Dirty Money ARC

by Deforest Day

  “Yeah, Chief. the AFIS report is in your basket.”

  “Thanks for telling me.” Asshole. Shaleville’s Homeland Security share of pork had been a slot on the force for a forensic technician. Freddie’s uncle was a state senator. He scanned the printout from the FBI, opened the folder, added it and a few more thoughts to the yellow paper. Picked up the phone again, hit TWO.

  Clark answered on the first ring. “Chief.”

  “Get me a cell number for a Curtis Baer. Try Pederson first, he’ll most likely have it.”

  “Roger that.”

  The Chief smiled in spite of himself. The young lady had put in four years with the Pennsylvania National Guard, felt she and the Chief had a certain kinship, due to their shared military experience. But she was squared away, and could move up in the force, she didn’t get stupid. Get married, start having kids. Time to put her in a patrol unit, earn some street smarts. For a starter, she could teach Freddie how to answer a telephone.

  He crossed the hallway to the kitchenette that shared space with the booking area. “How fresh is this coffee?”

  His tech put down his Guns and Ammo, raised his eyebrows, shrugged. “Not so.”

  “Make another pot. Since you are a highly-trained forensic technician, it is now part of your job description to make sure there is fresh coffee available, all day, every day. Got that?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “Good. Bring me a cup when it’s ready.”

  While he waited for his coffee, he got on the horn to various state and federal bureaucracies. Ten minutes later a steaming cup of coffee was on his desk and he had another yellow sheet filled with information on Major Curtis Baer, currently in Iraq, with his Ohio Civil Affairs unit. Uh huh.

  He was itching to dial the number on the pink phone slip Clark had laid on his desk. But that would tip his hand, and produce little in return, except a feeling of satisfaction. Instead, he hit the streets, cruised slowly through his town. Thinking, two steps ahead. Information shared is capital diminished.

  Chapter 47

  The Escort with the Virginia plates stopped in front of the hotel and the driver marched inside. The lobby was big, old, and empty. The register had a musty smell and said that Curtis Baer was in room twenty. He recognized the Major’s signature, but not the penmanship of ‘Linkon Navy Gator’.

  Upstairs, he met a girl with blue hair and dirty sheets. “Mister Baer? Oh, he was only here the one night. I seen him that morning, getting in a car with a woman, out front. Had one of them signs on the side, said ‘Century 21’? Huh. She was way older’n that.”

  Cynthia Cross looked up from her desk, saw a nice looking man, trim, dark hair, get out of a small white car, and head her way. He stopped inside the door, cocked his head, tossed her surprised eyebrows and a big smile. “Wow. I didn’t know Julia Roberts had a kid sister.”

  She sat a little straighter and smiled back. At forty-two you swung at every pitch. “How can I help you?”

  “I just got in from the Middle East. Supposed to meet my boss at the hotel, but they say he checked out. Told me you could help.”

  “Maybe I can. Mister—?”

  He bowed, offered his hand across the desk. “Ricky Cortez, at your service.”

  Chapter 48

  Pen's little green car was gone, and Justice parked on the second step, waiting. Town this size, she couldn’t have traveled far. His feet were on the warm macadam, and he leaned back, rested his elbows on the third step. The western sun threw his eyes into deep shadow. Army habits kicked in, but he had barely begun to doze when he heard the thunk of a car door.

  “Scootch over,” she said, and dropped beside him. She threw her arm around his shoulder, nuzzled his ear with her nose, nibbled the lobe, and plopped a brown bag between his legs. “Loaf of bread, jug of wine, and thou. Also a jar of Butch Cassidy, box of vermicelli, and a chunk of Parm. I told you I was a gourmet cook.”

  “And here I’ve put on my finest, which in this case is the clean shirt. As promised, I’m here plan our dinner date. What’s you’re fancy?”

  She gave his attire a quick perusal. Blue Oxford cloth shirt, button down collar. Crisp enough to be making its debut. Knife creased khaki trousers, spit shined dress shoes. What had Davy called it? Squared away. One-eighty from the studied dishevelment of college fashion.

