The First 48

by Tim Green

  “Quiet!” Dave yelled.

  The only sound then was a blue jay cawing obscenely. If Dave had had bird shot in his gun, he would have killed it.

  “Kennel,” he said to the four Dobermans, pointing at the back of his jeep. The dogs poured themselves in. The male whined a bit. Otherwise they spoke only with their longing yellow eyes.

  “Coyote hunt?” Vern said, his eyebrows raised. Mostly they ran coyotes in the wintertime.

  “Manhunt,” Dave said, getting back into the jeep.

  “Oh,” Vern said.

  “You get them other dogs fed and then get going on that roof.”

  “Yes, sir,” Vern said, straightening.

  Dave put the vehicle in gear and headed back toward the south end of the island. He stopped well before North Pond and pulled his jeep into the grass. There was an old sheep meadow that butted up to the eastern edge of the swamp. It would be impossible going from there on foot, so he picked up his radio and pressed the talk key.

  “Jeb,” he said. “You got anything on her?”

  “Had some man tracks in the mud here near a den of water snakes,” Jeb said through the static, “but nothing since. We’re looking.”

  “You leave Curly there and meet me with the boat at the west edge of the swamp near the sheep meadow.”

  “You want me to leave right now?”

  “Yep. I’ll probably beat you there as it is.”

  “I’m on my way.”

  Dave kept his eyes open as he went. You never knew with something like this what she was going to do. Girl like that, with no woods sense, was apt to go in circles. He could walk right up on her. That’s why he kept the shotgun resting easy across his arms as he walked. The dogs fell into a loose line behind him, moving like shadows under the heat of the sun.

  When they got to the edge of the swamp, there was an old wooden dock the sheep farmers had used. Jeb was waiting.

  “Beat you,” Jeb said, smiling.

  “Kennel up,” Dave said, pointing to the boat, and again the dogs spilled in with just the click and whisper of nails and pads.

  “Good for you,” Dave said, stepping in and tipping the boat nearly to the waterline with his awesome size.

  Jeb started the motor and wove through the swamp to the grassy finger where they’d found her tracks. Dave got out and squatted down next to them, scanning the earth ahead, shading his eyes from the sun. He followed them a little ways into the woods, reading the disturbance of leaves and sticks the way others would read a yellow road sign.

  “You motherfuckers scuffed it up in here pretty good.”

  “We was looking,” Jeb said.

  Curly came up, his bald head red as a three-ball, his arms and chest pink beneath the green army vest he wore with army shorts, boots, and knee-high socks. In his hands was that Tech DC-9 that he loved so much.

  “She started to run here,” Dave said, pointing to a bed of ferns. “She lost a shoe somewhere back there. In the water.”

  “Damn, I thought I’d get a shot at her,” Curly said, his dark eyes sparkling as he wiped his sweaty brow with the back of his bright pink arm.

  “You will before it’s done,” Dave said, turning back toward the boat.

  With a whistle, the dogs poured out and danced right up to Dave, ears back, stubby tails aquiver. Dave took the sheet from under his arm and held it out for the dogs to smell. They growled as he pushed the sheet into their muzzles, washing them with the scent.

  “We’ll comb south behind the dogs,” Dave said over the canines’ rumbling. “Curly, you take the east. Get close to the water. Jeb, you go down west about two hundred meters. I’ll stay right behind the dogs.”

  From his pocket, he removed a thin silver whistle. He tooted it once and said, “Fetch her up.”

  The dogs took off like bullets, snarling and snapping at the air, which still carried the girl’s scent. Dave straightened up and offered a rare smile to his men.

  “We got ourselves a little manhunt, boys,” he said, then looked at his watch. “And I’ll bet anyone a cold drink we’ll be home before supper.”

  CHAPTER 37

  The truck rumbled and coughed. The AC was on as high as it would go, but for some reason, the air being pushed into their faces was tepid at best. Mike sniffed and detected a hint of burned diesel fuel. He looked at his watch. Twelve-thirty.

  When a blond in a white dress stepped out of the law offices, a quiet whistle slipped out from between Mike’s lips.

