The Company She Kept

by Archer Mayor

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Sam was not happy. Sitting alone in her car in the middle of the night, parked on a side street in downtown Holyoke, Massachusetts, she was adrift in her own misgivings.

  Days ago, she’d been a happy mother and a respected cop, beset by no more than the usual self-doubts and challenges, and otherwise settled, well situated, and secure.

  Now she was colluding in a rogue investigation, across state lines, in flagrant violation of her employer’s wishes, all because she’d let an impulse born of an ancient embarrassment be hijacked by the one man who interpreted acting as a renegade as just thinking outside the box.

  The cell phone in her lap spoke up, “You there?”

  “Yeah,” she said, almost regretfully.

  “We got movement by the front door.”

  Willy was around the corner, crouching in an abandoned apartment opposite Manuel Ruiz’s stronghold. Willy’s old sniper-school training—not to mention his inborn paranoia—had served him well in taking several hours to identify how best to approach Ruiz’s address unnoticed. This had turned out to be a worthwhile caution, since he’d discovered that Ruiz had posted sentries around the neighborhood. Some had been predictable, assigned to a few surrounding rooftops; others had been more inspired, such as the bum Willy had spotted, seemingly passed out in a doorway at street level, but with well-cared-for fingernails, a military unit ring, and a strategically thought-out sprawl that favored his ability to quickly produce a concealed weapon.

  In an urban environment, however, one can only place so many outposts. There are simply more nooks and crannies than manpower to control them. Willy had found himself such an overlooked crow’s nest.

  Still, he was impressed. Despite what movie directors tried to make their fans believe, most crooks in this country do not and cannot set up a fortress as had Manny Ruiz. It is generally too complex, too expensive, and too visible. In this case, though—and in this town—Ruiz’s discretion and Holyoke’s economic limitations had combined to make it possible.

  “Is it him?” Sam asked.

  Willy had night-vision binoculars trained on the building’s entrance, which was now flanked by a group of casually menacing men, who’d formed a human corridor between the front door and a large, presumably armored SUV parked by the curb.

  “If it isn’t,” Willy replied, “he’s entertaining somebody with a serious hard-on for security.”

  Sam didn’t respond, entering combat-ready mode herself.

  “Wait for it…” Willy’s voice announced like a game show’s master of ceremonies. “Bingo. One Manuel Ruiz, stepping out for a little tour around his kingdom. You got your motor running?”

  “Roger that.”

  “Pick me up at the corner in ninety seconds.” The phone went dead.

  * * *

  Joe stood by the window of Beverly’s bedroom, gazing out sightlessly at the cold gray water of Lake Champlain.

  Beverly came up behind him and looped her arms around his waist. “In an old movie, I’d offer, ‘Penny for your thoughts.’”

  He chuckled despite himself and held her wrists affectionately. “Doubt you’d get your money’s worth.”

  “Seriously,” she prompted. “Is it the case?”

  “That’s what everything is now,” he admitted. “Although I won’t deny that it’s gotten a little more complicated with Homeland Security sticking their oar in the water.”

  She peered around to study his face. “Homeland Security? Really? Did the senator’s death become a terrorist attack when I wasn’t looking?”

  He brought her up close to him, so they were facing the broad window side-by-side. “No—that’s just what the title ‘Homeland Security’ does to people. Those guys chase after what the rest of us do. They just have a different jurisdiction—usually involving the border somehow, or at least what and who crosses it. Turns out the marijuana we found at Susan’s was Mexican in origin.”

  “Ah,” she said. “Ergo the border reference.”

  “Anyhow,” he further explained, “it looks like they’ve already got some of the people we’re interested in under a microscope, which means everybody’s got to compare cards to see who’s got the winning hand.”

  She scowled. “You have a murder.”

  “I know. Which is probably why this’ll be ironed out in our favor. But somebody’s got to say it in so many words, and maybe put it in writing, and we’ve got to agree how to inflict the least possible damage to each other’s investigation. And last but certainly not least, there’s the unwritten rule about who’s got the bird in hand, which in this case is them.”

  He gazed at her and waggled his eyebrows, adding, “I therefore called in for support—just before this morning’s meeting.”

  “Oh?”

  “I did unto her as she’s done unto me in the past,” he said. “I phoned the governor for a favor.”

  Beverly laughed and dug her fingers into his side. “You wheeler-dealer. Do tell.”

  “I owed her a call anyhow,” he began disingenuously. “Both to find out how she was faring and to explain how and why we had issued a BOL for Stuey Nichols.”

  “How did she take it?” Beverly asked seriously.

  “Better than I thought. She’s actually sounding more like her old self. I think the coming out has helped, as has some of the advice she must be getting from outside experts. She told me she was no longer considering offers from people like Ellen DeGeneres and The Daily Show, so that Vermonters won’t think she’s stepping out on them, taking advantage to attract national attention. Smart.”

  “Very,” Beverly agreed, “since she also let it leak out that she turned those offers down. I heard about it on the news last night. So what’s the favor you asked for?”

