Wrong Town: A Mark Landry Novel

by Miller, Randall H

“What are you doing, right now?” Frank asked.

  “What does it look like I’m doing? I’m working my ass off here. Why? You need some help?”

  “I’ll be out of your hair quicker if you write down the serial numbers as I read them off. I’ll owe you a beer. What do you say? Can you help an old friend on his way out of the agency?”

  “Forget the beer. You getting out of my hair and the agency are reward enough.”

  Frank waited patiently as his longtime colleague slowly wobbled his way down the aisle.

  “Here they are. Right where I said.”

  He unlocked the secured crates and stood ready with a notepad and pencil. Frank picked up the first AK-47, pulled the bolt to the rear to verify that it was unloaded, and read the serial number out loud.

  “Slow down, Frank. These sausage fingers don’t work so well these days.”

  Most of Frank’s patience was used up before he got through the serial number from the final AK-47.

  “Okay, that’s it for the Kalashnikovs. Where are the Sigs?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “What do you mean, you don’t know?” Frank asked.

  “They’re not here.”

  “What do you mean, they’re not here? Where the fuck are they?”

  “No idea. Not my job to keep track once they leave my facility.”

  “When did they leave your facility?” asked Frank in an increasingly annoyed tone.

  “A few days ago.”

  “Are you going to tell me why and how, or are we going to play twenty fucking questions?”

  The fat man sat down on top of an evidence crate and paused briefly before answering.

  “I’m not supposed to say anything to anyone about it. But our fearless leader Ashton Brown and his right nut, Special Agent Stevenson, came in here a few days ago and took the Sigs. When I asked why, Stevenson started saying something about a sting operation. Mr. Ivy League cut him off and told me in no uncertain terms it was not my concern. Which is true. My job is to check shit in and out. So I checked them out and haven’t thought about it since.”

  Frank rubbed his wrists and cracked his knuckles.

  What the fuck do they need those for? What sting operation?

  “Look, Frank. Seriously, don’t let anyone know I told you that. You’ve got only a few weeks left, but some of us still have a few years until retirement.”

  Frank thought silently for a few moments. Then he leaned down and patted his colleague’s large potbelly.

  “Don’t sweat it, Bob. It ain’t my problem either. Thanks for the help. I’ll let myself out.”

  Forty-nine

  Amir drove south on I-89 with the cruise control set at seventy miles per hour. Events at the border crossing had been uneventful, and he had stopped in Burlington, Vermont, to fuel up and eat gas-station food while three young college girls in a black minivan took turns flirting in his direction.

  The long drive had given Amir much time for thinking. He reflected on his faithless upbringing and typical childhood in Toronto. He reflected with disgust on the Sodom and Gomorrah of college life that he had inhaled with open mouth and nostrils—and for what? Emptiness. He smiled as he recalled with glee the moment he had first recited the Shahada, declaring that there is only one true God and that Muhammad is his prophet. In that very instant life began in earnest.

  He glanced at the clock on the dusty dashboard of his rental car.

  Just a few more hours.

  Soon he would be introduced to his holy brothers—the chosen few with whom he would make history.

  Fifty

  Yasir turned off his bedroom light, opened the door a few inches, and quietly watched his uncle from the darkness.

  Ghassan stood in front of the fireplace of his small cabin with a .357 revolver in one hand and a handful of rounds in the other. He released the cylinder and loaded five hollow-point bullets, one by one. When he had finished, he spun the cylinder with a chunky finger and returned it to the locked position with a lightning-fast flick of his thick wrist.

  Yasir’s eyes grew wide with surprise at the unexpected sight.

  The aging Lebanese man then placed the gun behind the framed picture of his late wife that sat on the mantle. He paused for a few seconds to admire her beauty and to reflect quietly on the decades of joy they had shared together, and on the evil that had ripped them apart.

