by M. P. Cooley
“You’re trying to poison me?” A voice rose above the din in the parking lot. It came from the masked tech who stood glaring at us from under the balcony. Though not currently visible, a scowl was assumed.
“Hi, Annie!” Dave leaned over the balcony. It creaked under his weight, and he pulled back. “I knew you liked to work closely with me—”
“Shut up!” Annie whipped off her mask. “I’ve logged more overtime in the last two weeks than I have in the last two years, and you want to make sure I die before I get paid?”
“Annie, what are you doing here?” I asked.
“My boss assigned me to do ‘interjurisdictional cooperation,’ which means I get to die with all the professionals.” I could make out Annie’s air quotes even through the sanitary mittens. “I don’t know whether my boss hates me or the FBI more. Probably me.”
“Well, I’ll feel safer knowing you’re on the team,” Dave said. “We’ve got a meeting—”
“You think I came over here just to make pleasant conversation with you?” Annie seemed to like interrupting Dave more than most people. “No. I came to tell you that I should have the testing done on the clothes and the boots later today. The FBI agreed to let me use some of their equipment while we’re wasting the next six hours waiting for you all to get your act in gear.”
I grinned. “Annie, did you volunteer for this operation so that you could get us our results faster?”
“I didn’t volunteer! My boss insisted and I . . . agreed. I found a silver lining to this black oppressive cloud that is my life.”
A couple of other techs called her to help load some cabling. “Gotta go!” She zipped across the lot and grabbed the end of the ropy metal, the force of her small body providing what they needed to get the cable wrapped around a large spool.
“Take my calls tonight!” followed us as we entered the hotel room.
We could barely get in the door. Agents took up every chair in the living/dining room, with several more milling around, restless and weary of waiting. Plans filled every available wall space: maps of the neighborhood, broad aerial shots, as well as detailed photos of the riverside drop site and the Jelicksons’ property, all posted and diagrammed. The evidence wasn’t covering any sort of spectacular decorating: the main room’s furniture was inoffensive, pastel and bolted down. The room had empty soda cans stacked into a tower in one corner and squared piles of warrants and chain-of-custody forms in rows on the couch, ready to be served. With no access to this room for several days, housekeeping must be freaking out. Little did the housekeepers realize that the people monopolizing these rooms made their beds with hospital corners, although the agents did skip decoratively fanning out the toilet paper.
A couple of men from the Jelicksons’ case, three guys from the Albany office, and some people from the gang details in both California and Missouri were there. From across the room I spotted Ernesto Aguilar. Ernie! He sprang up, going around, under, practically over people to get to me. I was equally eager, but a huge chest blocked my path. Potreo, who had been so helpful when I almost fell at Marty’s, ignored my “Excuse me’s,” smirking. I used my elbows.
“Attention, all!” Hale yelled from the head of the table as Dave and I found a spot of wall to lean against. “We have a raid to plan tonight.”
“Officer Lyons”—Hale pointed to Harmony Mills on the map—“you will be here, part of the roof surveillance team, along with Agents Potreo, Zulietski, and Aguilar.”
I fist-bumped Ernie surreptitiously.
“Detective Batko, you and Agent Bailey will be assault team Bravo.” Dave got a nod from Silent Sam Bailey, tight braids brushing his shoulders. This was probably the extent of the small talk Dave would get for the duration of the operation.
With no concern for FBI hierarchy, Dave spoke up. “I’m not with my partner? Don’t you want us working at our best?”
“We need our local guides,” Hale said, “to be in different places, to show us the back ways and shortcuts. We have maps, and we have run over every square inch, but if our suspects, the Jelicksons, anyone, zigs, we need to make sure we don’t zag. Tonight’s going to be tight. We’re going to nail our meth cook, and we are going to stop ice from breaking on a large scale in the Northeast.”
He was hyping up the troops. I silently added to his list. We’ll catch the killer—or was it killers?—of Danielle and Ray, and we’ll stop the black hole of drugs and crime from sucking up everything good that was left in this town.
Hale explained that Craig would be dropping the pseudoephedrine behind a ring of benches. Dave and Sam Bailey would tail him after the drop.
