by Archer Mayor
Joe had rarely felt so powerless—or so assailed by such emotions.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The office of Homeland Security Investigations in Springfield had once belonged to the Marshals Service, and was equipped with all the appropriate law enforcement bells and whistles—multiple locked doors, a processing center, holding cells, a weapons room, and the like. Otherwise, by contrast, it was a typical cube farm, as mundane in appearance as an insurance company call center.
A further jarring note was that had it been the latter, times were clearly tough, because most of the cubicles were empty or had been put to other uses—from housing a printer station to becoming an oversized parking place for the office coffee machine.
HSI Special Agent Alex Dorman swept his arm across the whole expanse as he led Willy to his office overlooking Main Street, and said, “Welcome to the hub. First time in my entire career I’ve ever found myself surrounded by too much space.”
“Don’t say that, Alex,” came a disembodied voice from one of the cubicles. “I keep telling you. The gods will be angry.”
Dorman laughed, opened his glass door, and ushered Willy across the threshold, indicating a guest chair for his use.
He wasted no time thereafter. Dragging over another chair so as not to put a desk between them, Dorman sat down himself, crossed his legs, and said, “Nice information you sent along—enough to catch our interest, while being too vague for us to grab it and run without you. Clever.”
“Thanks.” Willy nodded. “High praise, considering the source.”
Dorman half rose to retrieve a couple of documents from his desk and settled back down. “Okay. Two photographs. One of what looks like a cremated battery, the other of a train traveler buying a ticket. Your implication is that the battery’s military, the dude is a terrorist, and you’ve just saved us from another 9/11. Is that about it?”
Willy was impressed. He was clearly in a room with his own kind. “In shorthand?” he said. “That’s a definite maybe. But I won’t know till I dig deeper, and it seemed like I had enough to qualify for a little federal assistance.”
“Very little,” Dorman told him, pointing toward the interior of the office. “The real meaning of all that available space out there is that we’re understaffed, overworked, and committed not only to our standard casework, but also to farming out the people who normally work here to the FBI, ATF, DEA, and even the Berkshire County Task Force. We could fill every desk we got and still have enough cases to keep us more than happily occupied.”
The agent smiled encouragingly. “None of which is to say bye-bye. I just wanted you to know that you’ll have to lobby hard to gain our interest. I’m not being snotty—I promise. It’s just our reality. I came out of local law enforcement. I’m no Ivy Leaguer. I used to piss all over the feds. I get it. But now that the shoe’s on the other foot, I’m forced to spout what I hated to hear in the old days.”
He held up the photos. “So, convince me. What more do you have?”
“How ’bout Pure Computers, on Albany Street, here in Springfield?” Willy offered. “I traced our rail rider to there, where the sign clearly says ‘imports,’ which, from what I hear, would not be kosher for any U.S. military ware.”
Dorman rose and got behind his desk, bringing his computer to life.
Willy kept speaking: “I was also told that Customs and Border Patrol keeps an eye on outfits like that, to make sure they’re playing according to our rules.”
“CBP,” Dorman said half to himself as he worked the keyboard, his eyes on the screen. “I showed them your crispy-critter battery. They were interested, in a vague kind of way.”
“I know the feeling,” Willy cracked.
“Hey,” Dorman argued without emphasis, “you’re here, right? I’m fluffing your ego. Stop bitching.”
Willy liked this man.
“Got it,” Dorman said after a few more minutes. “Pure Computers, owned by a man named Sunny Malik, from Pakistan. There’s a note here that says that Pakistan means ‘land of the pure,’ ergo the name of the store. Cute.”
“They got anything on him?” Willy asked.
Dorman was shaking his head. “Nope. He’s married to Amra, has a daughter, Sarah. They live on South Branch Parkway, in the Sixteen Acres section of town. Not too bad.” He sat back. “No red flags.”
“So?” Willy asked.
