Witness to Death

by Dave White

  Next he tried the email. He tried to get into the application, only to find it was password protected. He typed in Michelle’s name, hoping the code was easy. Nope.

  John went back to the main screen. He pressed a few more buttons trying to get back into the email. He turned the BlackBerry over and gave it another look. When he looked at the screen again the calendar had opened. It was full of information. John started to read through the entries. There were a bunch of locations, including the Jersey City Light Rail Station and dock from Friday night. The last address was in Jersey City. The time stamp showed it had been entered yesterday afternoon.

  John put the phone down, staring at it as it rested on the countertop. The call from Michelle had come around the time John had been arrested

  Could Frank have been going after Michelle?

  A shudder went through him.

  Using Frank’s landline, he called for a cab, and the dispatcher told him it’d be there in an hour.

  He went upstairs and took a shower, feeling the warm blood wash down his back. He stood under the hot water as it scalded the wound.

  After he was finished, he did the best he could, wrapping his shoulder and arm in gauze. He didn’t know when he was going to get another chance to do it.

  Once he was dressed—in the same clothes he’d had on for the last three days, because Frank’s were too big for him—he came downstairs and saw the sun had completely risen. He looked at the BlackBerry one more time and memorized the address.

  He should take the Blackberry with him. He might need it. He slid it into his pocket.

  The cab beeped outside. He took a deep breath and stepped out into the winter morning.

  The address was a mosque in the middle of several tenement buildings. The doorstep smelled like bad cheese and dog piss. Trash blew across the sidewalks and got caught in the accumulated snow. Once he saw the boarded windows and crumbling brick of the buildings around him, he wanted to go home.

  He knocked on the open door anyway and heard a dog barking. The barks echoed off the walls, but despite his thumping heart’s fears, he was pretty sure the barking was coming from one of the alleyways down the street. He looked at the address on the paper again. Was this where Michelle was?

  The guy who answered was wearing a black sweatshirt and jeans. He was thin, with bloodshot eyes. His tan skin was tinted gray, contrasted by a reddish cut on his face.

  “Who the hell are you?” the guy rasped, spittle spraying from his lips. His breath smelled like an old refrigerator that someone had forgotten to clean.

  “My name’s John Brighton, I found this address in my friend’s—”

  “I think you have the wrong address. This is a mosque.” He pointed a shaky arm back into the room behind him.

  “My friend had this address in his house,” John said. “He’s missing and I’m trying to find him. Or someone who knows where he is.”

  “Who is your friend?”

  John took a deep breath. Who the hell was this guy? Someone who knew Frank came to see him at some point, or gave Peter the address at least. Why else would his address be in Frank’s BlackBerry? But John wasn’t sure if he could trust saying anything to this man. Would this guy know him as Frank or Peter?

  John took a deep breath.

  “Frank Carnathan,” he tried.

  The guy closed his eyes and pressed his lips shut tight. “I don’t recognize that name.”

  John felt a rush of warmth in his face.

  “Is there someone else I can talk to?”

  The man shook his head. “I’m afraid there’s no one who can help you.”

  “What about Peter Callahan? Do you recognize him?” John asked.

  The man squinted and pursed his lips. After a moment he nodded. “Come in.”

  John stepped through the door and felt cold air on his face. A breeze came through the cracks in the window.

  “How do you know Peter?” The man stuck out a cracked hand and John took it. The skin was dry and flaky. “Do you work with him?”

  “So you’ve seen Peter recently?” John said, wiping his hand on his pants.

  “Yeah, he was here. He was looking for somebody too.”

  “You know where he might have gone?”

  “Who?” The man shook his head.

  John took a deep breath. Was this guy playing some sort of game with him? “Peter. You know where Peter is?”

  “Oh. He was going to, uh—” He jammed his hands under his arm pits and looked around the room. It reminded John of one of those pictures of Nixon he’d seen in a student’s history book recently. “I don’t know.”

  “What do you know?”

  “I told you, he was looking for somebody. He didn’t find who he was looking for and now he’s gone.”

  “Who was he looking for?”

  The man smiled. “I don’t know who the hell you are. Why should I tell you anything?”

  John was shivering. The cold draft through the window was like standing in front a full blast from an air conditioner.

  “Listen, you really don’t. But you’ve already told me he was here. Why not help me out? I don’t want to take up anymore of your day. I just want to find my friend.”

  The man shrugged.

  “I sent him to New Brunswick.”

  “Near Rutgers. Why?”

  The man opened the door to the mosque and more cold air flooded in. John took a step to his right, out of the draft.

