Red Ink (21 page)

“I’m the boss. Why do I always lose these things?”

“Because you’re more than just a boss, Joe. You’re a very smart boss who always makes the right decision.”

“Geezus Christ,” Banzer says incredulously as Scotto drags me out the door toward her office. “Geezus H. Christ!”

She wastes no time heating up the phone lines. Field strategy, operational briefings, interagency teamwork—it’s obviously the stuff that makes Scotto tick, that gets her out of bed in the morning; she’s damned good at it. “Right,” she says, wrapping up a conference call with DEA and Customs colleagues. “Four unmarked units counting mine. We’ll rendezvous outside the depot at twenty-two hundred. That’ll give us plenty of time. Oh, and let’s see if we can’t get everyone on the same radio frequency for a change, okay?” She hangs up, grabs her gear, and charges for the door. “Come on, Katkov. Move it. We’ve got to stop at my husband’s office on the way. This isn’t something I can do over the phone.”

“Hard to check out of a hotel over it too.”

She sighs and hurries to the elevator. We blow through the lobby and dash across the parking lot. The Buick waits patiently in the darkness. We open the doors and jump inside.

“Aw, shit!” Scotto wails, freezing in horror at what the dome light reveals.

I gasp at the repulsive sight of a man’s body sprawled across the hood. His anguished face presses grotesquely against the windshield. His eyes are open, blank, and bugged. His teeth are bared in a twisted smile by a cut that goes from the corner of his mouth to his ear. There’s a bullet hole in his forehead, and a frozen splatter of blood on the glass that runs along the wiper. It’s Scotto’s informant.

26

S
cotto is shaken but defiantly resolute, and she handles the aftermath with cool efficiency. I check out of the hotel in the meantime, and we’re soon heading west toward Hagerstown on the parkway that parallels the Potomac. We’re driving in stolid silence when the Buick’s headlights sweep across a sign that reads CAPITOL BELTWAY 495 DULLES AIRPORT.

“Oh, shit,” Scotto groans, jolted by a thought. “Marty.” She scoops up the cellular phone and autodials her husband’s office. “Hi, it’s Gabby. Is he there? . . . Damn. I was afraid of that . . . no, no, thanks.” She hangs up and stomps on the gas. “Damn.”

“What’s wrong?”

“He already left for the airport. I’m supposed to meet him at the check-in desk.”

“Perhaps you might have him paged?”

She considers it for a moment, then sighs, overwhelmed. “I can’t. This trip was my thing. I can’t just say ‘Sorry’ and leave him standing there.” She shifts lanes abruptly, darts into the interchange, and heads south to Dulles International.

The approach road is clogged with traffic. There isn’t enough time to park in one of the lots, hike to the terminal, find her husband, and still make it to Hagerstown on schedule. Scotto drives up the congested departure ramp instead. Harried police
officers in reflective vests are trying to undo the gridlock. We finally make it to the United Airlines entrance, where she triple-parks. “My husband’s a tall, lanky guy with a mustache and a southern drawl. Sort of talks like this,” she says imitating it, before sending me to fetch him.

The check-in area is jammed with travelers. A man who fits the description is standing off to one side anxiously watching the entrance.

“Excuse me. Are you Mr. Scotto?”

“Uh-huh. Well, actually, that’s my wife’s name,” he replies in the drawl Scotto mimicked so perfectly. “I mean her last name’s Scotto. Mine’s Jennings. Is something wrong?”

“Oh, no. No, she just needs to talk with you.”

Marty’s eyes roll knowingly. He grabs his carryon and follows me outside, where frustrated drivers are leaning on their horns. One of the police officers reacts and comes in our direction. I get in next to Scotto. Marty circles around to the driver’s window.

“Hi,” Scotto sighs, drawing it out into several syllables. “Sorry about this. We got a last-minute break in a case.”

“Don’t do this, Gabby,” Marty pleads, almost drowned out by the racket.

“I don’t have any choice, honey. I can’t go.”

“You can’t block this lane, either, lady,” the police officer cracks. He holds up traffic in the adjacent lane and waves Scotto forward. “Let’s go, move it! Move it! Let’s get this opened up!”

Marty scowls in disbelief and gets into the backseat. “I thought you didn’t have cases any more.”

“It’s Woody’s last case. I’m taking it over,” Scotto explains as she pulls away. “Look, I’m not going to lie to you, Marty, even though I’m good at it. I asked for the case. I threatened to resign over it.”

“Admirable; but nothing’s going to bring him back.”

“Hey, I’m tired of hearing that, okay? I have to do it for him, for his family.”

“He was your partner, not your husband,” Marty reasons in his even-tempered way. “I thought you took this job so we’d have more control over our lives?”

“I did.”

“Yeah, I guess so,” he concedes, sensing the futility. “You can’t be somebody you’re not, can you, Gabby?”

“I’m trying. What do you want me to say?”

“Nothing. Drop me off at the terminal, please.”

