Sleeping Dogs: The Awakening

by John Wayne Falbey

  “She was in a pub with a couple of her girlfriends and a guy was giving her a hard time. She looked like she could use some help. So I helped.”

  “Did he survive?”

  “Mostly,” Whelan said.

  “And I guess she was very grateful and the rest is history.”

  “Not exactly. She’s a tough girl. Resented my interference. And her father was the local law at the time, the sergeant in charge of the sub-district. He threw me in the brig. The pub owner was a cousin of his who’d had trouble with the guy before. He appreciated my work and spoke to Tom, Caitlin’s father. Shortly after that I was sprung. Turns out, family ties go a long way in Ireland.”

  “And how did things go with Caitlin?”

  “Not so good at first, but I managed to wear her down with my inimitable charm and boyish good looks.”

  “Yeah. And now?”

  “And now we have Sean and Declan.”

  Larsen looked at Whelan for a moment. “Interesting,” he said. “And how do you get along with her father now?”

  “He figured it out pretty quickly. He’s ex-SBS.”

  Larsen nodded. “The Brits’ top special ops unit. How’d an Irishman get into the SBS?”

  “He enlisted. Tom is one tough SOB. The Brits weren’t about to reject him over a piddling thing like citizenship.”

  “Your boys have his bloodline as well as yours. That’s a hell of a combination.”

  “Kinda’ scary, isn’t it?”

  “Could be. He still a cop?”

  “Yeah, he was promoted some years back. He’s district superintendent now. My brother-in-law, Padraig, has Tom’s old job as sergeant in charge of the sub-district. He’s former SBS, too. He calls on me from time-to-time when there’s a serious disturbance.”

  “How does that set with Caitlin?”

  Whelan smiled. “She’s given her brother hell on occasion.”

  “The girl has a temper?”

  “She’s Irish.”

  “Sure and begorrah,” Larsen said.

  19 Atlanta

  The Hartsfield-Jackson International Airport in Atlanta, the busiest airport in the world, was its usual beehive of activity. Mitch Christie’s flight from Reagan National had arrived on time. He was pleasantly surprised, considering the weather. Now, he thought, if my luggage arrived on the same flight, it will be a good day regardless how the rest of it goes.

  He decided against taking the People Mover tram, instead walking the Transportation Mall from Terminal A to the Baggage Claim Area. He strode along, oblivious to the African-themed artwork and photographs lining the walkway between the terminals. He still felt groggy from the combination of the minimal amount of sleep he had gotten the previous night and the pressure of the Harold Case investigation. That morning’s meeting with the Bureau’s Deputy Director and a team from the D.C. Metropolitan Police Department had been full of Steve Williams’s screaming and the DD’s reminder that they come up with an arrest to pacify the media as soon as possible. A brisk walk seemed like a good way to get his blood flowing faster and clear some of the cobwebs from his brain.

  His suitcase was very nearly the last bag to come out of the baggage chute. Christie wondered why it was that bags tagged “Priority” never seemed to be among the first ones to emerge. He pulled it off the carousel and extended the handle. As he attached his briefcase to a strap at the top of his bag, he saw a younger man waiting near the exit from the baggage claim area. He recognized the man as an agent in the Bureau’s Atlanta office. He approached and extended his hand. “I’m Mitch Christie. You’re here to pick me up?”

  “Yes sir.” The man shook Christie’s hand. “I’m Ted Schiavo. I have a car waiting for you at the curb.” He took Christie’s wheeled suitcase and, motioning for him to follow, threaded his way through the crowded terminal area.

  There was a late model gray Ford Taurus sedan idling at the curb. A man in a dark gray suit was leaning against a front fender chatting with an airport security guard. Christie assumed the man was another agent from the Atlanta field office.

  Schiavo stored Christie’s bag in the trunk and opened the right rear door for Christie to enter. Schiavo climbed into the front passenger seat and the other man slid behind the wheel. The driver turned his head and said, “Bill Tate, with the Bureau’s Atlanta office.”

  “I appreciate the ride,” Christie said.

