Chronic Fear (7 page)

“Morgan!”

Mark snapped alert. His Basic Law Enforcement Training instructor was in his ear, leaning into the sedan.

“Yes?” Mark asked, avoiding the automatic “sir” he was compelled to add. While most of the students were in their early twenties, Mark was close to the same age as Derrick Frady, a former sheriff’s deputy who’d lost his job during a political housecleaning. Frady, who made up for his diminutive stature with a militaristic zeal, was of course nicknamed “Frady Cat” by the students, but none of them dared call him that to his square, flinty face.

“The suspect just ran another car off the road during the chase. It looks like a probable PI. What do you do?”

“PI” was the police code for “personal injury.” Mark was faced with the choice of continuing his pursuit of the suspect or serving the public he was sworn to protect.

Well, I haven’t sworn anything yet. I still have another two hundred hours of training to go.

Mark figured that a real cop faced with such a dilemma would punch the accelerator and indulge in the adrenaline rush of a high-speed chase. Because that was Mark’s first impulse, he figured it was probably the wrong one.

“What’s the Ten-Twenty of my backup?” Mark asked. He was in the back parking lot of Durham Tech, behind the wheel of a dummied-up police cruiser. The car sported a two-way radio, siren, bar lights, and all the accessories of a real cop car. It even had the black-and-white, two-toned paint job, although it bore no emblem or insignia of any kind.

“Half a mile behind, but the neighboring department has a road block a mile ahead,” Frady said.

“I pull off pursuit and check on the collision victims,” Mark said. “Calling it in, of course.”

Frady pulled a twisted crease in one side of his mouth, an expression that passed for a smile. “Serve and protect,” he said. “The first word is
serve
.” He slapped the top of the sedan. “Good enough.”

A series of orange cones were arranged across the empty parking lot. Mark had negotiated the obstacle course in just under three minutes, burning a little rubber off the tires but managing not to tip any cones. He’d scored an 87, which wouldn’t have him busting Vin Diesel in a
Fast and Furious
sequel anytime soon, but at least he hadn’t skidded into the chain-link fence that surrounded the lot.

Several students waited their turns on a weedy courtyard between the lot and main campus building. They were all dressed in the loose black athletic pants and gray T-shirts that bore the BLET logo. The outfit was part of the indoctrination, a sort of junior varsity uniform to prepare them for blues and badges. Two women were in the class, and they were both as tough as twisted rawhide.

Mark had not beaten the women at anything yet, although he suspected it would be his turn to shine when they trained for presenting evidence in court. If only he could keep his head straight and concentrate.

“All right, Morgan, we need a braking maneuver and a full turn in pursuit,” Frady said.

“Which way?”

Frady smirked. “Listen to the radio, rookie. Now wheel it to the start.”

While Mark navigated the cruiser to the end of the hundred-yard lot, he eyed the crumbling asphalt. The roads wouldn’t be in any better shape once he pinned on a badge, given the sad state of infrastructure funding. Fortunately, government leaders didn’t dare cut law enforcement budgets, so he should be able to land a job even if he didn’t make top of the class.

Frady had a short-range CB radio system set up in the courtyard. The receiver in the cruiser was set to a channel used infrequently but sometimes prone to interference. Frady’s reasoning was that real-life emergency communications often featured overstepping and crowding, so an officer should be skilled in filtering out the noise.

“How’s it looking, Unit Seventeen?” Frady’s broadcast voice issued from the dashboard speaker, using Mark’s assigned number to simulate on-duty patrol.

“Looks like asphalt’s a little—”

“All units, Ten-Thirty-two!” Frady barked. “Armed robbery suspect heading west on Tree Street.”

“Unit Seventeen in pursuit,” Mark said into his mike, gunning the engine and accelerating. “Tree Street” was the name of the straightaway where the students practiced accelerating, braking, and dodging obstacles. The route had a series of four exits, each at a different angle and all named after various species of trees.

As Mark pushed the cruiser to sixty, he fully expected Frady to throw the 90-degree left turn at him, which was the most difficult. He braced for the fake name of “Dogwood Avenue” to come over the radio.

