by Dom Testa
“Yes,” I said. “Except it doesn’t include the potential motives from Eklund. There could very well be more to her story, too. What’s your status with all this? Are you in Des Moines for the duration?”
“I’m here for the next week, but I have another case I’m helping with in Dallas. So I’ll be back and forth, juggling both assignments. What’s your next move?”
“I’d like to sit down with the accused villain, Mr. Deele. Let’s set that up.”
Fife shook his head. “That’ll have to wait a couple of days. He’s in South America.”
“Selling more of his magic beans?”
“That’s right. He got the foothold in Paraguay and Argentina, now he wants more. He’s making kissy-face with some of the outfits trying to take a bite out of Brazil’s market share. His assistant says he may not be back in Iowa for some time.”
“Where’s his office?”
“Houston.”
I pushed my plate away. “All right, then when he’s back home I’ll head down there. Maybe you can pop down from Dallas. In the meantime I’ll start with two other angles. One more meeting with Dr. Eklund, this time outside her office. I’d like to get a gauge on her when she’s not on home court. And probably a quick drive to Chicago just to eliminate the possibility of Volta having anything to do with this.”
I checked the time on my phone. “Maybe I’ll do that first. Drive out this afternoon, stop in and visit him in the morning, and get back here late tomorrow.”
“Want company?”
“Sure, if you don’t mind road trips. But I’ll probably handle the actual meeting alone. It’s going to be tough enough bullshitting my way in as just one guy.”
“Since you can’t tell Volta you’re Swan, how are you gonna arrange a meeting?”
“I don’t know. Haven’t got that far yet.” I waved a hand. “Probably a wasted trip, anyway. My gut says Volta’s got nothing to do with this.”
“I hope he doesn’t,” Fife said, reaching for the check.
“Why?”
He glanced at the breakfast total, then set the check back down with a credit card. “Because I’d hate for this to be just another mobster hit. That’s boring. I’m pulling for the magic beans to spice things up.”
A drive sounded good. It would take five hours to reach Volta’s stomping grounds in Illinois, and I wanted to use that time to let the preliminary facts simmer in the background. I did some of my best thinking behind the wheel. Not always focused on a case, of course, but good thinking nonetheless.
I threw a quick bag together and texted Fife that I’d pick him up in ten minutes. Then I walked to my SUV and called Poole, who said Quanta would be unavailable unless there were extreme emergencies. So I told Poole the plan.
“How do you know this Vincent Volta is even there?” she asked.
“As I recall he doesn’t leave town very often. Doesn’t do much of anything besides sit in the shadows and pull strings. That’s what’s kept him alive in a dirty business for so long.”
She said she’d book two rooms near Volta’s territory. “Anything else to report?”
“Not yet,” I said, pulling up to Fife’s hotel. “But since I’m going to be near Chicago, why don’t you also see if you can set up a meeting for us with the widow of this USDA agent, Culbertson. Preferably tonight.”
“Okay,” she said before hanging up. “I’ll let you know what I arrange.”
The FBI agent threw his own small bag into the back seat and climbed in. I’d pulled up a favorite playlist on my phone and a song by Lenny Kravitz pulsed in the background.
As he buckled his seat belt I pulled out of the parking lot and headed toward I-80.
“I suppose you follow the rule of driver-decides-the-music,” Fife said.
“Damned right.”
He was quiet for a moment, then said, “This is pretty good, actually.”
“All of it is good.”
“We’ll see.” He pulled out his phone and scrolled. “I just got the report on Culbertson’s murder.” Then he was quiet, until he added, “Hmm.”
“Out with it,” I said.
He read from his screen. “Victim’s hands were bound behind his back using a belt, presumed to belong to the victim. Lying on his side.” Fife mumbled some technical details. Then: “Victim appears to have been rolled over so that the entrance wounds were against the ground.”
“Why would they shoot him and then roll him to the other side?” I asked.