“I’ll have Customs run his import and shipping records, receipts, incorporation filings, the rest. Just because nothing pops out immediately doesn’t necessarily mean much—mostly that he’s not on the FBI’s top ten list. You were smart to send me that high-res shot of the battery ahead of time, by the way. It is mil-spec. People who know that kind of thing confirmed it for me—that’s why I called you back.”
Willy’s eyes widened. “So we’re good? I get an attaboy and you take this off my hands?”
His host laughed. “Don’t you wish. You got a long way to go. Our involvement may stop here and now, depending on what CBP kicks back. If, and only if, they show some interest, we might move up to a document search, surveillance, possibly wiretaps. That could take a long time, and even then, if we still don’t find a bunch of covert money, or discover that Malik’s got known terrorist connections, I can’t promise that we’ll do anything more.”
He held up a finger for emphasis. “And finally—to rub salt in the wound—since you told me in your email that the local PD’s already passed on the case, without us, you’re pretty much up shit creek. The state police CPAC won’t touch it, and none of the other federal alphabets’ll be interested. You’ll be considered old news.
“Course that doesn’t mean anything if you come back later with something sexy. The door’s never closed. Find another battery that’s intact, for example. A pristine, Chinese-made, U.S. mil-spec version, complete with serial numbers and manufacturer stamps? Then it would be off to the races—at least more than you are now.”
This was a clear turning point for Willy: He could either hand over an incompletely defined case, poorly supported by hard evidence, and watch it vanish as surely as a stone thrown into a tar pit, or he could fight the odds as usual. If the latter, he might right a wrong, achieve the impossible, put some bad guys in jail, and make the feds look like morons—all while playing the maverick.
It wasn’t even a choice.
“What’s that address on South Branch Parkway?” he asked.
Alex Dorman didn’t answer at first, probably recognizing the cowboy he’d been himself before being tamed by federal employment. Almost mournfully, he recited the address and added, “I’m giving you that because it’s already public record, but there are a couple of things you should know if you really do want our help.”
“Sure.”
“Working with us doesn’t give you authority to do anything in the state. When you’re here, we have to know what you’re up to at all times. That means you have to ask permission to do anything. Any surveillance, taking of photographs, seizing evidence, entering properties on your own—any stunts like that will create a firestorm and cause you to be immediately sidelined. Plus, none of what you collect will be deemed usable legally, so it really would be a waste. By law, I couldn’t hear or look at anything you brought in—not without sabotaging the entire case and probably bringing the AG’s office down on my neck.”
“Seems a little shortsighted,” Willy commented blandly. “I’m an asset. You said you were shorthanded.”
For Dorman, that was a virtual confirmation of his misgivings moments earlier. He placed his elbows on his desk to better make his point, eye to eye. “I get that you think we’re crap artists and won’t do squat, but try to look at this from our perspective. You’ve given us Sunny Malik and his business. We don’t see anything there yet, but I’ll be putting a note on his information, for future reference. For us, that matters. It amounts to something. Next time his name comes up, that note’ll be there, and our interest will be heightened. If nothing else develops right now w
ith you, we’ve still got that.”
He got up and stood with his back to the window, still looking at Willy closely. “That makes this meeting worth our while, and—like I said—I will start the ball rolling by running a short check on Pure Computers. But if you go gonzo on us, acting on your own, we’ll waste all that, throw the book at you instead, and drop the case like a hot rock.” He leaned forward slightly to add, “Am I misreading your character, Agent Kunkle?”
Willy smiled where others might have taken offense. “It’s like you’ve read my file,” he confessed.
Dorman smiled back, but genuinely and with empathy. “Thought so. Takes one to know one. I can’t tell you how tough it was for me to conform to this outfit’s rules and regs. Damn near got fired at least three times.”
He walked to the door and opened it as Willy rose to his feet. “I gotta get back to work.” He gestured as he had earlier, for Willy to precede him. “So I’ll walk you out.” At the door, however, he laid his hand on Willy’s shoulder, which the other man rarely appreciated.
