Levon Cade Omnibus

by Chuck Dixon

  “Not like me. Not like me,” she said.

  The ceiling lamp came on bathing them both in pitiless light.

  39

  After days without a new lead the task force was falling apart.

  Homeland was peeling away agents and officers, reassigning them to serve a system that was already overwhelmed. With the results of their labor showing less and less promise, the local and state cops were offering more excuses than help.

  Bill Marquez was down to one Tom. Agent Doolin was called to the Chicago office. That left him and Agent Salucci as the total company of Team Roeder. They were working and reworking the threads of evidence left for them in St. Louis.

  Down in Memphis, Team Megan had already been rolled up. The trail of the little girl and her mysterious female guardian went stone cold. The video from the train station was of no help. The unknown woman with the serious skills never turned her face to any of the eight cameras covering the station interior. She was Caucasian with short cut hair. Five foot seven inches. One hundred and ten to one hundred and thirty pounds. Hard to pin down because she was wearing winter clothes. Military or law enforcement background probable. Exterior cameras didn't even catch what vehicle the pair left in. If any.

  Bill had access to interagency databases and other resources but had nothing new to feed them. It was four days and no sparks rose to meet him. Deputy Director Wysocki, who no longer insisted on being called “Darren”, was pressing harder even as he shrank Bill’s army to a force of two.

  “I’m a little stretched here, sir,” Bill said during their scheduled three o’clock call.

  “Get me some fresh meat and I can send manpower your way. But the only thing worse than two agents playing with themselves is a dozen agents playing with themselves,” Wysocki said by way of a sign-off.

  The three o’clock call was over by three-oh-four.

  Bill and the remaining Tom split up. Salucci went to re-question and re-re-question witnesses at the airport. Bill sat in a stuffy little office the local bureau had loaned him. He reviewed video surveillance until he wasn't even sure what he was looking for. He studied Tex's every move until he was sure he'd recognized the man in silhouette if he ever spotted him. After binge-watching the same footage over and over it became clear that this guy wanted to be seen at St. Louis airport. He wanted them to waste time following leads drawing them down a rabbit hole. He made them spread their efforts in all the wrong directions. Mission accomplished.

  His phone buzzed, waking him up. Bill had dropped off watching a loop of the suspect moving across a concourse entrance in full view of the TSA cameras.

  It was Nancy Valdez.

  "Thought I'd give you a heads-up before you heard it officially," she said.

  “You got another hit? Bills from the Maine score?” Bill said, rubbing a fist in his eye.

  “Oh yeah. But even better than hot serial numbers.” He could hear the grin in her voice. Pictured her freckled nose crinkling.

  “Yeah?”

  “How about counterfeits? Righteous ones. Prime phonies. Over ten kay in hundreds and fifties that would fool anybody but our techs.”

  “Where’d this happen?” Bill said.

  “Kansas City, Kansas. Local cops were searching a whorehouse on an unrelated matter and uncovered the bundle. Scans of a few of the bills just came in. This place lit up like Christmas.”

  “And they’re part of the Blanco stash?”

  “The years are right. Bills from 1998 and ’99. They bear all the signatures of being run off in Iraq. Part of the billions Saddam Hussein produced back then. And that points back to Courtland Blanco. He did business with Iraq during the sanctions.”

  “Jesus,” Bill said, sipping the sweet acid of coffee long gone cold.

  “Your case just got shit-hot again. This fairy story about billions in hidden assets got real,” she said.

  His phone bonged in his ear. Call waiting. He made his apologies. She wished him happy hunting and got off.

  It was Wysocki ordering him to K.C. Flying this time. Military transport. Wheels up in sixty.

  40

  “What is your name, you filthy whore? Who told you could go in there?”

  Kola dragged Sonata away from the room where the naked man lay on the floor. Even over Kola’s ugly words she could hear the sound of flesh on flesh as the two big men beat the naked man. Kola jerked her by the wrist toward the stairs. She yanked back on his arm, trying to break the grip, bare feet skidding on the carpet.

