The man he answered to was standing near the track with his hands in his coat pockets. His name was Dexter Troy. He was forty years old. A tall man, wide in the shoulders and narrow of waist.
Dexter Troy panned the area, west to east. He rested his eyes on the east, imagining a Union Pacific steam train coming into the station. Part of him wished they were bringing John Reese on such a train. Bound by chains, guarded by Pinkerton detectives. They would take him off the train and put him in a cell and take him out to the gallows in the morning. Hanging would be a better death for a traitor. Let the public see what happens to such a man. Better that than doing it in secret, burying him in the woods.
Like a lot of veterans of Special Operations Command (SOCOM), Troy had heard about John Reese. Reese was a veteran of the army and the CIA and the Cold War. A man from another time, another era. Younger men, men like Clu, would find Reese a curious, perhaps even pathetic, figure. They would find it difficult to believe that he had once controlled fortunes. When it slips away, Troy thought, it really slips away.
Troy’s cell phone rang and he answered it.
“Yeah.”
“Dex,” a voice said. It was Clu, the team leader of this mission, second in command. From his tone, Troy knew he had bad news. He did.
Clu said, “He escaped.”
Troy closed his eyes, opened them. “Explain.”
“He jumped out of the car while it was moving. Pulled Cody out with him.”
“Cody?”
“He’s got a concussion and his arm is broken. But he’s alive.”
From his place on the bench, the young man watched and listened as Dexter Troy sighed.
Troy said, “And what about the quarry?” He was hoping that he, too, had died in the fall.
Clu said, “He ran into the woods. We’re still looking.”
“Well, keep looking, you idiot. It’ll be daylight soon.” Troy said. “Have you reported this to anyone?”
“Negative.”
“Good. I’ll contact you later.”
Dexter Troy clicked off the phone. Resumed his stare on the eastern sky.
The younger man walked up to him and said, “What have we got?”
“A manhunt,” Troy said.
Reese continued south. He moved, but he had stopped running, because he knew after a time that it was not necessary and that it would be bad if he just ran himself to exhaustion. Running was panic. He moved at what he considered a quick walk.
He had gone through survival school at Fort Benning thirty years before. They had trained him then to survive in different environments and to learn about where you were going. How to find food and water, how to travel through different kinds of terrain, how to doctor yourself. They had instructed him specifically that rest could be more valuable than speed.
He had jumped from a vehicle that had been moving at a higher speed than he would have liked. He had tucked and he had rolled and he had used a man as a cushion, but his feet had hit the ground and then he’d tumbled and flown without control. He had maintained consciousness and, probably through sheer luck, not broken any bones. But when he put some distance between himself and his pursuers, he felt the pain from his head to his fingertips and he knew his legs and hips would be bruised purple and yellow by morning. Along with the bruises to his ribs.
But he was alive and he was free. But now men were coming after him, and if they were mercenaries, they might have night-vision goggles and high-powered rifles that could take you down at eight hundred yards. Yeah, rest was more valuable than speed. Particularly after you’d had to jump from a moving vehicle. But men were coming after him. And if they were as well financed as they looked, they might get a helicopter, using searchlights and body-heat sensors. He had to keep moving.
God, it was cold, though. He had only the clothes they had given him and a windbreaker, which had torn at the sleeve when he hit the ground. No gloves, no thermal underclothing, no hat. The instructors at Fort Benning had told him and the others at Ranger School that cold lowers your efficiency, decreases your ability to think. Moreover, it could mess up your perspective. Too much cold and all your thoughts would begin to focus on getting warm. Everything else would be secondary.
He should stop and build a fire. Like the man in that Jack London story. To build a fire. And live. Except that the fire and life would not be extinguished by snow falling off a branch, but by a sharpshooter crouching in the brush.
Reese looked east. He estimated he had about an hour and a half of night left. The sun would rise and he would be exposed to daylight. Visibility was more of a threat to him than cold. When the sun rose, he would have to find a place to hide and rest. That would be the proper thing to do. The thing he had been trained to do. But instinct told him to get as much distance as possible.