  He possessed the aplomb to chart his own course. Probably had something to do with being Special Forces. Her brother certainly had grown, had gained self confidence from the experience. She was falling for this man. “You’re a little over dressed, for Shaleville.” She looked up at the sky and took inventory of her new town. “Let’s see; in addition to the corner saloons with a single tap and a jar of pickled pigs feet on the bar, we have two pizza joints, and your hotel. I’d opt for the hotel. The burgers are made with actual meat, and I can get a glass of wine. Sunbury has restaurants with chairs that match the tables, but it’s half an hour away. And that dried soup a couple hours ago is a distant memory. Let’s go up stairs, sample this vintage.”

  Over a glass of chianti, Justice filled her in on his sleuthing. “I met the chief of police. Big ol’ frog in a little ol’ pond. I guess they’re the same ever'wheres, because I felt right at home in his presence. That is to say, lucky to walk out the door, still a free man. I don’t think he’s looking too hard at Davy’s death.

  “Maybe it’s just he don’t like waves in his pond, but I got a sense there’s more to it. Because across the street I picked up another hint that something ain’t right. The old guy who owns the hotel said Davy had some kind of set-to with a couple of locals.” He gazed into the ruby wine, turned the glass, watching the afternoon sun play its prism magic, breaking the white light into red and green and blue bands on the table top. “He’s a Vietnam vet, lost his legs.”

  “I know who you mean. A bunch of us teachers went there, to celebrate a birthday. An aging Tom Cruise.”

  “Who?”

  “Oh, come on! Born on the Fourth of July? I know Davy had it in his collection.”

  “Oh, right. And, yes; Pops is kind of bitter. Not just about his situation, but war in general. He says we’d have less wars if the generals led from the front.”

  “Charles the Fifth of France said, ’Name me an emperor who was ever struck by a cannonball’. The problem today is we have too many civilians leaders who never experienced war at all. Too busy getting student deferments and Fulbright scholarships.”

  “Well, that’s beyond me; I don’t understand the politics of it. We was told we couldn’t chase the Taliban into Pakistan, because they're allies with a big Muslim population.”

  “That’s bullshit.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Think about it. The border is just a line on a map. And all those people are related to one another. Back when the Taliban was fighting the Soviets, the CIA gave them all the help they could handle. Because the Russians controlled the oil and gas in Central Asia. And that’s what your war over there is about. Oil and natural gas. Nine-Eleven was just a excuse.”

  “Man, you’re a bigger cynic than your brother.”

  “That’s because I went to college; Cynic 101 is the first class we take.” She raised her glass, looked at him across the rim. “You think I’m wrong?”

  He shook his head. “Ain’t for me to say; you got me whipped six ways to Sunday at the thinkin’ game. How come, if you know all this stuff, you’re just teachin’ little kids?”

  “Because I love the babies, before the wonder gets rubbed off. You ask a classroom of first graders, ‘how many artists do we have here?’ and every hand shoots up. Ask that in high school, and you’ll get one or two hands. If you’re lucky. With those fresh minds, I feel I can make a difference.” She drained her glass, corked the wine.

  “Lordy, ma'am, you do make my head spin.” He stood, checked the time. “Them fellas ought to be at the bar about now. Give me an hour to have a chat with them, then come on over, we’ll get us some supper.”

 
; “Wait a sec, you forgot something.” She came around the table, kissed him hard, used her tongue. “Taking me for granted already?”

  After Bob left she opened her closet, put together an outfit that, if Davy had been any indication, would frost his socks.

  In the shower she thought about this man who was rapidly becoming the focus of her life. Back in college she ran into vets from time to time. In her classes, in the after-class places she frequented. A favorite coffee bar, or, more often, the library. Men who were five, six years older. Returning to college, or starting out, after a stint in the armed forces.

  In a 20th Century American History course she had come across a quote by President Eisenhower. ‘I hate war as only a soldier who has lived it can, only as one who has seen its brutality, its futility, its stupidity’.

  Over the too few days Davy had been with her he had shared small snippets of the brutality, futility, and stupidity the two of them had taken part in. In the name of keeping her safe.