“The terminal?” Scotto echoes in a tone that leaves no doubt it’d be inconvenient. “It’ll take a half hour, maybe more in this mess. We have to—”

“Pull over, dammit,” Marty snaps, finally running out of patience. Then he shifts his look to me and challenges, “What’s
your
wife doing this weekend?”

“I’m . . . I’m afraid I’m divorced,” I reply with a shrug, caught off guard. “She—”

“Figures,” he cracks sarcastically, assuming I’m in law enforcement, an inspector from Scotland Yard, no doubt. “You think maybe she’d like to go to Hilton Head?” He gets out without waiting for a reply, drags his suitcase after him, and slams the door.

Scotto takes a moment to collect herself before pulling into the stream of traffic exiting the airport. We’re soon heading north on the Leesburg Pike, gas pedal to the floor. Fists locked on the steering wheel, eyes riveted to the sweep of headlights up ahead, Scotto drives in tight-lipped silence, leaving little doubt she’d prefer I not break it. About forty-five minutes later, we’re moving at high speed on a winding mountain road when she finally says, “He’s right. I can’t be something I’m not.”

“No one can, Scotto. It cost me a marriage ten years ago, not to mention someone else I care about.”

“The woman at your apartment that morning?”

I nod glumly. “Vera. I can’t blame her. She’s caring, supportive. Wants to be put first once in a while. I try, but I get caught up in a story and—”

“It takes hold of you, and all of a sudden you can’t see anything else, right?”

“Precisely. I’m starting to believe that people can’t change their nature. It makes me quite pessimistic about the future.”

“Just be your pushy, pain-in-the-ass self, Katkov. You’ll do fine.”

“Thanks, but I was thinking of Russia. I’m afraid we may never escape our past. We’ve let czars and dictators bully us
for so long, we may no longer be capable of governing ourselves, let alone competing in a free-market economy.”

“Don’t write your countrymen off that easily.”

“You don’t know them. We have an old saying: ‘The tallest blade of grass is the first to be cut by the scythe.’ Russians aren’t risk takers. They’re far more interested in guarantees than opportunities. Listen, I didn’t mean to change the subject. I’m terribly sorry about your husband.”

She shrugs matter-of-factly. “I can’t be what I’m not. He can’t accept who I am. Neither of us is tuned in to what the other wants out of life.” She drifts off for a moment, then sighs. “I don’t know why I’m telling you all this. It’s not your problem.”

“Sometimes it’s a bit easier with a stranger. You
sure
your mother wasn’t Russian?”

“Positive,” she replies, managing a smile. “Why?”

“You know Chekhov?”

“We’ve lost touch over the years, but I recall his plays are about relationships, if that’s what you mean.”

“About people who care deeply for each other, but are unhappy because they can’t quite grasp what the other wants out of life.”

“Yeah, well, you don’t have to be Russian, do you?”

A sign that reads HAGERSTOWN 35 flashes past. Half an hour later we’re crossing the city line. Banzer was right. If this isn’t the center of the American trucking industry, I can’t imagine what is. Panel trucks, step vans, tankers and tractor-trailer rigs cruise the streets, line the curbs and fill the massive parking lots that flank the highway.

Scotto takes the first turnoff and pulls into a service station. Spotless and brilliantly illuminated, it’s one of four at this intersection. I’m amazed. There are barely a half dozen in Moscow, all located beyond the Outer Ring, where long lines, outdated pumps, and outrageous prices greet the customer.

While an attendant fills the tank, Scotto rummages in the trunk, then hurries off to the rest room. A few minutes later, she emerges in jeans, running shoes, and leather jacket over a faded sweat shirt that proclaims FORDHAM. After depositing her weekend outfit in the trunk, she shifts one of the boxes of snacks into the backseat, slips behind the wheel, and drops a pair of binoculars and her notepad in my lap. Then she takes
the pistol from her shoulder bag and slips it into the holster she’s wearing beneath her jacket.

We’re more than an hour behind schedule when we approach the trucking depot. It’s located on a wide, litter-strewn street that runs parallel to the highway. Beyond the high fence, trucks of every size, description, and affiliation are neatly aligned on acres of macadam. Countless tractor-trailers with containers in their flatbeds are backed up to a block-long warehouse. Scotto parks near the corner of a darkened cross street from where we can observe the depot’s entrance, then uses her radio to contact the other agents and confirm they’re all in position.

“Affirmative,” one replies. “We’ve been waiting for you to check in, Scotto. Where you been?”

“Yeah,” another chimes in, “we thought maybe you ran off with Dr. Zhivago.”

“Eat your hearts out,” Scotto taunts, reddening slightly. Then she slouches in her seat to keep a low profile and gestures I do the same.

About an hour later, I’m cold, hungry, bored, and halfway through a fresh pack of cigarettes. “You know, Scotto, I’m really starting to understand why you were so eager to get back into the field.”

“Very funny.” She pulls a cellophane bag from the box on the backseat and tosses it at me. “Have some popcorn and shut up.”

“I’d much prefer a vodka.”

