Night Moves

by DJ Steele

  His historic row house was walking distance from the office. He had to be careful, make certain he eluded his security detail. Although he was grateful he had U.S. Capital Police protection, there were times they made what he needed to do difficult. He knew if Razor thought for a second he had somebody following him, the deal would be off.

  Hurrying home, a crisp breeze blew strands of his blond hair across his face. He needed a haircut and ordinarily would have had Megan make him an appointment. Lately, his hair was the least of his worries.

  Closer to his home, he began to experience a fluttering feeling brewing in his stomach. The mere thought of Razor blocked his airways. Nerves. He had to remember to take the gun with him. Just in case. Walking to and from work used to help him relax, not the case today.

  He heard him before he spotted him.

  "Mister Wagner," the familiar raspy rattled voice startled him.

  "Sorry Jackson, I’m in a hurry."

  Jackson’s uncombable brown hair sprouted from beneath the grimy ball cap like a chia pet. His overgrown beard was curly and matted like his hair. Jackson smelled as bad as he looked sitting on what appeared to be a plastic garbage can lid. The old maroon sweater hung loose on his rail-thin body. His sweatpants had small holes where the fabric had worn. All his belongings were in a garbage bag next to him. Propped against his legs was a piece of cardboard with the words written, "Please spare a little change. God Bless." He used to have a shaggy mutt with him, but the dog got hit by a car. Now the only reminder of the dog was the dog’s old water dish he used to collect money from strangers.

  Wagner had walked countless times past the homeless never really noticing them. There were thousands of homeless people in Washington, D.C. and after a while they became invisible. Yet one day, for some unknown reason, he stopped and talked to Jackson. The homeless man didn’t know how many days he’d been living on the streets. He was a man who felt lost. He wasn’t angry and only blamed himself for his predicament.

  The articulate man told him that in another life, he had been a successful Wall Street executive. But the financial crisis of 2008 changed his life. His employer, Lehman Brothers, declared bankruptcy. At the height of the market he got married, had a son and bought a big house. But during the crisis he lost it all, wife, son and home. He began drinking and doing drugs in order to cope.

  Wagner was fifteen steps past the homeless man when he reached in his suit coat for his wallet and pulled out a twenty. He didn’t like giving him money because he knew what Jackson would spend it on, drugs. However, he was beginning to understand the need to escape a bad situation. If only for a moment. He spun around, rushed back to the homeless man and said, "Get a bite to eat."

  "Thanks man. You’re too good a man to be in politics," Jackson called out to him.

  Yeah. Too good to be in politics but not too good to spy on this country or get somebody killed, he thought to himself. The chuckle that escaped his lips surprised him. He was actually smiling at the irony of the statement.

  It was 11:30.

  He had to quicken his pace.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  There were days Shockley wished he’d never moved off his family ranch.

  Today wasn’t one of them. He was determined to ferret out the killer who had put two good friends in the hospital, one still on life support.

  Since Shockley was a homicide detective, he was always on call for a major case. Yesterday was a long day. Actually, the past couple of days had been long. He wasn’t surprised that after his take-out supper last night, he was asleep by 10 and didn’t stir till 6 this morning.

  He came into the office early to write up his report on the Willow Oaks Motel case and catch up on his inbox of emails and voice messages. Catch up was never going to happen with the high murder rate in his district. He had a stack of hot cases he was working on as well as a few cold cases. In his unit, cases stayed with detectives until they were solved, or the detective left the squad.

  Fellow detective Hauser walked in holding a large cup in one hand and a paper carry-out bag in the other hand. His sandy hair was long and bound in a low ponytail. His pale blue eyes and clean-shaven baby face made him appear young. Until he opened his mouth and spoke. His low husky voice announced, "Gotcha a smoked bacon and cheddar egg breakfast sandwich."

  "Thanks. I need more than that bowl of cereal I ate this morning."

  Hauser pulled out the wrapped sandwich and dropped it on the desk in front of Shockley and sat in the chair next to the desk. He unwrapped his sandwich and took a bite. "Surprised we didn’t have a murder during Big Mac rush hour," Hauser said.