  Tate exited the airport onto Interstate 85 and wound along it for the twenty miles it took to get to the field office on Century Parkway on the northeast side of town. After finding a parking place, the three men immediately headed into one of the Bureau’s conference rooms. It was small and furnished with what looked to be a mishmash of castoff furniture from other offices. Christie set his briefcase down on a battered faux oak credenza and sat in a chair at the small round table. Two other agents already were in the room. One was a specialist in medical matters, the other in computer technology. Schiavo introduced them.

  Christie shook hands with each of them and said, “I appreciate your being able to meet with me on short notice. I’ll try to make this as brief as possible,” he said. “Bring me up to date on Walter Bailey.”

  The others looked at Schiavo, indicating he had seniority in this matter. He looked at the medical specialist and said, “Earlene, you’ve been following up this part of it, what do you have for us?”

  Earlene was African-American, fortyish, slightly overweight, and wore her hair pulled back in a tight bun. She adjusted her glasses and glanced at some papers she was holding. “Mr. Walter Alfred Bailey, Caucasian, was born in Marietta, Georgia, on August ninth, nineteen seventy to Alfred Carlyle Bailey and Marie Celeste Bailey, née Marley.” She shuffled the papers. “He graduated from Marietta High School in 1988 and attended the University of Georgia in Athens. He had average grades with no discernible major and dropped out after two years.”

  “Military record?” Christie said.

  “None.”

  “Wife, kids?”

  She shuffled her papers again and said, “Yes, he married Charlotte Lynne Evans two months after leaving UGA. They had one child, a daughter, Tammie Lynne, born in nineteen ninety-two.”

  “What kind of work did he do?” Christie said.

  Earlene glanced at her papers again. “He was the manager of a paint store in Smyrna. Apparently, he worked there from the time he dropped out of college until his death in nineteen ninety-eight.”

  “He have any hobbies or interests?”

  “Fishing and NASCAR.”

  “That figures. Was he religious?”

  “It doesn’t appear so.”

  Christie said, “Any criminal record?”

  “He was busted in high school with two of his classmates for under-aged possession of alcohol. He was cited twice for speeding as a teenager. That’s it.”

  “Did he belong to any clubs, organizations, political groups, anything like that?”

  “Kiwanis.”

  Christie said. “He sounds to me like an everyday, plain vanilla kind of guy.” He thought for a moment, then said, “What about his medical records and death certificate? Anything of interest there?”

  “He was overweight, diabetic, smoked heavily, and had a family history of atherosclerosis.” She looked up and added, “That’s the build up of plaque in the coronary arteries.” She glanced down at her papers again and continued, “He was scheduled for triple coronary artery bypass surgery. He didn’t survive the surgery.”

  “A helluva note,” Tate said. “Twenty-eight-year-old guy goes into the hospital to save his life and ends up losing it.”

  Everyone turned their head and looked at him for a moment with blank expressions.

  “It’s not so unusual under the circumstances,” Earlene said. “He was in very poor health by the time he chose to have the surgery.”

  “Do we know anything at all about this man that might indicate how his identification showed up in use more than a decade after his death?” Christie said.r />
  “Stealing someone’s identification is not so difficult,” Schiavo said, “particularly if they’re dead. First, you find a dead guy who was born about the same time you were. Then you get a copy of his birth certificate from the office of vital statistics. Then—”

  Christie held up his hand. “I know the drill,” he said.

  The speakerphone in the middle of the small conference table buzzed. Schiavo leaned over and punched a button. “Yes?”

  A voice at the other end of the line said, “There’s a call for Special Agent Christie on line four. It’s a Mr. John Deutch. He says he’s in Forensics at Bureau headquarters.”

  “I’d like to take this call in private,” Christie said.

  “Sure.” Schiavo motioned to the others to clear the room.

  When the door closed behind them, Christie picked up the receiver and punched the flashing red button. “This is Christie,” he said. “I expected to hear from you yesterday afternoon, John. You’d better have some good news.”

  Deutch’s nasal voice came from the other end of the line. “Well, I have some, ah, good news and some…not so good news.”

  “What is it?” Christie said. His jaw muscles began to tighten.

  “The blood sample taken from the jacket sleeve of one of the victims was in much better condition than the others, and we were able to decode it. It definitely does not belong to any of the victims.”