Forty minutes passed, and he saw lights in the distance. Then he heard the faint sounds of traffic. A truck’s exhaust. Music. Who would have thought he’d ever be glad to hear such a thing?
Another thirty minutes brought him to a truck stop. Before the sun came up, he was in the back of a semitrailer, sharing hay and shit with around thirty head of cattle. He placed himself in a corner and covered himself with hay. He was asleep when the truck moved back on the highway.
TWO
The day after the mistrial, Howard Rhodes was called to Capt. Karen Brady’s office. Hastings went with him. Lt. George Hastings was Rhodes’s supervisor and had been so for two years. Rhodes was in his early thirties, tall and handsome. He had a bit of a regal bearing and he was faintly aware of it. He was the only black detective on Hastings’s squad.
When they arrived at the captain’s office, Karen Brady widened her eyes in surprise. She had not expected Hastings to come with Rhodes. In her mind, the issue did not concern Hastings, and she had hoped to be able to deal with Rhodes alone.
Hastings said, “Karen,” acknowledging her with a politeness and respect that was due her rank, if not her person, but letting her know at the same time he was there.
George Hastings had always had a tenuous relationship with Karen Brady. He believed he had nothing personal against her. He did not consider her a bad person. But he knew she had never been more than a mediocre detective. She was not good with people, whether they were from the street or cops.
Now she said, “Close the door.” Using an order tone, probably trying to get something back on Hastings now.
Hastings closed it, and that was when he noticed that Deputy Chief Fenton Murray was also with them. Well, well, well. The morning was full of surprises.
The deputy chief and the detectives greeted one another. Karen motioned for the detectives to take seats. They did, and then they were on opposite sides of the captain’s desk, the brass facing members of the homicide squad.
Hastings did not exactly trust Fenton Murray. To begin with, Murray had never worked as a detective. His entire career had been either in patrol or administration. Homicide detectives have a reputation for being snobbish and elitist, and that reputation is, to a large extent, deserved. But detective or no, Murray was no dummy. Murray was also an African-American. He was wily and cunning, as most men are who have the ambition to be chief. People who had worked with him years earlier had said he was a good, conscientious police officer, but they knew he wanted to be at the top. Or near it. He was an able, intelligent man and he not achieved his rank by luck or circumstance. But for all that, Murray was quietly threatened by homicide detectives who believed they might be smarter than he was, and he was not above the occasional power play to keep them in place.
Now Murray said, “So what happened yesterday?”
Rhodes looked briefly at Hastings. Hastings nodded and then Rhodes told them about it.
Rhodes said, “I got into the courtroom and took the stand. They swore me in and the prosecutor, Ms. Delaney, conducted her direct examination. She went through the intro—my rank, how many years I’ve been a detective, and all that. Then she asked me about the night of the Ocho
a murder. We went through it slowly and then at one point she asked me about the search of the Medeiros residence—”
“Medeiros?” Murray said.
“Yes, sir. Eloise Medeiros. That’s the name of Cavazos’s girlfriend.”
“Okay. Continue.”
“And I said, at some point, I testified that we knew she had been associated with the Furia gang. La Furia. And then I told her how we knew about Cavazos’s role in that. And that was when the defense attorney objected.”
Murray said, “Why?”
“Well,” Rhodes said, “at first I thought it was a hearsay objection. I had been told about Cavazos’s prior threat from a friend of mine at narcotics. In fact, I was sort of ready for that. But that wasn’t what it was. It wasn’t a hearsay objection. The defense attorney objected and approached the bench.”
“Where were you when this happened?”
“I was still on the stand. They didn’t excuse me.”
“So you could hear what they were saying?”
“Yes, sir. They were whispering so the jury wouldn’t hear them. But I could hear.”
“And what did you hear?”
Hastings said to the deputy chief, “You know what he heard.”
Murray raised a hand to Hastings, shushing him and keeping his attention focused on Rhodes. “What did you hear?”
Rhodes said, “I heard the defense lawyer say we had violated the order in limine, you know, the pretrial order, that the judge had previously granted. We weren’t supposed to bring up Cavazos’s gang association or his previous threat to Ochoa—he was the murder victim—over dealer’s territory.”
