by A. C. Fuller
Warren looked up. “And it’s probably a mistress he’s paying off, anyway.”
“Could be the wife or partner of the killer. Maybe they sent the money through her to hide it?”
“Possibly, but if I’m right, this guy doesn’t have a wife, doesn’t live with a woman. We’re looking for a sad old white man in his seventies. Probably ex-military.”
“What about this?” Cole said. “Transfer to a guy named Michael Wragg for $25,000 three days ago. This was from Price’s Delaware Trust account.”
“That name…I saw that name.”
Warren scrolled furiously through a PDF. “Here. Michael Wragg. A payment for $99,000 on September first. That’s right around when I saw the weapons post.”
“That sound like the price of nine custom, untraceable rifles?”
“Sounds about right.”
Cole tapped her phone. “Already searching for his address. Two Michael Wraggs in New York City. One in the Bronx. One on the Lower East Side.”
Warren jumped out of the booth and threw on his jacket. “Then what the hell are we waiting for?”
26
Michael Wragg logged onto TorChat as Jefferson whined in the corner.
Since his visit with Jane Cole, he hadn’t left the house. She’d convinced him that her source hadn’t seen him, but someone else might have. He was willing to go to prison for what he’d done, but there’d been a delay in the mission. Now he feared that if he was arrested before it was complete, he’d be tortured until he gave up his brothers.
He scanned the latest comments in the chat window. Two of his brothers were in the middle of a debate.
Kokutai-Goji: The shot wasn’t possible. We didn’t anticipate the last minute protocol change. The Silver Squirrel will die tonight.
Tread_on_This!: I could have made that shot!
Kokutai-Goji: No one could have made the shot. We decided to hire the best, and I did.
Tread_on_This!: You screwed this up Kokutai-Goji. Now we’re off schedule.
Kokutai-Goji: It couldn’t be helped.
Tread_on_This!: You sure tonight will happen?
Kokutai-Goji: The Truffle Pig assured me.
He wasn’t their leader, but he thought of himself as the elder of the group even though he’d never be certain about who was on the other end of the chat. He didn’t know the ages or real identities of his brothers. But they seemed young, impatient. Probably millennials. As usual, he’d need to be the voice of reason.
T-Paine: Brothers, let me explain something to you.
Jefferson yelped at the window. He jammed his nose into the small crack, as he often did when Duc was emptying fish bones into the dumpster below. The smell was stronger than usual today.
“Shut up! You’re not getting any damn fish.”
Jefferson clawed weakly at the window and yelped again.
The old man limped across the room, took a slice of bologna from the fridge and threw it toward the dog. It stuck to the window and slid slowly to the floor. “There!”
Jefferson pawed the meat, sniffed it, and again stuck his nose under the window, whining for the succulent bones below.
“Shut up!”
The dog stared at him with tired eyes, then pawed at the window, scratching it with his nails. Wragg grabbed the baseball bat from the glass case and lunged toward Jefferson, swinging the weapon a couple feet above the head of the cowering dog. Breathing heavily, the old man stared at Jefferson until he was sure he’d shut him up. He returned to his laptop and placed the bat back on the desk. He needed to get his brothers back in line.
T-Paine: We can’t allow infighting to derail us. We are very different men, so we are bound to disagree from time to time. Our brother Kokutai-Goji tells us The Truffle Pig was not able to take the shot at the appointed time, and even the lying media reported a change to The Silver Squirrel’s schedule. Remember, we hired The Truffle Pig because he’s a better marksman than any of us. If he says the shot wasn’t possible, it wasn’t. Everyone else, adjust your plans by one day. Make it work. Remember why we’re doing this.
He stared at the chat box, waiting for replies.
Gunner_Vision: T-Paine is right. Stay focused on the mission, adjust plans as needed. This is only beginning.
It’s_Our_Country: Only beginning. The world doesn’t know yet what we have in store.