“Y’all park over here behind this fish fry place”—Frank’s Fish Fry: my father had picked up dinner there every Friday until the place closed fifteen years ago “because no one observed goddamned Catholicism anymore,” Frank said, with a shake of his head.
“The surveillance van will be right under Sierra 4.” He nodded at me, and pointed to two agents who could have been Kevin’s brothers. One of them was wearing a hipster band T-shirt under his button-down, and both had the wide, bloodshot eyes of people who stared at computers all day.
We would then spring the trap, monitoring the only roads in, and more important, blocking off any exits. Whoever it was—including the Jelicksons—might be able to pick up the stuff, but they weren’t going to be able to get it out of the neighborhood.
Once Hale summarized the timing of the evening, we calibrated our watches.
“Really? You do that?” Dave asked.
In the kitchenette, pistols, semiautomatics, and a few high-powered rifles were lined up on the breakfast bar like kindergarteners on their first day of school. They offered Dave a Sig Sauer, but he decided to stick with his Glock.
“It fits in my hand,” he said.
I breathed in. To me, the scent of gun oil was what baking bread was to others. An agent with a clipboard inspected the bulletproof vests. And the ammo? I couldn’t see that as I peeked over the counter. Probably in the refrigerator.
Eyeing one of the M-15 sniper rifles, I asked which one I’d be getting. The tech took his time searching through the list. Finally he said, “It doesn’t look like you have one assigned, but we assumed you would have your service revolver?” My disappointment must have shown on my face because he quickly added, “From your position, you should be surveillance only. We do have some binoculars for you—very high powered. And a bulletproof vest.”
Ernie consoled me on my lack of firepower and I helped him with his bulletproof vest.
“You hear about Bear?” he asked as I pulled the strap of his vest so that the last gap behind his shoulder closed.
I had just been thinking of the third member of Lyons, and Tigger, and Bear. “No. How’s he doing?”
“Yeah, two cases back the Mara Salvatrucha made him. We found him . . .”—and I swallowed down the bile rising in my throat as he talked—“we found him with his guts, his intestines . . . unwound across an acre of land. They think he was alive when it happened. At the start, at least.” Ernie stopped talking, briefly, his ever-animated face frozen in grief.
“Ernie,” I said quietly, so only he could hear.
“We got the guys. We got them all”—Ernie’s nice-guy nature nowhere in evidence. He sighed. “Another distribution network popped up the next day.”
“Good. Good. I’m glad you got ’em,” I said. The insult of not carrying a rifle suddenly seemed a lot less important. I dropped the vest over my head. The latest technology, it felt about twenty pounds lighter than the ones issued by Hopewell Falls. “Can you help me with the strap?”
Up on the roof, I discovered that the ninja wear hadn’t changed in one key respect—it still trapped cold sweat everywhere it touched my body. “Just rain,” Hale said. Freezing rain was as miserable as you could get. I would have preferred snow. Snow, and the chance to be more in the middle of the action of this operation. I was action adjacent, which didn’t quite count.
From the main road, Craig’s SUV approached. Dave and Bailey’s car followed at a safe distance.
“Sierra 4 to Alpha,” I said. “CI’s vehicle passing checkpoint one.”
Craig turned left into the alley, and Dave and Sam veered right into Frank’s parking lot, their headlights going dark.
Over the radio, Craig was complaining how much his arms hurt from lifting all the pseudoephedrine onto the truck.
“You just had to push a button, Craig,” Hale said. “The truck has a hydraulic lift.”
“But I had to arrange it all. And we’ve got eight hundred pounds of that stuff, and I didn’t want to get it on me. I could have a heart attack or something. At least the drug dealers in Canada helped me carry stuff.”
“Craig, don’t clog the channels with chatter,” Hale said.
Craig didn’t take the hint, continuing the running commentary. That was a good thing, as far as I was concerned. While I could see his truck and the stone benches, I couldn’t see him, too low and too far left.
“Shit! It’s sleeting!” Craig said. “Did you guys know it was sleeting?”
“Affirmative, Craig,” Hale said.