  She didn’t know if it was the wine, the sex, or the loss, but she began to cry, salty tears mixing with the hot water pounding down from above, and she let them flow.

  Chapter 49

  One of the two men he’d seen shooting pool the night he’d arrived was standing at the bar, a mug of beer in his hand and his eyes on the television.

  Howie, or Chick. Cheech, or Chong. Either way, he had that lanky, big boned look; a man who used his muscles to earn his keep. He knew a few; ol’ boys that dug coal, hung off the side of trash trucks, shoveled stone at the block plant. Outdoor work that didn’t require much skill or thought.

  Quit school early, ‘cause they couldn’t see it leading anywhere. He’d come close himself, a time or two, until Papaw explained that the Army wouldn’t take him, he didn’t finish up.

  Justice took a spot beside the man, who was fooling with a deck of cards. No; it was a stack of lottery tickets, and the man was scratching at them like he had a bad case of poison ivy. Justice caught his eye, winked. “They say the lottery is a tax on people bad at math. What’re you drinking?”

  “Huh? Coors.”

  Justice raised his arm, his voice. “Hey, Pudge. My usual, and a refill for my friend, just back from Iraq.”

  “I know you?”

  “More’s the point, I know you. Where’s your buddy?”

  “Chick? Lookin’ at places with a real estate woman.”

  “Well, Howie, then we’ll start with you.”

  Pudge wasn’t sure what his usual was, wasn’t even entirely sure she remembered what his name was, but they’d shared a lager earlier in the day, so she drew him one, and a second mug for Howie. Kept an ear aimed their way; this could get interesting. And maybe reveal a little more about all this money floating around somewhere.

  This man, Justice was his name she now recalled, had the air of someone you didn’t want to get on the wrong side of. From the way he’d talked about the dead fella, Mr. Justice was also a man you’d want taking your side if somebody had done you harm.

  “Tell me about the man that died upstairs.”

  Howie hoisted his mug, puzzled.The wiry little dude made no move to pay for the beers. It wasn’t like Pudge to let strangers run a tab. What the hell was going on? He looked at Pudge. No help there. “Who? Which guy?”

  ”What is this, Deadwood? How many people died here this week?” Sometimes not speaking the lingo was an advantage. While Davy handled the questions, Justice picked up on the other indicators. It was like reading spoor; he could tell when they were lying before they opened their mouth.

  The manual, FM 34-52, POW Intelligence Interrogation, said ninety percent of communication is non verbal. Watch the eyes.

  Howie took a small sip of beer, another. Buying time. “Oh, yeah, him. They said he kilt hisself. I don’t know nothing about that.” His eyes, blinking like a sailor sending semaphore, said different.

  He touched his mouth, throat; shrugged, turned his head away from Justice. Away from the television. Howie was running down the liar’s list, ticking off the indicators, one by one. Justice stared at him, silent, building pressure.

  “What? He was in the bar, havin’ a beer, me and Chick was shootin’ some eight ball. I can’t tell you no more than that.” His mouth twitched, and his eyes flicked from Justice, to Pudge, to the TV, down to his beer, looking for help.This fool was in meltdown. Time to push him closer to the edge. “Pudge says he talked to you, had a little confrontation.”

  ”Frikko! there wasn’t no whatayacallit. He wanted to play the winner, yeah, that’s it, and Chick said piss off. End of story. Who the hell are you, anyway?”

  “Howie. . . I’m your Nightmare Man.”

  Howie heard street sounds as the door opened, and he looked past Justice, found a comrade, found courage. He stood straighter, rolled his shoulders, and pushed away from the bar. “Well, screw you, man!”

  He grabbed Chick’s arm, pushed and pulled him through the swinging doors. In the hallway Chick yanked his arm free and said, “What the hell’s the matter with you?”

  Still pushing, Howie said, looking back over his shoulder, “Just get on up stairs, and I’ll fill you in on what’s the matter.”

  Justice ducked out to his truck, grabbed his go-bag, ran up to the second floor. He stopped outside Number Forty. Voices, muffled, angry, loud. He continued down the hall to his room. Time to escalate the interrogation. Put some of those hours of study to work. He ran down the power points in his head.