8/15/47: They will soon.
Gunner_Vision: T-Paine, we’ve all been following news reports, for what they’re worth. It seems like you’re safe. How does it look from your end?
T-Paine: Had a slight hiccup with a potential witness, but it turned out to be nothing. FBI or CIA or NYPD could break my door down any minute, of course, but I believe I’m clear. And even if they do, it won’t matter. You all know what to do.
In the corner, Jefferson whined. The old man shot him a contemptuous look. “You’re a weak old mutt. I really should have named you Hamilton.”
Jefferson barked at the window and the old man grabbed the baseball bat from the desk. Stalking across the room, he cocked the bat over his head.
He stopped when he heard the scratchy bzzzzzzzzzzz of his door buzzer.
27
Cole and Warren waited in front of the faded red door. Warren pressed the buzzer again. A minute passed, then two.
On the ride over they’d done a series of searches for Michael Wragg and found nothing online or in any of the databases Cole could access from her phone. No arrest record, no mentions in the press, and no record of property ownership. Cole always started her research with an internet search and she’d learned that there were a few sharp dividing lines based on age. Young people were all over the internet, mostly social media platforms like Snapchat, Instagram, and Twitter. People in their forties and fifties usually had Facebook and LinkedIn profiles, while people in their fifties, sixties, and seventies were more of a crapshoot. Some had online profiles. Others had no internet presence whatsoever.
That didn’t mean Wragg wasn’t their guy, of course. If their guess was right—that Michael Wragg was the man who’d purchased the guns on the dark web—he was likely smart enough not to leave any trace of himself online under his real name.
“What the hell were we thinking?” Warren asked.
Cole mashed the buzzer again. “There was a chance he’d be home. If he had the guts to meet me last night…” She trailed off, studying the buzzers of the other apartments.
Warren followed her eyes. “What?”
“There are three floors, two apartments per floor. As a journalist, there’s nothing wrong with me buzzing the other apartments and asking the residents a few honest questions about their neighbor. He’s not online, at least not under the name Michael Wragg, but if he lives here—”
“Oh, hell no.”
“Why not?”
“Uhh, like ten reasons. You might run into him in the hall. You might tip him off that we’re here. Speaking of that, why are we here? What the hell was I thinking?”
Cole frowned. “You’re right. I should be here. You shouldn’t.”
“You think I’m gonna leave you here alone?”
Cole stepped back from the door. Across the street, there was a bar with a table in the window. She nodded at it. “Buy you a shot while we talk this through?”
He gave her a sideways look.
She raised her hands in acquiescence. “Sorry. A shot for me, coffee for you.”
Wragg caressed the baseball bat and stood by the door as the echo of the buzzer faded. “They’re gone.” He cursed himself for not installing a video doorbell. He’d tried to convince the landlord to do it, but he’d been too cheap to pay for it.
He paced to the window and looked out. The fire escape was empty. The alley was empty. He hadn’t eaten in a day, and the scent of fish bones that wafted up—carried by steam from a vent—made him salivate.
Jefferson lay silently on the floor by the window.
“It wasn’t the police,” Wragg said to the half-dead dog. “The
y wouldn’t have used the buzzer. Probably a salesman or a wrong address. A teenager pressing all the buzzers.”
Back at his desk, he used his cellphone to dial Trần’s. “Duc, it’s Michael from upstairs…I’ll have the usual…Fifteen minutes, yeah…What?…No, I don’t need any bones for Jefferson.” Wragg glared at the dog. “He’s been bad.”
Cole sipped tequila while Warren warmed his hands around a coffee mug. They sat on the same side of the table in the window, watching the red door across the street through sheets of icy rain.
“I should call this in,” Warren said.
“You mean Wragg, the financial transactions?”
“Not that. Can’t tell anyone how we got that information. I threatened those guys but there’s no way I’d ever out them on this. We have no good reason to be here.”