“What?” Craig said.
“Yes,” Hale said, and I could hear a snicker, quickly muted.
“So you really just want me to back up and slide the pseudoephedrine down?”
“Yes, Craig,” Hale said.
“Are you sure? What if a bag breaks? There are eighteen of them, you know.”
“The bags won’t break. Drop the load, Craig.”
“I am, I am,” Craig said. “Hold your horses.”
The radio was mostly silent, with brief grunts from Craig. No one approached from any direction. The only movement on the street came from the Merrimen. The fires were contained, but the men swung farther and farther away from the Jelicksons’ property, like moons breaking away from a planet’s orbit, tossing rocks at one of the streetlights until it broke.
“Okay. I’m done. And I’m texting whoever to let them know,” Craig said. “Okay. He’s telling me there’s a box for me in the entryway of Saint Patrick’s?” Saint Patrick’s was where I’d been baptized, but it had closed before Craig was born. I gave him directions.
“Craig, tell the person that if the money isn’t waiting for you, you are going to come back and kick his ass,” Hale said.
“Done,” Craig said. “They’re responding. ‘Shut it or . . . ur . . . dead.”
“Don’t give it a second thought, Craig,” Hale said. “We won’t let him kill you.”
Craig drove under my position on his way out to the main road. The rain hit the back of my neck as I craned over, and the SUV’s slick roof glinted unevenly, the elements having worn away the finish, the rust running dull, the rest shining. Craig continued to the main road and stopped at Saint Patrick’s.
“I’ve picked up the money, the box,” Craig said. “I’m heading toward Mohawk Street.”
“Charlie to Alpha. A subject has exited rear of Jelicksons’,” came a voice, chattering teeth clicking over the radio. “Over the fence.” I craned my neck, but the backyard of the Jelicksons’ was completely beyond my view.
“Charlie to Alpha. We’ve got an ID. It’s Jackie DeGroot.”
CHAPTER 26
ALPHA TO CHARLIE. REPORT on DeGroot,” Hale demanded. I was eager, too. Not being able to see or act was driving me crazy. Jackie was a wild card in this, an emotional teenager who knew her beloved boyfriend had cheated on her.
“Charlie” narrated Jackie’s every move. “DeGroot’s at the side of the alley. Subject is crouching down.”
A vehicle approached on Mohawk Street and sped past Craig, who was headed in the other direction.
“Sierra 4 to Alpha,” I said. “Vehicle passing checkpoint, Chevy half ton.” I trained my binoculars on the driver’s side until I could make an ID. “DeGroot’s father.”
“Foxtrot to Alpha. Vehicle slowing. Vehicle’s stopped. Jackie DeGroot is running toward the vehicle . . . and she’s in.”
“And the vehicle’s away,” came Hale’s voice. “It’s heading your way, Lima.”
“Lima to Alpha, confirmed.” The truck came out of the alley going around sixty. It didn’t turn down the Jelicksons’ block, but again made the turn right off Mill Way.
“Thank God she’s out of there,” came Dave’s voice.
“Alpha to Lima, tail the DeGroots.”
A low black car, driving with its lights off, slid past.
“Alpha to Echo,” Hale said. “Cover Lima position.”
“Can I talk?” Craig asked.
“Yes, Craig,” Hale said.
“Look, dude, this box is too light. There’s no money. I should check.”
“No,” Hale said. “Drive to the meeting place. The agents who are tailing you—”
“What?!” Craig said. “I don’t see them! Shit, with all this rain—” He sounded like he was having a full-blown panic attack.
“They’re behind you. Trust me. Gentlemen, do you have Master Craig here in view?”
“We do.” Dave’s voice came over the radio. “Hi, Craig.”
Craig didn’t answer, and Hale spoke again. “See now, Craig, all taken care of. Continue with the original plan—”
Dave broke in, sharp and short. “He took the wrong road.”
I craned my neck, watching for headlights. On the river road I saw a flash through the trees, a second set of headlights shining through a moment later. The gap closed between the second vehicle and the first, until Dave and Bailey’s headlights illuminated the bumper of Craig’s car. The river road was an easy route to the highway, letting people get out of town fast without having to negotiate the rutted, tight streets of downtown. Did he have a bigger plan or was he just stupid?
