Rosenthal was about to retort, but then stopped and blinked. The idea clearly hadn’t occurred to him. Silk allowed himself a moment of glory before turning away.
He couldn’t resist a parting comment. “Failing that, Reggie, maybe they’ll sack your fat ass and take your pension away for letting five murders happen on your watch without even identifying a suspect. Seems you make a habit of going pear shaped, Reggie.”
The double entendre was not lost on all present. Silk heard more than one quiet snicker as he walked away. But it didn’t make him feel any better. Tanya’s killer was still out there, and Silk himself was most likely slated to be next.
As he climbed into the car, head spinning, the single anomaly of the case whirled around once more into plain sight.
The death in Vegas. The murder of the drug dealer. Surely, Silk thought. Surely the lead would run from Jimmy Hansson to the other victims.
So why hadn’t the cops connected it?
24
Trent pulled into the parking structure that served the Cinerama Dome and Arclight Cinema after waiting an interminable amount of time for the traffic to thin out, giving him chance to pull in off Vine Street. The parking area was a multi-story affair, allowing for a few thousand dark corners, which is why Trent assumed the hierarchy had wanted to meet there.
Hierarchy? he thought. Which one? No one would want to be seen discussing and planning this particular mission.
He swung up ramp after ramp, reaching the floor before the highest and heading slowly for the north-east corner. There, a parked Suburban, alone and all black, flashed its headlights twice.
Radford clucked. “Doesn’t look suspicious at all.”
Trent tended to agree. “Must be a government employee then. At least we know that much.”
“Doug probably knows.”
“Doug knows everything.”
Trent parked next to the Suburban and both men switched cars. Once inside the back of the government vehicle they settled into the wide leather seats. A pair of eyes fixed each man in the rearview mirror.
“Thought there was three of you.”
“One of us ain’t here,” Radford said dryly.
“Alright. Is that gonna be a problem?”
“Only for us,” Trent said. “We have a backup.”
He didn’t mention they hadn’t had chance to approach the person yet.
A brown folder was passed from front to back. “Details. Everything we know from the CIA team already in place at Davic’s property. They’ll continue to surveil but won’t be able to assist you. Got it?”
“Absolutely,” Radford said. “The CIA have always been helpful that way.”
“Clear deniability,” the shadowy figure in the passenger seat spoke up for the first time. “If you get caught you can be denied since you’re already disavowed. Technically, you have no links to the US.”
Trent thought about that and the years of service and sacrifice they’d laid down. “We served through three administrations. Nothing ever changed.”
“Still hasn’t,” the passenger murmured. “We will deny you.” He paused. “Oh, and good luck.”
Radford shook his head. “Thanks for the pep talk.”
“Maisie Miller,” the driver said, “needs extracting with the minimum of fuss. It would be better if Davic didn’t even know what happened. The man has power and connections over here and could cause some serious damage if he got pissed. That said, Maisie comes first. You do what you have to do. Extract her by any and all means. Davic’s home is secluded so that will minimize the chances of outsider influence or observation.”
“There’s something else,” the passenger broke in. “The President,” he emphasized the title, “has said there’s no chance of redemption on the outcome of this mission. Your disavowal cannot be overturned. Not that he knows anything about it.”
“Of course,” Trent said.
“The bright side . . . you guys are still considered the best for the job. Even now. Vince Hadleigh was pushing for it.”
“Thruster prime?” Radford laughed. “He was pushing for the glory. Nothing more.”
The silence signified nothing, but Trent took it as a sign of agreement. He waved the file in his hand. “Anything else?”
“Only that Hadleigh’s team will be there somewhere. Not as backup, but as a failsafe in case anything unexpected occurs. Maisie is still the prime objective.”
Trent bit his lip. “Poor old Maisie,” he said. “I really hope she never gets the idea that you guys actually care for her. We know what you’re really getting from all this don’t we?”
