by David Perry
On the video monitor, John Palmer watched a tall, lean man in a well-tailored suit enter the interrogation room. The cop paused the recording and studied the still image. He had already played the video four times. Each time he did, the same two words slipped from his mouth in an incredulous whisper: “Holy shit!” The cop had seen all forms of bravado and daring, both criminal and heroic, in his years as a member of the Newport News PD. This one deserved first prize in both categories.
He rammed a new toothpick between his teeth.
“Who the hell are you?” Palmer asked, speaking to the monitor.
No matter where he stopped the tape, he could not make out a significant portion of the man’s face because of the tilt of the fedora and the angle of his head. The man was a real pro.
He hovered the cursor over the play button and pressed once more. The man in the hat entered the room once again and emerged exactly one minute and twenty-five seconds later with Jason Rodgers in tow, uncuffed. Just as he had the previous three times he’d watched.
The pair marched without a trace of urgency or panic toward a rear entrance as officers and plainclothes cops raced by. He couldn’t be sure because he never saw it, but based on the man’s proximity to Rodgers and the cock of his right arm, it seemed as if he had a gun in the pharmacist’s back.
This feels too familiar, he thought. And it stinks to high heaven!
The detective rubbed his weary eyes. The clock on his desk read 12:39 a.m. He needed sleep. But he knew that was many hours away. He re-read his notes.
The identity of the dead man in the house on 65th Street was one William Luther, a career criminal involved in a slew of robberies and assaults over ten years. He’d been busted eight times and done time at Greenville for maiming. But Palmer could not be sure why. The judgment had been sealed. The only reason he knew what he did was because he had a friend in the Department of Corrections.
Luther had been involved in an assault on one Jason Rodgers two years ago in the Regional Jail in Williamsburg. Three months later, Luther had been incarcerated at Greenville. Palmer had deduced that the attack on Rodgers had been the reason.
Luther had been allowed entrance into Rodger’s cell by a guard named Clyde Hutton. Luther, the tattoo-laden criminal, who had tried to stab the pharmacist with an improvised shank, seriously wounded his victim. But not before Rodgers shattered Luther’s jaw.
After he served his time in prison, Luther stayed off law enforcement’s radar. He was not sighted until he showed up dead today.
Hutton, the guard, had been fired and bounced from menial job to menial job over the last twenty-five months. Ironically, Hutton also died early yesterday morning in a car wreck after a high-speed chase in northern Newport News. The other car involved was a bright red Mustang registered to … Jason Rodgers. Rodgers was injured, treated, and released at the scene.
Palmer had only been able to shake his head and sigh when his underling Kent Romo presented him with this information. Things were spiraling out of control again.
What the hell is it with this pharmacist?
Accused of and framed for the murder of his ex-girlfriend, Sheila Boquist, two years ago, and while being hunted by police, Rodgers was instrumental in thwarting an assassination attempt at the shipyard. The pharmacist had earned a twisted respect from the seasoned detective.
Palmer’s gut reaction told him that Rodgers was simply exacting revenge on the pair of men who had tried to kill him. The cop couldn’t blame him. If it were him, he might just do the same thing: dispense a little street justice.
Victims, however, couldn’t be allowed to take the law into their own hands, no matter how much it was deserved. Rodgers was no doubt a victim.
But was he also a perp?
Two more people were dead—people Rodgers had a motive to kill. He had been present at both scenes. The pharmacist had the means, motive, and opportunity to kill both these men.
Palmer let the tape roll. The man in the fedora pushed Rodgers through the stairwell door and both disappeared from view.
Who was this accomplice? And how had Rodgers recruited him?
The guy’s description sent a ripple of familiar angst through the seasoned cop. Expensive dark suit. Sharp features. The calm demeanor in the face of fire alarms and running bodies. He was a well-trained operative. A spook! Of that, Palmer had no doubt.
He was going to find out who he worked for. Staying under the radar on this was crucial. He did not want his superiors in the loop … not yet. He decided to call the only person who could help.
