Girl of Vengeance (14 page)

Anthony shook his head as he eased the rental car into the parking station of the Whatcom County Sheriff’s Department. “Listen—you may know cops, but I know Sergeant Coyle.”

“How?” Bear asked.

“81
^st
Brigade Combat Team. Coyle was National Guard, gunner on a Bradley Fighting Vehicle. I was embedded with his unit. It was my first overseas assignment.”

“Yeah? What year?”

“2004. They lost a lot of guys during their tour there. I spent three months humping around Iraq with Coyle’s company.”

“Gotcha. Okay, you do the talking.”

Anthony nodded, reaching to turn the key to the off position. He pulled the key out and stuck it in his pocket. “I’ve kept in touch with those guys over the years. Coyle went back again in 2009.”

Anthony got out of the car. It was chilly out, and the sun wasn’t up yet. Their flight had arrived at Bellingham International Airport at 6 am after a flight featuring vomit-worthy turbulence, and then Bear had insisted on a search for a newspaper stand. He still didn’t feel completely steady as he locked the car and crossed the street, Bear beside him.

At the front, Anthony opened the door for Bear, who walked in and immediately flashed a badge at the cop at the entrance. “Bear Wyden. US Diplomatic Security Service. This is my partner, Anthony Walker. We’re here to see Sergeant Coyle.”

The cop at the desk, who looked not a day older than 18, appeared rattled when Bear mentioned DSS.
Good move
, Anthony thought. The young cop picked up the phone on his desk and dialed.

Five minutes later a door opened to the rear of the lobby, and a large man, completely bald, walked out. He wore the brown uniform of a sheriff’s deputy.

“Walker!” he shouted. He walked over and grabbed Anthony in a bear hug. Anthony returned the hug, slapping Coyle on the back. “Get in here!” Coyle said. The kid at the desk looked bewildered.

Two minutes later, Coyle had ushered the two men to his desk and put two cups of coffee in front of them without asking. He leaned close enough to Anthony that he could smell the pungent tang of Coyle’s chewing tobacco.

“First things first,” Anthony said. “How’s Rogue?”

Coyle shook his head. “Shit. He’s not good. He was in the VA hospital for a couple months earlier this year. He got in a fistfight with a cop.”

Anthony shook his head. During the tour in 2004, Rogue—his actual name was Manfred, of all things—had been the youngest member of the unit, at seventeen years old. His mother had to give him written permission to join the National Guard. Six months into the deployment, he’d been riding in the back of a hummer when it hit an IED—an
improvised explosive device
. The incident had earned Anthony the trust of the soldiers in the platoon. While they fanned out in a protective circle around the Humvee to fend off attacking insurgents, Anthony dropped his camera in the dirt, bandaged Rogue, then held his hand keeping him calm while the insurgents were shooting at them. He’d never forget the moment Sergeant Mumsford walked up to him, balled a fist and tapped him on the chest. “You may be a reporter but … that was okay, man.”

Unfortunately, Rogue’s extensive injuries required immediate massive painkillers. Morphine, and later valium in the hospital, Oxycontin on his return to the states, and when the Army cut that off, he moved on to illegally purchased drugs. When he got caught, the Army threw him out with a bad conduct discharge, which made him ineligible for veterans’ benefits.

Mumsford—by then retired—and Coyle contacted Anthony, which resulted in a front page profile of Rogue and how he’d been screwed by the Army. His veterans’ benefits were restored, but his psychological health was still a disaster.

“Oh, man,” Anthony responded. “How’d he stay out of jail?”

Coyle shook his head and jerked a thumb toward his face. “I know the guy. We talked it out, no charges pressed, but we drove him down to the VA and checked him in. He’d said several times he wanted to kill himself.”

“Jesus,” Anthony said. He wished there was something he could do for the poor kid.

“All right. So what’s the scoop about this guy Larsden? Why do you need to see him? Why does everybody else on earth want him?”

Anthony and Bear looked at each other. Bear shrugged. Anthony said, “All right, this has got to stay close, Coyle, okay? People’s lives are on the line.”

“Go for it.”

“Did you hear the news last week? When the Secretary of Defense’s daughter was kidnapped? Then his house got blown up, and his daughter’s condo attacked, and now this guy here is your suspect for shooting at his wife?”

Coyle nodded.

“We’re trying to track down who he’s working for.”