“Hold on.” He kept reading. “Death caused by two gunshot wounds to the left side of the head, both shots having passed through the skull. No casings were found at the scene, nor were bullets recovered. Presumed that perpetrator or perpetrators retrieved the four items—two casings, two bullets.”
It was my turn to grunt. “So they put his head against the ground, fired two rounds, then rolled him over and dug the remnants out of the soil. What about prints on the belt? Tire tracks, footprints?”
“Nothing on the belt other than a few smudges belonging to the victim. The car apparently stopped on the pavement, so no tracks in the dirt. And any tracks there alongside the road were kicked clean.”
I shook my head. “Doesn’t by itself spell professional, but implies someone was very cautious about evidence. And that suggests a pro.”
Fife was quiet while he read a little more, then set his phone into one of the cup holders and adjusted his seat to lean back.
“I slept like shit last night,” he said. “You don’t mind if I nap for a few miles, do ya?”
“No problem. Want the music off?”
“A lot of times I sleep with a TV on. Sound doesn’t bother me. Unsolved cases bother me.”
Three minutes later he was lightly snoring. I turned the music down just a touch and settled in for a long drive to meet a mobster.
5
Against a background shuffle of songs—and an FBI agent’s muted snores—I thought about Dr. Eklund and her concerns over Jason Deele. On one hand I wanted to dismiss her fears as either coincidence or, as I’d wondered before, professional jealousy.
But one thing had pierced the tough outer shell surrounding Sarah Eklund: A true passion for her studies. Her charge against Deele almost came across as a parent protecting her child against a bully. Or, to tap into an agricultural metaphor, Deele was an invading insect that needed to be stopped before he ravaged the country’s heartland.
In many ways I envied the passion she brought to her job. I’d always taken pride in having similar drive and determination, whether it was a military operation in my younger days or a challenging case assigned by Quanta. But my recent education at the hands of the original Q2 agent and God Maker had my mind spinning. It wasn’t that I didn’t have the fire necessary to complete a task; it was more like the flames raged out of control, a fire unable to be contained, burning in a haphazard manner, threatening me as much as they threatened my targets.
This particular case in the heartland could be very important, but I was still surprised Quanta had sent me on the mission without insisting I first meet with Q2’s resident psychiatrist. I’d felt sure my long layoff would’ve necessitated a mandatory session with the man known simply as Miller. And I wouldn’t have complained. Miller and I had a long history of illuminating conversations; the fact that I hadn’t spoken with him since the mind-shattering experience with Agent One was puzzling.
Or maybe Quanta and Miller had conferred, coming to an agreement that the great Eric Swan needed activity more than he needed analysis. At least for the time being. And part of me now questioned if this case in the cornfields—or soy fields, rather—wasn’t more of a tune-up than anything else. A major league team taking on its Double-A affiliate. Just something to knock the rust off and get back into playing shape before the real brain-dissection began.
Was it possible this case was nothing more than that?
I tossed a quick glance at Sleeping Beauty next to me. That part didn’t fit. Why involve more th
an one agency if this was merely a case of a philandering USDA agent who crossed a wiseguy and paid the price?
Then again, the FBI agent in my passenger seat was also a former Q2 employee, someone who’d worked with Quanta before being planted with the G-men. Was this just a favor to get me some work?
That would really piss me off. And it wasn’t like Quanta and I needed any more bad blood between us at the moment.
For the time being I’d play it straight, assume that a vegetable version of Jurassic Park’s Henry Wu was designing both super soybeans and malicious molds, and do my job. But my bullshit detector would be set to sensitive.
Sixty miles passed before Fife woke up and stretched.
“Thanks for letting me sleep,” he said, adjusting his seat to a more upright position. He looked at the track information on the screen. “Is Imperial Drag the name of the song or the band?”
“Band. Let me expose you to some good stuff and you’ll thank me.”
“Sure. But please don’t make me a mix tape. We don’t know each other well enough.”