  “You’ve asked enough questions. Peter is not here. Go.”

  “Do you think he’s still in New Brunswick?”

  “How would I know? Leave me alone, sir. I’ve done all I can.” He rubbed his nose.

  John took a step back. This was like dealing with one of his kids. When they broke a rule or knew someone who did, they’d clam up and try to get rid of him. At times, he’d let the kid go. Pick his battles. But when he needed to know, the kids would fold and give up information if he had something on them. Even then when he needed to get the kid talking it was like Chinese water torture. He waved his hands to get the guy’s attention.

  “Sir? Look at me.” Kept his voice even, but loud. Like talking to a bad dog.

  The man snapped his head up and met John’s eyes.

  “Where is Peter?”

  The man’s gaze drifted away from John toward the ceiling.

  “I don’t know. He didn’t come back here.”

  “I don’t believe you,” John said. “If Peter came to this place, then something is going on here. Something illegal.”

  Shaking his head, the man said, “Who are you? I shouldn’t have to tell you anything. You’re just grasping at straws.”

  John closed his eyes. The only money he had left was for cab fare somewhere. Bribery was out of the question.

  “I want to help my friend. And from the way you let me in, I thought you were going to. But you’re not saying anything. He has something on you, doesn’t he. What are you guys doing? Selling drugs?”

  “I think it’s time for you to leave.”

  John wondered if he should listen to this guy. Maybe he should get the hell out of there. Try New Brunswick. Not that he had any idea where to look.

  “I’ll go,” he said. “But I’m going to call the cops once I get home. Have them check you out.”

  Like calling the principal’s office.

  The man stiffened. He started to talk fast, like he wasn’t even thinking. “Please, who do you think you are? Go ahead, call them. They won’t find anything. I don’t know where he is. I told you that. I’m not lying. All I know is he came here looking for Omar . . .” He trailed off, as if he knew he’d gone too far, but wasn’t able to stop himself.

  John took a step forward.

  Finally some information. A name. Maybe someone who could help him.

  “Omar? Omar who?”

  “You don’t know him.”

  “And what did you tell Peter? That this guy was in New Brunswick?”

  “No,” the
man said. “He wasn’t in New Brunswick.”

  John was about to ask who Omar was again, when the man shook his head.

  “You shouldn’t have come here.”

  “Who is Omar? Can I talk to him?”

  Apparently the thought of the police showing up worked.

  “He’s only going to be in Jersey another two days.”

  “Where is he now?”

  The man shook his head. “No way.”

  “Help me out. You’ve already told me this much.”

  “Go away.”

  John had another thought.

  “Thabata, you said? He an Arab guy like you? What’s he look like?”

  John thought about Jersey City, the guy who yelled out Peter’s name right before all the gunfire started.

  “I was there the other night. In Jersey City. I saw Peter kill all those guys in trenchcoats. I watched it happen. They were coming for Peter. Another guy was there too. Was it Omar? He can help me find Peter. Was he there?”

  The man’s face was pale. His eyes bloodshot. “Get the hell out of here.”

  John’s stomach fluttered. He felt the blood rush from his face, and his shoulders slump. Now what?

  “All right,” John said. “I’m sorry for bothering you.”

  He started to walk toward the door.

  “Wait,” he heard from behind him. A different voice this time.

  John turned and saw an Arabic guy standing in a doorway and clutching a stack of papers in his hand. He was on the far side of the room. The same guy who’d yelled out Peter’s name on the docks. The same guy Peter had been looking for.

  “Omar?”

  He nodded.

  “You told me to be polite. He threatened to call the cops. One man I could stop, but if they came with a warrant,” the man said. “I told you, I can’t do this sort of thing anymore.”

  “Don’t worry, you did what I asked,” Omar said. “Now I want to hear what this guy has to say.”

  Christine sat Callahan in a chair, and handcuffed him to it. Sandler circled the chair. Callahan tried to blink the images of a convulsing Michelle from his brain. It was all he could focus on. His vision went blurry, and he saw two Robert Sandlers. He blinked some more, and there was only one.

  “You,” Sandler said, hands still shaking, but forcing a smile, “are lying to me. People at your job can track anyone. I need Omar. Where is he?”

  “Your own daughter,” Callahan said. He felt drool at the corner of his lips as he spoke.

  The smile on Sandler’s face disappeared. “I know,” he said. “How dare you—”

  “Is she okay?” Callahan shook his head. He couldn’t get her out of his brain.

  Sandler reached out and squeezed Callahan’s ears in his hands. Pulled Callahan close.