“News said it was rival drug lords or some crap like that.”

Anthony shook his head. “You of all people know how the news gets things wrong.”

Coyle nodded, thoughtfully. It had taken months before anyone in the unit had trusted Anthony, primarily because previous reporters they’d worked with got so many facts wrong.

“If it isn’t drug lords, who is it?”

Bear leaned forward and said, “You know who I am?”

“Diplomatic Security. State Department, right?”

Bear nodded. “We’re pretty sure the person behind all this works for a three letter agency.”

Coyle’s eyes widened. “Are you serious? It’s a fed?” He looked at Anthony for confirmation.

Anthony nodded. “CIA.”

“All right. So the FBI’s going to be here at ten am to question him. So you’ve got until eight, then I need you out of here. All right? I kinda want to keep my job.”

Anthony sighed in relief. Finally they might get some answers. Coyle stood and led them down the hall. Halfway down, he opened a door.

“You two can wait in here. We’ll have him here in 5 minutes.”

So they waited. Bear laid the newspaper on the table with the banner face down then sat down in one of the four small wood chairs arrayed around a table. He leaned the chair back against the wall, crossed his arms over his chest, and closed his eyes. Anthony felt unreasonable irritation. How could he possibly go to sleep that easily? Instead, he stood, bouncing on the balls of his feet and pacing. The room didn’t look like he would have expected—a large one-way glass mirror. Instead, high in the ceiling, a black bubble was mounted in the ceiling—a camera.

After two minutes, Bear said, “Anthony, chill. You don’t wanna be all nervous when Larsden gets in here. You’re in command of the situation. Not the perp.”

Anthony intellectually recognized the good sense of Bear’s statement, but emotionally he was still tense. He wanted answers. He wanted to know who was gunning for Carrie and her family. Larsden had those answers.

His brow furrowed. Interesting that his mind had focused in on
Carrie
and her family.

Not that he disliked Carrie. He didn’t. And she
was
the caretaker of what seemed to be an infinite number of sisters. But she was also a fairly recent widow, which made her off limits, and the subject of an ongoing investigation, which made her doubly off limits, and seriously what was he doing thinking about her when he was supposed to be thinking about—

The door opened. Coyle stepped back in the room, his arm cuffed around the bulging upper arm of a large man with a severe crew cut. The man—Nick Larsden, he presumed—had a network of tattoos scrawled up and down his arms.
Interesting
, Anthony thought. He recognized the US Army Special Forces motto—
De oppresso liber—
tattooed on Larsden’s upper arm. But Larsden hadn’t been Special Forces. In fact, he’d been a personnel clerk. Maybe that would be a wedge. A two-tour combat veteran like Coyle wouldn’t think much of that either.

“Sit down,” Coyle said. To emphasize his point, he pushed Larsden down into one of the chairs. Once Larsden was sitting, Coyle unlocked one handcuff then locked it to the steel table. Only after that ritual was complete did he say, “
Mister
Larsden.” His emphasis on the word Mister was a little ominous. “Allow me to introduce my colleagues from Washington, DC, Misters Wyden and Walker.”

“Are you fuckin’ serious?” Larsden said. “Is that like Laurel and Hardy?”

Bear leaned forward and slammed a fist on the table with a crash that hurt Anthony’s ears. “You don’t want to mess with me. I’m with the Diplomatic Security Services, and my normal interrogations are with al-Qaeda trained killers, not two-bit washed up personnel clerks like you.”

Larsden immediately tensed up, his face turning red. “I ain’t no personnel clerk—”

“Shut up!” Bear roared.

Anthony kept absolutely still. He’d never seen a police interrogation before, other than on television. He didn’t have any gauge of whether or not Bear’s methods were conventional or not. But the room went absolutely silent.

Bear leaned forward and said, “I want to make things absolutely clear to you, shitbag. The woman you were taking potshots at was the wife of the Secretary of Defense of the United States. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

Bear flipped the newspaper over. Right on the front page was a full-color photo of Richard and Adelina Thompson, underneath the headline, “ASSASSIN SHOOTS AT SECRETARY OF DEFENSE’S WIFE.” Underneath that, in smaller but still bold letters, “Adelina Thompson demands political asylum in Canada.”

“Motherfucker,” Larsden muttered. “No one said she was … what the hell?”

