The Informers (The Stringers Book 2)

by TJ Martinell

  “You know exactly what the hell I’m referring to,” I replied harshly. “Stop playing stupid.”

  Casey sighed. Jean seemed wholly uninterested in our conversation.

  “Your agency just killed a lot of people for no reason,” I said.

  “I didn’t hear about it.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “Roy, I am not a drone operator. I am a senior officer supervising our office. Officers like myself are not informed about drone strikes, when they are conducted, and against whom.”

  “Doesn’t that bother you?” I asked.

  He said nothing and drank more coffee. I couldn’t tell if it was indifference or fatigue. Meanwhile, Jean kept eating.

  “You need to start leveling with me,” I said to him. “I could have been killed. And there was no reason for it.”

  Casey shook his head and laughed softly. “You look at it from your perspective. You saw a horrendous act committed by the ISA against innocent people. I’m saying that this was not the perspective of the ISA senior supervisor who authorized the strike.”

  “Then what the hell kind of perspective could it have been?”

  “Pike Place Market is a notorious hotbed of criminal activity. Everything from narcotics to gun smuggling to sex trafficking occurs there. Where do you think all the whores at those brothel hotels come from? You may not see the auction blocks, but they’re no different from the slavery auctions they used to have in this country before a war eradicated that filth from the land.”

  He paused, saw the fury in my eyes.

  “I did not know about it, but I’m not a fool, either,” he said. “Sooner or later harsh methods must be employed. This is why I warned you the other day. My supervisors are getting impatient. They want results. I have pleaded with them to wait.”

  “You didn’t warn me.”

  “You didn’t come here just to discuss that, did you?” Casey asked. “You know that is not my department.”

  “You can find out why they did it,” I said.

  Casey sighed, but nodded.

  “And can I expect a little assistance from your end?” he inquired.

  “How about a little tip about an undercover ISA officer selling newspapers?”

  Casey’s eyes brightened and his face revitalized as he straightened up.

  “Do tell,” he said.

  “Guy’s an undercover officer, but double dips, if you know what I mean.”

  “Anything else?”

  “That’s it,” I said, unwilling to disclose his exact identity. “But there can’t be too many of them in Seattle.”

  Casey put on his Prizm for a moment to get the details down and then took it off, smiling.

  “I’ll look into it,” he said. “That should be promising.”

  “Also, I have another question to ask you.”

  “Alright.”

  “I think there is someone in my newspaper who is working undercover…for you…”

  Casey’s face was deadpan. “Oh.”

  “Know who it might be?”

  “Roy, I’m saying this for your own good,” he said in his trademark patronizing tone. “You need to get what you can from that newspaper and get out of there. Soon. Very soon. You can’t wait long. Gather enough information to give to me so I can have that pardon arranged.”

  I peered at him, noticing the distress in his voice. “What are you going to do?”

  “Don’t try to make this out to be about us.”

  “It is about us.”

  “I want you to be here, accepting a pardon and waiting for your father to be released from our custody,” he said. He tapped the table solemnly. “This is not your fight, Roy.”

  “It wasn’t. But it has become mine. Those people who were killed yesterday were my people.”

  “No, they were not your people,” Casey said. “You are not one of…” he looked at Jean for a moment, then turned back to me. “Like them. They aren’t like us.”

  “How so?”

  “They aren’t….oh, how shall I put it? They aren’t people like you and I. They are humans, I suppose, and they have the capacity to be like us. But they lack the will, the consciousness, to do so. They do not have the sensibility, the civilized nature we possess. They treat one another like animals and tear each other to pieces and start a scrap over gang territories and shoot up neighborhoods because they got offended over the actions of one person. They do not respect the rule of law, the obedience to authority. They simply do whatever they please. You know this. You have spent time among them.”

  For some reason, we both looked at Jean. She stopped eating, eyed the two of us, and then replied in an acrimonious voice.

  “You are a hypocrite,” she said to Casey. “My father spoke of people like you. He said you were worse than those who do the same thing but at least are honest about it.”

  Casey stared at her, blinking rapid. He clenched his fist and was about to begin a long political sermon when I placed a restraining hand on him and got him to sit back in his seat. None of the other patrons witnessed his short outburst. Checking the time, I decided it was time to leave. Casey had given me what I wanted, and it was clear if given the time Jean would cause a scene. As I gathered my coat I noticed Casey giving Jean a cruel look, his mouth curled resentfully. Jean had walked away from the booth and waited for me at the front of the restaurant, tapping her foot impatiently.

  Casey grabbed my arm and squeezed it to the point of pain. He pulled me close to him and whispered. His eyes were still fixed on Jean.

  “I would not trust her,” he said.

  I looked back at Jean. She had her hands at her sides and her foot was still tapping the ground.

  “Why do you think that?” I asked.

  “You need to get out of there,” he pleaded. “If you don’t I can’t help you. And I know the girl won’t go with you. She’s one of them. She will stay. And she will tell you to stay. Whatever use you have for her, you can’t let her interfere.”

  “Interfere with what?”

