Suspicion

by Joseph Finder

  In the real world, he was a rank amateur.

  Facing off against someone who used weapons on a regular basis? Forget it. Danny would be dead. Facing off against a semiautomatic assault rifle? Don’t even think about it.

  So what did he need the Beretta for? Could he in fact use it, under duress?

  He put the thought out of his mind. It was simply better to have the thing than not.

  He could call Jay Poskanzer now and have him give the FBI this address. The exact location of two former DEA employees who were pretending to still be on the payroll, impersonating law enforcement officers.

  But as long as he was here, he could get a lot more.

  Beginning, he realized, with the license plate number of the white van. He looked out the window.

  Just in time to see Slocum and Yeager getting into it.

  69

  The elevator was too slow in coming, so he raced down the stairwell to the lobby. His footsteps clattered and echoed. He slowed to an unhurried pace as he entered the lobby.

  He caught a glimpse of Matt, the rotund desk clerk, behind the counter. Danny went to the glass door at the rear of the building and, standing to the side, looked out.

  The white van was gone.

  He circled back to the front desk. He smelled French fries. “Those guys who just left in that van?”

  “Excuse me?” Matt was still chewing. He tilted his head politely.

  “Man, did I screw up,” Danny said. “I hit their van when I was parking earlier, and I wanted to leave them a note. You know who I’m talking about? The white van?”

  Matt swallowed. “Um, I don’t know anything about a white van, sir. I don’t really notice what kind of cars guests drive.” A shred of lettuce nested among the hairs of his goatee.

  “The two guys who just left—the skinny one with the black hair and the squat bald guy? Just walked out?”

  He nodded. He knew who Danny was talking about. “Would you like me to leave a note for them?”

  Danny shook his head, looking horrified by the idea. “I can’t take that chance. I mean, if they see the damage and file a claim against—well, I’m just screwed, because I’m driving this company car without going through all the paperwork, and I could lose my job. Will you be around later tonight?”

  “Tonight? No, my shift is over at five, but Leslie will be here.”

  He probably worked an eight-hour shift, nine to five. Of course he wouldn’t still be here at night. Danny was counting on that. “All right, let me write down their room number.” Not What room are they in? “I’m going to have to get an insurance form and a personal check, and—I’ll just slide it under their door when I get back here tonight.”

  Matt hesitated. He inhaled. His expression looked like he was about to apologize. To say something officious and bureaucratic. I’m sorry, sir, we’re not allowed to give out room numbers of hotel guests. It’s hotel policy.

  But then he noticed the twenty-dollar bill that Danny was sliding across the counter.

  “That’s—that’s not necessary, sir,” he said with an embarrassed smile.

  “I know it’s not much. My job’s worth a lot more than that. But . . .”

  Once Matt snapped up the bill, the deal was sealed. It wasn’t the twenty bucks that did it, of course. It was Danny’s desperation. It would have been churlish to refuse to help.

  Matt tap-tap-tapped away and said quickly, quietly, “They’re in rooms 303 and 304. I really can’t give you their names, though.”

  “Oh, that’s not necessary. All I need is the room number. Thank you so much. You have no idea what a huge help this is.”

  70

  Danny wandered the third-floor hallway in search of a housekeeper. He finally found one in room 307, where the door was propped open with a cart.

  “Excuse me,” he said. “Like an idiot I locked myself out of my room. Three oh three—could you let me in, please?”

  The housekeeper whirled around, eyes widening. “Oh! Sir? What happen?”

  He held up a Lucite bucket. “I stepped out to get some ice.” He shook his head, scowled. But not apologetically, not really. More annoyed at the hotel. At the unexpected speed with which his room door had slammed shut. The hotel’s fault. Not his.

  “What room you say?”

  “Three oh three.” He shook his head, the disgruntled hotel guest.

  She approached, pulled a clipboard on a string from a well in her cart. “Eh, what is name?”

  “Yeager.”

  She looked down the list of hotel guests. Shook her head. “I’m sorry?”

