Acoustic Shadows

by Patrick Kendrick

  Rushing back into the house, he tried to keep his voice calm as he watched Millie sit up, a look of concern on her face. ‘I still need to call my boss,’ he said. ‘I’m sure he’s going crazy trying to figure out what I’m doing and why. Is your phone charged, yet? You said it was a sat-phone that can’t be traced, right?’

  ‘Yeah,’ she answered groggily, ‘supposedly doesn’t have a GPS locator. At least, that’s what Moral told me. Who knows if that’s true?’

  Thiery pondered her words for a moment, then said, ‘Let’s find out.’

  Bullock consumed the report Sales forwarded. It was mind bending. Each time he read over it, he picked out something new, and he had gone over it five times already. It had been compiled by Special Agent Miko Tran. He’d done a thorough job putting together both a dossier of Robert Moral’s career and personal life, and a comprehensive report on the Gazmend hit, where Moral had been assigned.

  The reports showed Moral had been a supervising field agent and personal handler for Millie Adkins, aka, Erica Weisz, assigned to protect her from the Esperanzas, major league players in a Mexican drug cartel she was testifying against. Most interesting were pages of email correspondence between “Diceman1960”, Moral’s moniker, and “Apocolypsangel13”, the address used by David Edward Coody.

  ‘Motherfucker,’ grumbled Bullock from the desk of his home office.

  ‘What’s that, hon?’ his wife, Helen, called from the kitchen.

  He felt his face flush; he never cussed in front of his wife. ‘Nothing, dear,’ he replied. ‘Just reading about this guy who was talking smack about Justin on the news today. The US Marshal.’ He flipped back to the part that kept gnawing at him: the pages on the Gazmend hit. The report mentioned a woman had been killed during the shoot-out. Her name was Eva Monroe. Bullock remembered Thiery mentioning the US Marshal’s methods for code-naming protected witnesses, as in using jumbled names of magicians and Hollywood stars. Eva Gardner? he wondered, and Marilyn Monroe?

  ‘Is he going to be okay?’ Helen asked, noisily putting dishes away in the cabinet.

  ‘Who?’ murmured Bullock, deep in thought. He saw Tran’s notes next to the Eva Monroe report. The note read: Gazmend’s fiancée. Recently changed name from Adrienne Manjola to Eva Monroe?

  ‘Justin,’ said Helen.

  ‘Justin?’ said Bullock, lost in his thoughts. Then, something emerged, something from the era when he and Thiery had spent time together, when their families had spent time together; when Thiery and his wife seemed happy. He sat up and reached for the sweet tea Helen had made fresh earlier and gulped it to the bottom, until the ice smacked him in the teeth. The sudden chill wasn’t the only thing that made him shiver.

  ‘Honey,’ he said, surprised at how feeble his voice sounded. ‘Do you remember Justin’s wife’s name?’

  Helen entered the office, drying her hands with a dish towel and shaking her head as she noted her husband’s intense scrutiny of the papers on his desk. After thirty-plus years of marriage, his stamina and persistence still tickled her. ‘You know what time it is?’ she asked, stepping behind him. His answer was more of a grunt than anything in either the positive or negative. She tucked the towel into the waistband of her apron and started rubbing the knots out of his shoulders. ‘Justin’s wife?’ she recalled his earlier question. ‘You mean Adrienne?’ she asked, peering at the documents splayed across his desk. ‘What are you working on?’

  ‘Do you remember her last name?’ he prodded. ‘Her maiden name?’

  Helen had an incredible memory, so she was surprised this one stumped her. Continuing her work on the troubled muscles in her husband’s shoulders, she focused on recollecting conversations she’d had with Thiery’s wife. They’d spent hours – entire days! – on the beach together with the kids. They’d created photo albums and scrapbooks and shared recipes. She was so pretty, and a very sweet lady. Helen considered their relationship a close one. She’d been shocked and devastated and a range of other emotions when Adrienne left Justin. Eventually, though, the only emotion that had stuck was anger.

  ‘I haven’t thought about her in years,’ she admitted to her husband. ‘What was her maiden name?’ she thought aloud. ‘Let’s see. Manning? Mangold?’

  ‘Could it have been Manjola?’ asked Bullock.

  ‘That’s it!’ said Helen, smacking her husband on the back for answering his own question. ‘Why? What are you looking at?’