  “You out to ruin my mood? You think I’ve forgotten my own daughter? I’m going to use her to my advantage. But if we’re going to do that, I need your help.”

  Callahan leaned back out of Sandler’s grasp.

  “I told you I . . don’t. . . know,” Callahan said. “Is Michelle okay?”

  It was futile to ask. It seemed Sandler didn’t care about Michelle. If he did, that taser never would have come near her. But Callahan needed some time to breathe, get his bearings.

  “I’m sure she’s fine,” Sandler said.

  The hangar was drafty, as if a door was open somewhere. Since everyone had left the room, the temperature had dropped a good ten degrees.

  At the end of the far hallway, was a helicopter. Callahan watched as its blades rocked slightly in the breeze.

  “That’s not enough. I want to know,” Sandler said, as if talking to a child, “why you’re investigating me. You’ve been working on this case for—how long has it been? A year. A year and a half? More? You’ve found nothing connecting me to anything illegal. Ameritech is the real villain, no one else.”

  “Why me?” he asked. “You have someone in the Agency already.”

  It was a bluff, a guess. Sandler’d been on to him, and he couldn’t figure out how. He only had one contact inside Sandler’s business and he thought she was trustworthy. If she wasn’t . . .

  Sandler patted Callahan’s cheek lightly, like a grandfather would a young boy.

  Sandler took a few steps over to Christine and whispered in her ear. She placed the half sharpened knife into her holster and disappeared down a hallway.

  “I want to help you,” Callahan said. “My boss put me on the case a year ago, when some men in your company were caught talking to a man on our watch list. It could have been innocent, but he put me on the case to find out. Now it seems like you had to have someone else’s ear in the department. How else would you catch on to me?”

  Sandler got off the desk, shoved his hands in the parka’s pockets.

  “Last chance. Where’s Omar?”

  Callahan wondered how many times he could say “I don’t know.” He wished he could come up with a believable answer. The right words weren’t coming. Something had shorted in his brain, and every time he thought about lying, he saw Michelle being tasered.

  Callahan bit his tongue. Maybe pain would center him.

  “Your boss, was his name Alexander Weller?”

  Callahan felt his jaw slacken.

  “Because,” Sandler said, “he was my man in the department.”

  Sandler pulled a photograph out of his pocket. It was of a man lying on his back, eyes wide, staring at nothing. His mouth was open in a silent scream, and a red line ran across his neck.

  “So, you see, I don’t have a man in the department anymore,” Sandler said. “That’s why I need you.”

  Callahan felt a tingling in his toes. It quickly spread through the rest of his body. He closed his eyes.

  “What happened to him?”

  “He died.” Sandler shrugged.

  Weller dead, Sandler’s own daughter tortured to the point that her sister’s hands shook when they were done. How far was Sandler willing to go? What was his ultimate plan?

  “I can’t help now. Weller was my only contact. My information’s been burned. I’m embedded. No one else knows I work for the DHS. The CIA thinks I died in Afghanistan,” Callahan said.

  Sandler smiled. “I don’t believe you.”

  “They think I’m dead. I died on duty years ago.”

  Callahan opened and closed his teeth as if he was chewing gum. With Weller dead, he was adrift, alone. Only Candy knew about him. He could contact her, tell her to talk to Duffy, like she’d wanted to. Or, he could get back in. He could get back-up involved.

  Come in from the cold.

  Sandler stopped pacing. Crossed his arms and waited.

  “What would you like me to do?”

  Sandler leaned back a bit. “You know what I need.”

  Callahan closed his eyes. Opened them. “Michelle is more important to me than the job. If I could help you, I would. But there’s no information out there. After seeing him on the river, I spent the night trying to find him. No luck.”

  Sandler dropped his arms to his side. A smile creased his face, and this one didn’t seem forced. His hands were no longer shaking.

  “You have to understand, I didn’t want to hurt my daughter. I’m doing this for her. It was the only way to get an answer. So, stop lying to me.”

  Callahan leaned against the chair, tightening his muscles. He wanted to tear out Sandler’s throat.

  Sandler turned toward the far hallway. “Christine!”

  “You’re a bastard,” Callahan said.

  Sandler’s second daughter stepped through the passageway into the hangar. “Take Mr. Callahan away,” he said. Then he turned back toward Callahan. “Think about what you’ve said. Think about why you’re lying to me. When I see you next, I want the truth. Christine, if he does anything that concerns you, you can dispose of him.”

  John didn’t even flinch. Too many other things had happened in the past forty-eight hours for this to faze him. He shoved his hands in his
pockets.