Cole slid her shot glass back and forth on the table. “That’s where cops and journalists are different. I didn’t break any laws to get that information. Maybe you did, but I didn’t. And the First Amendment protects me. Once the information is stolen, I can legally publish it.”
“That’s pretty messed up.”
Cole shrugged. “Be that as it may, it’s the law, at least according to the Supreme Court.”
“What about an anonymous tip? We call in with the name Michael Wragg and the address, say he’s connected to the Raj Ambani murder?”
Cole shook her head. “Fine, but your buddies are getting a thousand tips a day. Maybe they get around to checking him out. Maybe they don’t.”
“That’s not how it works. They might already be on to him.”
Warren swigged his coffee.
Cole shot the rest of her tequila, eyes glued to the red door. “How’s the coffee in this joint?” she asked.
“Burnt, which is how I like it.” He waved at the bartender, who brought over the pot and refilled his cup.
“You like burnt coffee?”
“Same with my burgers. Burnt like a hockey puck.”
She smiled, her eyes on the red door. “That’s sacrilege. Matt would have booted you out of our kitchen if you asked for meat any way other than medium rare.”
“I like my meat like I like my enemies. All the way dead.”
She chuckled, then turned to him, watching as the steam from his coffee clouded his face. The Warren she was coming to know was definitely angry, but he was a serious cop, as interested in getting at the truth as she was. “Convince me. About the suspect.”
Warren waved her off. “Doesn’t matter anymore.”
“It does. If I got it wrong, I want to know. Need to know.” She stretched her arms over her head. The tequila made her feel loose. “But I don’t think I did. You already admitted it.”
“Context.”
“Give me a context that justifies what you did.”
He sipped his coffee, considering this, then shook his head sadly. “There isn’t one. I was in the wrong.”
Cole opened her mouth, ready to argue, but nothing came out. His face seemed to have softened, like all the tension had dropped from it in an instant.
Warren slid his chair closer to hers. “I was wrong. I mean it. But if you want, I’ll show you the context.”
“Show me?”
“I have video.”
“Why didn’t you…what?”
He put his hand on hers. “I’ll show you, but Jane, this is serious. This has to be one hundred percent off the record, okay? I’m not supposed to have this. The person who sent this wasn’t supposed to send it. She could go to jail for sending it.”
“Off the record, sure.”
He lifted her chin and looked right into her eyes. “Jane, do you swear? I want you to see this. To understand. Maybe it will come out one day, maybe not. For now, no one else can know. ”
She swallowed hard. “I swear.”
Warren opened his text app and scrolled for a moment, then tapped on a video clip. It was dash cam footage, a wide angle looking into an empty police car at night. Blue and red lights flashed from a police car out of frame, giving the video an eerie feel as the interior of the car brightened and darkened with the swirling lights.
A man appeared on the bottom right of the video. Cole recognized Warren’s muscular torso but his head wasn’t in the shot. Another head was. A rear door opened and Warren pushed a man into the back seat. He was around thirty, with greasy blond hair, a pockmarked face and a crooked nose that looked as though it had been broken several times.
Once the man was in the seat, Warren closed the door, walked around to the driver’s side, and got in. In the back, the man wore an odd, serene smile.
Cole paused the video. “What was he arrested for?”
“We had him on child porn charges. When we got to his apartment, we found…”
“What?”
“You don’t want to know.”
“Context, right? Don’t I have to know?”
Warren’s lips quivered and his eyes got hard. “Found a nine-year-old girl”—Warren sniffed—“chained to a bed. She turned out to be Vietnamese, sold to a trader by her father when she was seven. Took her a week to say anything, and the only English phrase she knew was, ‘Yes, sir.’” Warren looked down at the table, as though he was trying to hold it together. “He’d trained her. This wasn’t in Iraq or some brothel in Thailand. This was in Queens. In 2018. In our city this is happening right now.”
Cole felt sick.