“Suspect in a maroon SUV, armed and dangerous,” Frady said, spitting the words like staccato bullets.

“This is Unit Seventeen. I’m Ten-Eighty with suspect in sight,” Mark replied, talking fast but steadily. Even though the situation was make-believe, he couldn’t help the surge of adrenaline coursing through him. Part of the drill was to maintain control with only one hand on the wheel, the other busy manipulating the mike.

Mark glanced to the side where Frady stood by the radio unit, the students gathered around as if part of some frat prank.

He zoomed past Dogwood.
Goddamned Frady. Trying to show me up. He’ll probably throw Birch at me just to keep me off balance.

“Suspect turning onto Cedar!” Frady said.

The fuck?

Mark slammed on the brakes, and despite triggering the anti-lock mechanism, the rubber bit at the pavement with a squeal of resistance. Cedar was two streets back, the first left turn.

“Suspect still in sight, Unit Seventeen?” Frady asked, artificially maintaining urgency.

Instead of replying, Mark dropped the mike, yanked the wheel wildly to the left, and cut a donut.
I’ll show that asswipe.

As he leaned into the turn, fighting inertia, his body pulsed with a rush of warmth. The glow was exhilarating and heightened his senses. The tires wailed in a symphonic scream, the surrounding fence glinted like sunlight dappling the surface of uneasy water, and the vehicle was like a sled riding soft snow beneath him. He could even smell the stale cigarette smoke from some prior student’s law-breaking indulgence.

He rolled out of the circle, startled by his own mastery of the move. He’d not even broken the painted boundaries of Tree Street. By the time the wheels quit complaining, he was already up to forty and headed for Cedar, which was now on the right.

“Goddamned, Morgan,” Frady said, breaking protocol. “What in the hell are you doing?”

Mark felt the grin fixed on his face like a skeleton staring stupidly at its own epitaph. He yanked the mike into his fist by its cord and thumbed it on. “I’m Ten-Eighty on Tree Street,” Mark said, wondering if the students could see him through the tinted windshield.

Mark realized he’d already botched the assignment, because he’d forgotten to engage the bar lights and siren. Not that the criminal cared, and it wasn’t like Mark needed to warn vehicles in a deserted parking lot.

He communed with the roar of the engine, 250 horses galloping toward hell. As he thrust the accelerator to the floor, he was dimly aware of the unexpected pleasure of power. In high school, while the jocks were picking up chicks in muscle cars and hot rods, he’d driven a rusty Toyota, reading
Forbes
instead of
Car and Driver
. Now, here he was, hunched over the wheel and wanting more juice.

He got it.

And it felt good.

“Break off pursuit, Unit Seventeen,” Frady ordered.

Instead of slowing, Mark whipped the cruiser to seventy and veered between the painted lines that designated Cedar Street. The “street” was only forty yards long, ending in a fence, and beyond it was a strip of lawn and landscaping that buffered the college from the highway.

Now where’s that suspect?

Where are you hiding?

Officer Morgan has a surprise for you.

Armed and dangerous. That was an excuse to shoot him, right?

Mark tossed the mike away, barely aware of Frady’s frantic jabbering on the radio.

Mark reached below the seat to where the Glock was strapped above his ankle. Sure, the college didn’t allow concealed weapons, but how did they expect Mark to keep the streets safe if only the crooks had guns? What was he supposed to do, write a warning ticket?

The baggy pants that had disguised the bulk of the weapon were a barrier, and Mark nearly let go of the wheel in his haste to free the pistol.

“Break off, Morgan!” Frady shouted, one last attempt to restore order.

“Fuck off, Frady Cat,” Morgan shouted to the sky.

The fence was dead ahead, approaching fast, and Mark glanced around, surprised. The suspect was nowhere in sight.

You’re not getting away that easy.