  Bullock swivelled his chair around to address his wife. The look she saw on his face almost frightened her.

  ‘What is it, Jim? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.’

  His mouth moved, at first without words. Then he whispered, ‘I have.’

  THIRTY-FOUR

  Betty’s A1A Diner had an all-you-can-eat fried fish dinner special on Thursday nights. It drew every kind of person, from the elderly – patrons who typically launched early, snail-like assaults and arrived in walkers with tennis balls for feet – to bikers, who came in groups of a dozen or more, their ‘scooter trash’ gals perched up proud on the Harley’s ‘bitch pads’. They came in loud, but were usually friendly, drank more beer than ate fish, and stayed till closing, often helping to put things away and clean up at the end of the night.

  Moral pulled into the parking lot, his stomach growling. He couldn’t remember when he’d last eaten. He had driven by the Logans’ beach property and saw the Porsche parked on the side of the house. He called Julio and almost choked when Emilio answered, his voice croaky and menacing, a voice that still held authority.

  ‘We are almost even, Señor Moral,’ the old man said.

  ‘Ye … yes sir,’ responded Moral, trying to swallow with a throat pinched with fear. ‘I was telling Julio, I thought they’d be here, and they are. Are you coming down, too?’

  ‘Of course,’ Emilio answered. ‘I don’t want it fucked-up again. Where are we meeting?’

  ‘There’s a diner on A1A, called Betty’s,’ Moral said as he glared up at the glowing neon road sign. ‘It’s down the street from the, eh, targets.’

  ‘Julio says we’ll be there in fifteen minutes. I’ll see you then.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Moral answered, trying to discern if he’d heard menace in the elder Esperanza’s tone. Could it all really be over tonight? he wondered. Could it ever be over?

  Seated in the silent car in the diner’s parking lot, he considered all he’d lost: his integrity, his self-worth, hundreds of thousands of dollars, and, of course, his daughter. He thought of what she’d become, and rationalized: maybe a porn star was what she would’ve become, anyway. Most young women who go to Hollywood to become movie stars never realize their lofty dreams. Could I be solely responsible for her sleazy outcome? He’d watched her ‘films’ many times, and it seemed she enjoyed what she did for a living; she was certainly enthusiastic. For a moment, he wondered why he watched so much. When the simple truth came to him – that her movies turned him on – he shut down all related thoughts before he had a chance to hate himself. He handled all negative thoughts – truths – that way, especially ones that added to his self-loathing, like thoughts and criticisms of his gambling habit.

  He pocketed his phone and retrieved a back-up pistol from the glove box. After securing his weapon in its low-profile shoulder holster and ensuring the car was locked, he shuffled into the diner, sat at the bar, and ordered a beer. The cold hops and barley concoction felt like heaven bubbling down his throat. Out the front window of the restaurant, the ocean sparkled, illuminated by the full moon. It was a nice view. Then, a long car crept into the parking lot, moving like a shiny, black alligator pulling its weighty reptilian body up and onto shore.

  The driver’s door opened first. A tall man hopped out and rushed to open the rear door for his passenger. Emilio emerged slowly, like a poisonous gas escaping a ruptured container. The driver was slim and quick, his hair slicked back over his tanned face. ‘Thank you, Jose,’ Moral read Emilio’s lips as he recognized the driver who enabled Julio’
s escape from the Gaylord.

  Julio popped out next, followed by another, unfamiliar man. He was squatty and wide, wearing dark wrap-around sunglasses despite the hour, his mouth a lipless straight line that underscored hollowed, acne-scarred cheeks and a predatory bird nose. The man pulled his jacket closed, though it wasn’t that cold. His fingers twisted at the buttons, quickly, efficiently, silver skull rings on each digit winking in the light cast through the diner’s windows. Must be the man Julio called El Monstruo, he thought. Name fits. Ugly fucker.

  Moral felt his heart pick up its pace. How had it come to this? A federal law enforcement officer hanging out and colluding with some of the world’s most dangerous criminals. Well, it had begun a long time ago, hadn’t it? Once you accept that you are willing to do anything to keep your habits, no matter how atrocious they are, you learn that unreasonable decisions come easier each time.

  The men drew attention as they entered the packed restaurant, but only momentarily. The hostess told them in a polite country twang that it would be a few minutes if they wanted a table. Spying Moral as he hailed them over to the wide open bar, the gentlemen thanked her, anyway, and seated themselves. Moral nodded to the Esperanzas. No one shook hands.