  When the doctors had told him the end was near, he had refused to believe it. He doubled his prayers and demanded of Jesus Christ and his Father to prove their supremacy by saving the most caring, generous person he had ever known. But the harder he prayed, the faster she deteriorated.

  The faithful husband whispered loving reminders to her throughout the night from his bedside perch before finally succumbing to the mental and physical exhaustion of wrestling with God. He awoke clutching her cold, lifeless hand.

  Morning church bells had mocked him from outside the hospital window as a slovenly priest arrived too late for the sacrament of last rites. Desperate to save her soul, he found a local imam in the nondenominational chapel, dragged him to her room by his collar, and insisted that he perform the Salat al-Janazah.

  “But this is not the way it is done,” the imam pleaded.

  “Do it now or yours will be next,” threatened the furious widower.

  The world was much less beautiful without her, and a little piece of his soul continued to die with each passing day.

  We will soon be reunited in paradise, my love. My time is coming.

  “Are you okay, Ammu?”

  Ghassan spun around quickly to find Yasir standing directly behind him.

  “I’m fine, Yasir!” he exclaimed with a hand over his heart. “And don’t sneak up on me like that again or you may get hurt.”

  Yasir stared back with a curious expression on his face.

  “Would you ever hurt me, Ammu?”

  His uncle walked slowly to the kitchen and sipped from the glass of bourbon he had left on the counter. After catching his breath, he turned and spoke to the young man in a soft voice.

  “Of course not, Yasir. You are my family and I would never hurt you. It’s not you—it’s me. I’m ready for my vacation.”

  “That’s a good idea. You deserve a vacation, Ammu. When and where do you think you will go?” he asked with a warm smile.

  Ghassan started to speak but stopped himself. Instead, he drank the remaining bourbon in his glass before answering.

  “Yasir, I have already told you many times that I will be in New York City over the Fourth of July holiday and you will be in charge of the restaurant. Do you listen to anything I say? Can you be trusted, or do I need to cancel my vacation?”

  “No, no, no. Do not cancel your vacation. I remember now and I can be trusted. I will make you proud when you are gone, Ammu.”

  “I do not want you to make me proud. I just want you to keep the restaurant open for my customers. It is not rocket science, Yasir.”

  “I do not understand. What do you mean by rocket—”

  “Never mind. I’m going to sleep, Yasir. Good night,” he said on the way to his bedroom.

  Try not to screw things up too badly while I’m gone.

  Yasir returned to his room, turned on his tablet, and scrolled through the only tangible remembrance he had left of his family: less than a dozen digital photos. He held back the tears until he got to the picture of his sisters that he had taken just before the fighting spilled over the Iraqi border into Syria. Tears streamed down his face and he kissed the screen repeatedly.

  I am so sorry I was not there to protect you, my angels! Wherever you are and whatever they have done to you, do not lose hope! I am doing all I can to bring you home to me. With God’s help I will see you both soon. I promise. Very soon.

  Fifty-one

  Luci parked her cruiser in front of Main Street Tailor and Fashion Accessories and retrieved her camera from the trunk. The graffiti itself was the same but smaller this time, and it was painted
on the large bay window instead of on a wall. The owner waved from inside and motioned for her to come in.

  “Good morning,” Luci said with a warm smile. “I’m sorry you have to go through this today. But thanks for leaving it up until I could get a look at it. I promise you we’re doing all we can to solve this issue.”

  “Maybe this will help,” said the owner, holding up a small thumb drive.

  “What’s that?”

  “Footage from the inside security camera at the back of the shop. There’s no audio and it’s a little fuzzy, so I don’t know how much it’ll help. But the time stamp is accurate—2:48 a.m.”

  Luci’s smile widened as she extended her hand to receive the gift.

  “May I take that with me?”

  Twenty minutes later she sat excitedly in front of her monitors with a fresh cup of coffee.

  Showtime!

  Fifty-two

  Mark was replacing shingles on the roof when his cell phone rang. He planned on ignoring it and letting it go to voicemail but reconsidered when he saw that it was Doc.