  They’d probably checked in under different phony names. “I’m in three oh three. Could you hurry? I’ve got an important conference call in a couple of minutes.”

  “Yes,” she said with a brisk nod. “Room 303.” She said it as if confirming it to herself.

  He followed the woman out into the hallway. She smelled like a fabric softener sheet you’d toss into a load of laundry in the dryer. Or like a room deodorizer spray. It was mixed with the odor of her perspiration, the sweat of a hardworking woman. It wasn’t an unpleasant smell, but it was the miasma in which she spent her workday.

  She led him briskly down the hall. She had a slight limp.

  When she got to room 303, she pulled out a master key card and inserted it into the electronic card reader in the lock set unit. It probably opened all the rooms on her floor.

  “Thank you so much,” Danny said as she pushed open the door. He handed her a twenty-dollar bill.

  “Oh, gracias, gracias, señor. Eh—you want I get you ice?”

  • • •

  The room was a near-exact replica of Danny’s and looked like it had just been cleaned.

  A metal Rimowa suitcase rested on a luggage stand, closed. He tried to open it, but it was locked. A suit and a blazer hung in the ample closet next to the bathroom. Nothing in the kitchenette had been left out. Just about the only indication that someone lived here, apart from the locked suitcase, was the desk.

  A black Toshiba laptop was open on the desk, next to a neat sheaf of papers. He pulled Galvin’s gun from the small of his back and set it down next to the computer.

  A psychedelic screen saver swirled and undulated, a rainbow of streamers in a starry night sky.

  He tapped the keyboard, and the screen saver vanished and a password prompt came up. He stared at it for a few seconds. Hit RETURN, just in case it didn’t really require a password.

  PASSWORD INCORRECT.

  He typed the word password and hit ENTER.

  PASSWORD INCORRECT. Well, it was worth a try. He typed 12345678 and hit RETURN.

  PASSWORD INCORRECT.

  He typed abc123.

  PASSWORD INCORRECT.

  He hesitated. Maybe the machine would lock up after a certain number of wrong tries. He typed 999999, then paused, then added two more 9s, for a total of eight.

  PASSWORD INCORRECT.

  Hold on, he told himself. You don’t need to access their laptop. Leave that to the computer experts at the FBI. The laptop would have all sorts of compromising information on these phony DEA agents. It would be serious leverage. It would enable him to make an excellent deal with the Department of Justice.

  Just take the damned thing.

  He closed the laptop. Picked up the neatly stacked sheaf of papers. On top was a printout of an e-ticket. A boarding pass, actually:

  Flights 401/2470 Flight 2470

  operated by AEROLITORAL DBA AEROMEXICO CONNECT

  Depart:

  12:45 AM

  New York, NY (JFK)

  Arrive:

  8:20 AM

  Nuevo Laredo, Mexico (NLD)

  Connect in: Mexico City

  The ticket was in the name of Arthur Duncan, and the flight departed in three days. Maybe Ar
thur Duncan was the real name of one of them, or maybe it was an alias. The destination was a place in Mexico called Nuevo Laredo. Jay Poskanzer had said that Slocum and Yeager had been working there for the DEA when they were fired. But why Arthur Duncan was going there now was a mystery.

  He folded the paper in quarters and slipped it into a pocket.

  The door to the room came open.

  Danny picked up the gun and spun toward the door.

  It was Philip Slocum.

  71

  Slocum pushed slowly into the room. His eyes widened as he took everything in. Then he smiled. The door slammed shut behind him.

  “That’s it,” Danny said. “No farther.”

  With his right hand he aimed the Beretta at Slocum’s chest. At center mass. He’d read somewhere that aiming for center mass increased the odds of hitting your attacker, especially if you weren’t confident in your aim. He thumbed the manual safety off. The gun was solid and fairly heavy, maybe a pound or two.

  Slocum stood no more than fifteen feet away. It would be hard to miss.

  If he could bring himself to pull the trigger.

  He brought his left hand up to steady his grip. “Hands up.”