“Just get the damn girl out. We’ll discuss the merits of political ass-covering and country destabilization another time.”
Trent grabbed the door handle. “Understood.”
The driver half turned, stopping him. “Y’know, guys, the government isn’t made entirely of asshole egotists. Some of us really do care about the Miller children and want you to make this work. Seriously, good luck, and if Davic has to go,” the man almost spat, “don’t make it easy on him.”
Trent cracked the door open. “That’s always been our plan.”
25
Trent waited until Radford was seated comfortably but didn’t turn the ignition. Instead, he turned to his friend.
“Time for a decision, Dan. What are your thoughts on Silk?”
“Adam hasn’t wanted us along from the beginning.” Radford sighed. “I’d normally say screw him and stay anyway, but this—” he paused. “This is fucking dynamite. No way can we pass it up.”
“We have to go,” Trent agreed, thinking of Mikey and of how Victoria would take the news. And more importantly what she’d do with it. “But Silk deserves another chance.”
Radford nodded. “Sure. Do it.”
Trent keyed his number into the car’s phone system and depressed a button. Immediately the call went through, straight to an answer machine.
“Call me immediately,” Trent said in his sternest voice. “The shit has really hit the fan, Adam. Our disavowal was based on bullshit. Maisie Miller is alive in Monaco and we’re heading out there right now to finesse her extraction. Buddy,” he sighed, “we could do with the help of the best in the business. Please, just call me. This is the biggest job of our lives.”
“Who’s our backup?” Radford prodded. He knew Trent had an idea. “The Trout?”
“Doug wouldn’t come out of retirement for this. He’s too old, too comfortable. The only person he’d risk that for is Natasha.”
Radford pursed his lips. “The Russian spy he loved over twenty years ago. What is it that you know about all that, Aaron?”
Trent ignored him. “What are your thoughts on Claire Collins?”
“You mention her name my initial thought is ‘balls deep’.”
Trent turned a hard stare on him.
“But seriously—” Radford hurried on. “Are you serious? Agent Collins? The FBI? She’s got a stellar rep but would they even go for it? Would she?”
“I trust her,” Trent said firmly. “It’s more than I can say for anyone else.”
“Sure. She’s cool. A bit . . . unorthodox, but pretty much unflappable and great at her job.”
“I was also thinking about the Monaco angle. If we have to scout the casino first.”
Now Radford smiled. “Ahh, yes. The way she is she’d help us fit right in. And just picture the dress—”
“Calm down. I won’t let anything compromise this op. We clear?”
Radford sobered fast. “Of course. You know my thoughts no longer tend to wander down that route.”
“Then go cold turkey instead of playing the buffoon,” Trent said. “It’ll help you with Amanda.”
“Sure. So, are you going to ask Collins?”
Trent dialed again.
26
Silk took some time to review the case as he drove away from the scene. It seemed so obvious now that he wondered why he hadn’t played this angle befor
e, but the death of the drug dealer Jimmy Hansson needed a closer look. The problem was, how could he access the files?
You know how.
A rush of guilt invaded his body as he thought about Brewster. But now wasn’t the time for inhibitions. He sent her a quick text, asking her to call him when she was free, at the same time noticing that Jenny hadn’t called.
C’est la vie.
He did a double take when the phone rang. “Yeah?”
“It’s me. I can get a copy of the Hansson file right now. I’m about to head back to the station with Reggie. You wanna meet?”
“Sure.”
“Burger stand on the other side of the road. Thirty minutes.”
“I’ll be there.”
Silk made it in fifteen. The guy on the burger stand was still grinning happily and serving some of the best fried onions out there.
“Delicious,” he said around an exquisite mouthful.
“Secret’s in the way you slice ‘em,” the burger guy said with a big smile.
“It is?” Silk smiled. “I’ll try to remember that.” Despite the hour, Silk scarfed his down in about three minutes while sitting in one of the rickety metal chairs and keeping an eye on the station’s activity. When he saw Brewster exit he stood up, threw his garbage in the trashcan, and walked away.