  Big Mac was the term Hauser used to refer to the timeframe when most murders occurred, between 10 pm and 3 am.

  "Yeah, pretty sure I wouldn’t have heard my phone last night. I was out like a light by ten." The smell radiating from his wrapped sandwich was too tempting. He unwrapped the paper from his sandwich and started eating. "Man, this is good," Shockley said as he took another bite. "Any leads on this Max guy?"

  With a mouth full of food Hauser replied, "Nah. We tracked down a few local gang members, but they lawyered up fast and refused to answer our questions. Maybe we’ll get some actionable evidence analysis from ATF."

  "Anything on the Dead Zone gang?"

  "All got alibis. Claim they don’t know this Max guy."

  "I want you to run down any arrests in the past year with suspects named Max. I’m pretty sure this Max has a rap sheet."

  "Got it." Hauser swallowed the last bite of his food.

  "Did you talk to Minty yesterday?" The thought just occurred to Shockley. The homeless woman stayed in that area.

  "Minty?" Hauser choked on a slug of Coke.

  He waited a few seconds to let Hauser quit coughing and added, "Minty hangs out in that neighborhood. Maybe she knows something."

  "Shit man. I guarantee that bag lady didn’t see anything seeing as she’s blind. No pun intended."

  Shockley rose, holstered his pistol and put on his suit jacket. He balled up his trash before tossing it in the receptacle by his desk.

  "Ready?" he said to Hauser.

  Hauser shrugged.

  On the way out the building and all the way to Shockley’s car Hauser grumbled about questioning Minty.

  Shockley hoped Hauser was wrong. He needed something on this investigation. Anything. Because right now they didn't have squat.

  It took an hour to locate the blind bag lady as Hauser called her. She was pushing an old baby carriage stuffed with all her possessions and tapping the edge of the sidewalk with her cane. Shockley pulled his unmarked car to the curb and they got out.

  Hauser was a good cop. The kid worked hard and never took the stress of the job out on others. Hauser wanted this cop killer as bad as he did.

  Minty had stopped moving down the sidewalk and stood still as if she knew he wanted to talk to her.

  "Hey Minty," Shockley hollered. "How’re things going?" He walked up to her. Hauser stood next to him.

  The cheap dark sunglasses hid her eyes. She had a worn weathered face and an unruly mop of brown and gray hair. Her hunched body covered with a coat Shockley thought he had given her last winter. The woman’s appearance let him know she had lived a hard life out in the elements.

  Shockley met Minty five years ago sleeping in a park. He got social services to help her, but she always went back to the streets. Told him the places she stayed in had too many rules.

  "I didn’t hit that kid with my cane Officer Shockley." That’s what she always called him.

  "That’s not what I’m here to talk about." Shockley gave a sideway glance, watching Hauser smirk and shake his head.

  "I just want to know if you were around when the Willow Oaks Motel exploded."

  "Maybe."

  Shockley heard a whimper under a blanket in the baby buggy. "Got yourself a dog?"

  "It’s mine. I didn’t steal it. I found it in an alley lookin’ for somethin’ to eat."

&
nbsp; "I brought you some cigarettes." Shockley had stopped on the way and picked up a carton. He motioned for Hauser to hand them to her.

  Hauser held out the carton of cigarettes. Minty snatched the carton with both hands. Shockley grinned at the surprised look on Hauser’s face.

  Minty smiled revealing missing teeth and the ones still intact stained from nicotine. "Yous that Officer who's been asking lotta questions," she said to Hauser.

  "Yeah. I was trying to run down some leads on a case." He studied Minty's face with a puzzled expression.

  "You didn’t ask me no questions. Think an old blind woman can't see?"

  "No offense ma’am, but you are blind. I do know you have good hearing." Hauser was trying to make up to the old woman.

  "You know why I got good hearing, Officer Hauser?" Hauser’s jaw dropped a bit, when she spoke his name.

