The Devil's Interval

by Kevin Tumlinson

“You think she screwed up?” Denzel asked. “Left a trail to where she’s hiding in New York?”

  “We shouldn’t waste any time,” Kotler said. “I have a feeling she’s prepared to run, now that she has everything she needs. She may be using Gail’s network to skip out of the US.”

  “Then let me make some calls. We have photos of her, from her employee records. I’ll put out a BOLO for every airport in the state.”

  “Gail would have her flying out of a private airport,” Kotler said.

  “Not so many of those around,” Holden said. “I think I have enough people to cover all of them.”

  Denzel nodded. “Ok,” he said. “Let’s go bring in a dead woman.”

  Chapter 20

  The hunt was on, but Kotler knew they were merely treading water. They had only sketchy evidence at best, leading them to the possibility that Lawny Bristol was not only alive, but somehow the mastermind behind a coup against AMSL, and a plan to create and sell technology that could negatively change the world overnight.

  Kotler was as certain about his conclusions as he had been about anything in his life, but it would be a relief to find some actual proof.

  He was riding in the passenger seat of Roland’s car, watching the streets for familiar signs. “We’re in the right neighborhood,” he said.

  “They didn’t bag you when they took you out?” Roland asked.

  “They didn’t have to,” Kotler said. “I was so focused on Gail, I didn’t even notice where we were. It wasn’t until we were already out of the city that I started to pay attention.”

  Kotler rubbed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose.

  “You haven’t dropped the ball, Kotler,” Denzel said.

  Kotler shook his head. “I’m not sure I agree with you. I can’t help feeling that I’m somehow responsible for Gail getting away. Again. She keeps doing that.”

  “She’s smart,” Denzel said. “Maybe as smart as you. Don’t worry about it. Right now, we have to concentrate on getting some real leads in this case. Holden is taking heat from his higher ups, and my status reports are sounding a little flimsy, too.”

  Kotler smiled. “Well, at least I don’t have to file reports,” he said.

  Denzel glanced at him. “You haven’t been filing reports?”

  Kotler blinked, then raised a hand, pointing to a building. “I think that’s it!”

  “Kotler, you …”

  “We’d better get in there,” Kotler said.

  Denzel sighed and pulled the car to the curb. Kotler wasted no time getting out.

  Denzel was close behind. “Ok, stay here. I’ll go check the scene.”

  “Without backup?” Kotler asked. “I’m going with you.”

  “You’re unarmed,” Denzel pointed out.

  “Yeah, about that. When is the FBI going to clear me to carry? I’m more than qualified—“

  “I think you’re right, this is the place,” Denzel said, pushing past Kotler and carefully opening the street-level door, entering after doing a quick check.

  Kotler sighed, and followed.

  Inside, the building turned out to be a warehouse, once used for steel and other building materials. It was completely abandoned.

  It took only a few minutes to find the room where Kotler had spent the night. Kotler saw it in the light for the first time—a small storage space that still had his blankets on the floor. The door was steel, and had a substantial lock. There was overhead lighting, but the lights were controlled by a timer dial outside the door. He’d had no shot at escaping that room.

  They moved on, and moments later came to the interrogation space, which turned out to be a vacant shop floor. The lights and audio equipment were gone, but the chair Kotler had been tied to was still in place, the leavings of a few sets of cut zip ties scattered around it.

  “This is the place, alright,” Kotler mumbled.

  “It’s clean,” Denzel said. “I’ll have forensics run through here, but I doubt they’ll find much. I doubt that Bristol was ever even here, judging from what you told me.”

  “I don’t think she was,” Kotler said. “I was just hoping. It was the only lead we had.”

  “Holden is still watching the airports,” Denzel said. “We could get lucky.”

  Kotler looked at him for a moment, then shook his head. “This is bad. Gail gave Bristol—or whoever this is—the last pages from that journal. I have no idea what was on them, but it seems an awful lot like Bristol has everything she needs to complete Devil’s Interval.”