I pulled off the highway to pee and grab something to drink. When I got back to the SUV Fife was behind the wheel. He said, “Let me give you a break for a bit.”
“Okay with me.” I got into the passenger seat and handed him a bottled water. “But I still control the tunes.”
He laughed and maneuvered us back onto I-80, heading east.
“Let me ask you something,” I said, opening a can of Pringles and offering it to him. “Did you jump at the chance to leave Q2 to work for the FBI?”
He seemed to ponder his answer, and I realized he wasn’t sure how much he could say. Then he said, “Well, technically, I still work for Q2. Or for both, I guess.” He shrugged. “It’s complicated. I don’t communicate with Quanta nearly as much anymore, but she has access to me. That’s about all I can say.”
“Did she send you to visit me in the hospital?”
“What?” He turned to look at me with an expression that slowly faded into irritation. “No. I guess it might look that way now, but no. I went to see you because you’re a friend. And to anticipate your next question, I was just as surprised as you when she assigned you to this case. I figured if Q2 got involved it would be another agent.”
I didn’t respond right away. During my last mission I’d discovered I was the only current field agent within the organization. Well, with the exception of a new recruit, a British agent I’d recommended named Parnell. But I had no idea if she was active at the moment. Even when there were other agents, we never knew each other’s identity, nor anything else for that matter. The secret of a secret agent often began with their name.
I decided for the time being to let Fife assume there were several of us. “Okay,” I said. “I had to ask. Sorry.”
For a mile the only sound came from the music. Then Fife said, “I get it. You’re in a much different position than I am, and I can’t even imagine the shitty mind games you have to deal with. I’ve been a cop, then a data man for Q2, and now a quasi-agent for the feds. I don’t blame you for wondering. But, honestly, I’m not keeping anything from you, Swan. All right?”
I nodded and let the matter drop. I liked Fife, and the last thing I wanted was friction between us. The fact that I had trust issues within the organization was my problem, not his.
“Let’s talk about this Jason Deele character,” I said, hoping a change of subject would break the sudden tension. “Poole’s dossier on him is pretty black-and-white. Got any dirt?”
He reached for another Pringle. “I haven’t met this guy yet. But I have to tell you, from the stuff I’ve read and the video clips I’ve watched, he creeps me the hell out.”
I laughed. “Why?”
“I don’t know. It’s not like he’s perfect. You saw that he had some minor issues in college, right? A bout of depression had him hospitalized for a couple days. No run-ins with the law. But he just doesn’t . . . tick right.”
“Did you say tick right?”
“Yeah. Like a good watch or clock goes tick, tick, tick. I have a feeling the watch version of Deele goes tick, ticktick, tick, tickticktick.” He took a drink from his water bottle. “Like this one video I found. He’s explaining some lab work and suddenly his eyes grow really wide and he freezes, like a thought was swelling inside his head, like a balloon. Then a second later he smiles, his eyes shrink down to normal size, and he slips back into his speech.”
I laughed.
“No, I mean it,” Fife said. “The dude is brilliant, but man, he’s strange. Didn’t Eklund get that across?”
“Hey,” I said. “What she got across is that she hates the guy. I don’t know if it’s because of his soybean threat or his tickticktick, but she just does not like the man.”
“Here’s what bothers me. I get such an odd feeling about the guy that I wonder if he’s mentally capable of doing what Eklund thinks he’s doing. Not the brains, but the—what’s the word? Maybe the capacity to pull that off. Does that make sense?”
“It does,” I said. “And he wouldn’t be the first person to get away with murder because everyone underestimated that capacity. So, yeah, I hear you.”
“Then there’s his daredevil side,” Fife said. “You’ll probably like this part.”
“What kind of daredevil?”
“The jump-out-of-planes type. And bungee jumping, base jumping.”
“Adrenaline junkie,” I said. “Probably was the kid who made a homemade cape out of a bath towel and jumped off the back of the couch.”