“Don’t fuck me over. I like you and I think you may have something here, but it’s gonna take time. Deal?”
Willy smiled at him again, their faces inches apart. “You got it.”
* * *
Ten minutes after escorting Kunkle to the lobby, Alex Dorman settled back behind his desk and picked up the phone. He dialed the number of a local drug task force member—a cop who had been so deep undercover for so long that his uniform no longer fit him, and who had helped Alex with the odd favor now and then because of his absolute and utter discretion.
“Yeah?” the man said, knowing from Alex’s disguised caller ID who was on the line.
“I just had a Vermont cop in here, pitching me a case. It may have merit; it may not. But my nose tells me he’s gonna go rogue. I could tell he didn’t like listening to my trust-me lecture.”
“The one where we’re all one happy family but we can’t piss without your say-so?”
“That’s the one. I’m sending you his specifics. He’ll most likely be hanging around either Albany Road or South Branch Parkway.” Dorman gave him the addresses. “If you see him, let me know, okay? I’m not gonna jam him up; I just need to know. That fit with your schedule?”
“Sure. I’ll keep an eye open. Won’t be twenty-four/seven or anything.”
“I know. Anything’s helpful. Keep making people unhappy out there.”
The answering chuckle sounded ominous.
* * *
Later that night, having returned home to pick up Emma and coordinate with Sam—still in Burlington—to have Louise spend the night at their home, Willy was back in Springfield, tucked out of sight along South Branch Parkway. He’d understood from Dorman’s lecture—both what he’d said and what he’d meant—that he wouldn’t be the only one here acting invisible. Dorman had to have called for an extra pair of eyes, just as Willy would’ve done in his place. And for Willy Kunkle—the old sniper—there were few greater pleasures than playing the urban version of who’s-the-stalker. With a psyche as convoluted and pessimistic as his, Willy found absolute peace nowadays in two environments only: within his family and on the hunt. The former was a late-blooming and unexpected haven; the latter had been a refuge since maturity. If one of your problems is the human race and all that it can throw at you, being armed with a rifle and hiding in wait can be a true, if complex, salvation.
Willy had driven here earlier in a rental. His own car was rounding the distant corner at the moment, with a cohort at the wheel. If Dorman had issued orders, the only visual he had to pass along was Willy’s license plate and vehicle description. So why disappoint him? It had been a simple matter for Willy to call on one of his many contacts—yet another person with a checkered past and a debt to pay—and request a small favor.
Willy brought up his night vision scope and focused on an older parked sedan he’d been watching for half an hour. He saw the long-haired driver level his own binoculars to study the rear plate of Willy’s car as it crawled down the street before sliding into an open spot.
Smiling, Willy moved at last. South Branch Parkway is a curving, residential street in a Springfield neighborhood named Sixteen Acres. For most of its length, it is bordered by suburban-style family houses on one side, and woodlands and a couple of golf courses that follow a meandering waterway on the other, suggesting that the street is more in the countryside than it is. Sunny Malik’s home was among the houses across from this artificial wilderness, and Willy had requested his surrogate to park prominently near that address, stay put, and enjoy listening to the radio or drinking a cup of coffee.
For his part, Willy drifted like a shadow across several backyards until he was positioned at the rear of Malik’s property, again within view of the surveillance car. Willy could now better see the man at the wheel, who looked more like a biker than a cop, complete with beard, tats, and pierced ears. Willy was impressed—Alex Dorman had called upon friends in low places.
Friends that Willy assumed had by now made a quiet phone call to Dorman.
He put away his scope and paid closer attention to Malik’s house. It was a standard two-story residence with attached garage. Willy took his time to inventory the layout as much as possible through the back windows, and establish the security system, which turned out to be nonexistent—always helpful.