  “What do you think she’ll do with it from there?”

  Kotler thought about this. “The first step will be to test it. And if she’s planning to sell it, she’ll test it somewhere very public. She’ll need potential buyers to know that it’s real, that it works.”

  Denzel considered this, then looked at Kotler. “She isn’t leaving.”

  Kotler shook his head. “No, I don’t think so. She doesn’t have to, does she? She’s dead, on paper at least. She’s connected to Gail and her smuggling network, so she likely has access to some pretty impressive fake credentials. She may have a whole new identity we know nothing about. She could be living a block from here, and we’d never find her. Plus, she doesn’t have to leave the country to sell the technology. Gail’s network will take care of that. It’s like eBay for super villains.”

  “So, we really do have nothing,” Denzel said. “We’re stuck waiting for Bristol to make her next move.”

  “Should we call Holden? Tell him to pull his people from the airports?”

  “I’ll let him know what we’re thinking,” Denzel said. “But we might want to keep the airports under watch for a while anyway. In the meantime, let’s secure the rest of this building and get a forensics team in here.”

  Denzel busied himself with making calls back to his home office, and Kotler looked around the rest of the warehouse. He wasn’t sure he’d find anything—in fact, he was sure he’d find nothing. But he felt somewhat helpless. He needed to do something, but every option for him felt like a dead end.

  The warehouse wasn’t all that large, and most its space had once been dedicated to inventory. The workshop would have been used primarily for repairing equipment. The offices, which were on the second level, and had windows overlooking the warehouse floors, were all empty but for a few abandoned desks and bits of paper, left behind by the former occupants. There was no sign of activity in any of them.

  Kotler had turned and was going to descend the stairs, to find his way back to Denzel, when he spotted a small, brass plaque on the wall. Using his phone’s flashlight, he read the inscription.

  Donovan Metalworks

  Est. 1972

  Kotler had never heard of the company, but he felt a stab of grief anyway. It was sad to see a business close after so long. But progress was progress. It was hard to venture into a whole new world without leaving the old one behind. And, Kotler knew from studying ancient cultures, there was always some trace of the past. Artifacts—hieroglyphics and pyramids and stelae, in the case of ancient civilizations, or brass plaques in the case of old industrial warehouses—were always lingering, telling some faint version of the story of a place, a culture, a civilization. Even individuals would leave …

  Kotler was half down the stairs when he stopped, then sped up, hurrying to find Denzel.

  As Kotler rounded from the stairwell, he nearly ran into his partner. “There you are,” Denzel said. “The van just arrived. Let’s get out of here and let them do their thing.”

  “Traces!” Kotler blurted out.

  “What traces?” Denzel asked.

  “Bristol may have faked her own death, but she’s left traces. Footprints. Her fake sister, the apartment in Chicago, the phone—Holden was on to something, when he brought up her phone records. That’s partly how we found this place. But we’re overlooking something.”

  “And what is that?” Denzel asked.

  “We focused on where she was calling from.
But who was she calling?”

  Denzel’s eyes widened, and he immediately took out his phone, calling Holden. They chatted for a moment, and Kotler felt his own phone buzz.

  Holden had forwarded the phone records to both him and Denzel.

  “Ok, Kotler,” Denzel said. “Time to do some archeology.”

  Chapter 21

  They were racing through the city streets, following the best lead they’d had in weeks. Kotler had a laptop resting on his knees, and was scanning through “Kate Bristol’s” phone records while comparing them to research he was pulling up from Google.

  “You’re sure about this first address?” Denzel asked.

  “Kate Bristol made hundreds of calls, but the most frequent was to this place.”

  “Kotler … it’s a porn store.”

  “Adult entertainment complex, according to the website. And I didn’t pick it for its virtue, Roland. I’m just telling you what the records are telling me.”

  They arrived at Big Johnson’s Adult Entertainment Complex a few minutes later, and Denzel made sure to park the car in as discreet a spot as he could find. Kotler smirked at his partner’s red face. “You really are a prude.”