  Slocum seemed to be calculating something. He hesitated, looked twitchy. He seemed to be contemplating making a run at Danny.

  But he shrugged and lifted his hands as high as his chest, grudgingly, palms out, a tolerant grin on his face. As if Danny were an annoying child who insisted on playing patty-cake. As if the whole thing amused him and he was putting up with it just to be a good guy.

  “All the way.”

  Slocum exhaled. Lifted his hands up. His smile had morphed into something closer to a sneer. He didn’t look as nervous as a guy who had a gun pointing at him should.

  “Step around to the side. That way.” Danny indicated, with a wag of the pistol, the armchair by the window. The reading chair. Next to it was a standing lamp with a big white cylindrical shade. “Sit over there.”

  The TV in the adjoining room came on, muffled but audible through the thin walls. The other impostor, Yeager, was home now, too.

  “Maybe you’re not aware that killing a federal law enforcement agent is a capital offense,” Slocum said, standing defiantly.

  “Yeah? What’s the penalty for killing a former law enforcement agent who’s gone bad? Sit down.”

  Slocum nodded and grinned and remained standing. Their secret was out, and he knew it.

  “Twelve feet away and you probably think your chances of hitting me are pretty good,” he said. “Well, guess what. You’re more likely to drill a forty-caliber round through the drywall and kill or maim an innocent civilian. A hotel guest you can’t even see. An employee, maybe. That’s why police are instructed never to fire a gun in circumstances like this unless they’re absolutely certain of the stopping range. Are you, Danny?” He shook his head. “You haven’t really thought this through, have you?”

  The surge of adrenaline was making it hard to collect his thoughts. What should he do now? He wasn’t going to shoot the guy, and he had no name or phone number of anyone at the FBI. Call the police? By the time the police got here, Danny would be long dead.

  Suddenly, Slocum lunged at him, hands outstretched like claws. Danny sidestepped, then swung the Beretta hard. Gripping it tightly, he slammed it into the side of Slocum’s head. Slocum grunted and yowled in pain and then sprawled backward to the floor. Blood seeped from his eye. “You just screwed up big-time, you pathetic bastard,” he snarled.

  Behind him Danny could hear the faint metallic clunk of the door to the adjoining room coming open.

  Danny turned and saw Yeager coming through the doorway. “Oh, Daniel, this is not good,” he said as he trundled in. A gun drawn.

  On Danny’s left, Slocum was scrambling to his feet. Rivulets of blood streamed down one side of his face. The gun had apparently gashed the skin just below Slocum’s eye. Danny turned and pointed the weapon at Slocum, then moved it around to the right, aiming at Yeager.

  “Put the gun down, Daniel,” Yeager said patiently. “Don’t be foolish.”

  “Back off,” Danny warned Slocum, jerking the gun at him.

  “Daniel, I see you hurt Phil,” Yeager said. “Looks like you kicked ass beyond your wildest dreams. I salute you for that.” He tipped a hand to his brow, making a salute. “Sure, you could try to shoot my friend here, which would be ill-advised. You’d be shocked at how quickly I can put you down. Which I really don’t want to do, because frankly you’re far more useful to me alive than dead. So please, let’s both lower our weapons so we can have a civil conversation. We have some things to discuss.”

  Slocum swiped a hand over his bloodied face. He gave Danny a poisonous glare. As if he’d go after Danny if Yeager weren’t there.

  Yeager was utterly calm. He could have been discussing football scores.

  “Daniel, if we wanted to kill you, you’d already be dead, I promise you.”

  He was right: They still needed him. It wasn’t in their interest to kill him. This was pointless.

  He lowered the gun.

  “Thank you,” said Yeager. “You’re doing the right thing.”

  “I’m onto you guys,” Danny said. “You’re frauds. You don’t work for the DEA anymore.”

  “Busted,” Yeager said. “You’re right. We’re not with the DEA. You should be so lucky.”

  “All your threats about sending me to prison—they were all lies.”