From Dorman earlier, he’d heard that Malik lived with a wife and daughter, neither of whom appeared inside tonight. Judging from the neat, almost abandoned look of the daughter’s bedroom, Willy thought that she might be away at school. The wife? Who knew? But there was an empty slot in the garage. He would risk the possibility that she’d be returning home later.
As for Sunny, he was visibly accounted for, with his stockinged feet straight out, a drink in his hand, his butt in a La-Z-Boy, and watching a ball game on TV.
Willy decided to seize his opportunity, as imperfect as it was. Malik’s being alone for the moment, mollified and surrounded by distracting noise, was too good to pass up. Checking one last time on Dorman’s long-haired guardian angel—who had by now decamped, no doubt to allow the local police an open field to disturb Willy’s decoy—Willy easily entered Malik’s home.
Trusting Malik to stay put, Willy quickly toured the house from the inside, confirming his earlier conclusions, before entering the den, directly behind the Lay-Z-Boy.
He paused on the threshold a moment, absorbing the scene—the large TV, the back of Sonny’s head outlined against it, both of them swathed in cheers, music, and that endless commentator twaddle.
Willy knew he was about to cross a line—had already, in fact, simply by entering without cause or a warrant. Additionally, his conversation with Dorman had highlighted how isolated he was this time. His fellow VBI agents were used to his ways, and even tolerant of his methods, so long as they were spared the details. But the federal government? And outside his own jurisdiction? Dorman’s rules of engagement had been made very clear.
And were—from Willy’s viewpoint—all the encouragement he needed for a little clandestine independent action.
He approached Sunny Malik, positioned himself comfortably right behind his head, and—with a gloved hand—smoothly reached around and took hold of the man’s chin, pressing him against the headrest of his chair and making it impossible for him to see Willy’s face.
Malik’s whole body spasmed with surprise as Willy whispered into his ear. “Do not move, or you will die, as will Amra when she returns home. Do you understand?”
His victim struggled some more, but without conviction. The chair, so perfectly designed for all-encompassing comfort, was Willy’s perfect confederate, keeping Malik immobilized.
“I have a knife in my hand, aimed at your other ear, Sunny,” Willy lied. “Do I need to prove that to you? I will, but it’ll piss me off.”
“What do you want?” Sunny managed to say through his clamped jaw.
“First, hit the mute button on your remote.”
Malik did so, plunging them into silence.
“Very good,” Willy continued. “I do want something. And keep in mind that I know all about you and your family and what your habits are. We’ve been watching you for a long time, around the clock. Do you believe me, Sunny?”
Malik nodded.
“Outstanding. Here’s the good news: All I want is some information.”
“What?” Malik’s voice sounded incredulous.
“We both know what you’ve been up to, Sunny—involving imported lithium-ion batteries. Don’t we?”
Malik’s body language gave him away. Willy chuckled malevolently. “Right. Now—either I can prove how I know what I do, which’ll again piss me off, waste time, and end up with you suffering. Or you can just cut to the chase and give me a few missing names. ’Cause that’s why we’re meeting like this, Sunny.”
“What names?” his voice had climbed a few octaves.
“There’s a man who came by in a cab, a few days ago. He picked up several batteries made in China but to American military specifications. That ring a bell?”
Malik stiffened. “Who are you?” The fear in his voice was clear and sharp.
“You really need to ask?” Willy tightened his grip slightly.
“No. No. I am sorry. But that’s not absolutely true.”
“What isn’t?” Willy asked, picking up on the man’s careful wording.
“The batteries. They can be converted to what you’re saying, but they are not one hundred percent complete.”
“You think that leaves you off the hook?”
“I am not breaking the law.”
“Then why’re you so scared, Sunny? I’m the other shoe dropping you’ve been so worried about. You think I believe this is the only magic act you’re pulling? If my people drop by your business and tear it apart, how many years do you think you’ll spend in federal prison? Do you know what we do to terrorists in this country, Sunny?”