The cruiser plowed into the fence, jerking Mark forward. He bounced against the seatbelt and the passenger’s-side air bag exploded. The chain links stretched taut with a brittle
skreee
. Then Mark was through, peeling the fence loose from its posts as metal grabbed at the cruiser’s flanks. He bounced over the uneven terrain and plowed through a stand of flowering shrubs. By then, he was sufficiently slowed to merge with the midday traffic.

The other cars miraculously made way, even slowing to the speed limit so Mark could easily move through them. Going with the flow, Mark was able to free the Glock and lay it on the seat beside him.

He checked the side and rearview mirrors, then peered through the windshield.

Somewhere there was a maroon SUV that had made the mistake of stepping out of line while Officer Mark Morgan was on duty. It would be a mistake the crook would live to regret. Or maybe
not
live. Whatever.

He was humming, glowing, flushed with heat as he clicked off the chattering CB radio.

It felt good to be a cop.

Dominic Scagnelli didn’t like the way this was going.

That wasn’t unusual.

He hadn’t liked the goddamned Drug Enforcement Agency. He hated the FBI. And this new gig as a fixer for Danny-Boy Burchfield was about the bottom of the fucking barrel.

The bitch of it was, this new job paid better than any of them. At least on the numbers reported to the Internal Revenue Service. But the IRS could roll up those check stubs and cram them up their puckered little buttholes, for all he cared.

They were all part of the same machine, the upper end of the trough. And people like him were paid to stand guard while the hogs fed.

Simple as that.

And in a way, he was getting his share of the swill, too.

Scagnelli reached into his pocket to touch the metal tin of “breath mints.”
You’ve got to hand it to that two-faced bastard, Wallace Forsyth. He really knows where to score some good shit.

Scagnelli glanced out the car window. He was parked in a handicapped space near the rear exit to the neurosciences building. He wasn’t sure when Dr. Alexis Morgan would make her daily trek to her car, but it was close to lunchtime and that was as good a bet as any.

He drifted into that semi-alert state of surveillance and was startled when someone knocked on the driver’s-side window.

Holy fucking guacamole on a crispy corn fritter.

He glanced over to see a young woman, college-aged, wearing a bright orange vest and holding a little booklet. He was getting soft. What if that had been a punk with a gun?

He rolled down the window. She was cute, but he didn’t like cute. He smiled anyway. “Good morning, miss. Nice day, huh?”

She glanced around as if noticing it was daylight for the first time. “You’re in a handicapped spot, sir.”

Scagnelli nodded and pointed at the sign. “Fine of two hundred and fifty dollars. That’s a lot, considering half the people with handicapped stickers are faking it.”

She fanned herself with her ticket book, a little perspiration on her flushed skin. She was a brunette with television hair and a body that would go to cheese in about five years, right after she married some dumb frat boy with a business degree. “The spot’s for people with stickers,” she said.

“We’ve established that.”

“You don’t have no sticker.”

“We’ve also established that.”

“Are you picking somebody up?”

“You might say that.” Scagnelli’s eyebrow twitched. He’d only taken one hit of speed this morning. He didn’t like to get too wired while he was on a stakeout, but he also didn’t want to drowse off, either.

“There are metered spaces over by the parking deck,” the young woman said, the first sign of exasperation entering her tone. She had a little two-way radio on her belt that squawked and fell silent.

“If I wanted to be in a metered space, I’d be in a metered space. I want to be here.”

“Sir, university parking regulations requires a civil penalty of—”

“Yeah, I know.”

She looked into his aviation sunglasses as if trying to read his hidden eyes. “I’m afraid I have to write you a ticket if you don’t leave.”

He nodded. “Yeah. That’s your job, right? You should always do your job to the best of your abilities. That’s what they teach you here, right?”

You and the other fucking corporate slaves.

“Yes, sir.”

“What do they pay you to be a Parking Nazi? Minimum wage plus a quarter, but you turn around and give it all right back to the Man.”

She glanced around as if deciding whether it was easier to fill her quota elsewhere, or maybe she was debating hitting her little radio and calling in the university rent-a-cops. Scagnelli didn’t want the hassle of showing his federal badges and playing the one-up game.