“Correct course, Craig,” Hale said evenly. I wondered if he really had faith in Craig or whether he was keeping everyone, including the other agents, calm. “Craig, please acknowledge.”
Nothing for ten seconds. Then fifteen. Finally Hale spoke, his voice hard.
“Alpha to Bravo, intercept the vehicle.”
“Bravo to Alpha. Affirmative,” said Bailey.
“Alpha to Foxtrot, provide backup for the agents in pursuit.”
Mike Tran, who was well respected for his work on New York City gang kidnappings and was up here for this operation, gave an affirmative for team Foxtrot. A black car parked at the end of the Jelicksons’ block started up and raced off.
“Alpha to Sierra 3 and Sierra 4, report.”
“All clear,” Ernie said.
Dave’s voice blasted across the radio before I could answer. “He keeps cutting us off. He’s weaving back and forth across the road. He presents a danger to us and oncoming traffic.”
“Use any necessary force,” Hale said.
“Oh, shit,” Dave said. “He’s run off the road on his own. Shit, shit.” In the background I could hear grinding metal. “He’s crashed through one of the concrete barriers, and stopped.”
My teeth chattered—the rain was sliding into the small gaps in my clothes—and I clamped them shut so I could hear everything: Dave’s door opened and closed, and then a second door slammed. They were now on foot. They were voices in the night, remote in space, and I wanted to be there.
“Craig’s out of his car and he’s . . . he’s . . .” Dave panted. “Craig’s fallen.”
“Approach with care,” Hale said.
“He’s injured,” Bailey reported. “Batko! He might be armed!”
“It’s going to be okay, Craig”—Dave’s voice now, low and soothing. “C’mon. Okay? You can hear me, right? You did such a good job tonight, you were a pro, c’mon, hang on.” Gentle and sweet, and then frantically to someone else. “Get an ambulance here. He’s going into shock. He’s not breathing.”
“Foxtrot to Alpha,” came a voice. T
ran, I thought. “We’ve radioed for an ambulance.”
“Alpha to Foxtrot, are you on scene?” demanded Hale.
“Affirmative. First-aid kit being delivered to Officer Batko, and I’m directing traffic, directing the ambulance to the scene.”
“Step away from that boy, Batko,” growled Bailey. “I’m not kidding.”
“I can’t, I can’t,” Dave said. “Do you see—”
“I’m not dicking around here.” And if Sam was slipping into profanity on official channels things were bad. “Bravo to Alpha, we’ve got a biohazard situation here. Yellow dust all over the vehicle. Craig opened the box.”
My mind raced, thinking of what it might be. Anthrax? Ricin? Chemical or biological? And Dave was right there, exposed.
“I can’t leave,” Dave said. “He’s . . . I’ve got to intubate him. He’s not breathing.”
I smacked the bricks next to me, furious that Dave was without me in this.
“I’m exposed. The yellow stuff’s on me—my hands, my face”—and now Dave was breathing harshly. Were his lungs shutting down already?
“Drop the first-aid kit right there—there!—and get back!” I was relieved to hear him shout.
I could see the lights from an emergency vehicle right on the edge of town. The city couldn’t afford its own ambulance service and so relied on the surrounding cities to provide emergency support. This one was coming in from Watervliet. The radio was filled with the sounds of everyone in crisis mode: estimated time of arrival on the ambulance; communications with EMTs that they should bring their protective clothing and respirators; Hale ordering half the folks at the decontamination unit set up at the glove factory to drive to the scene and isolate Craig’s car posthaste, and demanding reports from all the agents still on post in quick succession; and Dave trying desperately, frantically, to keep Craig alive.
“The tube, it’s stopped,” Dave said. “I can’t push it farther. ETA on the ambulance?”
“Sixty seconds,” said Tran.
I broke in over the radio, desperate to do something. “Is he still wearing his med-alert necklace?”
“June! Lyons. Yeah, it’s here. It’s engraved. I can’t . . . I can’t read it.”