  "You think when I lost my sight more than ten years ago, God just zapped me with super hearing?" The old woman pulled back the blanket to stroke a small puppy not much bigger than the sewer rats in town. She continued, "Hell no. The only reason I can hear what you can't is cause I train for it. I got over fifty thousand hours of practice listenin’. I sense people round me, I hear you swallow your spit, recognize a person by their voice. I’m not distracted like you is by seeing things, causing all my attention to focus on what I hear and what I smell. What I feel. It don’t come to you easy, you know. You gotta train every day to git good at it. I do see, Officer Hauser, but just in a different way."

  "Can you tell us what you saw the day of the explosion?" Shockley asked.

  "I can. He smokes. Got rough hands like you Officer Shockley and has a slight limp."

  "Who are you talking about?" quizzed Hauser.

  "The killer. Ain’t that who yous after?"

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  The door chimed.

  She strolled inside holding a pink leash with a small furry dog attached on the other end. The store was bustling with customers and their dogs.

  Her eyes moved swiftly around the store while keeping vigilance on who entered the door. To her right was a long glass counter with bakery treats that would satisfy any sweet tooth. She scanned the labels in front of the treats. Drooling muffins, Barkery Bites, Yummy Yum Biscuits, Yapper Baguette, and a dozen other amusing names. A sign on top of the counter stated all treats were natural and organic. And of course, homemade.

  The other side of the store looked like a clothing store for four legged animals. There were display tables with dog mannequins dressed in outfits for all occasions. She almost ran into the round rack with a sign that said Pup-cessories. Attached to the rack were doggie sunglasses, custom pup purses, nail paw-lish, and clip-on pet highchairs.

  She picked up her small furry dog and in a baby talk voice asked the dog what he wanted as she observed the other patrons. It was true, she thought. Many of the dog-owners looked like their four-legged friends. A woman with tight curly hair had a poodle on a leash. A man with a thick beard accompanied by a long-haired dog looked like they went to the same stylist. What was apparent from her observation was that these owners had an intense emotional bond with their dogs.

  The back wall had a sign in large letters—Doggie Spa. She continued toward the back of the store noting store security cameras mounted high on the wall near the ceiling.

  "May I help you?" said a shrill voice. The spindly man with large eyes and prominent cheekbones clasped his delicate long fingers in front of his chest. His long beak nose had clearly been broken in the past.

  "I’m here to see Jimi C." She smiled and stroked the furry dog’s head she held under her arm. The man reached to pet the dog, but the dog growled and snapped at him.

  He quickly pulled his hand back.

  "I’m sorry. My sweet Bella is getting aggressive. That’s why I must see Jimi C. She’s the dog whisperer, you know, and I’m very desperate."

  "Yes, she’s very good with dogs." The man’s left eye twitched and he folded his arms tightly across his chest. "There’s nobody like her. I’ll have to check to see if she’s available."

  The woman nodded as the man spun and headed toward the back of the store. He disappeared into a room in the corner. The office. She put the dog down. After a quick glance toward the front door, she led the dog on the leash to the office door and opened it. The man standing in front of a desk turned and approached her rapidly waving his hands like a large bird trying to take flight.

  "Excuse me. You need to wait outside," said the overly animated man.

  Jimi C was sitting behind a modern oversized glass-top desk with her hand to her mouth. The look on Jimi C’s face satisfied her. Jimi C removed her hand and said in a gravelly voice, "It’s okay, Luca. Leave us alone."

  The woman smiled.

  Luca’s shoulders dropped along with his hands. He shot a glance at Jimi C. She nodded. He put a hand on his hip, tilted his head to the side, and pranced around her and out of the office.

  Jimi C’s surprised look morphed into a frown.

  "What? You have a dog now?" she asked.

  "Good God no. Did you know you can rent pets? Quite convenient. Kinda like having grandchildren. You can spoil them, play with them and then send them home to their parents."

  "Only, you never could send your granddaughter home after you spoiled her." Jimi C’s tight face twisted into a sinister smile. "Not after her parents were murdered."