  He clamped his mouth shut, feeling stupid.

  Tom looked blankly at the building, as if he hadn’t heard.

  It wasn’t long before Kestrel came out too. He looked both ways and set off up the sidewalk at a healthy clip. Tom put the big truck in gear, but waited to pull away from the curb until Kestrel had turned the corner. Then he went fast, cutting off a Volvo and getting an earful of its horn.

  From up in the cab of the 350, it was easy to spot Kestrel’s yellow hair. Plus, even though he was moving fast, he stopped every thirty feet or so to look around.

  “Is he looking for us?” Tom asked.

  “Someone,” Mike said. Their plan was to follow him to wherever it was he was having lunch, wait until he went into the rest room, and put a gun to his head. It was Mike’s plan, the best he could come up with until Kestrel dodged into the Marriott on 22nd Street.

  When they pulled up in front, Mike saw the blond dish in the white dress get up from a chair in the lobby and head for the elevators.

  “Straight to dessert,” he said.

  “What?”

  “That blond I goggled at?” he said. “I just saw her inside there.”

  “And?”

  “Kestrel ain’t here for the chicken quesadillas,” Mike said. “That blond was somebody’s secretary at Duffy & McKeen, and I promise you Kestrel’s got a room. Plan B.”

  “What’s Plan B?”

  “It’s the Mike Tubbs special,” Mike said. “Pull into the garage. Over there.”

  Tom pulled in and parked in the deepest darkest corner.

  “Should we check on him?” Tom said, nodding toward the back as he shut off the engine.

  “Better to ask for forgiveness than permission,” Mike said, hopping out. “Let’s go.”

  They found the elevator and went up into the lobby. In the gift shop, Mike bought a disposable camera.

  “This way,” he said to Tom, leading him past the front desk and nodding a signal toward a young pimple-faced bellman. The kid followed them around the corner. Mike took the roll of hundreds out of his pocket, peeled off two, and looked around.

  “Here,” he said to the kid, tearing both bills and handing the kid half of each. “You see that tall blond guy in the suit? Him and the hot blond in the white dress are in here at least once a week, am I right?”

  “Yeah, but what’s this?” the kid said, holding up the torn bills.

  “That’s half the job,” Mike said. “You get me the room they’re in, just the room number, and you get the rest.”

  “What are you gonna do?” the kid said, his eyes scanning both of them top to bottom.

  “Look,” Mike said, holding up his camera. “I’m a private detective. I know it looks stupid, but I’m working for his wife and I caught his ass first time out and I don’t have my regular stuff. Woman’s got cancer, you know? So all you’ll be doing is saving her money by telling me where this guy is and saving me the trouble of staking him out for another couple of weeks to get a shot through the window with my regular equipment. Sound good?”

  “Well . . . ,” the kid said.

  Mike wasn’t worried. He could see the greed in the kid’s eyes as clear as the little red bump on the tip of his nose.

  “Okay,” Mike said, reaching for the bills, “you don’t have to.”

  “No,” the kid said, drawing them out of reach. “Man, for a lady with cancer? What do you think I am? Wait here.”

  The kid disappeared around the corner. Mike put his hands in his pocke
ts and began to whistle.

  “He’s not calling the cops, is he?” Tom said, edging toward the lobby, peeking around.

  “Nope.”

  Mike was right. The kid came back and walked right past them to the elevator. He stopped and stared at the door without a word until it arrived. Two people got out. Mike and Tom followed the kid in and up they went, stopping on seven.

  “Seven twenty-eight,” the kid said, pointing the way. He held the elevator doors open with one hand and extended the other, palm up.

  Mike tucked the two remaining halves of the bills in his hand and thanked him.

  The kid looked around sharply and said in a hurried whisper, “For two more, I’ll give you a passkey.”

  “Deal,” Mike said. He took out another pair of bills and gave them to the kid, taking the passkey in return.

  “You’re not going to do anything crazy, right?” the kid said. “I could lose my job.”

  “Just pictures,” Mike said.

  The door closed, and Tom turned to him.

  “That’s scary,” he said.

  “Yeah,” Mike said. “And it works wherever you go.”