  “Just to drop a line to the local boss of Homeland Security Investigations—the fellow I’m seeing in an hour. I’m letting her choose the wording, but I asked her to pass along how much VBI would appreciate their timely cooperation in solving Susan’s murder.”

  Still smiling, Beverly was thoughtful as she said, “Just what you need to be worrying about. Politics. Why is that always such a factor in what we do? Still, it sounds like you’re doing well.” She reached up and touched his cheek. “So why do I think something else is chewing at you?”

  Joe paused before replying, “It’s not the feds that have me worried. I feel like there’s something out of whack, somehow—something I’m not seeing. I just can’t put my finger on it.”

  * * *

  They’d opted for an underpowered rental, rather than anything smacking of police-issue. There were no high-speed chases anticipated, and, if any cropped up, he and Sam weren’t going to join in. They were just another couple in the traffic heading toward Springfield.

  “How many people’re with him?” Sam asked, looking straight ahead.

  “Three in the SUV, two more in the tail car.”

  “Heavy artillery?”

  “Probably under their coats. That’s what I’d do. They are clearly a cut above the usual street mopes.”

  He could tell she had more questions—where they were going, what they were about to do, why the hell she and Willy were doing this in the first place. But she didn’t ask any of them, and he didn’t make chitchat. He had his own coping mechanism during an operation, and it didn’t involve getting increasingly wired. On the contrary, while he wouldn’t have called it meditative, the end result was similar—Willy just became calmer as the action loomed nearer.

  That helped her, as well, since she was no more capable of achieving Yogic tranquility under these circumstances than she might’ve been at suddenly speaking Chinese. As a result, his seeming calm was a good influence.

  Of course, for her, the challenge wasn’t just wrestling with mounting excitement. She had her own issues as well—her past with Ruiz, her worries about what they were doing, and how much more was at stake, now that she had a child.

  As Willy might have said, had he been consu
lted about any of it, “You should’ve thought of that sooner.”

  Which would have been correct, of course. All this fussing was a complete waste of effort. They were in it now.

  “Where the fuck’re they going?” she asked, essentially of herself. “This isn’t how I’d go downtown.”

  Willy remained quiet, watching the cars ahead, instinctively doubtful, from what he’d seen so far, that they were headed anywhere important. The bodyguards had been careful, as expected, but not as they would have been gearing up for a fight.

  They weren’t going downtown.

  “The mall?” Sammie asked herself incredulously a few minutes later. “You gotta be kidding.”

  “It’s that time of year,” Willy said, and checked his watch. “Good time for it, too.”

  “Why?”

  “Twenty minutes before closing. Last of the stragglers are headin’ out. They might even be telling people not to enter, except I bet these boys have one of their own on the door, allowing special access.”

  “That screws us, then,” Sam said, part of her feeling a contradictory sense of relief.

  But Willy was having none of it. “Nah. We want to use a different door anyhow. We just flash our badges and we’re in, too.”

  Sam still couldn’t believe it, and followed the small caravan thinking it would soon exit the enormous parking lot, having used it either as a shortcut or to check for tails, about which she’d been careful from the start.

  But both the big SUV and its scout car pulled up near one of the mall’s side entrances, and spilled out several passengers, who calmly, if tactically, prepared a phalanx for their boss.

  Sam drove by without hesitation, aiming for the neighboring parking lot. There, she and Willy got out like any normal shoppers, pretending to be checking a list together as they headed toward a different entrance.

  The mall’s interior was as Willy had predicted—vaulting, blinding bright, echoing with canned music—but with no guard at the door.

  As they approached the intersection of the entrance corridor and the mall’s central atrium, Willy faded back, saying, “Let’s split up. I’ll have your back.”

  Sam paused. She never had a doubt of that, but she also had no clue about what was actually going on in here. Was Ruiz having a clandestine meeting in a public space? Was he about to make a move on some business outlet? How about a financial deposit as part of a money-laundering routine? She and Willy hadn’t discussed a plan of action—opting instead to see what unfolded. The goal was for Sam to use her past relationship with Ruiz to see if he’d give her Stuey in exchange for not having a microscope trained on his enterprises. How to get that done was up to her.

  She stepped cautiously out into the open and looked down the football field–length hallway toward where the SUV and escort car had unloaded their cargo. In the far distance, the incongruous, dark-clothed, all-male group filed up an escalator by the side of a sprinkling fountain. They looked like a bunch of hip bankers taking the day off at Disney World.

  She bypassed her own escalator for the staircase beside it, taking two steps at a time. Willy was already lost to sight.

  On the second level, feeling like she was on the lido deck of a near-abandoned cruise ship, she began working her way slowly toward where Ruiz’s group had fanned out at the top of their escalator. She was still too far off to distinguish anyone’s face, and so took advantage of that fact to pretend to be window shopping, glancing over every once in a while to see what they were doing.

  They didn’t waste time, but, once reassembled, marched as one toward a nearby store, whose identity she couldn’t make out from her angle.

  She started for the same spot, taking her time, checking to see if anything else might be developing—like another bunch from Men in Black arriving from yet another escalator. But aside from a handful of last-minute shoppers moving toward the exits, there appeared to be nothing.