  “With our plan.”

  He still wouldn’t let the charade go.

  “We will have to celebrate when you come back,” he said. “You can come over for dinner.”

  I muttered a farewell and joined Jean. As we walked with a crowd across the street she violently clutched my hand and when we had reached the other side her grip softened but her lips quivered. I asked her what was wrong. She placed her head against my side and murmured that she wanted to get away from it all. Like a flaw in a voice recording she kept repeating it again and again until we turned off the sidewalk and into large parking lot. Off in the corner there were no cars and we sat down. I tried to lift her chin to look her in the eye, but she turned her head away and hugged herself.

  “I need a moment,” she said. “I am not used to so many people like this.”

  “Yes, you have.”

  “When I have been around this many people there was more space. There is no space in this city. There is no room. Do you agree?”

  “Yes,” I said, looking around at the streets surrounding the lot. “I didn’t notice it when I lived here. Now it’s quite noticeable.”

  “Have you ever been to a farm?” she asked.

  “Not really. Not a real one. I’ve seen them from the road.”

  She closed her eyes. “I have never seen a farm. I have heard about farms. I have seen pictures. I heard they are very beautiful. They say there is a lot of space. Horses can go where they want. The land is big and large. People have told me you feel free. Is this true?”

  “I wouldn’t romanticize it. Farms can smell bad. They have lots of manure, mud, that sort of thing. It isn’t idyllic. Why do you ask?”

  “I would have liked to have grown up on a farm,” she said. “I grew up in an apartment. It was very small. My brothers and sisters had to share beds. I had to share a bed. We could not be in the room by ourselves. There was always
someone in there with us. I was never alone before I was put in the cell. I was alone in there for a long time. I think it is not the same kind of loneliness as being on a farm or a lot of land. You are free when you are on lots of land. When you are alone in a place you do not want to be, you are not free. It is different.”

  “But you have to pay taxes to keep the land. You never really own it.”

  Jean laughed. “I knew you would say that.”

  “I can’t help it.”

  The sky was grown dark and the clouds hinted at rain, but she acted as if it were a beautiful day as she took my hand.

  “Where are we going now?” she asked.

  “To another appointment. With another contact.”

  She stopped and looked at me. “You think he is the undercover officer your friend mentioned?”

  I looked and her, a small smile appearing. “You listened to our conversation, then?”

  “Why would I not listen to the conversation?”

  “You didn’t seem interested.”

  “I did not seem interested,” she said. “I was interested. It is not my fault you thought I was not interested.”

  “I’ll remember that next time.”

  ***

  O’Donnell’s waiting room was empty. The ordinary sound of high powered drills in the service garage was noticeably missing.

  I checked the service garage. No one. I came back to the counter and told Jean to sit by the fireplace and have her gun ready. She took the rifle, folded the stock so that she could keep it close to her chest, and placed it in her coat.

  I noticed the bell sitting on the counter and rang it several times. Seconds later the manager came in from a back room wiping his hands with a distracted look. He froze when he recognized me.

  “Where is he?” I asked.

  “The hell if I know. I’m not his personal assistant.”

  “You know how to get a hold of him.”

  The manager held his hand up protectively. “Look, if he wanted to talk to you he’d let me know so I could arrange things here. He hasn’t called me.”

  “Well, I’m making the arrangements this time. Tell him it’s an emergency.”

  The manager spotted Jean sitting in the back. His smile suggested he mistook her for another customer.

  “Did you have an appointment with us?” he asked.

  “He is here to make an appointment of us,” she replied, pointing at me.

  The manager looked at me again, his eyes shifting away from me and towards his office as he mulled over the decision. He finally entered his office, and his quiet voice hinted of distress as he spoke on the phone. He remerged with a sweaty forehead and wiped it with an oiled-stained towel.

  “Whatever he says or does, I’m not having any part of it,” he said.

  “Then why do it at all?”

  “None of your business.”

  He went back into the service garage. I approached Jean and brought her over to the front door.

  “You’re going to wait outside,” I said. “Stand somewhere so you can see the entrance but not be seen. When my ‘friend’ arrives, come near the door. I will call for you when I’m ready, so stand where you will be able to hear me. As you come inside, find some way to bolt the door and switch the sign from open to closed and lower all the window shudders so no one else will come in. I won’t ask the manager for the keys because I know he won’t. If he is content to stay out of this, fine.”

  “Then what do we do with this man you want to meet?” she asked.

  “We’re going get what we need out of him. Then, when we have accomplished that, we’re taking him with us back to Seattle. When we get there, we’re going to let McCullen’s people deal with him.”

  Jean gave me a peculiar look. “You want to kill him. But you do not want to kill him with your own hand. You want to give him to someone else who does not feel anything when they kill him.”

  “I think that would be best, don’t you?”

  She stared at me and then out the window as though searching for a place to stand and watch. She then nodded and headed for the door.

  I picked a seat in the chair by the fireplace where I normally sat. I checked my watch several times and tapped my hand against the chair’s arm as I took out my small .32 caliber revolver and slid it into my coat sleeve where it fit snugly against my hand. If things escalated I would be prepared to defend myself. I doubted my contact was anticipating my move, but I was not willing to leave it to chance.

