by Rachel Brune
“Oh.” Mark couldn’t think of any follow-up questions. He decided to change the subject. “Can I ask you a question?”
Scott sighed. “Fire away.”
“Are you helping me because you think this guy is really a terrorist, or are you just trying to piss someone off?”
“I don’t know,” said Scott. He shrugged.
“You don’t know?”
“You’ve got good instincts, kid,” said Mabry. “And you don’t develop those from wearing a suit to the office your whole career. That, and the fact that these guys came after us makes it pretty clear there’s something here.” He shifted in his seat. “I also wouldn’t mind seeing Mac’s face if we do actually bring him something.”
“So is that why you’re helping me?” asked Mark. “To prove a point?”
“That, and I’m going to put a bullet in my damn desk if I have to sit behind it any longer,” said Scott.
Mark wondered to himself what was so great about stakeouts. The street was quiet. Scott had stopped talking and wouldn’t turn on the radio. He wasn’t sure why he had even come, and then Scott was shaking him awake.
“C’mon, it’s pretty quiet,” said Scott. “Let’s go pay Eddie’s grandma a little visit.”
Eddie’s visits with his grandmother grew longer and more painful every time he showed up. His grandmother did her best to prove that she didn’t hold him responsible for his brother’s death, but every gesture she made brought back a memory Eddie couldn’t forget. On this visit, he had fixed her sink, eaten breakfast, lunch and dinner in the span of three hours, paid her bills, and called the cable company to complain about a late charge for her.
His grandmother frowned as he took a beer from the fridge and opened it.
“Eddie, it’s not even twelve! You going to be drinking that?” said his grandmother, sitting at the kitchen table.
“I know, Grams,” said Eddie, and took another sip. He wandered out of the kitchen, and into the front room.
“Eddie, can you check the ceiling in there?” His grandmother’s voice followed him from the kitchen. “I think the lady upstairs was letting her shower overflow again.”
“Okay, Grams,” said Eddie.
“I don’t want anymore of the ceiling to come down,” said his grandmother. “The last time, the landlord didn’t come fix it for a month and a half.”
“Okay, Grams,” said Eddie, “I’m looking now.”
Eddie moved the curtains out of the way to search for water stains. The ceiling and walls were clear of spots. What he saw was Detective Mabry and the reporter walking up the block.
“Oh shit.”
Eddie’s grandmother looked up, confused, as the doorbell rang. Eddie tore into the kitchen, vaulted over the table, and opened the window out onto the fire escape.
“Eddie, what are you—” His grandmother broke off as the doorbell rang again.
Eddie looked back. “Sorry.”
His grandmother hadn’t gotten a chance to tell him about the drop that was left when the fire escape rusted away from the wall. The landlord had promised that repair almost three months ago.
The short drop didn’t cause any serious injuries. Eddie scrambled to his feet, dusted himself off, and took off running before the head rush had completely cleared.
“Do you have a warrant?”
Eddie’s grandmother peered at the two men on her front porch, one of whom flashed a badge. She squinted at it.
“Are you Mrs. Lopes?” asked Mabry.
“No, that’s my daughter. My last name is Buena.”
“Mrs. Buena, I’m not here to do a search or arrest anyone,” said Mabry. “I just have a couple of questions.”
“Let me see that.” Mrs. Buena held out her hand. Mabry placed the badge in it. She pulled it close to her eyes, then ran her fingers over the gold-embossed metal.
“Fine, come in.” She held the door open.
In the kitchen, Eddie’s grandmother served them bitter coffee without cream.
“What do you need to know?’ she asked.
“When is the last time you saw your grandson?” asked Mabry.
“Which one?”
“Eddie.”
“Oh, him. I don’t know. He comes and goes.”
“Uh huh.” Mabry took a sip from his cup. It was better than Task Force coffee. “Where is he coming and going to these days?”
“He’s a grown man,” said Mrs. Buena. “He’s got his own life.”
“Uh huh.” Mabry walked over to the refrigerator, resting his hand on the counter. He eyed the pictures plastering the old appliance.
“Mrs. Buena, do you have his home or work address?” asked Mark.
The old woman looked away from Mabry to stare at Mark. “No.”
Mabry set down his coffee cup. “That’s it then. Thank you very much for your help.”
Mark got back in the car feeling defeated. Perversely, Scott seemed almost happy, whistling tonelessly as he started the car and moved it back into traffic.
“So, where can I drop you?”
“I need to go back to my apartment,” said Mark. “I need to change out of this suit.”
“No problem.” Scott maneuvered the sedan around a tangle of city block streets before leveling out onto Eastern Parkway to take him back toward the city.
“So, I guess that was a waste of time?” asked Mark.
“I thought it went pretty well,” said Scott. He laughed at Mark’s expression, then dug in his jacket and tossed him a small plastic device.
“What’s this?” asked Mark.
“Eddie’s smartphone.”
“What?”
“I found it on the counter in the apartment.”
“Holy Christ,” said Mark. “You just stole an old lady’s cell phone? And I thought my producer was sleazy.”