Warren pointed at the top of the screen. “Even cops have to pay tolls. I had my wallet out and left it open on the dash. That picture is Marina, my little girl. Five years old.”
Warren started the video, which showed him starting the car and turning to look for traffic. He pulled out, but as he sped up his wallet flew off the dash and appeared to fall between the seats.
“My wallet fell open,” Warren said. “He could see the picture.”
The man in the backseat called out, “Hold up.”
“What?” Warren asked, turning.
He nodded at the wallet. “That your baby girl?”
Warren ignored the question.
“She’s cute. What is she four or—”
“Shut up.” Warren’s voice was low and slow.
The man licked his lips. “You can’t protect her forever, y’know.”
“I said shut the fuck up.” Warren’s voice was louder this time.
“You ever give her a bath and”—the man shifted his head, as though looking in Warren’s eyes through the rearview mirror—“maybe the thought comes into your head? No, not yet. She’s still a couple years too young for that.”
Warren jerked the steering wheel and slammed the brakes, stopping the car abruptly. He leapt out, disappearing from view, then appeared at the back door. Swinging it open, he grabbed the man by the hair and smashed his face into the grate that separated the back seats from the front. Then he slammed the door.
His nose bloody, the man stuck out his tongue and groaned, licking the blood.
Cole flipped over his phone. “I can’t watch any more.”
“You can’t see it in the video, but he’d been masturbating through his pants, handcuffs and all, to a picture of my little girl. It was too much for me. I knew if I didn’t get my emotions under control, I was gonna flip his off switch. Told myself, ‘Deep breaths, Rob, deep breaths. Turn around and get back in the front seat.’ Took every bit of willpower I had, but I managed to get him to the station without another scratch.”
They sat in silence, watching the cars splash by outside.
“I shouldn’t have done it,” Warren said finally.
“I understand why you did. I feel sick.”
“Did he deserve it? Absolutely. Deserves to die, and a lot worse. If you’d seen his apartment, seen the girl.” He doubled over, shaking his head like he was trying to erase the memory. “Hell was built for guys like him. And I believe he’ll burn there for eternity. But I shouldn’t have done what I did.”
Cole said nothing. There was nothing to sa
y.
“Now you know,” Warren continued. “But you can’t write this. I can’t give you a copy, and no one can know I showed it to you. I have to let it play out.”
Cole thought for a moment, then said, “As disgusted as I am by that video, seeing the context of what you did reminds me of a C.S. Lewis quote. I can’t remember the exact phrasing, but it has to do with enemies. When you hear about some atrocity committed by your enemy, you get angry, right? But what if you then learn that the atrocity wasn’t nearly as bad as you’d heard at first? If you pay attention to your reaction at that moment, you can learn a lot about yourself.”
“I don’t get it.”
“In that moment, after you learn that your enemy isn’t as bad as you thought, are you disappointed because you can’t be as mad, or are you relieved on behalf of humanity because your enemy isn’t as bad as you feared?”
“I don’t know.”
“I didn’t either, until right now. A week ago I probably would have been disappointed to learn the context. Now, I feel relieved. I wanted to believe the worst of you—another abusive cop in a system that creates them, which is why I didn’t work harder to get the full story. Now I’m relieved to learn the context, and it leads me to something else. I have to write this. My boss told me something the other day—he drives me crazy but he’s usually right—told me sometimes the facts are different than the truth. I can write it in such a way that it never gets back to you.”
“No.”
“I don’t have to mention the video. I’ll call the department and—”
“What? What would you do?”
Cole thought. “I’d give it to another reporter at The Sun, so I’m not near it. I’ll have them call the department, we’ll find a way to fill out the context.”
“The woman who sent me this video wanted me to know it was circulating within the department. But she wasn’t supposed to send it. Would get fired for sending it. Plus, you promised.”
“I did.”
“And you’ll keep the promise. Keep your eye on the door. I gotta take a leak.”