Night Moves

by DJ Steele

  Rust colored concrete walls were plastered with photographs of the building in its heyday and current photographs of Mulvaney hugging some of his customers—regulars, famous and even infamous. From Shockley’s seat he had a view of the entrance to the restaurant. It was a habit. Never sit with his back to the door. He began to fidget on the padded vinyl booth seat that had long lost its springy comfort. Patrons would say the seats had more duct tape holding them together than honest men in Congress. He figured Mulvaney spent his money on better things, like feeding the homeless.

  While Shockley ate his pie, he watched Hauser, amazed at how the skinny kid could down a Philly cheesesteak sandwich dripping with grease, a generous helping of salty fries and a brownie large enough to be considered a cake, and then wash it down with his oversized drink. "How do you eat all that crap and not die of a heart attack?"

  "Least this way I die on my own terms instead of some scum bag shooting me in the back."

  "Good point," replied Shockley as he reached across the table and snagged a few left-over fries off Hauser’s plate.

  Hauser wiped the grease running down the side of his mouth with his fingers. Then he slid his plate with the remaining fries over to Shockley. He reached down beside him and retrieved a manila envelope off the bench seat.

  "Ready?" Hauser leaned across the table. "Cause after this we’re gonna be in the eye of a shit storm."

  Hauser was usually upbeat even during times when the department was facing layoffs, which was happening more often these days due to budget cuts. What Shockley was asking Hauser to do was putting the young detective in a bad position.

  Shockley gave a curt nod.

  Hauser moved the empty plates on the table to the side and pushed the envelope across to Shockley. Shockley unlashed the clasp, opened the envelope and emptied the contents out in front of him.

  Hauser lowered his voice, "That’s the file we held back. The one on Chance Martin Stephens III’s case."

  While Shockley studied the photos one by one in front of him, Hauser read him in on the case.

  "What we know from the plates on the vehicle outside Willow Oaks Motel is it’s registered to Mateo Martinez. At that time, we speculated it was narcotics activity or prostitution since one of the victims was a female and Willow Oaks caters to this type of business. The explosion fits the MO of the Dead Zone. Martinez was in a rival gang. We didn’t have much to go on until now."

  Shockley stopped scanning the incident report of the accident and looked up. "Until now? You found a witness?"

  "Remember Bambi?"

  "The stripper who claimed to have information about the murders."

  "Right. We screwed up not interviewing Bambi."

  "I thought she was at work when all this went down."

  "She was. You and I don’t believe in coincidences. I think somehow Bambi knew something."

  Shockley scratched his stubbled chin and said, "I’ll bite. What’s the coincidence?"

  "Bambi was found this morning in her apartment. DOA. Severe blunt-force trauma to the head. Didn’t appear to be a break-in."

  "Son of a bitch! She did know something. You thinking what I’m thinking?"

  "Yup," answered Hauser as he raised a hand to signal Naomi. "The perp coulda been one of her customers. When he found out she wanted to cut a deal with the cops, he got rid of her."

  "Is the FBI aware of the connection?"

  "Not sure. Bambi was never in the report since we believed she was a dead end. No pun intended."

  "I think we need to pay Bambi’s boss a visit. See what he knows."

  Naomi strolled over. Shockley got a coffee to go and Hauser ordered a Coke.

  Extra-large.

  Outside Wiley’s Kitchen, Shockley told Hauser to leave his car and they’d ride together to Club Sepia. It was the stripper joint where Bambi worked. Or used to work.

  Club Sepia made the Dark Alley Warehouse look uptown. Shockley had never been inside, but the reputation of the Club was well known. It was a corner building with faded facade and weeds that grew through the cracked cement walk around the side of the structure. It looked abandoned and this was considered the roughest part of town. A half-lit flashing neon sign was the only indication the place was open for business. Hauser told him the bartender, also the owner, had an attitude when it came to his girls. The customers were hardhat guys not thugs like he found in Dark Alley. According to Hauser it was a rather friendly bar and even offered Karaoke night on Thursdays.