  “Landry.”

  “How’s it going, Mark?”

  Mark straddled the peak of the roof and looked around at the other houses at the end of the cul-de-sac.

  “On top of the world, Doc. What about you?”

  “Wish I could say the same.”

  “Uh oh, what’s up?”

  Mark could hear Doc giving instructions to someone at the other end of the line and waited patiently for a response.

  “Sorry about that. Listen, I have to be brief because I’m about to go into a meeting. But I wanted to make you aware of a major data breach.”

  “State Department again?”

  “State, Defense, Treasury, Labor, you name it. We don’t really know the full extent yet.”

  “Really? Any idea who? Or what they got?”

  Doc took several moments to respond. Probably he was reading something, Mark thought.

  “No. Like I said, we’re still trying to assess things. But this is certainly the deepest breach ever.”

  “How deep?”

  “Very deep. Maybe even Family deep.”

  “I thought that wasn’t possible,” said Mark as he did a quick 360-degree scan and started moving toward the ladder.

  “Evidently it is. And this goes very deep, Mark. Personnel, budgets, even operations and history. We’re moving forward under the assumption that everything might have been compromised.”

  “Everything? Even Berlin?”

  He could hear Doc take a deep breath and exhale into the receiver.

  “Yeah, possibly Berlin.”

  “Not good. Does the President know about this yet?”

  “He’s aware.”

  “What does Dunbar think?”

  “Nothing yet. He’s been busy preparing for a trip to D.C. to give his quarterly report and meet with some of the top brass off the record.”

  “Quarterly?” asked Mark. “I thought he gave semi-annuals.”

  “Mark, hold on a second again,” said Doc.

  Landry took advantage of the pause to mount the ladder and quickly descend. When his feet touched the grass, Doc continued.

  “Yeah, reports used to be never. Then annual. Then semi-annual. Now it’s quarterly. The political climate is changing and the leash is getting shorter and shorter around here. But you don’t have to worry about any of that. Just watch your back like you always do, okay? And tell me, have you given any thought to your long-term plans?”

  Mark climbed the stairs to the back deck and entered the house through the sliding glass door.

  “Lot of thinking but no decisions. How about I take through the holiday and then let you know?”

  “That’ll work. I’ll actually be up in Boston soon. I’m not sure for how long, but it could be a few weeks or so, depending on a few things. Let’s make sure we get together.”

  “Boston, eh? Business or pleasure?” asked Mark, knowing full well that it was none of his business and Doc would likely tell him so.

  “A bit of both. Talk soon.”

  The phone went dead and Mark poured himself a cold beer.

  Berlin.

  Fifty-three

  The thumb drive contained only one file and the shop owner had cut the video, so Luci didn’t have to sift through hours of surveillance footage to see what she needed. It began at 2:46 a.m., and just as the embedded clock at the bottom of the screen rolled past the 2:48 a.m. mark, a dark figure quickly entered the shot from the right. Luci paused the video, squinted, and leaned forward until her nose was almost touching the monitor.

  “Hello there,” she whispered.

  The fuzzy footage showed what appeared to be a male of average height, wearing baggy jeans and a dark hoodie that was several sizes too big. The drawstrings were pulled tight enough so that only a small portion of his face was exposed, and he was wearing gloves.

  Luci clicked play and sat back in her squeaky seat.

  After quickly glancing from side to side, the man held a stencil against the window with one hand and hastily sprayed paint over it with the other.

  Stencils aren’t very gangstah, amigo. But hey, it’s your show.

  He quickly painted the letters A.L.K.Q.N. underneath the stenciled crown and exited the shot the same way he entered. It was all done in under thirty seconds.

  Luci watched the video a few more times until Sergeant Cromwell waved to her from the hallway.

  “What’s happening, Luci?”

  “Hey, Sarge. Want to see my new favorite movie? It’s only a few seconds long and kind of blurry, but I think you’ll like it.”