But first, he wanted his prisoner back. Palmer dialed the dispatcher.
“I want a BOLO placed for Jason Rodgers.” Palmer gave the pharmacist’s description. He also gave the name and tag numbers of Rodgers’s known associates. There was only one. Peter Rodgers, the brother. The pharmacist would seek out the help of the ex-marine. Palmer continued.
“Then I want the video files for the outside cameras. See if we can’t get a look at this mystery man.”
As soon as Palmer ended the call, the phone rang.
“Palmer.”
“John, this is Chief Rangel.”
“Yes, sir,” Palmer replied, his heart rate jumping. Palmer had been called to the chief’s office before. The request usually came through his captain. Palmer had never received a call directly from the chief of police’s office, let alone the man himself. Palmer’s fatigue evaporated.
“I just received a call from the FBI in Washington. They said we have a man named Rodgers in custody?”
“We brought him in him about two hours ago.”
“Washington says he is a person of interest in a case they’re pursuing. The attorney general’s office is requesting that we release him to their custody. Why was he arrested?”
“He’s a suspect in the homicide on 65th Street, sir.”
“I see. What do you know about Rodgers?”
Too much, he thought.
“He claims his son and girlfriend have been kidnapped and he was told to go to the house … and kill the man.”
“Why is Washington asking to have him released? Do you know?”
Yes, I think so! Palmer said to himself.
“No sir,” he lied.
“Your name was mentioned by an agent named Broadhurst with the Secret Service. He asked to speak with you. What’s this all about, John?”
“I don’t know, sir.”
The police chief recited a phone number. “He specifically asked for you. You will call him immediately from my office. I will be on this call. Now get your ass up here.”
“Let’s have it,” Jason said.
Peter handed over cell phone number two as they drove north on Jefferson Avenue toward the intersection with J. Clyde Morris Boulevard.
Peter checked the rearview every ten seconds, looking for the black Cadillac … or police cars.
“Is he there?” Jason asked.
“Nope. All’s clear. Who is that guy?”
“I dunno. But he’s involved somehow. Said he was the one planting the coffins we’ve been finding.”
“What?!”
“He’s also the one who pretended to be the cop who showed up after Clyde Hutton died. He sprung me from jail. He got me the keys!”
“Does he know where Michael and Chrissie are?”
“No. I don’t think so.”
“Why didn’t you get it from him?”
“He had a gun on me, Pete.”
Jason pulled up the only phone number in the contact list of the cell phone. Without hesitating, he pressed the green circle at the bottom of the screen.
It rang five times.
“Bonjour Monsieur Jason,” the thick, husky voice of Delilah Hussein greeted him. “You have accomplished both of your objectives, oui?”
“I have the keys and man in the house is dead.”
“Très bien. Je suis impressionné.” Well done. I’m impressed.
“Now what?”
“The key
s are to a box truck, parked near the Norfolk terminals. One key starts the vehicle, the other opens the glove box. The cargo area is locked. The keys to it are at the destination. Do not attempt to open it.
“Look for a man in a Red Sox jacket. The truck will have the word Vengeance stenciled on the side. It is parked at the BP station outside the gate to Virginia Marine Terminal. Find it and begin driving. Take the Chesapeake Bay Bridge-Tunnel north. The truck is equipped with an E-ZPass. You will not have to pay the toll. Stay on Route 13 until you reach Mappsville. Take Turkey Run around the bend and find the dilapidated house. The one with the holes in the roof beside a house trailer. Inside you will find the coordinates to your next destination.
“Do not stop for any reason. We are watching you every step of the way. If you deviate from your route, your precious woman will die first in a very uncomfortable fashion.”
She had described the directions to find the truck with amazing accuracy. She lived here for years, he thought.
“I want proof they are still alive!”
A long silence filled the line. “You will get proof in thirty minutes. For now, you better get moving. You need to get the truck and get to Mappsville before 8 p.m. your time. If you fail, she dies.”
