by Alaric Hunt
“This is supposed to be good for me?”
“Absolutely,” McCall said. “SOCOM doesn’t have a finger in the task force, and so I don’t need to worry about the Activity calling me. One one two seven was a test unit for insurgent-control tactics. The big brains have been analyzing everything from the beginning. Everything you wanted was on a long pass-around list.”
“So Uncle Rob’s ass is covered, you mean.”
“That’s not good?” the old man asked. “You’re hesitating, kid. Some kind of chickenshit is coming.”
“You said was a test unit?”
“Was,” McCall confirmed. “I checked out your Tenth Mountain officer, Olsen. Some of that’s beyond my reach. The big brain word is exemplary. The task force was built around him, and didn’t survive after him. The task force bulked up at a certain point, and after that a pissing contest went on between CENTCOM and SOCOM. The Activity tagged them as an asset, with the usual accountability issues.”
“Somebody outside the unit could be interested?” Guthrie asked. “Tell me something about that.”
Robert McCall shrugged, considered the melons again, and placed one back in the basket. “Jealousy, maybe. SOCOM continuously poaches personnel. If anyone was fragged, that would be in the field.” He frowned. “You like Olsen for a target? He never had any complaints filed by his men.”
“We’re looking at it,” Guthrie said. “What about the Activity?”
“That’s Intelligence Support Activity. They do something new—they make solutions. I told you before, there’s authorization for anyone, anytime, anywhere. The Activity locates the time, the place, the person—and then they solve it.”
Vasquez crossed her arms and looked at Guthrie. “That’s who Linney was talking about,” she said. “But I don’t think that’s who we’re looking for.”
“You’d better hope so, kid. The Activity does things the CIA never dreamed about.” The tall old man pulled a disc from his pocket. “This’s a cut and paste from about a dozen sets of files—names, addresses, photos, dates—but don’t think it’s not dangerous because it can’t be sourced.”
Guthrie took the disc and slipped it into his pocket.
“You know you owe me now, right?”
The little detective nodded.
“Good. Tell Danny Rice he owes me a year of whiskey.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Guthrie and Vasquez flew back to New York City and landed at La Guardia late at night. After a night’s sleep, they drove into the Garment District before it woke for business. Bleary-eyed teenagers idled outside the loading gates, nursing cups of coffee in the shadowless world before dawn. The detectives had their own form of wide awake: two computer discs. They opened the office with a flurry—starting coffee, devouring doughnuts, checking printers for paper and ink—then became almost silent. Movement was fingers on keyboards or eyes scanning monitors. The street noise rose slowly, with shouts and whistles before the blare of horns lifted, all competing with the quiet whir of printers.
“That’s a lot of pictures,” Vasquez said after a pair of piles accumulated.
“An infantry company has a lot of soldiers,” the little detective said. “Then it was larger, for years. Add transfers, short-timers, casualties.… We have a lot of pictures.” He didn’t seem happy.
“You’re not sorting them?”
He shook his head. “It’s gonna be easier just to do them all. Maybe one catches Jeannette’s eye. Otherwise, we’re in trouble.”
Vasquez frowned. “What you mean?”
“Last night, I kept waking up thinking about it. What if our guy wasn’t in Alpha? We know he’s out there, sure, but what if he’s Activity? It’s far-fetched—”
“You’re gonna drive me crazy, viejo,” Vasquez said.
“You? That’s why our first move is taking pictures to the Village. If he was in Alpha and she picks him out, we got him.”
Vasquez shook her head, then turned to look again at the map of the United States she had taped to the wall behind her desk. Dots of red from a marker indicated locations of murders from the list of signature victims Rackers had provided. During her study of each file, she turned and marked the murder on the map. Clusters were forming around Chicago, and in Southern California and the Northeast corridor. Other specks were haphazardly scattered on the map. She paused to study the map after each additional mark, like a diviner studying a Rorschach test.
By the time the printer finished, the neighborhood was in full swing. A steady traffic of clothes racks clogged the street, accompanied by the usual symphony of annoyed horns. Guthrie gathered his pictures and tossed Vasquez the keys to the Ford. Outside, the air was thick and humid. Lines of high clouds marched along in a battle with the open sky. Vasquez took Seventh Avenue south to the Village.