  “No wonder they have that sign telling you to chain your door,” Tom said.

  “Those chains aren’t shit.”

  At room 728, Mike took out his camera and ratcheted home the first picture. He slipped the card into the lock. It beeped. Green light. Kestrel did use the chain. Mike kicked once, snapping it and bursting into the room. They were at it, right on top of the bedspread with the blond riding high and Kestrel, pants to his knees, blinking up at her through his glasses. The lawyer’s narcotic smile snapped into a mask of horror at the white explosion of the camera flash.

  CHAPTER 38

  Jane’s throat was dry and burning. Her face wet. She had a cramp in her side. So bad she held it with both hands. Dizzy. The snakebites throbbed quietly now; the bleeding had stopped. The trees were swaying, their leaves hissing quietly in the breeze. Jane turned her face toward it, letting it dry some of the sweat.

  She started up again with a quick bolt. Fear. Hair fell into her face in ratty strands. She no longer had the energy to push them back, so she saw the woods now through the bars of her own portable prison. Maybe that was why she stepped into the rabbit hole and twisted her ankle.

  Still, something pushed her on. Limping. Pain now a permanent guest. She began to move downhill. Every step was a choice. She took the easy way, regardless of direction, trusting herself to blind luck. Around this tree. Under those branches. Through the thinnest patch of brambles. Sticks snapped beneath her. Thorns snagged her shirt and the bare skin on her legs, tearing them both.

  A sharp snarl startled her. She scrambled up into the closest tree. A silver beech. Her hands gripped the smooth bark on the branch and she swung her legs up into the air. The snapping shadows flowed from the brush and threw themselves at her buttocks just as she heaved her hips upward, clenching her knees around the branch. A frightened gasp escaped her.

  Somehow, seconds later, she found herself up on the next branch, safe, but looking down into the snarling teeth of four big dogs. They leaped skyward, barking hungrily now and filling the woods with an amazing din. In the distance, she heard the shouts of men.

  CHAPTER 39

  Mike clicked off shot after shot, spinning the film advance with his thumb so fast it made Tom think of the blackjack dealers at the Turning Stone Casino. Mike bobbed and wove as he clicked off the shots, getting all the different angles. The shrieking blond—a blur of silky hair, painted nails, and tight flesh—didn’t seem to faze him. And even though Tom put his fingers in his ears, he supposed that Mike had heard and seen it all before.

  “What? Hey! Stop! Get out!” Kestrel yelled, clutching a pillow over his privates. His torso was pale white, in contrast to the golden brown golfer’s tan on his arms and neck. His glasses were askew, their gold frames flashing in the light like the wedding ring on his left hand.

  “Okay, I’ll go,” Mike said, turning. “But this’ll be on the Internet by five, so you may want to give your wife and your law partners a little heads-up.”

  Mike started for the door. Tom wasn’t going anywhere. He was thinking about a thumb hold that would make the naked lawyer talk. The man had no honor.

  “Wait!” Kestrel said. “Just wait. Wait a minute. Don’t go. What do you want?”

  Mike turned to him and said, “Mark Allen. Who is he? Where is he?”

  The blond was sitting on the chair beside the TV now, her hand covering her face, the white dress clutched to her body. She was crying.

  “He’s a client, for God’s sake,” Kestrel said. “He’s not with the firm. I don’t know anything about him.”

  “You know who he works for,” Tom said, leaning in. His hands curled into weapons.

  “So, Kale Labs,” Kestrel said, backing into the corner of the bed, knocking the telephone off the little night table with a crash. “They’re a client. A big pharmaceutical company based up in Watertown, New York. We represent them in health care issues on the Hill. He’s a big executive with them up there and he needed an office. I don’t have a damn thing to do with him. I set him up with an office, for God’s sake.”

  “What’s that got to do with Senator Gleason?” Tom asked.

  “We lobbied Gleason months ago for a vaccination contract that Kale Labs is lined up for,” Kestrel said. “He wasn’t budging on it and we gave up. That’s it. I don’t know anything else about him.”

  “And Mark Allen?” Mike said. “Where is he now?”