“I’m pretty sure it doesn’t belong to his grandmother,” said Scott. “I think old boy left it there. Take a look at it.”
Mark looked at it. The phone was a BlackBerry, with a rectangular viewscreen and a raised keypad. “I’m not seeing anything.”
“You seriously think a half-blind elderly woman owns that phone?” asked Scott. “She can barely see, let alone manipulate that little pad. Hell, I can’t even figure out how anyone types on one of those things.” Scott looked over at Mark. “Still want to go home?”
“Yeah,” said Mark. “I need a shower. Then we’re headed someplace you can get someone to figure out what we can get from that.”
Scott smiled.
Scott parked his vehicle illegally outside Mark’s studio, but kept the motor running and turned his hazards on. The reporter had decided to use the small shower in the building since it put him closer to the Task Force headquarters.
As Mark showered and changed into a spare set of clothes, Scott watched a small, but enthusiastic crowd of war protesters mill about in the small triangle of real estate in front of the Times Square armed forces recruiting office.
“Does that bother you?”
Scott jumped. He had momentarily disassociated, and hadn’t even noticed Mark get back into the car.
“Does what bother me?”
“That.” Mark nodded toward the crowd. Some of them carried signs and were chanting: “No blood for oil.”
“No,” said Scott, putting the car in gear.
“Why not?” asked Mark.
Scott pulled out into traffic. “It’s just a knee-jerk slogan. I’ve got plenty of my own.”
“Like what?”
Scott said: “Don’t be a dumbass.”
Mark didn’t say anything.
“That’s the slogan,” said Scott.
“Oh,” said Mark.
* * *
“How did it go?” asked Alan.
“How did what go?” Marcus answered with his own question.
“Were you able to deliver all the packages?”
Marcus opened his messenger bag and dumped out the undelivered items.
“No
.”
Alan pawed through them. “Were you able to deliver any of these?”
“Just the one at VH1. Oh yeah, and one at NYCN.” Marcus shrugged. “Listen, man, next time you want me to deliver to people who don’t exist, it’s not going to be free. I rode all over midtown for three hours and I’ve got a lousy five bucks to show for it.”
Alan pulled three twenties out of his pocket. “Sorry about that.”
Marcus took the money. “Yeah.”
“So, tell me, did VH1 or NYCN actually have someone there whose name was on the package?”
“Nah.” Marcus shook his head. “The girl at the front desk just signed for it and gave me a tip. Everywhere else, all I got was an argument.”
“Was the girl at the front desk a security guard?” Alan thought that was unusual, but this was New York.
“Nah.” Marcus rummaged around the refrigerator. “Hey man, what happened to all the beer Eddie bought?”
“You drank it,” said Alan. “If she wasn’t security, what was she?”
“Just a secretary,” said Marcus. “A really hot secretary.”
“Hm.” Alan thought. “Was there any security at all? What about at the Central News?”
Marcus closed the door and thought about it. “Not really. The guy there just signed for the package and stiffed me on the tip. There’s probably cameras or something, but I didn’t see anything.”
“Hmm.”
“Is Eddie around?”
“No, he’s out right now.”
“Where is he?”
“Out.”
Marcus shrugged. “Okay.” He went into the living room, sprawled on the couch, and turned on the baseball game. The Yankees were playing a doubleheader.
Scott pulled in one last favor. As he dialed Marisa Kent’s phone, it occurred to him that he was pretty low on his favor bank capital. He wondered briefly how many bridges this particular investigation had burned and resolved that his professional relationship with his lieutenant would not be one of them.
“Officer Kent.” Her voice startled him.
“LT, it’s me, Captain Mabry.”
“Hey sir, is this an official call?”
“Not really.” Mabry hesitated.
“What can I do for you?”
“I need a favor.”
“No problem,” said Kent. “What is it?”
“I need to get some information on a cell phone,” said Mabry. “And, it turns out, I’m nowhere near a computer.”
“Last I heard, you were nowhere near your office, either,” said Kent.
Mabry winced. “News travels quick.”
“Nah,” said Kent. “Mac called me. He’s worried about you.”
“Crap,” said Mabry.
“Don’t worry,” said Kent. “I told him I had no idea where you were.” She paused. “Which, as it turns out, is the honest truth.”
“Thanks,” said Mabry.
“Don’t mention it,” said Kent. “So, what can I do for you?”
“I’ve got a phone and a number, and I need to know where I can find the person they belong to,” said Mabry.
“Give me the number and call me in twenty.”
Exactly nineteen-and-one-half minutes later, Scott dialed her number. His hands were shaking slightly from the triple espresso he had downed during the wait, followed by two cigarettes. His pack was almost out. He felt slightly sick to his stomach.
“Impatient?” asked Kent.
“Yeah,” said Scott. “What did you find?”
“I found a name and an address for the bill,” said Kent. “The name is Eddie Carson.”
“Eddie Carson?” Scott thought about that. “Could be an alias.”
“Yeah.” Kent shuffled some papers. They sounded like static over the phone.
“Marisa? You still there?”
“I’m here.” Kent cleared her throat. “Okay, couldn’t find much else, but the bills get sent to an address in Queens. You got a pen?”