“I want to speak to Michael and Chrissie. Now!”
His demand went unanswered. The line went dead.
“Shit,” he seethed.
“Well?”
Jason frowned. “Take 64 East. We need to get to the terminals in Norfolk.”
Ten minutes later, Peter took a right on J. Clyde Morris Boulevard, heading toward Yorktown. “We’ll double back toward Norfolk, then hit Interstate 64.” There was no traffic on the road this early in the morning.
He saw a sight in the distance he did not like. “That’s not good,” he sighed.
Jason looked toward the direction Peter had nodded. A Newport News police cruiser was heading in the opposite direction across the median on J. Clyde Morris. Jason held his breath as it sped past.
“Stay cool,” Peter instructed
Five seconds later, the cop switched on his light bar and the siren wailed. He hung a U-turn at an intersection and headed back in their direction.
“Is that for us?” Jason asked.
“We’re going to find out?”
Peter continued to drive. A minute later, the cop was thirty yards behind and a lane to the right.
“I think he’s going to pass us,” Jason said. “Pull to the side.”
Peter had the Hummer in the left lane, going the speed limit. He began to cross to the right lane so he could get out the way. The cop veered into their lane ten yards behind them and gave the siren a single blast.
Peter slowed then stopped. Ten seconds elapsed. The cop exited the vehicle, standing behind his open door. The air inside the cab thickened. The cop lifted his service weapon, leveling it at the rear window.
“Get out of the car slowly!”
The sound of additional sirens filled the air. “His backup is coming,” Peter said.
“How did they hell did they find us?” Jason said.
“Palmer’s no dummy. I’m sure he knew you and I would end up together sooner or later.”
“Go ahead and get out, Pete,” Jason commanded. “You’ve already done enough. You don’t have to do this for me.”
Peter glanced at his brother. “Filling prescriptions isn’t exciting enough for you? You had to go and piss off a terrorist. But no! You couldn’t piss off just any terrorist. You had to piss off a female terrorist with a permanent case of PMS.”
Peter studied the rearview then turned his eyes to the side-view mirror. His right arm was draped casually atop the steering wheel as if he were waiting for a light to turn. The sirens grew louder.
The cop hollered again. “Get out of the car!”
“Get out. I’ll go it alone from here,” Jason repeated. “I’m running out of time, Pete! I’m going to get them back.”
Peter yanked the gearshift into drive and smiled at Jason. “You think Delilah Hussein is trouble? When Lisa finds out what you got me into, you’ll prefer dealing with the terrorist.”
Peter gunned the engine, spinning the rear wheels.
He’d been working at the cloth in his mouth for some time, pushing his tongue up and out against the cloth and the gag wrapped around his head. He didn’t know what time it was and he was exhausted. But a little fatigue was not going to stop him.
The going was slow. At first, the gag did not budge. He jutted his tongue into the cloth over and over, stopping every few minutes to rest. After what seemed like a thousand attempts, Michael felt the gag slip lower. The balled cloth in his mouth blossomed over the gag.
Sweet, musty air seeped into his throat and lungs.
As he continued to work at the cloth, he recalled what he had learned. He was somewhere much warmer than Virginia. His captors were not American. English was not their native language. He guessed he was in another country somewhere south of Virginia. And he was near an ocean.
Most important, he was not alone.
There was another person in the cell with him. It was a woman. Based on the grunts the other person had made as Michael was being escorted out, he guessed she was gagged as well. His mother! Michael was certain of it. It made perfect sense.
Instantly, he was afraid for her. The other guard, the one named Charlie, had spat curses at her. Something had happened while he was outside. Not being able to see or talk to her made the not knowing worse. His imagination ran wild.
Was she okay? Had they hurt her?
He pushed harder and faster with his tongue. The balled cloth inched out millimeter by millimeter. Michael flexed his jaw up and down and sideways, working the gag farther down his face.