  Approach Phase: Look for indicators of weakness.

  Developing Rapport: Help the subject rationalize his guilt.

  Incentive/removal of incentive.

  Boost ego of detainee.

  Convince detainee interrogator knows all.

  Sensory Deprivation.

  Using Stress.

  Stress was his specialty.

  Chick wasn’t used to Howie taking charge, telling him what to do. Ever since they were little it had been the other way around. “OK, asshole. What’s your problem? Who was that scrawny dude you were arguing with?”

  “I don’t know who the hell he is,” Howie said, “But he sure as shittin’ knows about us. Knows about the dead guy, knows he was talkin’ to us, right before what happened. Frikko; he said he was my nightmare! Got me all confused. Damn.”

  ”Yeah? Well, he messes with me, I’ll nightmare his ass.” Chick picked up a pair of forties, did some curls, still pissed at Howie.

  Justice removed what he needed from his bag, locked the door of Twenty-two, went silently down the dim hallway, back to Forty.

  Chapter 50

  Chief Schmidt came to a decision, and pulled to the curb in front of Bosell’s Sporting Goods. Danny fancied himself an expert on military ordnance. As well as the local authority on camping gear, canoes, wilderness survival, and fishing. Less a polymath than a voracious reader, he was blessed with an excellent memory. He could pull up arcane information from hundreds of supplier’s catalogs and magazine reviews, then talk knowingly to potential customers about the advantages of varies pieces of equipment in his store.

  He was also a late night habitué of esoteric online user groups; knew the various ANFO formulas involving fertilizer and diesel fuel, how it was against the Constitution for the IRS to levy income taxes, and why the nation was going to hell in a hand basket. To read him online, one would think he was Jim Bridger reincarnate, a descendant of Ethan Allen.

  A bell tinkled when the Chief opened the door, and Danny looked up from the latest Orvis dealer’s catalog. He wore his usual uniform of khaki pants and shirt. A pocket protector with the Remington logo held three ball-points in red, blue, green, and a mechanical pencil. White socks, black Dr. Scholl’s, with gel inserts. One less daily decision to make; freed up space on the ol’ hard drive for the important ones.

  “Claymores,” the Chief said.

  Danny rested his palms on the glass counter top. “Sorry. Sold the last one not five minutes ago. Some old lady, having trouble with the neighbor
’s kids.”

  “Uh huh. What do you know about them?”

  “Named after an ancient Scottish broadsword. You talking about the M 18, or the M 18A1? The 18 uses C-3, the A1 C-4 explosive. Both are command detonated. Three and a half pounds. About the size of a Tom Clancy paperback.”

  So far, the Chief still knew more about the devices than his brother in law. “Can they be used as a booby trap?”

  “Hmm.” He cupped an elbow, stroked his chin. “Walk this way.” He dropped a shoulder, and headed for the rear of the shop with an exaggerated limp. The Chief rolled his eyes, and followed.

  The office was in its usual disarray; piles of catalogs and books covered every surface, and post-it notes were two and three deep around the computer screen. Danny stood on tip toes and plucked a tan soft cover from a six-foot wide shelf of its siblings. FM 23-23 ANTIPERSONNEL MINE M 18A1 AND M 18. He thumbed through it, stopped, shared the page with his sister’s husband.

  “Arming: Manual. Fuzing: Command. Anti-Handling Device: No. Self Destruct: No.” He turned the page. “Fired with a Number 2 electric blasting cap.” He turned another page and read silently for a minute. “Nothing here about using it as a booby trap. Unless accidentally blowing yourself up counts.”

  “You lost me.”

  “Says here the earlier version, the M 18, has an unsafe firing device.” He assumed his lecture hall voice. “‘Due to its construction, it may cause premature detonation of the mine and should be replaced by a standard M57 firing device’.” He pointed at a photo. “Also called a ‘clacker’, because of the sound it makes. Of course you know they have seven hundred steel balls, and a lethal range of fifty meters.” He closed and shelved the manual. “Nasty toys. What’s your interest?”