“Send it.”
Kent read the address over the phone. “That’s actually in my district. Huh. Does that help?”
“You know it,” said Scott. “I owe you one.”
“You really do,” said Kent. “Let me know what you find.”
“I will,” said Scott. “In fact, I’ll go you one better. This phone belongs to a guy named Eddie Lopes. Spelled with an ‘S.’ Run the name.”
“Okay.”
Mabry could hear Kent breathing as she entered the name into the computer. It beeped, and then there was a long silence. Mabry lit another cigarette. The computer beeped again.
“Guy’s got a couple of priors and a shit ton of traffic violations,” said Kent. “Oh lookie, here’s a warrant for his arrest.”
“Good thing we just got an address,” said Scott.
“What do you mean we?” asked Kent.
“Meet you there,” said Scott.
Scott waited around the corner. Mark sat next to him, typing furiously on the touchscreen keyboard of his tablet. He had bought the device to replace his archaic PDA.
“What are you doing?” asked Scott. “Texting your BFF?”
“No,” said Mark. “I’m pre-writing the story for our Web site.”
“Pre-writing the story?”
“Sketching out what’s happening, throwing in some background,” said Mark. “Later I’ll fill in the lede, throw in some quotes, and voila—story.”
“I didn’t realize you could write a story before it happened,” said Scott.
“Nowadays, you can write a story even if it didn’t happen,” said Mark. “And here I thought you were the cynic in this relationship.”
Scott snorted and went back to reading Eddie’s background one more time. He figured they had about five more minutes before Mark’s story started happening.
The page showed traces of familiarity. Scott had met people like Eddie and his brother in the service, who had joined one step ahead of the inevitable car wreck or gunshot wound, or random violence gone too far. One of his squad leaders, an active duty soldier who was temporarily assigned to his company, had point blank told him that he had joined the Army because he had been shot twice and needed to get out of his neighborhood. He had been one of the best soldiers Scott ever had until driving over an IED had blown him out of an uparmored Humvee and onto the unit’s list of casualties.
“Hey, wait a minute,” said Mark. “Check this out.”
He handed his tablet to Scott.
Scott squinted at it. “What? What am I looking at?”
“I’ve got another message,” said Mark.
Scott looked closer. He scrolled through the message and handed the device back to Mark. “At least it’s not another death threat.”
“Why are they sending it then?” asked Mark. “You would think they would start getting worried about getting caught.”
“They need to keep you interested, to keep you dangling,” said Scott. “They want you to pay attention.”
“I am paying attention,” said Mark.
“Maybe they need more,” said Scott. “The attention feeds their mission.”
“You mean, it helps them get what they want,” said Mark.
“Media attention is valuable to anyone seeking power or validation,” said Scott. “Terrorist or not.”
“What do you mean?”
“Hell, why do you think we get so pissed at the media all the time?” Scott closed the folder holding Eddie’s history. “I forget the exact quote, but Aristotle wrote something along the lines of ‘…a man waging war is angered by disregard of the war he is waging.’ Or something like that.”
“I didn’t know you read Aristotle,” said Mark.
Scott twisted in his seat to stare at the reporter. “You do know military officers have to go to college, right?”
“Yes,” said Mark. “I just don’t know anyone—military or not—who goes around quoting dead Greek philosophers.”
“Never mind,” said Scott. “J
ust forget it.”
“You brought it up,” said Mark. Scott glared at him. “Sorry, okay, never mind. I’m forgetting it.”
Chapter Twenty
Eddie was learning the difference between planning something perfectly on paper, and then actually attempting to execute the plan in real life. All the time spent carefully outlining the necessary movement between cafés, subway, café, bus line, café and back to public transportation turned out to require a lot more running that he had anticipated.
He pulled out a wrinkled piece of paper and checked his watch against his timeline. He was about ten minutes behind schedule. The Atlantic Avenue subway station was five blocks away from the internet café he had planned to visit on his itinerary, but they were five really long blocks. There was just not enough time to get there, do what he needed to do and get back in time to the station. Add to that any sort of delay with the train, and he would be stranded.
Now, he was realizing why Alan forbade him to visit the place in person. Some of the places his trip was taking him made him stand out like a guy in a women’s bathroom. Going back again would be inviting someone to remember him. Returning three times was way too high of a risk.
Eddie thought back to the itineraries and tickets he had seen in Alan’s drawer. He looked at his watch again, and picked up the pace. He would be late, but he could always call if he got so far behind he couldn’t make up the time.
Said was a good driver, but he was nervous. His anxiety spilled over onto Abdel, who sat in the passenger seat of the box truck, white knuckles clenched to the “oh shit” handle. He and the boy wore paint-splattered work pants with nondescript tee-shirts and mismatched baseball hats. Abdel’s hat had the New York Yankees logo on it, picked up for five dollars from a street vendor downtown.
A horn blared, and Abdel jumped. Said said, “Don’t worry, little brother.”
“I’m not worried,” said Abdel. Said smiled at the lie, but it was a smile that strained at the corners of his mouth and quickly disappeared.