“And more than just jumping. Paragliding, parasailing, cave diving.”
“He’s like a walking X-Games.”
“The file says he spends a lot of his time doing something extreme. I wouldn’t be surprised if he made his fortune just so he’d have the money to play hard.”
We fell quiet again. I thought about what Fife had said when it came to ticking, and how for some people it was off just a bit. An adrenaline freak fit that profile perfectly. Fife might’ve been thinking the same thing. For the next ten miles we kept those thoughts to ourselves, listening to the music, and wondering if Jason Deele was the danger Sarah Eklund thought him to be.
Chicago isn’t just a city. It’s a hub, a sprawling mass of people and industry, a confluence of diverse backgrounds that somehow adopted an us-against-the-world personality. Its attitude extends from the lakefront and Michigan Avenue out through the North Side, the South Side, and the Westside, then seeps into the collective suburbs making up what’s commonly known as Chicagoland.
Like many of the great cities of the world, it has a turbo-charged ego.
That’s not a slight. Ego is a sense of self, and this Midwestern monster of a town swells with a healthy sense of self. It lies behind the city’s catchy moniker, the Windy City, which may have begun as a nod to the bitter winds whipping off Lake Michigan, but soon came to represent the bellowing politicians and their propensity to blow loads of hot air.
When I was a kid it was a popular destination for my family, and I loved it even more the older I got. It culminated with one non-stop party in Chicago for the five days between leaving college and reporting to Fort Benning in Georgia.
Given my condition when I arrived for Army training, it wasn’t the wisest decision I’ve ever made. But I wouldn’t trade those five days for anything, even after all the puking.
Fife still piloted the SUV, so as we approached Naperville I became the navigator. Since it was late afternoon we drove straight to the hotel Poole had arranged. We agreed to meet in the lobby at six to hunt down dinner.
I collapsed on the bed, preparing to call Christina, when a text popped up from Poole. David Culbertson’s wife would see us tonight at eight. Poole attached a phone number and the address of a house about 45 minutes from our hotel.
The call with Christina was quick. It was a rare day off for her, and she was preparing to go to dinner with an old college friend.
“Sounds fun,” I said
to her.
“Even better, she invited me and said everything’s on her.”
“Does she know you’re eating for two? Could get expensive.”
“With the way Antonio and Marissa have been on my ass, I feel like I’m eating for four.”
I laughed. “You’re not regretting this, are you?”
“Oh, no. Everything’s good. Perfect, actually. I like to exaggerate how fussy they are—and it’s mostly Antonio—because it’s about the only thing I can find to complain about. You know, my mother always made it sound like carrying me around for nine months was a nightmare, so having this be a cake walk is just surprising. I was prepared to be miserable.”
“Wasn’t your mom generally miserable anyway?”
“Yes. But you’re not allowed to say that; only I can say that. How’s Iowa?”
“It was good, but now I’m in Chicago. Or right next door to it.”
“Oh,” she said. “Well, if you’re near State Street have a slice of pizza for me from Pizano’s.”
“Doubt I’ll get that far into town, but if I do I’ll have two slices for you.”
We talked another five minutes before she took off for dinner.
I had one more call to make before meeting Fife. I’d kept the number in my contacts for several years, just in case.
“Yeah,” the voice said after four rings.
“Calling to set up a meeting with Mr. Volta.”
There was silence on the other end, then: “And who are you?”
“All you have to tell him is that I was sent by Eric Swan. If he needs a memory refresher, just tell him it’s about the favor Swan did for him in Grant Park four years ago.”
Silence again.
“Have you got all that?” I asked. “Do you need me to spell Swan?”
“Do you need me to shove a swan up your ass?” the voice said.
“Maybe some other time. I’ve been driving all day. Just take down this number, give Volta my message, then we can all be friends again.” I gave him the number. As soon as I said the last digit he hung up.