Captain Brady said, “Then why did you?”
Rhodes said, “I didn’t know about the judge’s order.”
Murray said, “The prosecutor didn’t tell you?”
“No, sir. No one told me.”
Murray shook his head, and that gesture alone almost made Hastings lose his temper. It was unspoken, but it was a clear sign that he did not believe what Rhodes had said. Murray said, “That’s not what she says.”
Then Hastings spoke.
He said, “How do you know? Did you speak to her about it?”
Deputy Chief Murray finally acknowledged Hastings. His expression was angry. Murray said, “I spoke with someone about it.”
“Who?”
Murray gave him a look that told him he’d better watch his step.
Hastings said, “Was it Jaffe?”
Herb Jaffe was the district attorney.
Hastings said, “Or was it the chief?”
Murray said, “That’s not important.”
“Well, it certainly is,” Hastings said. “The issue here is whether or not Detective Rhodes was advised about the order in limine before testifying. He says he wasn’t. You tell me the prosecutor says he was. Well, I’ve discussed this with Detective Rhodes and he’s told me he was not advised.”
“And you believe him.”
“I do.”
“Lieutenant, I can appreciate your loyalty to your man,” Murray said, “but what I’m dealing with—”
“I know what you’re dealing with. A district attorney who’s angry and embarrassed and looking for a scapegoat. If there’s a question about who’s telling the truth here and who’s trying to cover up their own mistake, I think it’s just as likely it was Ms. Delaney as it was Rhodes.”
“So what, then?” Murray said. “Marla Delaney’s lying?”
Hastings said, “I’m not trying to call anybody a liar. I’m just suggesting that—”
“That Marla Delaney is lying about this. There’s no way around it, Lieutenant. Say it or don’t.”
“It’s possible she’s mistaken,” Hastings said. “Why don’t we put it that way, if it’ll make Mr. Jaffe happy? All I know is, Howard is not lying.”
Captain Brady and the deputy chief gave Hastings their serious looks. Feeling comfortable and strong with their authority.
Hastings said, “Look, in an administrative investigation, you have the authority to request that Howard take a polygraph examination. He’s willing to do that. And prove to you that he’s telling the truth.”
Murray smiled and seemed to suppress a chuckle, like it was a juvenile idea. He said, “That’s not going to fix this. What are we supposed to do if he passes? Ask Marla Delaney to take a polygraph?”
“That shouldn’t be necessary.”
Rhodes said, “Sir, I don’t mind taking a polygraph. Whether or not she does.”
Murray gave Rhodes a sharp glance. Now he felt Rhodes was beginning to work with Hastings, boxing him in. His irritation showed, and when he spoke again, he went on the offense.
Murray said, “I must say I find your attitudes very … disappointing. The defendant, Gregorio Cavazos, was a vicious gang leader and murderer. A very bad man and a serious menace to this community. The city of St. Louis would have done well to get him off the streets and into prison. Yesterday, the district attorney’s office was very close to securing a conviction against Cavazos for murder in the first degree. And then Detective Rhodes got on the stand and blew it clean out of the water. The defendant’s motion for mistrial was granted, and now Cavazos walks. He’s a free man. And you two come in here concerned about blemishes on a career. I expected better.”
“So did we,” Hastings said.
The deputy chief caught Hastings’s meaning. He lowered his voice to a warning tone and said, “Excuse me?”
Hastings said, “Sir, we’re sorry that Cavazos was freed. But it is not the detective’s fault. He was not advised of the order in limine. Ms. Delaney probably just forgot to do it. You know how overworked the prosecutors are. But that doesn’t mean we should stand by and let one of my people take the rap for it.”
“Do you have any idea how angry Herb Jaffe is?” Murray said. “The dismissal has been on the news. This is very, very embarrassing to him and to his office. He wants action.”
A moment passed and Hastings said, “You mean he wants this man fired?”
Karen Brady and the deputy chief exchanged looks.
Murray said, “That’s not going to happen. But we do need to do something.”