  “Also true. We’re not going to send you to prison. No, Daniel, if you don’t cooperate, you’ll wish you were going to jail. It will be far, far worse. Am I making myself clear?”

  Danny stared. He’d begun to feel cold.

  “You mean to tell me you still haven’t figured out who we work for? I’m disappointed in you. Here, here’s a hint.” He pulled something from his jacket pocket and tossed it at Danny. He grabbed it with his free hand: a necklace of green and black beads with a pendant of a robed woman holding a scythe. “Look at all familiar?” Yeager said.

  “That—that—” Danny had last seen that necklace around the neck of Galvin’s driver in Aspen. He’d thought it was the Virgin Mary. But it wasn’t. With that scythe it looked more like the Grim Reaper.

  A few of the beads were crusted with something dark that was probably blood. Danny dropped it in revulsion.

  “That’s right. Consider it a gift from us. You don’t mind if it’s pre-owned, do you? That’s Santa Muerte. Saint Death. A noncanonized saint. South of the border, some people wear it for protection. It’s supposed to bring you luck.”

  “I’d say this one’s had sort of a mixed record,” Slocum said.

  Yeager chuckled. “It didn’t turn out so well for Alejandro, that’s true,” said Yeager. “But hey—you never know. Maybe Daniel could get lucky.”

  And Danny knew then that either they’d been the ones who’d murdered Galvin’s driver in Aspen or they worked with the people who did. The room seemed to tilt.

  So who did they work for? A cartel, was it possible?

  That e-ticket he’d found: One of them was flying to Mexico, back to the city of Nuevo Laredo, where they’d been fired by the DEA. Was a cartel based there?

  “Phil,” Yeager said, “could you cue up the home movies?”

  Slocum moved to the desk and tapped away at the laptop. Then he turned it so that it was facing Danny. He hit a couple more keys on the laptop, and a window on the screen opened. It took him a minute to recognize the image.

  The blood drained from his face. He felt dizzy.

  Lucy wore a pastel blue T-shirt and navy gym shorts, doing something in a room that looked like her own kitchen.

  Making coffee. The image was grainy. It looked like surveillance video.

  “Want to know why she always smells like smoke?” Yeager said. “Not because o
f the bums she hangs around, I’m sorry to say. I know, she told you she quit smoking. But I’m afraid your ex-girlfriend is what you call a chipper—she borrows cigarettes from friends, never buys her own. Phil, pull up the next channel, could you?”

  Another video window came open on the screen. With terror, Danny recognized the family room of his childhood home. His father was leaning back in his favorite chair, the Barcalounger. His mother sat in her customary place on the plaid couch. Both watching TV.

  “It’s cute,” Yeager said. “Mom and Dad go together to Stop & Shop in Orleans twice a week. Your dad insists on buying the day-old bread, and your mom hates it, but she puts up with it. In a long marriage, I guess you gotta make all sorts of compromises, you know?” He cleared his throat. “Yeah, there’s your teenage daughter, too, but we don’t do kids unless we really have to. Which I hope doesn’t come to pass. I have a daughter myself.”

  “You son of a bitch,” Danny said, crackling with anger. “You goddamned son of a bitch.”

  “So here’s the thing, Daniel. You asked for two hundred fifty thousand dollars in cash by tomorrow morning at ten, and that’s not going to happen. But I appreciate your directness, and I’m going to be just as direct with you. Thomas Galvin keeps all of his account numbers and passwords in one cloud-based encrypted site. Which is locked by means of a single password. That password generates a random key and a random vector initialization and blah blah blah. So you, my friend, are going to get us that password by ten o’clock tomorrow morning. Your own deadline. If you fail to give us that password, you’re going to become an orphan. And that will be just the beginning of your troubles.” He brightened. “On the other hand, give us that password, and all of these problems go away. Life becomes good again.”

  Danny stared.

  “Are we clear?” Yeager said.

  Danny nodded. His pulse raced and the room had gone bright. “Yes,” he said. “We’re clear.”