  “Honestly,” Kestrel said, “I don’t know. I haven’t seen him since yesterday. Sometimes he doesn’t show up for days.”

  “Where’s he staying? Where’s he live?” Tom asked. He was at the bed’s edge, ready to launch himself. Wanting to smack this guy silly. Tickle his nerves.

  “I have no idea where,” Kestrel said.

  “Seventeen fifty-seven L Street,” the blond said suddenly.

  “How the hell do you know?” Kestrel said, glaring at her.

  This caused her to look up from behind her hand. Her eyes were puffy and red and scowling.

  “Because he asked me to have some equipment shipped there, you son of a bitch,” she said.

  “I didn’t mean anything,” Kestrel said.

  The blond’s face went back into her hand.

  “What else do you know about him?” Tom asked.

  “Look,” Kestrel said, whining now, “I’ve told you everything I know. I’ve told you more than I should have. Would you give me that camera? You’re not going to use that, are you?”

  “What was he doing down here?” Tom asked.

  “Honestly,” Kestrel said, pleading, shaking his head. “I have no idea. Please.”

  Mike tossed the camera onto the bed, and he and Tom left the room.

  “Excellent strategy,” Tom said as they waited for the elevator to take them down. “Much better than putting a gun to his head in the bathroom of a busy restaurant. Not that that wouldn’t have worked . . .”

  “‘Those who win every battle are not really skillful—those who render others’ armies helpless without fighting are the best of all,’” Mike said quietly, looking down at his shoes.

  “Sun Tzu,” Tom said, smiling until he looked at his watch. 11:14:51. Too fast.

  They got the truck out of the garage. It took them less than ten minutes to reach Mark Allen’s apartment. One of a dozen narrow brick row houses. There was no place to park on the street and they were afraid to double-park with Gleason in the back of the truck. The closest garage was two blocks away.

  By the time they reached Mark Allen’s door, Tom’s knees were aching and his breathing was difficult in the humidity. The sun was a blinding ball of heat at the top of the sky. Even the trees lining the street had gone limp beneath its glare.

  “You okay?” Mike said.

  Tom put his hands on his knees and drew deep breaths. His limbs felt heavy, and if he’d thought his
daughter was safe, he might have lain down right there on the sidewalk and fallen asleep. Instead, he looked up the steps and studied Mark Allen’s front door.

  “I’m fine,” he said, removing the .38 from his ankle and stuffing it in the waist of his pants as he straightened. “You?”

  Mike patted the bulge of the Taurus 454 Raging Bull beneath the hem of his black T-shirt.

  They went up to the door, both of them with their hands on their guns, and knocked. No one. They knocked again. Then again. Mike looked around. He dropped his hands to his side and waited for a middle-aged woman with a baby stroller to go past, then dug into his pocket and took out a small metal tool. In half a minute, the door swung open. They scanned the street, then slid inside.

  The instant they got in, their guns came out. Tom heard Mike’s heavy breathing.

  The lights were on, but the apartment was still.

  Tom listened. Silence.

  It was upstairs that they located the small table by the window loaded with electronic equipment. A leather headset hung over the edge, suspended by its coiled cord.

  Mike threw the headset on and began punching buttons.

  “Holy shit,” Mike said, taking off the headset and handing it to Tom, “listen to this.”

  Tom hesitated, then put it on. It was Gleason. He was talking on the phone. Describing his problems. Something about a King of Clubs. Then it hit him. Ordering death like it was takeout. A rush order.

  “But Thorne said he didn’t get her,” Tom said, tearing off the headset, “and you believed him. Right? So Mark Allen got there first.”

  Mike slipped the reflective disk out of the player and held it up so Tom could see a distorted glimpse of his own weary face. “And this is our ‘Get Out of Jail Free’ card.”

  Tom didn’t care about that. Didn’t care that they’d abducted a senator. Scared the shit out of him. Roughed him up. Transported him across state lines. What was just wasn’t always legal.

  “Keep looking,” Tom said.

  Mike moved into the bathroom. Tom rifled the clothes drawers. Jockey shorts. T-shirts. Polo shirts. Socks. All neat. Nothing buried.