  He turned back to her and drove a fist into her face. The force of the blow dropped her to the floor. She tasted blood in her mouth. His rings cut the flesh of her cheek. She lay at his feet, vision swimming in swirling shades of red and white.

  Kola stood over her and called back to the men. The dull thuds ceased within the room. They stepped into the hall. One of them sucked at blood streaming from a split knuckle.

  “You may have ruined everything, bitch. Why do you do that?” Kola was crouched over her, shrieking.

  “He was thirsty,” she said.

  “Bitch,” he said between his teeth, blowing foul smoke in her face.

  “I am sorry,” she said, looking away.

  “What is your name?”

  “Sonata.” Her eyes on the floor.

  “Like the car?” He brayed, amused.

  Like the song, she was about to say before he pulled her to her feet, a fist tight in the hair at the back of her head.

  “I will show you my car, okay?” He guided her before him like a puppet, her toes skipping along the floor as if in flight.

  She did not understand his words until they were down the stairs and heading out the front door into the cold and dark.

  It was punishment this time. All sense of purpose was gone. No method. Only anger.

  One of the men held him on his feet, wrists pulled up behind him. The other slammed his right fist over and over into his face. Levon rocked his head back with each blow, anticipating it. He bent his knees to take the impact. That brought a wrench upwards from the man holding him that threatened to rip ligaments in his shoulders. His teeth tore the inside of his cheeks. Blood spewed from his mouth with the next blow.

  A shout from the hallway. The hands holding his wrists pulled away. Off balance, Levon fell to the floor. The lights went out. The door slammed in its frame. There were screams from outside the room. They grew louder even as the source withdrew. Then they were cut off and the house was silent again but for the distant television sounds.

  Levon lay on his side trying to fix his eyes on an invisible horizon. The room was spinning. It was jerking right to left, right to left like something was trying to shake him off the carpet. He fought the urge to close his eyes. That would only make vertigo worse. He needed to stay conscious.

  In his mind he heard Gunny Leffertz’ voice. It rang loud and clear and direct.

  “You stay with me, asshole! I did not dismiss you! I did not tell you that you could go anywhere, pogue! You dare not close your eyes on me! I am not tired yet! Do you understand me?”

  “Yes,” Levon whispered, spraying blood.

  “Did I hear you say something, pogue? Did you say something?”

  “Yes,” Levon said again louder.

  “I’ve heard pussy farts louder than that! Let me hear you, pogue!”

  “Yes!”

  “You are never leaving this room,” Gunny said softly, his voice coming inches from Levon’s ear.

  The hell I’m not, Levon thought, eyes fixed on that invisible horizon, willing it to stay level for one second. Just one second and he could hold on.

  The second passed like an hour.

  The world went gray.

  Then black.

  Then nothing.

  Gunny Leffertz said:

  “They have you. Really have you. You’re going to talk. They’ll know if you’re lying so you can’t lie. The only tactic you have left is to hold back the truth until it does you the most good and them the least
. You have what they want. Hold onto it as long as you can.”

  41

  The next time they came they came wanting him to talk.

  The last beating moved up his timeline. Another one like it and they might break a bone or blind him. That would complicate his escape plans.

  The vertigo has subsided but was still there. He felt as if he was floating on a surface of shifting liquid. He tamped down the sensation before it could rise to engulf him.

  Two big guys, one Levon hadn’t seen before now, lifted him from the floor and held him upright for the blond-dye job.

  “This is not fun for me,” the blond called Kola said. Levon picked the name out from exchanges he’d overheard.

  “This is work. Do not make it harder work, okay? You give to me. I give to you.” Kola took Levon’s chin in his hand.

  Levon nodded, eyes lowered. Submitting, telling his captor that he was surrendering control.

  “Is there more money? More diamonds? I think there is,” Kola said, face close to Levon’s. Stale cigarettes and garlic on his breath.

  Levon nodded.

  “Tell me where and I give you water. Or a soda maybe. Order you a pizza.”