  “No, I’m judicious,” Denzel said. “And shut up.”

  They opted to enter through the front door, Denzel’s coat buttoned to hide his holstered weapon. He had also pulled on a pair of dark sunglasses.

  “You look like a Secret Service agent,” Kotler said.

  “Bite your tongue.”

  They had to be buzzed in through the front door, which was glass but had metal bars running from top to bottom. Inside, there was a veritable cacophony of sex sounds—porn running from dozens of different televisions all over the space. There were racks of DVDs in one area of the store’s ample floor space, and the rest of the merchandise was comprised of all manner of paraphernalia. Kotler noted a great deal of dominance gear, as well as the usual stock of sex toys. Some items baffled him as to their purpose, however. He would have liked to ask questions, out of a cultural anthropology curiosity, but he didn’t think Denzel would appreciate the data.

  They approached the front counter, where a very bored looking clerk was all but napping, leaning back in a bar-height chair as he played a game on his phone. He made no move to talk to either of them, probably out of routine. People who came here probably didn’t chat him up much.

  “Is the manager here?” Denzel asked, producing his badge.

  “I’m the manager,” the man said. “I’m Guy.”

  “Guy, we’d like to ask you a few questions. Is there some place we can talk?”

  “Can’t leave the store unattended. People walk off with stuff.”

  Kotler looked around, and saw that there were a few customers lingering in some of the aisles, well away from the front counter. He also saw that there were multiple doors along the back wall, all with keypads next to them. Viewing rooms, paid for by swiping a credit card. No need for human interaction at all, beyond one human sitting to watch another perform lewd acts on the other side of a one-way mirror.

  “This will do,” Kotler said, exchanging glances with Denzel. “Believe me, this is probably the most private spot in the building.”

  Denzel glanced around, and nodded.

  “Guy … what’s your last name?”

  “Rivera,” Guy said.

  Denzel jotted this in his notebook. “Mr. Rivera, we’re investigating someone who placed several calls to this … establishment. Do you recognize the name Kate Bristol? Or Lawny Bristol?”

  Guy thought about it, and shook his head. “Doesn’t sound familiar.”

  Denzel nodded. “Ok. How about this number?” He flipped through the notepad, and showed the number for Kate Bristol’s phone.

  Guy looked at it, and thought. “I think that’s Ingrid’s number.”

  “Ingrid?” Denzel asked.

  “I don’t know her last name. She’s tech support.”

  Denzel and Kotler exchanged glances.

  “What do you mean? She fixes your computers?”

  “Yeah,” Guy said. “She also does the cameras. The video equipment. We do live shows, from the back. Ingrid set everything up, got us on the internet. We’re making more money from that than we are from this shit dump.”

  “Ingrid comes here?” Kotler asked. “In person?”

  Guy nodded.

  Denzel took out his phone and made several swipes before holding up a photo of Lawny Bristol. “Is this Ingrid?” he asked.

  Guy leaned forward and squinted. “Maybe. Looks kind of like her, I guess. Never seen her look like that, though. She’s kind of goth, both the black leathers and the dog collar and stuff. Black lipstick. But that could be her.”

  “Could we see where Ingrid does her work?” Kotler asked.

  “I can’t leave the front,” Guy said.

  Denzel held up his badge again. “It’s ok, Mr. Rivera. You just got all the permission you need.”

  “This is Ingrid’s workshop,” Guy said, turning the key in the deadbolt and swinging the door open.

  Denzel and Kotler both leaned into the frame of the door, cautiously, not sure what to expect.

  The room was spacious, but filled with electronics equipment. There were dozens of server racks lining one entire wall of the space, along with terminals and access points. Kotler entered just as Guy flicked on the light switch, bringing a lot more detail into view.

  Kotler stopped in front of a workbench that had everything one would need to build, modify, and repair circuitry, including soldering irons and an advanced oscilloscope. Scattered on it were bits of tech that were in various states of assembly. Kotler stooped to peer at a small casing, lying empty and open on the table’s surface.