Jeannette Overton smiled when she saw the stack of pictures. Her husband, Phil, suggested it included pictures of every man in the city. With pauses to check the quiet street outside her window and encourage Vasquez as she was demolished in game after game of gin, the little old lady examined the stack of pictures. By lunchtime, she chose a photograph. Guthrie frowned when he read the caption on the photo, then handed it to Vasquez.
She read it, then asked, “You sure?”
“Even an old woman would never forget an ear like that, my dear,” Jeannette Overton said. “That is the deliveryman. I suppose I should have known he was in the military by the way he walked. He had such a smooth step. That reminded me of Philip when he came home from the war.”
The man in the photo wore a brush-top military haircut a bit shorter than Robert McCall’s, but all of his hair was still dark. His eyes were green behind long dark lashes, and his skin was a wind-polished olive or tan. He might’ve been Italian, Puerto Rican, or Greek, but the faint smile stamped on his face suggested that he knew he would be admired. He was pretty, in the way a lean young wolf is pretty after some shampoo and a brushing, but merely wolfishly handsome with a toothy grin at any other time. Below the photo was a typescript caption: SFC Marc Lucas Gagneau.
* * *
The detectives drove to Rikers Island over the Queens causeway. Guthrie spent the time thinking, passing through excitement, relief, and anger, while Vasquez drove. The ritual of entering the jail calmed the little West Virginian until he seemed detached, but his hand kept visiting the printed photograph in the pocket of his suit coat, like a worried dog checking repeatedly a bone recently buried. The interview room was sterile, overly bright, gleaming with hard surfaces, and tainted with the exhaled breath of apathy and wasted resistance. Beyond the echoes of steel and concrete waited sullen silence.
A pair of burly guards escorted Greg Olsen into the interview room. The guards eyed Guthrie and Vasquez; added together, they weighed less than Olsen alone. Their warning to the big veteran was phrased in glares, arm-twisting while they removed the handcuffs, and a shove for assistance in finding his chair. Guthrie watched silently. After the door sealed with a steel click, he drew the picture of Gagneau from his pocket and laid it on the tabletop.
They argued, because Olsen believed Gagneau was dead. The big man turned red with the anger of denial and clenched his hands into heavy fists. Without raising his voice or standing, he still seemed to grow larger, but the detectives answered with grim reasoning. Guthrie rotated his fedora on the steel tabletop while he spoke, emphasizing with a jabbing forefinger. Vasquez folded her arms, making her hands disappear into the red of her jacket, and paced back and forth from her seat to the door. With her scowl, the fresh black eye over her faint, faded bruises seemed more like makeup than disfigurement. Olsen glared and argued, but he had only what he wished was true, while the detectives had facts.
Having identified the killer was a success tempered by Gagneau’s being officially dead. The NYPD wouldn’t look for him; officially, he didn’t exist. Already, the police had simplified their accusations by removing the Barbie doll victims, leaving Olsen on the hook for one murder they felt sure
of proving. A wild story about a faked death wouldn’t change that position. Even Olsen didn’t want to believe Gagneau’s corpse, dismembered by an IED and unrecognizable except for tags, had been a fake. The big man would serve prison time for his fiancée’s murder if they didn’t unmask Gagneau completely.
“We’ll catch him,” Guthrie insisted angrily. The hinted suggestion otherwise was an insult to the detective’s pride. “He was in the city—he left footprints. Maybe he ran a red light, or used an ATM. Maybe we find his face in someone’s Web page scrapbook. But we’ll find him, because he’s still in the city, watching what happens to you. We’ll catch him.”
“I believe you, then,” Olsen said. “Just like I believe in Gagneau. He won’t be easy to catch, especially when he sees you’re looking. Then you’re just like the sergeant, judging by the look on your face. His jaw was set that way for about half of each day. The other half of the day he was easy to get along with.”
Vasquez pulled out her chair and sat down. She dropped her Yankees cap onto the table beside Guthrie’s fedora and let her shortened lock of hair swing free. She looked tired. “El viejo’s right. He’s out there watching right now,” she said. “He don’t want to kill you, chico. I been thinking about that. He’s a muchacho with a serious grudge. Killing ain’t enough. You’re lucky you ain’t got no sisters. He could’ve killed you a long time ago. He wants you to stay in jail—killing your girl wasn’t enough. He done killed more to keep you here. You see that?”