“Go ahead and write your ticket,” Scagnelli said.

She was nearly in tears now, and relief washed over her face as she walked to the rear of the rental sedan. Scagnelli monitored the building’s exit again, glancing once in the rearview mirror to make sure she was writing it all down. The pedestrian traffic had picked up, and Scagnelli wondered if he should change his plans.

The traffic monitor came back to the window and ripped a copy of the ticket free, then stuck it out toward him. He brushed his lips—speed made his skin itch—and then popped open the briefcase on the seat beside him. His guns were stuck inside padded mailing envelopes, and a few papers were clipped together on top to make it all look legit. He reached into a fold and pulled out a handicapped sticker. “Sorry, miss. I forgot I had this.”

She stood there with the ticket held out to him, still a foot away from the window, as if afraid he’d grab her wrist and pull her into the car.

Good instincts. You’ll make a great soccer mom. I see lots of Jennifer Aniston movies in your future.

“I can’t void a ticket in the field,” she said. “Once it’s written, you have to go through the appeals process.”

“I don’t have time for an appeals process.” He smiled.

“I’m sorry, sir. It’s in the regulations.”

“That’s always the answer, isn’t it?”

She forgot she was an official representative of the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill’s Department of Public Safety and became just another ex-teen. “Huh?”

“It is what it is,” he said. “Rules of the road. The way the game is played. Love it or leave it.”

“I’m sorry, sir, I’m just doing my job.”

“Hitler was just doing his job. Osama bin Laden was just doing his job. Ted Bundy was just doing his job. That’s the problem with this fucking world. Everybody’s just doing their jobs.”

She stepped forward and thrust the ticket inside the window, letting it flutter into his lap. “The appeals process is on the ticket,” she said, hurrying away, hunched as if expecting a bullet in the back, or at least a shouted insult.

Scagnelli smiled. All she had was a fake license-plate number on a rental car.

Have fun explaining that one to the boss. Because, guess what? I’m just doing my fucking job.

The encounter had entertained him past noon. Dr. Morgan was late. Young students were streaming in and out of the building, and he struggled to track each face. The dossier had contained photographs of an attractive woman with nice shoulders. He didn’t go for cute, but attractive was a different matter, and she was worth looking for.

The federal files on Morgan listed her as a person of interest, making references to a Dr. Sebastian Briggs who had died in a chemical explosion. Briggs was implicated in the illegal manufacture of drugs, with the FBI drawn in because of suspected trafficking across state lines. Morgan had been his graduate assistant at one time.

Scagnelli knew the FBI files were bullshit. It was the kind of information available to all clearance levels, and nothing important was ever made widely available. Within the security departments, knowledge was the currency through which the power games were waged, careers made or broken on the ability to gain access.

The real Briggs files were Sensitive Compartmentalized Information, a wonderful murky phrase that kept the info on a “need to know” basis, an ever-shifting clusterfuck of smoke and mirrors that guaranteed nobody would possess the whole truth.

But truth is just another layer of smoke, like the smoke Forsyth is blowing up my ass. If he says this Seethe and Halcyon stuff are threats to national security, what he really means is they’re a threat to Danny-Boy’s bid for the nomination.

Scagnelli had hacked the e-mails the two CIA agents had shared after “discovering” the laptop in Morgan’s lab. He’d gone through all the research files and hadn’t found anything suspicious, but what did they expect? He was a goddamned fixer, not a brain surgeon.

A bearded man started to enter the building, then stepped back and held the door open. A woman exited and nodded thanks at the courteous gentleman, who “You’re welcomed” her by glancing at her ass as she walked away. It was Dr. Morgan, he was sure, her figure rolling smoothly inside her skirt suit as her heels clattered on the sidewalk.

She was carrying a briefcase. After her encounter with the two undercover agents the day before, she wouldn’t be stupid enough to have incriminating records with her, much less the Seethe or Halcyon compounds.