  “Excellent, John. Do we have a suspect?”

  “Well, I’m afraid that’s where the bad news comes in, Special Agent Christie.” Deutch’s voice quavered.

  “How so, John?”

  “We checked the DNA results twice against our computer banks and could not come up with a match. I’m sorry.”

  Christie’s briefcase was on the credenza on the other side of the room, beyond his reach. There was a bottle of antacid in it. He eyed the briefcase longingly. “Dammit, John, it’s almost impossible that someone who could do that sort of damage has zero criminal or military records.” He thought for a few moments, and then said, “Look, here’s what I want you to do. Get a hold of Jim Franconia, the CIA liaison with the Bureau. Charlotte has his number. Have him check with Langley to see if there’s any record of DNA or blood work for anyone involved in the Sleeping Dogs unit. If so, check it against the blood found on that victim’s jacket. Got it?”

  “I think so,” Deutch said with a slight stammer. “Charlotte, Franconia, Sleeping Dogs…I’ll do my best.”

  Christie gritted his teeth then said, “Yes, John, I’m sure you will. Thank you.” Christie punched the release button and the line went dead. He went immediately to his briefcase, took out the bottle of antacid, shook it, and took a big gulp.

  Taking a deep breath, he slowly let it out. Christ, he thought, this trip was a dead end. Thank God my flight to San Francisco tomorrow is nonstop. Maybe I can sleep on the plane.

  20 Tampa, Florida

  The door to Earl’s Place swung open, accompanied by a gust of dry, wintry air. Whelan and Larsen glanced in the mirror behind the bar. A tall, lanky man in his late twenties strode into the room. Four other men, all about his age, piled in after him. From the other end of the bar, Amber whined, “Bobby, I done axed you not to come down here no more when I’m workin’.”

  The man stopped a few feet behind Whelan and Larsen. His companions crowded behind him trying to look tough. All five wore jeans. Two wore sneakers and the other three wore engineer boots. One was wearing a ball cap, another had a bandana on his head. Whelan was amused to see that two others wore Stetsons. Bobby had on a watch cap and a tattered baseball jacket. There was a faint smile on Larsen’s face. It was his bad smile. Trouble had arrived.

  “Shut up, bitch,” Bobby snarled. He spoke with a hillbilly drawl that Whelan thought seemed disingenuous, as if it was supposed to make Bobby seem tougher. “Ain’t no woman gonna tell me where I can go and cain’t go. That’s a good way to get yore ass kicked. Again.” He turned to his companions and grinned.

  The two county workers sitting at a booth in the back stared at Bobby. The biker stopped shooting pool and stared also. “What the fuck you assholes looking at?” Bobby shouted. “You want some of me?” He jammed a finger into his chest for emphasis.

  The two men in the back looked down at the tabletop and seemed to shrink into their seats. The biker shrugged, turned back around and resumed shooting pool.

  Larsen literally flowed off his stool as smooth as rainwater on an oiled windowpane. As he did, he placed a hand on Whelan’s shoulder with enough pressure to indicate that he should remain seated. He stepped in front of Bobby and said, “I don’t know about Amber, but I’m in a mood to get my ass kicked.” His bad smile was on full display.

  Bobby had three inches in height on Larsen, but spotted him more than fifty pounds in body weight, and he had nothing resembling Larsen’s musculature. Very few people did. But, with his four friends to back him up, he felt large and in charge. He turned and looked at them and grinned. “This motherfucker has a death wish. Shall we help him out, boys?”

  They all nodded in agreement and tried to muster their most menacing looks. One of them pointed to Whelan and said, “What about him?”

  “I’m doing you girls a favor by keeping him away from you,” Larsen said. “If you don’t piss me off, I plan to just rough you up. But him”—he motioned toward Whelan with his head—“he doesn’t leave survivors.”

  Taking the cue, Whelan looked at the other patrons and Amber. “Anyone who looks like they might be using their cell phone, even to text, won’t like what I do to them.” Something about the way he said it caused the others to keep their hands where they could be seen.