“So I can do something, then?” Olsen demanded.
“Sure,” Guthrie replied. He jabbed the picture with his finger. “Tell me how to catch Marc Lucas Gagneau. You know him, Greg. My first problem is his being dead. Worse, he ain’t alone. Tell me how he’s got the Russian mob in his pocket. They don’t crew up with outsiders. Is that something you did over there?”
The big blond man snorted and rubbed at the tabletop with his good right hand. “I see you’ve been saving up questions for the last few days,” he said. “So I doubt I know him as well as I thought. The letter of condolence I sent his parents came back to me stamped ‘Return to sender.’ His home address was a chicken-processing plant outside Baton Rouge, a lie from the beginning, before he ever met me. All along, he had something to hide then.”
“That’s what you don’t know,” Guthrie said. “Tell me what you do know.”
“A guy like Gagneau isn’t common,” Olsen said. “He was pretty like a girl, and small, but vicious enough to balance that out. He said he lost a brother in New York, and volunteered after nine/eleven. I never thought about that, though, beside the fact he came from Louisiana and carried an accent that sounded like a man talking around a mouthful of loose thread. Gagneau was quick and quiet. No one noticed him unless he wanted them to pay him mind.
“After a week of watching him, I had realized that he could tell me what I wanted to know about something, if I sent him to take a look at it for me. His eyes were like cameras, and he could spin details until a picture filled, without adding something wished for or taking away. That’s a good scout. Then he didn’t have a need to take a shot, or get something started, so people would notice him. Gagneau was satisfied with seeing; he was good at staying out of the way, staying alive.”
Olsen frowned. “Over there, some of the men had their hands dirty. Even before I commanded Alpha, I began overlooking what didn’t ruin a soldier. A man can’t stop the wind from blowing. I never noticed Gagneau involved in trouble, except when he married Jaime-jan. After we embedded in Khodzai, he fell in love with Nawar Akrami’s daughter.
“Nawar Akrami was one of the local lords.…” The big man paused, studying the look on Guthrie’s face. “This story isn’t new to you, then?”
“The girl was killed by a bomb. Linney told us.”
The big man nodded, rubbing his chin. “Linney might not have known all of it. I don’t know how much Pashtun he ever learned. That’s what leads to the Shorawi—Russians. The opium goes north in the hands of the Chechens. Even under the Taliban, the drugs never stopped. Too many of the lords were involved indirectly. Nawar Akrami’s cousin, Jarul Akbar, borrowed men during the autumns to protect his shipments.”
“Gagneau knew the drug lord?”
“He sat beside me, drinking tea in jirga with Nawar and Jarul, enough that I can’t remember all of the conversations.”
The big veteran fell silent and watched Guthrie brood on his words. Vasquez stood and returned to pacing. After a minute, Olsen asked, “So that wasn’t a help, then?”
“Maybe,” Guthrie replied. “That explains how he would have connected with the Russians. Jarul Akbar called in a favor.
“I suppose I hoped he’d spoken about his places and things here, but you say he claimed to come from Louisiana. I can’t add that up with the man losing a brother on nine/eleven. You’re saying he never mentioned the city? He wasn’t a talker?”
“Gagneau was quiet, mostly. I got along with him not needing to talk. I’ll go awhile myself with nothing to say, then not worry if no one else is talking.”
The little detective nodded. “Maybe that leaves me with only the Russians as a place to start. Searching the city, I might find a track, and then I’ll find him. Maybe after a while of looking.” He frowned. “If I had you out of here, I would show you a puzzle and see if you solved it, or I would use you to pull him in. He’s after you.”
The big man scowled as he listened but then nodded slowly. He could play bait.
* * *
After they drove back into the city over the Triborough, Guthrie and Vasquez ate a late lunch at La Borinqueña. Across the table they held a slow council of war. Gagneau wouldn’t be found easily on a cold trail, no matter how many tracks he left in the city. Their leads were sparse, and the city was full of unknown people. They held two advantages: Gagneau thought he was anonymous, and despite needing a false identity, he had no reason to conceal his face from anyone on the street.