She caught up quickly. “Here.” She pushed a manila folder at him. “Don’t worry about getting it back to me. I managed to copy it.”
Silk regarded her. “I say again, why all the risk-taking for me?”
Brewster’s gaze was weary, bloodshot and bordering on desperation. “I’m a good cop, Adam. A damn good one. Don’t worry, I already figured out that no one really gives a shit. It’s all about ass kissing, covering and slamming for promotion. But that’s not me. If I’m gonna climb the ladder it has to be down to field work.”
“So they can’t take it away from you.”
Brewster snorted. “They already did. You think I was a punk cop before? No. I was as good then as I am now.” She made a face. “Still got landed with Reggie.”
Silk watched the passing traffic, the sleek sports cars and sedans, the dilapidated old Chevys and Buicks, the people at their wheels as different as night and day. He was careful not to watch Brewster’s face too closely. “You’ll get there.”
Brewster turned away. “Yeah, thanks. Try to be less condescending next time you try to help.”
Silk took a step after her. “No wait. I didn’t mean—”
“Don’t worry about it.”
Silk stopped and slapped the folder against his thigh; a flogging for his mistake. He watched her cross the road to the burger stand and get in line behind the other cops. He turned away, walked a block. The sounds of cars starting and stopping, revving, juddering exhausts, and honking horns filled the air. A heavy stench came from a nearby drain. He passed a bus stop and was choked by diesel fumes. At last he found a coffee shop and slipped inside. The ambience was different in here, relaxed, civilized. He paid for an Americano and sat in a window seat with the folder open on the table before him.
Jimmy Hansson was human filth, happy to ruin any number of lives to ply his trade. If the bricks of money kept coming in, the bricks of narcotics kept piling up and flowing out. He was low key, reduced to dealing on street corners and using junkies as lookouts, walking up to lowering car windows in order to deal his product. The cops were watching him, but he wasn’t even a middleman. They watched him in the hope he would lead them higher up the supply chain. Then, one day, he disappeared. His absence rang immediate alarm bells and, after a trip to his dingy apartment, his body was discovered.
Silk read over the details. The murder scene was exactly the same as Rydell’s, Finch’s, Tanya’s and Knott’s, even down to the pendant impression smashed into their foreheads. The cops hadn’t tied Hansson to any other murders right away, that came later, but the investigation was pretty in depth, Silk had to admit. Associates had been interviewed, camera footage and photos reviewed. Junkies had been brought in and questioned, but anything barely legible they had to say meant nothing to the cop in charge of the investigation.
Silk read his bio. A Detective Mitchell. Hansson’s investigation had been his last case. The guy was retired now and living on the city’s outskirts. Damn. He read on, finally concluding that the task-force were vindicated. There were no clues here. Nothing overlooked or purposely cast aside. The Hansson murder was as much a mystery as all the rest.
Silk clenched his fists. He kept an eye out of the window and watched the area all around him. He saw no sign of any tail, no suspicious activities. If the killer was present he was staying low and he was good. Again, Silk wondered why he’d been saved until last.
Is it because I’m the one who dropped off the grid and now he can’t find me?
Seemed the most plausible answer. Silk closed his eyes in frustration. He couldn’t simply give up and let Rosenthal and his merry men take the lead. Might as well sign his own death warrant. The retired cop’s name did have current contact details.
Never give up.
*
It was always best to just turn up. People who knew you were coming sometimes tended to be elsewhere. Before Silk set off he called Brewster again and asked her to have a quick look through Detective Mitchell’s diary. Every cop kept one, and sometimes they contained information that didn’t make it into the report.
Brewster’s voice was stiff as she explained that they had already checked. Mitchell was thorough and had missed nothing out. She rang off quickly, not wanting to talk. Silk felt a desperate need to apologise, even more so than the urge he felt toward Jenny.