  Betty’s only served beer and wine, but everyone was fine with that. Seeing they had Pabst Blue Ribbon on tap, Julio ordered a round of four PBRs. The bar was separated from most of the dining area, and the bartender worked as a waitress, too, so they could talk without worrying about being overheard. There were a few bikers sitting at an eight-top nearby, talking loud while their tattooed gals rubbed up against them distractedly, like cats in heat. No threat there, either.

  Emilio got to the point. ‘Where are they?’ he asked, squinting, as the cold beer went down his gullet. Behind him, El Monstruo stood cleaning his nails with a stainless, folding hunting knife. Though feigning indifference, he listened carefully to every word in their conversation.

  ‘Around the corner,’ said Moral. ‘Not two minutes away.’

  ‘You are sure?’

  ‘Not a doubt,’ Moral answered. ‘Just drove by before I came here. Lights were on, and I recognized the car. How do you want to do it?’

  Emilio looked around, an old, expert killer surveying the landscape, weighing the circumstances, planning the strike like one of the non-native pythons that were taking over the Everglades, with no natural predators to stop them. ‘We’ll park the cars down the street,’ he said. ‘I’ll stay in the car with the driver. You go in the front, El Monstruo will go in the back. He’s wearing a vest. You should be, too,’ he pointed at Moral. ‘Julio will stay on the road and watch for any runners. If you can get the woman without killing her, bring her to me. If it’s too much of a problem, just take her out. Then, we leave. You go south, we go north. You and I are done after that. Even. What you tell your people is up to you. Any questions?’

  Moral shook his head. ‘No.’

  ‘Then, let’s get this over,’ Emilio commanded as he stood. ‘Julio, get the bill.’

  Sales’ phone rang. He saw it was Assistant Director Denise Germain calling him, and he knew it wasn’t going to be good news.

  ‘Hello,’ he said wearily.

  ‘Sir,’ she replied, calmly, ‘I’m afraid I have bad news.’

  What a surprise. Sales looked at his watch, an old instinct he held from working in the field. When something significant to an investigation happened, like finding a dead witness, he would later need to note the time on his report. ‘Go,’ he told her.

  ‘Moral is gone,’ she said. ‘We got to the command post in Orlando. Some of the law enforcement here said they thought he’d just stepped out, but we can’t find hide nor hair of him.’

  ‘You tried calling his phone?’

  ‘Yeah. Nada.’

  ‘What about the witness?’

  ‘Cammarata is checking leads,’ she answered. ‘All we know for sure is that she left with the FDLE agent, the cop named Thiery.’ She paused for a moment and added, ‘We think that means she’s safe.’

  Sales sighed, painfully. Chest pain; maybe from angrily shovelling down his food earlier; maybe he was having a well-deserved heart attack. He reached into his drawer and opened a bottle of Pepcid Complete and chewed a couple, the pink chalky stuff running down his throat like drywall. ‘It’s a sad day in hell when we have to worry about one of our witnesses because of one of our deputies,’ Sales admitted to Germain. ‘I should’ve had someone arrest him, but who wants to arrest a federal lawman, right?’

  ‘Right,’ she agreed.

  ‘Okay. Keep on it and keep me in the loop. I’ll contact IT and have them track the GPS in his department-issued phone, along with any calls he’s made, and get back to you directly. Unless he’s thrown it away, it might lead us to him. I’ll check with Finance, too, and see if he’s using his department card for rentals and so forth. From what I’ve seen on his credit report, he’s probably using our card exclusively. In the meantime, I’m going to put out an alert to every marshal in the area and the FBI. We’ll cover the airports, but I don’t think he’d try to fly.’

  ‘We can do that from down here, sir …’ Germain offered.

  ‘Thanks,’ Sales told her, ‘but I can get it done without the red tape. We need to do this fast for damage control. I already look like a fool for not pinning this guy down before now. I don’t know what the fuck he’s thinking, trying to flee from a department whose primary job is running down shitbags like him.’ He paused for a moment to belch away a sour stomach.

  ‘What’s that, sir? Didn’t quite hear you.’

  ‘Nothing, sorry.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Hold off on alerting the local PDs until I tell you. I’ve got to call the Attorney General and catch him up on what’s going on.’