  Bobby made a scoffing sound and threw a right-handed punch at Larsen. Like most brawlers and wannabe brawlers, he telegraphed it badly. Larsen stepped inside and blocked it with his thick left forearm. He followed it with a pile driver of a right hand to Bobby’s midsection. The wind exploded from Bobby’s lungs with a savage grunt and he shot backwards, knocking down two of his companions and causing a third to stagger backward in an effort to maintain his balance.

  “I’m disappointed,” Whelan said, as he looked at the three men on the floor and the two still standing. “That’s only a spare. I’ve seen you bowl better than that.”

  Larsen was moving to his left now, on his toes, smooth and quick like a lightweight. A two hundred sixty-five pound lightweight. He began softly whistling Sweet Georgia Brown.

  The two men who had gone down with Bobby scrambled to their feet. One moved warily to his left, the other to his right. Bobby, having trouble breathing with a couple of broken ribs, was struggling to get to his hands and knees. A fourth man was trying to assist him. The fifth man sidled along the wall by the front door. Someone had left a pool stick resting against the wall. He picked it up, reversed it, and, gripping it with both hands, began inching toward Larsen from the rear.

  In a single, quick motion, Whelan snatched the bar stool Larsen had vacated and flung it at the man. It knocked him sideways into the wall. He shook his head to clear it and a second bar stool hit him with greater force. The unpadded seat struck his head and bounced it off the wall. His knees buckled and he slid to the floor.

  Larsen snapped a glance at Whelan and snarled, “This is my fight. You want a fight, go get your own.”

  Whelan smiled. Same old Larsen, he thought. Good to know some things never change.

  The two men circling Larsen glanced at each other. One nodded and they both charged. They intended to grab Larsen around the head and upper body and wrestle him to the floor where he might be kicked and pummeled into submission. It was a silly ploy. Larsen simply grabbed each man by the neck, lifted them off the ground and smashed their skulls together. It knocked both men unconscious and split open their scalps. Larsen released their throats and they collapsed to the hard concrete floor, blood pooling around their heads.

  Whelan was enjoying watching the Man With No Neck at work again after all these year
s. Three down, two to go.

  The fourth man had helped Bobby get to his feet. He moved slowly on a direct line toward Larsen, paused and made some movements that looked vaguely like a kid imitating something he’d seen in a Hong Kong movie. Throwing his head back he screamed, “Kee-yaaah!” and charged. He attempted a poorly executed and well telegraphed head-high roundhouse kick.

  Larsen brought his left fist up to the side of his own head and stepped into the kick, catching the force of it on the meat of his massive shoulder and arm. As the kick landed, he grabbed the man’s pant leg and, holding the leg in place, delivered a massive blow from his right hand into the man’s thigh, fracturing the femur. Seemingly without pause, Larsen sent the same right hand in a back-fist strike to the side of the man’s face. The force was such that it nearly separated the second cervical vertebra from the first.

  Looking over his shoulder he saw Bobby, on his feet, trying to tug a pearl handled automatic from the pocket of his baseball jacket. Larsen didn’t hesitate. He flung the unconscious man at Bobby, knocking him to the ground again. Bobby kept struggling to get the weapon free from his jacket pocket.

  Moving fast and fluidly, Larsen closed the gap and stamped down hard on Bobby’s wrist, pinning his forearm against the hard floor. Bobby squealed in pain, “Ow, motherfucker, that hurts.”

  Larsen stopped whistling Sweet Georgia Brown. “How do you think Amber felt when you were slapping her around?” he said.

  Still struggling for breath, Bobby said, “I’m…gonna kill…you, man. One day…I’m fuckin’…gonna…kill you.”

  “You’re a real badass, Bobby-boy,” Larsen said as he bent down and ripped the pistol from Bobby’s jacket pocket. With his foot still on Bobby’s arm, he removed the clip and ejected the round from the chamber, snatching it in midair with a motion almost too quick to see. He dropped the clip in his own jacket pocket along with the extra round, disassembled the gun in a heartbeat and slung the pieces toward the back of the room.

  He walked over to the semiconscious man that Whelan had knocked down, picked up the two stools and placed them back at the bar. Have to give him credit, Whelan thought with amusement. The man knows how to clean up after himself.