What the hell?
Complications cast aside, he started the drive toward Mitchell’s house. The mention of the man’s diary reminded him acutely of the diary Tanya used to keep. The daily record she used to recount to Silk every night; her voice the sweetest music he had ever heard; her words the light touch of a parent’s hand; her presence and warmth the deepest comfort he had ever known.
The hard asphalt rolled on; the road of his life. At last he navigated a bumpy off-ramp and dropped down into a quiet neighborhood. The greenery was more apparent here than in central LA, the blocks of houses bordered by small parks and islands of trees splitting the roads in half. A man came here after suffering a lifetime of noise and stress, after thousands of challenging days. A man came here to experience the rewarding calm of retirement.
Silk wondered how many made it through the first couple of years.
He searched out Mitchell’s address using the satnav and parked up. He walked to the door, still keeping a careful eye on his perimeter. When he checked his phone again he noticed missed calls from Trent. The man would have to wait.
The door was pulled open before Silk even knocked. The greeting was hostile. “Can’t you read? This community don’t take kindly to travelling salesmen.”
Silk pulled up in surprise. “That’s not why I’m here, sir.” He frowned. “Do I really look like a travelling salesman?”
“Sure you do. Washed, spruced, some kind of silly style to your hair. Clothes not too expensive but nicely cut. You’re a goddamn travelling salesman. And that red Camaro tells me you’re a good one. On some hefty commission, I bet. Bit of a poser too.”
Jeez, Silk thought. The old cop’s missing his old job so much he just went into overdrive.
“Sorry,” he said aloud. “My name’s Clooney. Detective Clooney. How are you, Detective Mitchell?”
He held out a badge for inspection, wondering if the old cop’s eyes would spot the fake. But Radford’s work had always been exemplary, and would probably pass every test. The only drawback was his fondness for movie star names. Saying them out load actually made Silk grit his teeth.
“Hold that thing still.” Mitchell peered hard. “What the hell you want from me, boy? I been retired these past months.”
And clearly enjoying that respite, I see.
“Nothing much. Just a li
ttle chitchat about an old case. Can I come in?” Silk felt exposed standing outside on the man’s porch.
“Why? You planning to arrest me?”
“Ah, no, I thought it would be easier. But if you’d rather—”
“No. No.” The old cop practically assaulted him and dragged him inside. “Don’t be an ass. It’ll be good to talk about the old days.”
“Nice place.” Silk wasn’t really studying the interior.
“Bullshit. And don’t think you’re getting any coffee. Cop pensions don’t exactly make for a comfortable old age, you know. Remember that when you’re racking up the overtime. Water,” he said. “Water I can get you.”
“I’m fine. What can you tell me about the Jimmy Hansson case?”
The old cop continued walking and motioned Silk toward a deep sofa. It took him a few moments to speak. “The drug dealer from Vegas, right? Guy was a vicious little prick, not worth shit on your boots. Why do you want to know about him?”
“Name came up in relation to a new case.” Silk knew the real cops wouldn’t exactly share too much information but would at least allow Mitchell to think he was on the inside. “His murder could be related.”
“Shit.” Mitchell breathed deeply, lungs rasping. “Never saw that coming. So did you guys check the case file?”
Silk nodded. “Fine work. But you know why I’m here. Sometimes cops they get a feel for something,” he tapped his head, “and it’s all up here. Never sees a pen and paper. Did that happen at all on this case?”
Mitchell sat back and tried to think, screwing up his face as if trying to sift through the fog of years of involving cases and countless suspects. “Time was I could remember every case I ever pulled. This one went unsolved so it’s there.” He bobbed his head. “Fact is—nothing.”
“Excuse me?”
“Nothing.” Mitchell shrugged. “Piece of scum was murdered by another piece of scum. Happens every day. By the end I was saving most of my brain power for the victims who really needed it. Y’know?”
The Disavowed Book 2 - In Harm's Way Page 11