  ‘I’m sorry, sir. That’s going to be a tough call.’

  ‘Yeah, thanks.’ Sales hung up the phone and stared at it a long time before picking it up again, and calling the AG. He chewed a few more Pepcid and chased them down with a gulp of gin as the phone began to ring.

  ‘Hello? Who is this?’ asked Bullock.

  ‘It’s me, Jim.’

  ‘Justin, you okay, man?’

  ‘Yeah, for now. Just wanted to touch base with you quick. I’m using a sat-phone they gave Erica Weisz, aka Millie Adkins.’

  ‘You’re with her?’

  ‘Yes. Long story,’ said Thiery, glancing at Millie, a feeling of ineptitude sneaking back into his psyche. I should’ve gone to the local police, or to the FBI office just north of Orlando-hell, I drove right past it. What was I thinking?

  ‘I know some of it … and some other things you should know.’

  ‘Look, Jim, I don’t know if they can trace this phone or not, so we need to be brief.’

  ‘Understood,’ Bullock said, ‘but I have to tell you something—’

  ‘Okay, in a minute. Right now, what I need you to know is that I was right. About Millie Adkins being in WITSEC, about her handler being tied with organized crime. He’s dirty as they come, Jim.’ As he spoke, he kept popping the bullet clip in and out of his gun, flicking the safety off and on.

  ‘We know, Justin. His people know, too. They’re heading down to arrest him. Evidently, Sara Logan and one of her colleagues, an agent named Miko Tran, started looking into this guy, eh … Moral. They found stuff, Justin. This isn’t his first time going off course. I think he helped with the Adkins family hit while she was testifying against the Esperanza family. The gunner they used with that hit was dying of cancer, too, just like Shadtz. They use people with nothing to lose. These killers don’t expect to live out the hit.’

  ‘Then, why did they use Coody? He wasn’t terminally ill.’

  ‘No, but Moral came up with the idea to make the hit look like a school shooting. He needed an angry young man with an axe to grind, and it seems there’s no shortage of them.’

  Thiery thought about it, adding it all up. ‘Makes sense. It’s sick, but it does help with motive.’

 
; ‘The Feds all know,’ said Bullock. Special Agent Miko Tran found Moral’s emails to the kid, enticing him to become an anarchist. He also arranged a gun cache purchase from the Kentucky State Police through a pawn and gun shop in Vegas.’

  ‘Uh huh,’ agreed Thiery. ‘And Shadtz made the pickup, came down here, befriended Coody, and made the hit. But, they weren’t counting on Adkins fighting back. I don’t know if Moral was planning on using this fictitious Albanian mob concoction to draw blame away from the Esperanzas, but that seems like what he’s doing now. I need you to know that.’

  When Bullock fell silent for a moment, Thiery asked, ‘You still there, Jim?’

  ‘Yeah, man. I’m here, but there’s something I have to tell you, too.’

  ‘Be quick. I just found a stolen vehicle recovery system in Logan’s car. If Moral knows about it, he could already be on his way here.’

  ‘Okay. I wasn’t sure how I was going to tell you, but … you have to know this piece. When I said Moral had done this before, it wasn’t just Adkins and her family. He did it about ten years ago. You see, he did have a connection to an Albanian mob. A guy named Kadriovski, a big player in New York being investigated for racketeering. He had an accountant name of Gazmend who was turning state’s evidence against him … ’

  Thiery cut him off. ‘Did you say Gazmend?’ He felt his heart jump into his throat.

  Bullock felt his eyes begin to burn. He knew he wouldn’t have to say much; Thiery was one of his sharpest agents. ‘Yeah, Justin. Gazmend. He, uh, well he knew Adrienne … ’

  Thiery’s mind raced and spun; the facts too difficult, too crazy for him to accept. And yet, he already knew they were true. ‘Gazmend was Adrienne’s former boyfriend from college,’ Thiery disclosed. ‘What … what are you telling me, Jim?’

  ‘Okay,’ said Bullock, dolefully. ‘The reason you couldn’t find her when she left, Justin, was because she had changed her name and—’

  ‘And what, Jim? Please tell me … is she …?’

  ‘The reason you couldn’t find her, Justin, was because she had changed her name and … she was killed, too, in that restaurant shoot-out. You were looking for a person that, well, was no longer here, brother. Can you understand, Jus’?’