“You’re mixed up in some bad shit, Larsden. This is way over your head. What were they offering you? Fifty thousand? A million? Whatever it was, it’s not worth the electric chair.”

Larsden jerked in his chair. “Electric chair! Hell no, I didn’t hit her, she got away, right?”

Bear shouted, “Her teenage daughter’s in the hospital, shitbag!”

Anthony didn’t say a word. Technically what Bear said was true. Jessica Thompson was in the hospital, though not of a gunshot wound. Larsden didn’t need to know that.

“What do you want from me?” Larsden demanded.

“I want to know who you’re working for. I know you didn’t think this stupid operation up yourself.”

“I don’t know!” he cried.

Bear leaned over the table, shouting in his face, “You better know, asshole!”

“Bear,” Anthony said.

“WHAT?” Bear shouted at Anthony.

“Maybe I can ask him some questions?”

Bear shouted, “We’re not asking him
shit
until he gives me a name!” But even as he shouted, apparently out of control, his right eye winked at Anthony, just out of Larsden’s sight.

Christ, Bear was a hell of an actor.

“Seriously, let me try,” Anthony said.

“If he doesn’t talk he’s
dead,”
Bear shouted. “Do you know what they do to people in prison who kill little girls?”

“I’ll talk!” Larsden said. “I’ll tell you whatever you want to know. But I never met Oz! I don’t know his name!”

Bear whirled toward Larsden. “Oz? Who the hell is Oz?”

“I don’t know,” Larsden said. “English, or maybe Irish. Real bastard. This job was supposed to be a simple bounty, going after a couple of fugitives. Then when I caught up with them, it turned into murder. And the bastard said if I didn’t follow through, he’d make sure
I
ended up dead.”

Anthony said in a calm voice, “So you decided to murder a woman and her child to save your own skin?”

“Wouldn’t you?” Larsden said. “No bullshit. I took the job, but I didn’t know it was going to turn into all this.”

“What was the payoff?” Anthony asked.

“One million,” Larsden replied. “When he announced I had to kill them to keep them from crossing the border, I told him he had to make it three. He didn’t even blink.”

Bear said, “Did you meet this
Oz
in person?”

“No,” Larsden replied. “Phone call only. An old Army buddy put me in touch with him.”

“
What
old Army buddy?” Bear asked.

“Marky Lovecchio. I knew him in Germany.”

Anthony leaned in. “How many jobs have you done for this guy?”

“Oz? This was the first one. And let me tell you, I’m regretting it.”

“Little late for that,” Bear said. “You should have thought of that before you took out a rifle and started shooting at people.”

“Yeah…”

“Where’s Marky Lovecchio from?” Bear asked.

“Boston.”

Anthony said, “Did you see a phone number? When Oz called?”

Larsden shook his head. “Nah. It always said unknown caller.”

“English accent?” Anthony said.

“I don’t know. English. Scottish maybe. Irish. I don’t know. He sounded like that actor … the old one … Liam Neeson?”

That’s not very useful, Anthony thought. “What else did he tell you? Anything?”

“He was pissed she got so close to the border. He said I had to do
whatever it took
to make sure she didn’t get into Canada.”

“Well you blew that, motherfucker,” Bear said.

“So what’s next? Do I get immunity if you catch him?”

Bear snorted. “Are you serious? You haven’t given us anything yet. Immunity is something you
trade
for.”

“I’ve told you everything I know.”

“Yeah? I don’t believe it.”

For the first time in the interview, Coyle interrupted. “Anthony. Time’s up.”

“All right, asshole,” Bear said. “You’re about to go through the ringer. IRS and FBI and Border Patrol and I don’t know who all else wants a piece of you. They’ll mess you up so bad you won’t even know your name. So you better think it through. We’re the only ones who can protect you. You better come up with some answers. We’ll be back in the morning.”

Adelina Ramos Thompson slowly opened her eyes. She was in a reclining chair, her feet up in the air, and she felt groggy and more than a little exhausted.

As always, her eyes immediately darted to her daughter.

Jessica had awoken from the previous evening, for about three hours. She was lucid, aware of her surroundings, and bitterly spiteful. Adelina withstood the onslaught of verbal abuse for almost an hour before she finally slipped out to the waiting room. Under the influence of medication, Jessica had fallen back asleep. Only then did Adelina return to her daughter’s room.