Scagnelli started the rental sedan and eased out of the handicapped spot. The game plan was to follow Dr. Morgan and see if she made any slips or had any interesting appointments. If she wasn’t synthesizing the compounds in the university labs, she was working with someone off-site. Scagnelli had wanted to break into the Morgans’ house, but Forsyth said Mark Morgan was armed and possibly unhinged. Violence was the course of last resort because bodies always led to questions and more dummied-up dossiers.

Unless they could be handled like he’d handled Anita Molkesky. In a case like that, you were performing a public service and giving the people what they wanted. It was a job that brought a little pride and satisfaction.

The parking lot was crowded but the congestion gave Scagnelli an excuse to drive slowly. He could have followed her on foot, but he’d have been too easy to spot. Nobody expected a stalker to use a car. That wasn’t how it worked in the movies, and people could no longer tell movies from real life.

Dr. Morgan was wearing sunglasses and her suit was navy blue. Scagnelli liked the sleek curves of her calves, which were encased in dark hose. He was glad she didn’t have thick ankles. He hated stalking women with thick ankles.

She’d parked her late-model Lexus in the satellite faculty lot that morning, and Scagnelli expected her to walk straight to it and drive away. Scagnelli passed the cute traffic monitor, who was busy writing a ticket and didn’t see him.

Dr. Morgan turned her head suddenly in his direction, and Scagnelli wondered if she had somehow sensed him. He fought an urge to speed up. While she would be on her guard after yesterday’s encounter, she would be looking out for two dark-skinned men, not a swarthy, smiling white guy.

Scagnelli silently applauded Forsyth’s little shell game, which would have her suspecting the lab raid had been connected to terrorists or international espionage instead of federal investigators.

But you only sold me a bowl of smoke, didn’t you? Just doing your job as Danny-Boy’s advance scout.

Scagnelli planned to circle the lot as if unable to find a parking space, and then loop behind her when she hit the highway. He was easing forward, checking her in the rearview, when a black-and-white police cruiser wheeled in front of him, skidding and swerving.

“Fucking townie!” Scagnelli shouted, braking and cutting hard right, narrowly missing the cruiser’s fender. The cruiser didn’t slow at all.

Weird. No siren, no lights.

Town police were usually the most by-the-book because they were often the newest to law enforcement, the lowest on the totem pole in any cross-jurisdictional investigation, and the most likely to be reprimanded or fired. One citizen report of reckless behavior could be enough to send the mayor crawling up the chief’s ass.

Scagnelli watched in the mirror as the cruiser spun into the satellite lot toward Alexis Morgan a hundred feet away. The cruiser slowed and the cop apparently said something to her, because she stopped walking and stared in surprise.

Hold the guacamole. That damned cruiser doesn’t have any insignia.

Town departments often employed one of two looks for their fleet, usually reflecting the current chief’s personality and philosophy. The first was the two-toned, old-school, black-and-white look if the chief believed in visibility and crime prevention. The second was tinted windows and sleek, unmarked cars designed for stealth and intimidation. That was the theory. In practice, limited funding often meant departments had a mix of each.

But Scagnelli had never heard of a department whose marked cars didn’t sport departmental emblems on the doors. The cruiser was almost like a movie prop. He eased his own car forward, keeping one eye on the mock cruiser as a pickup truck pulled in behind him. The ticket girl had also noticed the cruiser and was watching with her beady little tattletale eyes.

Alexis Morgan walked toward the cruiser, her confident gait now stilted and unsure.

If Forsyth cut another agent in on this deal, I’m going to yank his rubbery old ears down around his neck, strangle him, and shove a Bible up his ass. Except he’d probably enjoy it.

By the time Scagnelli had negotiated a three-point turn, Alexis Morgan had climbed into the passenger side of the cruiser. The ticket girl scrawled a little note on her pad, probably the cruiser’s license plate number. Scagnelli’s anger cooled a little as he realized his job had just gotten a whole lot easier.

I’ll let that clown cop do all the heavy lifting, and I’ll just walk in and pick up the winning lottery ticket. A guy acting all erratic like that, the suspicion will fall on him when she turns up dead.

He popped one of Forsyth’s gift amphetamines to celebrate.