  Levon swallowed. His eyes darting as though in desperate thought.

  “Do not lie to me. Do not make hard work for me.”

  “I won’t lie. I’ve had enough.” Levon raised his eyes to look into Kola’s.

  Kola gave his cheek a playful slap.

  “Tell me.”

  Levon described the location of the gym bag in detail. Kola entered the location on a smartphone. He looked up at Levon with hard eyes.

  “I will be back. If you are lying to me, making up stories, then I will make you hurt. Hurt for a long time.” Kola gestured to the men holding him.

  “Haluk, you come with me.”

  Levon was dropped to the floor. The men left the room. Morning light came through the dirty window.

  Kola broke one of the primary rules of interrogation. He broke his promise to give Levon water in exchange for information. The broken contract confirmed what Levon knew already: once Kola and his masters had what they wanted they would kill him.

  He had an hour until Kola got back with the bag. Less if Kola phoned to confirm he had it when he found it. And he would find it. Levon had told him the truth of the bag’s location. It was the fastest way to get himself and the bag in the same location.

  Levon rolled onto his knees and got his bound feet under him. From there he rose to a standing position. He dropped into a deep crouch, bending his legs, balancing on his toes. He hunched his shoulders forward then back, folding his torso at the same time. The pain in his ribs was a burning spear in his side. His abdominal muscles, bruised deep from the beatings, protested as he tightened them. Within seconds he was running with sweat despite the cold. He blew his lungs empty of air.

  Bent double to make as small a silhouette as possible, he worked his bound fists under his ass. The plastic cord cut deep into the flesh of his wrists as he pulled the flex-tie to its fullest length. He worked the inch or two of slack under him until his hands were under his legs. He unbent his legs slowly as he slid his hands down to his knees. Then dropped down to a sitting position, bound feet lifted, and slid the binding free until he had his hands before him at last.

  He rolled to the bed and levered himself up to lean on the footboard. Rather than tying his wrists with a single wrap, someone had used three bands. Two flex-ties acted as cuffs on each wrist, linked by a third looped through the cuffs and drawn tight to bring his wrists together. His ankles were bound the same way. One tie he could break, bringing his wrists down against his hip, straining the plastic locking mechanism until it broke open. This current configuration made that impossible.

  Levon got his shoulder under a corner of the mattress and raised it up until the edge of the metal frame was exposed. He began sawing the band between his wrists back and forth along the top of the side panel. The edge was rounded but pitted with corrosion creating enough of an edge to bite into the plastic. He ran the connecting cuff across it. Blood ran from cuts on his wrists. They cut deeper as he pulled the band taut. Rust came away from the metal with each slide along the edge. He could feel the plastic strap begin to give a little. Another minute or two of work and he’d be free.

  Across the room, the glass knob turned and the door opened.

  It was Sonata, her face purple with bruises.

  In her hand she held a kitchen knife with a long serrated edge.

  42

  The federal search warrant was good. The address correctly spelled. The list of suspect items described in minute detail. After a call from DHS a judge signed off on it in record time. It was legal perfection, flawless and unassailable.

  And about two hours too late.

  The cathouse on Calvin Street gave them a starting place. Carpet fibers found on an overdosed addict matched the flooring in one of the rooms. In the search for the carpet fibers the cops found, and confiscated as evidence all belongings they found that related to the deceased including clothing, key ring, and a suspiciously empty wallet. Suggestions of a call to Immigration brought two of the self-described sex workers to Jesus. They handed over the cash they’d looted off the corpse before management had his naked ass hauled away. It was a pimp roll close to ten kay in bills that looked righteous enough. Except the homicide bulls agreed that they didn’t like the odds of finding that many bills of 1990’s mintage all in one spot.

  Looking into the background of the dead junkie turned up a W-9 tax form claiming that Muhammed Faiez Isa was employed as a security guard by Well-Dun Entertainment Enterprises. The bulls knew that to also be an operation owned by Seyfettin Ahmet Stomata. Big Stan.