Hastings said, “You mean you’re actually considering formal discipline?”
Murray didn’t answer him. Neither did Captain Brady.
“Are you serious?” Hastings said.
“George—” Murray said.
“Now wait a minute,” Hastings said. “The district attorney’s office screws up, and instead of admitting it, they’re going to blame it on a cop. A black cop. And you’re allowing this?”
Murray said, his voice almost a shout, “What the hell does his being black have to do with anything?”
Hastings said, “It shouldn’t have anything to do with it.”
“Sir—” Rhodes said, suddenly very uncomfortable.
Murray continued staring at Hastings. He was as angry as Hastings had ever seen him.
“Are you implying, Lieutenant, that Herb Jaffe is a racist?” Murray said. “Are you suggesting that I would be complicit in such a thing?”
“I’m suggesting, sir, respectfully, that certain people at the district attorney’s office may be cynical enough to believe that a prosecutor should be believed over a … detective who doesn’t have the kind of clout others in the department do.”
Captain Brady looked down at her desk. Rhodes looked at Hastings. Hastings looked back at Murray. Murray glared at Hastings.
“Lieutenant,” Murray said, “I’m going to give you a chance to retract that.”
An awful silence filled the room. Moments ticked by.
Then Hastings said, “I’ll retract it, sir. If you will agree not to issue any discipline to Detective Rhodes.”
The deputy chief tightened, and for a moment both Rhodes and Karen Brady wondered if he was going to rush Hastings. But he didn’t.
The deputy chief said, “This meeting is adjourned. Get out, both of you.”
THREE<
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He rubbed the wrist bindings on a sharp rail in the cattle truck. He was patient and thorough, and eventually the friction got them off.
The cattle truck got him to Chicago. He took this as a good sign. It was a big city, easy to hide in, easy to steal from. He had thought about stealing a car at the truck stop. It would have been warmer and more comfortable than the back of a truck. But he knew the theft would be reported and he would probably have been caught. North Dakota was too wide and open—not enough cover. It was better to hide among crowds.
In Chicago, Reese made his way to Marshall Field’s and bumped into a man coming off the elevator. Reese said he was sorry and the man said that was okay and Reese moved off. The man was not aware that his wallet had been taken until he tried to pay for dinner later that evening. By then, Reese had bought a change of clothes and a decent meal.
The meal, he had at an old German restaurant on State Street he had always liked. He ordered the veal and fried potatoes. Accompanied with two bottles of Bass ale. Twelve years since he had enjoyed a good meal, and it was so good, it was almost worth waiting for. Reese knew something about war and combat and he knew that men in battle reminisced more about good food than they did women.
Afterward, he caught sight of himself in a bathroom mirror and stopped and looked at his reflection. It took him aback. A man looking back at him: thin, with short blond hair, graying at the temples. Himself, but someone else. Or maybe he had been someone else before and now he was himself again. Wearing corduroy pants that fit, a crew-neck sweater, and an oxford shirt beneath. A white-collar fellow, an urban professional. To most, an entirely nonthreatening figure. He could be a college professor or a doctor. Was this him? Had a good meal and decent clothes given him a rebirth?
No, it hadn’t.
Reese left the restaurant and walked north. It was a cold, blue-sky Chicago day. The air clean and crisp, the architecture a welcome sight. Reese enjoyed the walk, letting the day and the sights unfold for him. What a pleasure it was to walk outside of a prison’s dog run, a street stretching out long and far, no wall at the end of it. A few blocks of walking and he was no longer cold. He continued for another mile and a half and then he was in a residential area. Tall marbled condominiums and apartment buildings. He saw a city truck pull an old Chevy van out—sideways—from a parking space so it could be towed away. He enjoyed the sight and sound of the friction of the tires dragging across the pavement. Near the tow truck, a woman walking her poodle smiled at him and said, “It’s been there for weeks.” Letting him know the owner of the van had it coming. Reese smiled back, showing friendly agreement. The woman was looking at his clothes and his appearance as if he were a neighbor.
The Silent Places Page 2