  Soon as he buckled up, he felt the phone inside his jacket buzz. He slipped the phone out, swiped and not recognizing the number cautiously answered, "Shockley."

  It took a couple of seconds to recognize the voice, but once he did his mouth fell open. "T-bone is that you?"

  A grin crept across his face as the man on the other line talked. T-bone was out of intensive care. He needed to talk to him. Right now.

  "Be there in twenty, bro. Good to hear your voice." Shockley clicked off and placed the phone on the console. "That was T-bone. He’s out of the woods. Says he needs to talk ASAP now that his head isn’t groggy from all the drugs."

  Hauser unlatched his seatbelt and said, "I’ll catch up to you later after I check out our lead at Club Sepia."

  "Sounds like a plan," responded an upbeat Shockley after hearing his friend’s voice.

  Standing outside the car, Hauser leaned in holding his giant Coke.

  "Tell T-Bone it’s good to know he’s gonna be okay." Hauser slammed the door and walked in the direction of his car.

  Chapter Forty-One

  Wagner hadn’t slept for the past couple of nights.

  The man he hired was out of control and the body count was mounting. He had been clear with his instructions to Razor about the reporter. Murder wasn't part of the deal.

  The last conversation he had with Razor haunted him. Remember Congressman Wagner, I don’t like loose lips and I hate Russians.

  He wasn’t a Russian citizen. His parents were. Both were born in Russia, recruited as a couple by the KGB and trained in Moscow, then sent to a way station in the Netherlands. After passing as Americans they were sent to the United States as part of the Illegals program, a Russian network of sleeper spies. They lived a low-keyed life in an Ohio suburb after he was born. It was between his Junior and Senior year of college, while doing a work study program abroad he was indoctrinated. He learned his parents’ sole purpose was to provide what Russia needed—an asset who could influence powerful U.S. policy makers.

  He exceeded all expectations.

  The biggest threat to his career was Razor. The blood thirsty maniac had murdered the reporter, another man in the room with her, a police officer killed from the explosion at the motel and now, the reporter’s boyfriend.

  The hitman seemed to have a to do list and the Congressman was afraid he might end up on it. In addition to his killing spree, Razor was now demanding more money for jobs Wagner didn’t sanction. He had never felt this much hatred for another human being as he did toward Razor.

  What the hell had he done? What would the Kremlin think if they found out? He could easily go to the FBI and turn himself in. Seek protection in exchange for information. Yet he couldn’t. Power was addictive. As Speaker of the House he had a lot of power. He couldn’t walk away from what he had worked so hard to achieve. Razor had caused him enough anguish. All he had accomplished was not going to be taken away by a stupid lapse in judgment. He’d messed up, but he was smart, and he would come up with a plan.

  He needed more caffeine to wake up his sleep-deprived body. He glanced at his wristwatch. Time to get to work. There was a street vendor he liked to stop by on the way to his office where he could get a coffee and an orange Danish to go.

  * * *

  Before he walked into his office, Megan questioned if he was feeling alright. He stopped in front of her desk and told her the truth, he hadn’t been sleeping much, then he lied about working long hours trying to put together some ideas to pitch to h
is colleagues on how to increase competitiveness and growth in the country.

  She offered an empathetic smile, her brown eyes wide open, full of warmth. He couldn’t help but stare into her eyes and got lost for a second. Ever since their dinner date his attraction toward her had ignited a passion he couldn’t quell. Not that he tried to. Or wanted to.

  "Megan, I apologize again for leaving during our dinner the other night." He purposely left out the word date after dinner. He didn't want to scare her off. "I would like to make it up to you."

  "That would be nice," she said in a guarded tone.

  He stared into her eyes trying to identify the tone of her response. She appeared uneasy, drumming her pen on her desk.