Another burst of five tongue thrusts pushed the cloth out of his mouth. He tilted his head back. The gag fell down around his neck.
Detective John Palmer dialed the telephone number on the keypad of the Polycon SoundStation tabletop speakerphone resting in the center of the conference room table adjacent to the chief’s office. Chief Anthony Rangel sat at the table along with a city attorney and his deputy chief. The stern, unforgiving scowls on their faces stifled any extraneous conversation.
Palmer spoke with a receptionist and asked for Broadhurst. The room fell silent as the three police officers and the lawyer stared at each other.
“You’ve got a lot of explaining to do after we are done here,” Rangel declared.
Deciding it was time to level with his boss for the first time in two years about his involvement at the shipyard episode, Palmer had outlined how and why the Feds were asking to have Jason Rodgers, a murder suspect, released from their custody.
“Detective Palmer?” Broadhurst replied after Palmer identified himself.
“Agent Broadhurst,” Palmer replied, “I’m on the line with my chief.” Palmer introduced the two other men on their end. Broadhurst introduced the deputy director of the FBI, Brad Lane, and a deputy attorney general. Broadhurst inquired as to how much the chief knew about the past and current history.
“We are just beginning to understand Detective Palmer’s involvement in this scenario,” Rangel explained. “Why were we not apprised of past events?”
Broadhurst cleared his throat. This erupted into a spasm of coughing.
“I apologize. Chief, Detective Palmer was asked, in fact, he was threatened with criminal charges if he revealed anything he knew about the events of two years ago. I am warning you and the other men at the table as well. This is a secure line. Silence is paramount. Our teams cleaned up the mess in the towers and kept your officers in the dark. National security.
“I understand,” Broadhurst continued, “you have Jason Rodgers in custody. We need him released. He’s involved in an operation involving national security at the highest level.”
“Rodgers,” Palmer began, “is being manipulated by Delilah Hussein …”
“How do you know this?” Broadhurst interrupt
ed.
“He told me himself.”
“I will not confirm or deny those allegations. I can’t reveal any details about the current operation. We need Jason Rodgers released. We are sending a team of U.S. marshals to retrieve him. The attorney general’s office is preparing the paperwork now.”
“Agent, Jason Rodgers killed a man today,” Rangel said, raising his voice. “The media will be all over this. He needs to be held accountable.”
“Maybe so, but it will not be today.”
“And if I refuse to release him?”
“Chief,” another voice on the line broke in, “this is Deputy Attorney General Chad Spiller. My boss, the AG, just got off the phone with the president. He has signed an order releasing Rodgers to our custody. I you fail to comply, you will by charged under the National Security Act with interference in an on-going operation. Do I make myself clear?”
Palmer, the city attorney, and the deputy chief turned their eyes toward Rangel. Rangel pursed his lips and rubbed his chin. “Understood. But I expect him to be returned to us when this is over. Do I make myself clear?”
“Chief,” the FBI deputy director chimed in, “Brad Lane. We will look into the situation when the dust settles.”
“Okay. But there is one more important detail we need to tell you.”
““What is that?” Broadhurst asked.
Rangel looked to Palmer with a wry smile. “Okay Secret Agent Palmer, tell them.”
“Gentlemen, I regret to inform you that Jason Rodgers has escaped.”
The Hummer’s 3.7 liter, inline, five-cylinder engine strained its limits as the Rodgers brothers hurtled east on Interstate 64. At 2:20 a.m., traffic was nonexistent. The Hampton Coliseum became a quick memory as they sped past the I-664 interchange. The Hummer’s top heavy nature caused it to list as Peter negotiated the gentle curves.
Fifteen minutes earlier, the cop who had pulled them over on J. Clyde Morris Boulevard had jumped back in his cruiser and given chase. He’d closed the distance, as Peter had to slow for a red light near the Jiffy Lube. Peter gunned the engine and popped the left-side tires onto the curbed median to avoid a pair of stopped cars.