  Ten minutes passed. Announcements had been made about closing time. Now they were coming more often. Sam started to wonder if the people she was tailing had spotted her back in traffic, and had used all of this spy craft as a way to dump her. She drew close enough to the store they’d entered to recognize it as a high-end electronics outlet, and figured that if she had in fact been made, she had nothing to lose by being identified now. She therefore stopped some fifty feet away from the store’s entrance and stood still, waiting—all pretense gone.

  That, of course, was when they finally stepped out, the salesman behind them issuing multiple thanks and locking the door as the last of them emerged.

  Like a well-trained pack of attack dogs, every man in the cluster turned to face her—the only potential threat among the few people still dawdling along the second level’s vast expanse.

  Sam didn’t move, but stayed hands on hips, legs slightly apart, weight poised forward, ready to react.

  For a moment, everyone froze, assessing the situation. Only one of them appeared relaxed—an attractive, well-dressed man carrying a small plastic shopping bag stamped with the store’s logo. He tilted his head slightly to one side and pushed up an incongruous pair of dark glasses to see better.

  “Greta?” he called out after a pause. “Is that you?”

  In response, Sam raised her hand and wiggled her fingers.

  Manuel Ruiz handed his bag to a bodyguard, saying something she couldn’t hear, and stepped free of their midst, walking toward her, a smile spreading across his face.

  “My God. Greta. Have you come back from the past to arrest me? You are still a police officer, no?”

  She hadn’t known what to expect, hadn’t prepared for this to occur so spontaneously, and hadn’t even fully considered meeting the man that she’d almost been intimate with ten years ago.

  She shook the hand he proffered as he drew near. “Manny,” she said, struggling to maintain an even voice.

  He gave her an appraising look. “You are well. I can see it. You are happier than you were. I’m sure your name is not Greta, though, correct?”

  “You don’t know that?” she asked.

  He shrugged. “We parted under hurried circumstances, as I recall. Your colleagues were almost through the front door when I headed out the back. Quite theatrical, actually.”

  “It’s Samantha Martens. I work for the Vermont Bureau of Investigation.”

  He nodded, smiling. “So what do I call you?”

  “Special Agent Martens.”

  He laughed, but shook his head. “I would guess they call you Sam.”

  She didn’t answer. Overhead, the loudspeakers told them all to proceed to the nearest exit, the mall now being officially closed for business.

  Ruiz raised his eyes briefly heavenward in response. “Shall we? I’m assuming you have something you’d like to discuss.”

  He turned on his heel and made a slight gesture with his hand, resulting in his men enveloping them without a word, and escorting them back down the escalator.

  “I take it that you are not alone and that your company will not be joining us?” Ruiz asked.

  “Right,” she said, her thoughts in a jumble on how best to direct the conversation.

  On the ground floor, with his escort more vigilant than before, Ruiz guided her, hand on her elbow, toward the exit and the parking lot beyond. Two of his men trotted ahead to check for security, their hands under their coats.

  “You were a member of this Vermont Bureau when we were together?” he asked as they walked.

  “Yes.”

  “I’ve heard of them, of course,” he continued, his voice bringing her back to the intimacy of when they used to chat between transactions, as supposed fellow drug dealers. They’d operated out of a rented house in Rutland. Then, as now, he’d appeared deceptively soft-spoken, kind, and considerate.

  “I thought, however,” he continued, “that they only pursue major crimes. Is that what’s brought us back together?”

  She glanced at him. “You saying you’re not involved in majo
r crimes?”

  He laughed, gesturing to her to precede him through a door being held open by one of his men, into the chilly night air. “I make a living as best I can, Sam. Just like everyone else.”

  She hadn’t honestly expected much else. “How’s your mom?” she asked instead. “Still cooking up wonders in the kitchen?”

  Ruiz did a double take and smiled. “You remembered. She is, for a crowd of grandchildren these days, but in a much nicer place than where I grew up. To her, pots and pans are like instruments to a musician. A wonder to see.”

  The two vehicles were positioned right across from the glass doors. Ruiz looked around quickly. “I know you want to talk—at least that’s what I’m assuming. I also assume that I’m not under arrest, or that would have already happened. It is freezing, though, and I’m not built for the cold. The best I can offer, unless you want to meet at a restaurant or come back to my home, is to talk alone in the car. It has a very good heater, and I’m sure that whatever listening device you’re wearing will still work, despite the armor plating.” He pointed invitingly at the SUV. “It’s completely up to you, Sam.”

  She didn’t hesitate, impressed by his grasp of the realities of their situation—which she found oddly comforting. “That suits me.”

  He gave a one-sentence command to his escort before motioning her into the dark, warm confines of the luxury car’s rear seat, and closing the heavy door behind him. Through the tinted windows, she saw the bodyguards working out which four large, heavily armed men would cram themselves into a medium-sized sedan—and which one would be left in the cold to stand watch.

  Ignoring their plight, Ruiz settled back against the leather cushions and crossed his legs. Back in the day, it had been sweats, jeans, and sneakers for him, albeit neat and tidy. Now, Sam noted, what he wore had to have set him back thousands—not to mention a gold and diamond-accented watch that probably rivaled the value of the car.