  He was silent trying to figure out what to say next.

  Suddenly he believed he’d made a mistake assuming she’d be excited to go out with him again. He didn’t need this now. Not with all he had on his plate.

  Megan broke eye contact, her mouth grimaced. "I’ve been trying to find a way to tell you something Alan."

  He cringed. They hadn’t really dated. She didn’t even know him. Not really, and yet she sounded like she was breaking up with him.

  "I wasn’t snooping, I swear."

  Snooping. What did she find? He stared at her, not sure how to respond.

  "I went in your office, to tidy up and throw away your coffee cup that you always leave on your desk when I saw a note. It just caught my eye and I read it. I regret it now. And I should have asked you about it before…"

  "What note?"

  "Charlotte at Willow Oaks Motel, room 205".

  He struggled to maintain composure. He was conflicted. He was angry but he also had amorous feelings toward Megan. His anger wasn’t at her for cleaning off his desk, it was at himself for leaving that note in plain sight. "Did you think I was meeting a woman at that dump?" His biting tone surprised Megan. The stress of his situation had reached a tipping point.

  "No. I mean, I’m sorry. I was curious that’s all and just didn’t understand. That’s the place where those people were murdered."

  A wave of panic jolted through his body. His composure slipped. "That information came from the FBI, Megan." He cursed himself silently, pissed, but mostly afraid. "I’m working with them and that was about an informant who might be able to help us unravel a traitor in our government. It’s a very sensitive matter."

  "Oh my. I’m sorry, Alan, please forgive me," she begged.

  He had stepped over the line and there was no going back. "I agreed to meet with her, this person named Charlotte, not her real name I’m sure, but at the last minute something came up and the FBI sent somebody else."

  "Thank God." Her hand flew to her mouth. "You could have been killed. I’m sorry the other people lost their lives." Megan plucked a Kleenex out of a box on her desk and wiped her damp eyes.

  He hated seeing her upset. Barking at her was the wrong thing to do. Why had he been so careless to leave the note on his desk?

  Megan stood and hurried around her desk. "Alan, you spilled your coffee on your suit, let me help."

  "No. It’s okay." He used his free hand to halt her. "Have you told anybody about the note?"

  "No, of course not. I just felt I should tell you. I’m truly sorry I read it."

  "Megan, I’m sorry I snapped at you. I’ve been under a lot of stress lately. Work and now the possibility of a traitor among us. You can’t tell anybody about that note or anything I just told you. If it were to get out, it could hinder the investigation. The FBI told me to keep everything confidential. I hope you understand."

  "Yes, of course. I wouldn’t want to interfere in the investigation."

  He stared into her eyes. Her big beautiful brown eyes.

  She didn’t believe him.

  * * *

  Sitting behind his desk, Alan tried to sort out the predicament he was in. Why me? Why me? He kept thinking. Megan’s confession complicated his dilemma. She seemed to be holding back something from him. What could it be? Maybe Megan had told a girlfriend what she found. Maybe she had overheard some of his conversations with his handler. If he were to tell Razor that she read the note, he would kill her too. Is that how he solved this problem? She seemed genuinely upset she had read the note. Maybe she thought he’d done something wrong and just wanted to help? One thing he was sure of, she knew more than she told him.

  His breathing became shallow and rapid. He could feel the blood thumping against his temples.

  Suddenly he was hot and began to sweat. His hands and legs started tingling. The room was spinning.

  Something’s wrong, something’s wrong.

  The Russians. Had they found out what he did? The coffee and food from the roadside vendor. Was it poisoned? The man who usually operated the food truck wasn’t there. The woman told him he was sick and she was filling in. His worried thoughts accelerated in his mind. He tried to calm himself with several deep breaths. But he couldn’t breathe, as if somebody was holding him underwater and wouldn’t let him come up for air. His trembling hand tried to reach for the phone on his desk to call Megan, but his vision was blurred.