  “Sure,” he answered, turning toward Luci’s desk. “That’s about the length of my attention span these days. Whatcha got?”

  “Not much. Just surveillance video of someone spray-painting Latin Kings graffiti on Main Street last night,” she said with a hopeful smile.

  Cromwell looked stunned and froze in place.

  “Really? Can you make out who it is?”

  “No. But it’s more than we had yesterday.”

  “Good,” he said as he pulled up a chair next to Luci’s. “Let’s see it.”

  After watching the video several times, she ejected the thumb drive and stood up.

  “It’s not great but it’s better than nothing. I’m going to put it on the big screen in the conference room to see if I can make out any more details.”

  The station administrator, a civilian woman in her mid-fifties, entered the room carrying a thick pile of paperwork and a few file folders in her hands. She set the whole pile down on Luci’s desk and rested her hand on top of the pile.

  “Here’s everything you asked for, Luci. Incident reports, call logs, and duty rosters from the dates you specified. It’s all here. Let me know if you need anything else.”

  Luci thanked her, she left the room, and Cromwell scratched his bald head.

  “What do you need all that for?” he asked.

  “Just looking for patterns, Sarge. I’ve been focusing too much on the vandalism itself and not enough on the big picture. I’m going to catch this guy one way or the other—I can promise you that.”

  She picked up the pile of records and headed for the door. Cromwell stood up and followed her down the hall.

  “Wait, Luci. Someone might catch him one day, but it probably won’t be you. I’ll take that stuff off your hands. I’m going to pass this off to the detectives. They can handle things from here.”

  He took the items from her grasp, and her smile gave way to an expression of pure shock and disbelief.

  “What?” Luci asked. “I’ve been working on this for months, Sarge. Let me finish the job. I want to see this through.”

  “Not necessary. You’ve done a fantastic job, Luci. No doubt about that. But the detectives are much better suited to handle things from this point now that we have some hard evidence. It’s also taking a lot of hours of your time, and I need you focused more on community policing a
nd youth intervention. Those are your areas of expertise—not investigation. And we need you there big time right now.”

  You gotta be kidding me.

  “Sarge, let’s talk about this.”

  Without another word he continued down the hall, entered his office, and closed the door.

  Luci contemplated what had just happened and weighed her options.

  Screw it.

  Cromwell had the phone to his ear when she burst into his office and shut the door behind her.

  “I’ll call you back in a minute.”

  “What’s the real reason you’re taking me off this?” she demanded. “It’s not because I don’t know how to investigate. I’m a damn good investigator. Why are you doing this to me, Sarge?”

  Cromwell sat back and laced his fingers behind his head.

  “I never said you weren’t a good investigator, Luci. I said the detectives were better suited and have the time and resources for this. You don’t. There’s no hidden agenda here. It’s a logical decision. Try not to get too emotional over it.”

  She wanted to speak but bit her tongue at his unintentionally sexist description.

  Emotional? Why do women always get labeled emotional while men get to be passionate?

  Cromwell held up a hand to encourage her silence and continued.

  “Those are the only reasons I’m taking you off this thing. But as long as you’re here, I gotta tell you, I’m starting to get a little concerned for your safety.”

  “Don’t worry about me, Sarge. I’m a big girl,” she replied with a hint of sarcasm.

  “It’s my job to worry, Luci. I worry about all my cops, but especially you.”

  “And what makes me so special?”

  Cromwell stroked a few keys on his computer, focused on the screen, and began reading aloud.

  “ ‘I hope she gets hit by a train.’ ‘I’d settle for a car accident.’ ‘She better hope she never finds herself in the middle of a crosswalk when I’m behind the wheel.’ ‘I wish that bitch would just kill herself. I’d even help.’ And here’s my personal favorite: ‘Why don’t they deport that spic and send her back to Puerto Rico?’ I don’t even know where to begin with that one.”