  The front door opened. Feet shuffled across the floor, paused, then moved towards the fireplace. A person settled into a chair on the other side of me. With the sun blocked behind a cloud, the shadow was a faint outline. One leg crossed over the other.

  “This is most abrupt,” he said.

  The raspy voice was ever so clear.

  “Sorry, couldn’t be helped,” I said.

  “Something come up?”

  I leaned towards him, smiling with amusement.

  “Why are you helping me? I’m not paying you. You’re not getting reimbursed for your trouble. At least by me. This means someone else must be compensating you.”

  I could feel the man’s unruffled state as he breathed laboriously.

  “Do I detect an accusation?” he asked. “If so, I wish you would be more direct.”

  My revolver slipped smoothly out from my coat and into my hand. My fingers naturally found their grip. Pulling the hammer back, I took a deep breath. I stood up from my chair deliberately, preparing myself.

  I leapt around the fireplace, training the revolver on the man.

  My blood stilled. The revolver nearly slipped out of my hand as my arm fell limp.

  With precision in his gaze and a warm smile on his face, ISA Deputy Director Cutman looked at me without a trace of alarm or fear. His hand rested on the knee to his weak leg, the leg my father had left permanently disabled after a fateful encounter.

  As I studied him I realized he had taken no measures to conceal himself. His nondescript suit neither attracted attention nor deflected it. He had no mask or prosthetics to hide his facial features. Every time we had met he had come in and left as though it were an ordinary day at work.

  “Hello, Roy,” he said. “It’s nice to finally speak to you directly for a change.”

  Jean stormed into the place and closed the door, jamming the handle. She brought her rifle up at Cutman. He turned to her and smiled. She looked to me for guidance and all I could do was offer a bewildered expression. She slowly lowered the rifle and approached him.

  “Are you a friend?” she asked.

  “That depends on what you consider to be a friend,” he said.

  Jean again wordlessly asked for my advice. I was still recovering as I approached him, observing he had no Prizm. I somehow knew there was no hidden raiding party waiting for the proper signal.

  The manager, hearing the commotion, peered through the door from the service garage. Cutman reassured him everything was fine. I couldn’t see the Cutman I saw at that moment as the same one who had led the raid into our house, nor the man who had attempted to turn me against my father in order to save my own skin.

  “What is going on?” Jean asked.

  Cutman introduced himself like an aged country gentleman as he labored to get up and hobbled over to her. She withheld a response, except for the small twitch in her hand as she held it over the trigger guard on her rifle.

  She looked back at the door warily, to which Cutman laughed.

  “There are no officers hiding here, I can assure you,” he said.

  “How can we trust you?” I asked.

  “In any event, none will arrive. Whether you trust me or not does not make any difference.”

  Cutman went over to the coffee machine and filled three cups. Adding cream, he brought them over to the counter near the fireplace, gesturing for us to join him. Jean surveyed the windows vigilantly as she climbed onto the
stool and sat with Cutman between us. He sipped on his coffee and kept smiling.

  “Won’t they miss you at the office?” I asked.

  “One of the many perks of being the deputy director is that you get to make your own schedule,” he replied. “Right now, I’m scheduled to have a haircut by my favorite barber.”

  I set my coffee down, becoming less astonished and more fascinated with each passing second. He talked just as he had before, when I had last spoken to him incognito. That conspicuous touch of mirth in his tone remained. Knowing who he was now, however, brought a great deal of irony as well.

  “Alright, enough small talk,” I said. “What’s going on?”

  “I’m helping you.”

  “Yeah. Why?”

  “You are a strange young man,” Cutman said.

  “You’re not exactly normal, either.”

  “You’re right. I’m not. It’s how I got here.”

  “Do enlighten me.”

  Cutman held his cane close to his chest. He swallowed nosily and cleared his throat, his eyes fixed abstractly on the wall. Wherever his short meditation took him, he broke away from it with a somber expression.

  “You are expecting to hear something that make sense of things you don’t understand. But I know in advance you will not appreciate it.”

  “Let me be the judge of that,” I said.

  Cutman chuckled and coughed, rubbing his leg. He looked up at the ceiling and sighed in sober reflection. He then slowly started to shake his head as if defeated by another person within himself.

  “No,” he said. “You wouldn’t understand. You wouldn’t understand because you weren’t there. It’s easy to discern between good and evil when you have the luxury of looking back on some event decades after it happened. It’s not so simple when you’re trying to make decisions as it happens.”

  “I work for a newspaper,” I said. “I think I know a little about that.”

  “Then you realize we’re not all depraved and neither are your comrades all saints?”

  I wouldn’t answer. I had no idea the argument he wished to make, but I was still unsettled, still acclimating to standing so close to him. His authority weighed heavily in the room, in his voice and in his upright posture. It was a conversation meant for two confidants, yet it had the tension of an interrogation. He was also moving away from what mattered, what I wanted to know.