Guthrie and Vasquez drove back to the office on Thirty-fourth Street. The street was clogged with rack runners, and Vasquez had to park down the block. Michelle Tompkins was waiting for them inside the lobby downstairs, clutching a laptop and a textbook. She looked plain, wearing thick-rimmed glasses, a loose T-shirt, and faded old blue jeans with deck shoes.
“Greg said you know who killed Cammie,” she said, hurrying to join them as they climbed the stairs.
“Sure,” Guthrie replied.
While Vasquez unlocked the office door, Tompkins said, “He didn’t seem very enthusiastic, either. Did you really solve the murder, or just find another suspect?”
The little detective let Tompkins come inside and invited her to take a seat. He handed her the picture of Gagneau, then slid out of his suit coat and dropped his fedora onto his desk. The young woman studied the picture but seemed disappointed.
“He’s prettier than Justin Peiper,” she said softly, and set the photo down on Guthrie’s desk. “Can’t we get Greg out of jail?”
“I would if I could. This’s going to be a tough job without help, and needing to move slow enough not to spook him.” He pointed at the photo and paused. “What about you? Maybe you have two million and seven?”
Tompkins flushed, and her eyes dropped. “Not yet,” she said. “In a few years.”
“The trust fund hasn’t opened wide enough yet?” Guthrie asked.
“You shouldn’t be smug about Whitney money,” she said.
“Then we’re stopped, and moving slow,” the little detective said, “unless you think your uncle will do it on what we’ve got.”
The tracery of facts, spoken aloud, seemed as thin as the clouds above Manhattan. While murdered witnesses might prove that someone meant to stifle Guthrie’s search, the remaining witness had chosen a dead man’s picture. Until then, Jeannette Overton had been convincing; afterward, maybe glib but senile. Michelle Tompkins shook her head. The detectives didn’t have enough to convince her uncle, but they did have an avenue left to explore. Th
e material from Arlington hadn’t been cross-checked. Taking the pictures from Alpha to Overton had seemed simpler.
So the detectives began comparing the lists. Guthrie marked blue dots on Vasquez’s map to show home addresses from Alpha. Vasquez continued marking murders. Michelle Tompkins haunted the far end of the office, floating between the windows, where she could watch the traffic and commotion on Thirty-fourth Street, and the office door behind the oxblood couch, where she could trace the reverse of the gold lettering on the frosted glass. Her book and laptop sat unattended on the coffee table.
A direct comparison of the lists provided no connections. The soldiers from Task Force 1127 were all men; the victims of Agent Rackers’s signature were all women. Given time to read and mark the map, the addresses began to align in a rough approximation with the locations of the murders. The detectives enjoyed a few minutes of mounting excitement before Tompkins padded over from the windows.
“If you had two random samples of men and women in America,” she said, “it might end up looking the same.” She studied the map. “Lots of people live in Chicago. So you have two soldiers and two victims from Chicago. That’s an easy coincidence. You could make an argument about that pair in Iowa, though.”
Guthrie shrugged. “Good thing we had someone here with a college education,” he muttered. “We ain’t got time to go out to Iowa and dig through that. Not right now. It’s time to get on the telephones.”
He split the list of military records, calling attention to the contact numbers for next of kin. The cold calls would begin with a line of chatter about a survey. They wanted deaths in the last eighteen months, corresponding with the list Rackers had provided. Guthrie fashioned an officious pitch for a Veterans Administration survey, and then they practiced the chatter for a few minutes to smooth out kinks.
The task force list contained over four hundred names. Unanswered rings and quick hangups outnumbered conversations, but in four hours they dredged up a hundred names, finding thirty-two deaths. Six dead men they set aside. Twenty-six mothers, sisters, daughters, wives, girlfriends, and nieces were dead from car accidents, fatal robberies, drunken falls, overdoses, and other morbid circumstances, both unexpected and expected; including one elderly woman who died of cancer, and one infant girl who choked to death at night on a toy rattle that wasn’t supposed to be in her crib. None appeared to be victims of deliberate murder.