  His heart pounded against his chest so hard he knew he was going to die. I’ve got to get help fast. He didn’t want to die in his office. Alone. He pushed himself up and felt the room spinning.

  Oh my God, this is it.

  He tried to steady himself with a hand on his desk. His chest tightened. His arm too weak to support his shaky legs caused him to falter, his hand swept across his desk knocking the lamp to the floor as he collapsed.

  Lying on the floor, he could hear her voice. "Alan, are you okay?" It sounded hollow, like an echo.

  Then.

  "9-1-1, I have an emergency. Please hurry."

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Julia awoke with a start from a loud noise.

  Her heart raced, skin damp.

  Disoriented, she took in the room around her. It took a full second to realize she was safe in her home. She must have fallen asleep on the couch right after the phone call from the Bridge Club. For some reason, maybe because of the vivid dream, she still felt tired.

  An aroma drifted from the kitchen. Laquita was cooking. Food might help perk her up.

  Standing in the kitchen doorway, she saw Laquita stirring something in a pot on the stove. She smelled garlic.

  "Sorry if I woke ya," Laquita said. "I dropped a pan on the floor."

  "No problem. I needed to get up. How long was I asleep?"

  "You were out like a light for ‘bout two hours. We need to eat ‘fore we head out, so ya don’t git grumpy."

  "Good idea. What are you making?"

  "Spaghetti with meatballs and garlic bread. Found everythin’ I needed. Ya hungry?"

  "Starving. Smells delicious."

  Julia rubbed her eyes gently with the heels of her palms as she tried to stifle a yawn. Her bruised eye still tender. She said, "I don’t like waiting till dark to meet Lester from the Bridge Club."

  Laquita broke the pasta in half and dropped it in a pot of boiling water. She turned, propped a hand on one hip and said, "Ain’t that how the CIA works? In the cloak of darkness?"

  She laughed. "You’ve been watching way too many movies. Besides you and I aren’t CIA operatives and the Bridge Club members are no longer employed by the CIA."

  Laquita turned her attention to the stove. "Leastways, I wish Elke was here. That’d make me feel a whole lot better bout everythin’."

  "We don’t need Elke," snapped Julia.

  Laquita stirred the noodles in the boiling water. "I ‘spect Elke works with ‘em CIA. Once a spy always a spy. It’s in her blood."

  Julia didn’t doubt Elke was involved with the CIA. But Elke would never go back on their payroll. Elke was still bitter about what happened when she worked at the agency.

  "How ‘bout ya set the table, Julia. It’s almost time to eat."

  * * *

  After supper, Julia went to her bedroom to get ready to meet Lester
. The Bridge Club had instructed them to wait until after dark. Then she and Laquita were to leave by the back door and walk to the playground on the corner of D and 15th Streets. She had gone on runs to the playground area in the past and felt the best route would be to go down the side alley and head west to 15th Street. Turn north to the playground. It wouldn’t take longer than fifteen minutes to get to their rendezvous spot.

  She studied the photos she had taken during her surveillance at the hotel. Who was he? Russian? A chill bolted up her spine. There were so many things she wanted to forget when it came to Russians and regrets that chipped away at her confidence. Laquita being involved didn’t help.

  Laquita was smart but had never acquired many of the skills Julia had. Growing up she learned how to shoot moving targets and took self-defense classes. At the time she didn’t appreciate what she was forced to learn. But tonight, she did.

  She stuffed the photos in a manila envelope and eased it down in her backpack. Only ten more minutes before they needed to leave.

  Her body fussed at her when she got dressed. The blow she took yesterday made more than just her head hurt. She slid on leggings, ankle boots, and a black cable knit pullover sweater. After slipping on her navy wool coat, she parted the mini blinds and swept the street to see if the FBI was still there. Not able to see anyone from her window, she opened her laptop and activated her home’s outside cameras. They were still there. She hoped they were freezing.