  “What is it?” Denzel asked.

  “Not sure,” Kotler replied. The casing was just a bit bigger than the size of a key fob, like the one Kotler carried to access his building. It was made from plastic, and looking closer at it Kotler saw tiny ridges, like strata. He looked around, and spotted a 3D printer tucked into one corner of the room.

  “I think this is the housing for …” he stopped, looking at Guy, who was standing in the doorway, staring with unabashed curiosity himself. “The tech,” Kotler finished.

  “The tech?” Denzel asked.

  Kotler nodded.

  Denzel turned to Guy. “I’m going to need you to return to the front,” Denzel said. “And expect that a team of agents will be here soon.”

  “Hey, no problem,” Guy said. “Is Ingrid in trouble? Is she making bombs? She’s, like, a terrorist or something?”

  “No bombs,” Denzel said. “What was it she claimed to be doing back here?”

  Guy shrugged. “Any time I asked, she said ‘server maintenance.’ The stuff she built for us was making us a ton of cash, though, so the owner let her do whatever she wanted, no questions asked.”

  “How often is she here?” Kotler asked.

  “She comes in practically every week,” Guy said.

  “When was the last time you saw her?” Denzel asked.

  “Yesterday. But I think she may have slept here. She came in the day before, locked the door, and I never saw her come out, even when I was closing up. She has her own key, so I didn’t bug her.”

  “And she hasn’t been back since yesterday?” Kotler asked.

  “Not that I’ve noticed,” Guy said.

  Denzel took out his phone, and even as he dialed he said, “Go on back out front. When my team gets here, let them in. Also, you’re closed for the day. You’ll need to clear everyone out of here. Including the … uh … workers. The FBI apologizes for the inconvenience.”

  Guy gave Denzel an odd look, but said nothing as he went back to the front.

  “I want first crack at this place,” Kotler said.

  “You’ll contaminate the scene,” Denzel said.

  “I stand a better chance of knowing what we’re looking for when I see it,” Kotler said. “Roland, she’s out the
re, and she’s planning something. We’re running out of time.”

  Denzel considered, then nodded. “Gloves,” he said.

  “I don’t have any.”

  “I have some latex gloves in the car.”

  They left the workshop and went through the storefront. Guy had managed to wrangle all the customers and get them out the door, to grumbling protests. The girls working in the back were changing into street clothes, Guy assured them. They’d be gone in a few minutes.

  Denzel and Kotler made their way to Denzel’s car. The trunk popped open, and Denzel reached inside to take two sets of packaged, sterilized gloves out of the side pocket of a duffel bag. Kotler noted that there were still weapons, vests, and other paraphernalia in the trunk. A handy resource, as Kotler had discovered months ago at the Edison estate and museum. This cache had saved his and Denzel’s lives.

  “You keep forensic gear in here?” Kotler asked.

  “Just some basics,” Denzel said. “I added gloves and a few other things when you started tagging along.”

  Kotler chuckled and put the packaged gloves in his coat pocket. He’d pull them on inside the workshop.

  He turned, surveying the street as Denzel put everything back in place before closing the trunk.

  Across the street from them, only a few feet away, Kotler spotted Detective Holden.

  It took him by surprise. They had updated Holden on where they were going, but they hadn’t yet called to tell him what they’d found. As far as Kotler knew, Holden should have been investigating one of the other locations found in Kate Bristol’s phone records.

  “Detective?” Kotler called.

  Denzel looked up, his hands on the lid of the trunk, just about to close it.

  Holden raised his right hand, and Kotler spotted the pistol.

  “Down!” Kotler shouted, turning to push Denzel back and away from the car.

  Three rounds were fired, the sound of them echoing among the buildings on the street. Kotler and Denzel hit the sidewalk, falling with the car between them and Holden.

  “What the hell is he doing?” Denzel shouted.