  The stoic woman’s facial expression did not change even though the words were meant to sting. Actually, the words did trigger images from long ago. She stayed calm on the outside, while what she wanted to do was pull her pistol out and shoot the smirk off Jimi C’s face. The woman fought back her internal rage. Now wasn’t the time. She couldn’t allow Jimi C to bait her into losing control. The CIA had taught her to never let a situation get personal. Most of the time she followed that lesson.

  The truth was Jimi C wasn’t wrong about what she said.

  Especially when she felt responsible.

  Jimi C looked different than how she remembered. But of course, the surgeon made sure Jimi C no longer looked like she did when she knew her. Her face was made-up, her nose smaller and her short spiky platinum hair had pink highlights. The woman’s chest had been enhanced.

  "I need information," the woman said calmly.

  "You promised you’d leave me alone." Jimi C pursed her lips to demonstrate her disapproval.

  "Circumstances have changed."

  "That wasn’t part of the deal, Elke. You coming into my business puts my life in danger."

  Elke dropped the leash and took a seat in a white leather chair against the wall of the office. The small dog began exploring the room. "You’re probably right Jimi C, or do you still go by Marcus?"

  "I had the operation many years ago. I did it because I never wanted to be discovered once I went into Witness Protection."

  "Yet, look how easily I found you. You were always crazy about dogs." The dog walked over to a large potted plant that looked like a palm, hiked his leg and peed. "That’s why I don’t have pets," declared Elke.

  "What do you want, Elke?" Jimi C demanded. "I no longer work for the Russians. I defected and was promised protection and a new life. Everything I know, I told your government. If the Russians find me, they’ll kill me."

  "It is hard to find people you can trust in our line of work."

  "What? You trust me now?"

  "Of course not, Marcus. I still see you as the low-life double agent who now calls himself Jimi C. I’m here because I need you to find out something for me."

  "What’s in it for me?"

  Elke gave her a wry smile and tilted her head slightly. "We don’t ever change, do we? Once a spy for profit, a traitor for life." She crossed her legs and folded her hands in her lap. "I want to know who was at my granddaughter’s house the other night and if her life is in danger from Moscow."

  Jimi C crossed her arms and locked eyes with Elke.

  "How the fuck would I know tha
t? I’m out. I no longer have connections," Jimi C said, raising her voice loud enough to cause the small dog to bark at her.

  "We needn’t play games, Marcus. That’s for amateurs."

  Jimi C unlocked eyes with Elke and rotated her head in the direction of the window. Slowly, she responded, "If I did happen to know somebody, why would I ever help you."

  "To keep your dirty lie a secret. You help me and I won't tell the CIA you still work for the Russians."

  "That’s a lie." Jimi C jerked her head back toward Elke and straightened in her chair. "I’m in witness protection. I could contact the Marshal Service and say you’ve threatened me with lies."

  "You won’t. That might make them question your loyalty." Elke shook her head. "I need the information by tomorrow."

  Jimi C pushed herself to her feet and snorted, "You were once considered the best operative at extracting information. But that was a long time ago. You went off the grid and let your obsession with revenge for your daughter’s death consume you. It was you who got her killed."

  Elke brushed her pants with a sweep of her hand. "This is another reason I don’t like having a pet. The hair. It gets all over you." She stood and walked over to Jimi C’s glass top desk and placed a sheet of paper on it. "Tomorrow, I expect the information. You can deliver it here."

  She strolled to the office door and placed her hand on the doorknob.

  "You forgot your damned dog," hollered Jimi C.

  Without turning, Elke replied, "It’s a present for you. The owner had an unfortunate accident. I think you might have known her."

  "I thought you rented the dog."

  "I said you can rent dogs. I didn’t need to."

  She waited a beat.

  "Anastasiya Morozov."

  She pulled the door open and heard Jimi C gasp.

  Elke headed out of the store and made a call when outside.

  "It’s done. She’ll cooperate."

  "The Russians aren’t going to like this."

  "Then our plan is working. I have to go." She tossed her burn phone in the receptacle by the curb.