  So, the dead junkie was working off a little employee discount at the Calvin Street house.

  The day manager allowed that he remembered knowing the deceased after all. The junkie worked part-time as a bouncer at Glitters, one of two strip bars owned by Big Stan in K.C. on the Kansas side.

  This was all getting too deep and too wide for the homicide bulls. Both were pleased when scans of the fishy Benjamins came back from Treasury marked for a hold. The feds were on the phone to K.C Homicide in minutes and in their faces inside an hour.

  FBI and ATF teamed for the search of Glitters, and just to be certain, Silky’s, Big Stan’s other “gentleman’s establishment” in town. They were looking for more of Saddam’s awesome counterfeits. The managers of each place complied with the warrants but the agents found not one suspect bill in the safes or registers at either bar.

  In fact, the office safes in both places were suspiciously empty of anything beyond property tax records and papers relating to liquor and entertainment licenses. No money or checks of any kind. And, as the raids had taken place before noon, there weren't even dancers on the clock — not even a glance of a naked tit for all their trouble.

  “They knew we were coming,” Bill Marquez said, staring into the bereft safe in the back room office of Glitters. The team at Silky’s had already radioed that there was no joy there either.

  “Of course they did. The local cops turned over a rock when they busted that whorehouse. You can’t keep that kind of news locked down,” Tom Salucci said, kicking at a mess of spilled papers on the floor. Feds were not tidy searchers.

  “This money means that the dead junkie encountered our runner somewhere,” Bill said.

  “Okay.” Salucci shrugged.

  “And the junkie got a bundle of cash off our guy. And even the dumbest junkie in the world knows he can’t keep that kind of bundle to himself for long.”

  “Sure. Stands to reason.”

  “They’d pay up to whoever runs their crew. The top guy. Give him a taste. But these safes are bare. Two all-cash businesses and there’s no cash.”

  Salucci waggled his fingers to urge Bill on.

  "So that gives us an opening to run down all the other businesses associated with Stomata in order to find the rest of
the suspect cash. I bet we turn up our runner in one of those places. He paid this money for a reason. To provide a hide-out or maybe to get himself smuggled out of the country."

  “That’s a stretch, Bill. A judge isn’t going to buy throwing a net that wide based on that theory. Weak stuff, I hate to tell you.”

  “Wysocki can sell it. He can sell it to a judge. He can sell it up the line,” Bill said, stopping to pick up a handful of papers spilled from a file.

  “You think so? How?” Salucci said.

  Bill shook the papers in Salucci’s face like a tambourine. A feral leer on his face. The face of a predator smelling blood.

  “Because you shake this Turkish treehouse hard enough and a bushel load of Mohammeds and Achmeds are bound to drop out.”

  43

  Kola drove past Schlitterbahn on his left, keeping his Lincoln in the right-hand lane.

  “He said it’s up here ahead,” he said to Haluk in the passenger seat. Haluk nodded.

  A bead of lights moved by on the interstate. The span created deep shadows beneath. The Lincoln slowed and pulled onto the shoulder in the sheltering dark, moving slow. Kola leaned across the seat to look at the understructure of the overpass. A car horn honked as the traffic hissed by.

  “There,” Kola said, bringing the car to a stop.

  Haluk nodded.

  “See the ladder? He said there’s a bag up there at the top.” Kola pointed at the rusting hoops set in the berm rising from the surface road to a cave-like opening in the dark above.

  Haluk nodded again, slowly.

  “Get your ass up there and look,” Kola growled.

  Haluk grunted and opened the door to lift his bulk out and onto the gravel. Kola sat in the warm interior of the Town Car and watched through the sunroof. The big man climbed the rungs up the concrete slope to the top. Haluk moved slowly at first but picked up a rhythm. He soon vanished into the gloom above. He was gone only a few minutes. Kola watched the mirrors for cop cars. Only one, a county sheriff's car, buzzed past without slowing. Not to say they might not circle around and come back.