have it all on tape.”

  “Has he made a statement?”

  “Not yet, Mr. Harrington, other than to claim that this is all some terrible mistake.”

  “Perhaps when he learns that Sergeant Demeter is cooperating,” Harrington glanced at his client sitting next to him, “Mr. Feeney will realize that his position is hopeless and agree to make a deal.”

  Assistant U.S. Attorney Karen Swerner frowned at Harrington’s use of Demeter’s former rank as a subtle way of trying to sanitize his client. “We’ll see,” she said and shot a quick look at the man formerly known as Ray Black.

  “In any event,” Harrington continued, “I believe that we’ve fulfilled all of the terms of the immunity agreement.” The lawyer began to tick off the deal points on his fingers. “Sergeant Demeter got Mr. Feeney to admit on tape that he hired Glenn Phillips to murder Mr. Justice Hopper–”

  “He never admitted to hiring Glenn Phillips.”

  “He admitted to hiring a man he called ‘Donald.’ Sergeant Demeter identified the body of the man he had introduced to Feeney and your office determined that the real identity of that corpse was Glenn Phillips. If I may continue?” Harrington took Swerner’s silence as consent. “Sergeant Demeter’s information was confirmed both by Mr. Feeney’s statements and his payment of the money. Sergeant Demeter will testify against Mr. Feeney as agreed. Since the man who referred Mr. Feeney to my client is still at large we’d like Sergeant Demeter admitted to the Witness Protection Program right away.”

  “Actually, we know the location of the other member of the conspiracy,” Swerner said and picked a piece of paper from her desk. “Cletus Garrity contracted the H1N1 virus and was admitted to the Val Verde County Hospital in Del Rio, Texas a little over three weeks ago. He suffered a pulmona
ry failure that antibiotics were unable to control and died four days later. So it seems that your client no longer needs witness protection.”

  “Maybe he does and maybe he doesn’t,” Harrington said, “but he’s getting it anyway. A deal is a deal.”

  Swerner frowned then snapped, “Fine.”

  “Then I think we’re done.”

  “What about the reward?” Demeter asked. Swerner and Harrington stared at him. “The million dollar reward for turning in the guys who tried to kill the judge.”

  Swerner glared at Harrington who paused for half a second then turned to his client. “Arnold, you’re not getting the money.”

  “But–”

  “Arnold, you participated in a plot to murder a Supreme Court Justice. As part of that plot a Secret Service agent was killed and a woman was kidnapped. No court is ever going to say that you deserve a reward for what you’ve done. You should be jumping up and down and thanking God that you’re walking away Scott free and getting a new identity instead of spending the rest of your life in a federal penitentiary. . . . Was there anything else?”

  Demeter glanced down at his hands that no longer had the shakes then back up at Harrington and Karen Swerner.

  “Thank you,” he said and readied himself to begin his new, and what he hoped would be better, life.

  * * *

  Carl Feeney glanced around his cell. “So, this is what America has come to,” he thought as he waited nervously for his lawyer to arrive. “This is the reward I get for being a patriot.”

  CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

  Kane felt like a commander who had been racing to ready his troops for battle and then, suddenly, found himself with nothing to do but wait. Franks’ team was setting up the surveillance on Bellingham and preparing for Farber’s promised meeting with Munroe. Kane had gotten his boss to detail a team to handle the phony surveillance on Farber’s fictitious girlfriend though Kane, Farber and Munroe all knew that nothing would come of it. The only person who thought that there was some purpose to the operation was Immerson himself. A few minutes ago Kane had finished his last project, reading everything he could find on Sebastian Wren and his boss, Roger Dawson.