“What? And go running down the highway naked?”

“A tactical diversion.”

“Oh, yeah, these long-haul rednecks’d really get off on that.” She laughs, then glances to her watch. “Trunk’s open. Help yourself. Better make it fast.” I’m reaching for the door handle when she suddenly has a change of heart. “No. No, on second thought, we’re looking at a twelve-hour haul. I don’t want you nodding off on me. Forget it.”

The hiss of air brakes puts an end to any thought of appealing the verdict. A massive tractor-trailer thunders past the dispatcher’s shack into the street. The cab’s tinted windows obscure the driver and anyone who might be riding shotgun. According to Scotto, its extended configuration means there’s a sleeping area behind the seats. Most important, the trailing
flatbed carries a container with large numerals, identifying it as 95824.

“That’s the one,” Scotto exclaims, starting the engine. As she slips the Buick into Drive and starts creeping toward the intersection, three identical rigs roll from the depot one after the other. Each carries a container on its flatbed. Each container has the number 95824 stenciled on it.

“Son of a bitch,” Scotto groans, hitting the brakes as the convoy comes down the street toward the intersection where we’re parked.

“How could they know?”

She shrugs, disgusted. “How’d my informant end up kissing the windshield? Besides, that’s a lot of cash. Maybe they’re being smart, making sure it doesn’t get hijacked or anything. Either way, I screwed up. I should’ve foreseen it. This is what happens when you don’t have enough lead time.” She’s bouncing a fist off the steering wheel in frustration when her radio comes alive with a cacophony of puzzled voices:

“What the fuck?!”

“Am I seeing quadruple here or what?”

“Whoever said ‘Assumption is the mother of all fuckups’ must’ve gone to Fordham.”

Scotto steels herself, then thinks for a moment and hits the radio transmit button. “Hang in there, guys. This isn’t over yet.” There’s no bravado in her voice, but her tone leaves no doubt that she has an idea. She clicks off and squints into the darkness as the first rig thunders through the intersection in front of us. “Georgia,” she says in a tense whisper, leaning forward expectantly as the next approaches. “Virginia. Yeah. Way to go . . .” Then the next. “Arkansas. Okay. Come on, come on. One more.” The last rig rumbles past. “Georgia. Shit.”

“The license plates.”

“Yeah. Check the notes. The one we want’s in there somewhere. Come on. Find it. Fast. I hope to hell it isn’t Georgia.”

I’m flipping through the pages frantically as the convoy of eighteen-wheelers rolls past a sign that proclaims I-81 MARTINSBURG, WINCHESTER, and heads toward an on-ramp at the far end of the street.

“Katkov?”
Scotto growls impatiently, through clenched teeth.

“Here. Here it is. Virginia.”

“Yeah!” Scotto exclaims.

“Four-three-nine-L-H-T-six-six . . . five? Three? It’s scribbled. I can’t quite make it out.”

“Doesn’t matter. That’s it. Virginia. That’s the rig with the cash.” Scotto starts after the convoy, and thumbs the transmit button on her radio. “This is Shell Game Leader to all units. The Virginia rig is mine,” she announces. “Each of you take one of the others. Where it goes, you go. Good luck.”

Engines roaring, exhaust stacks belching diesel smoke into the darkness, the four eighteen-wheelers accelerate onto the highway and fan out across the lanes. The traffic is fast-moving and surprisingly heavy, considering the hour.

“I’m rather puzzled, Scotto. Why didn’t you tell them you know which one has the money?”

“Do I?” she challenges, slipping into the lane behind the truck. “You’re positive my guy wasn’t wrong? I mean, the poor bastard didn’t know zip about four containers with the same number, did he?”

“No, I’m afraid not,” I reply with a little smirk. “And since those other agents are on point and you’re laying back coordinating, I imagine its only fair to assign the decoys to them.”

“You’re too smart for your own good, Katkov.”

“Thank you. While I’m at it, have you considered the possibility the money might not be in any of them?”

“Uh-huh. But my gut tells me it is. Sometimes, you have to go with it, you know?”

“I knew there was a reason I came to America.”

The Virginia rig accelerates as the driver works his way up through the gears and merges into the galaxy of taillights streaking the darkness. Unfortunately, most belong to trucks, making it all the more difficult to follow. We’ve gone a couple of miles when a delivery van, turn signal flashing, slips in front of the Buick, blocking our view of the rig. The van soon moves over another lane, revealing a stakebed truck piled high with tree cuttings in front of us. The Virginia rig is nowhere to be seen.

“Where’d he go, dammit?”

“I don’t know. He was right there a moment ago.”

“The binoculars,” Scotto orders, warming to the chase. She moves over a lane to give us an angle. “Come on, find him. Virginia plates. White field, black letters.”

I scan the traffic up ahead, moving from one plate to the next. Some are poorly illuminated, others not at all. “Maryland,
Washington, that one’s rather obscure—ah, here we are—Virginia. Yes, yes, it’s Virginia. “Four-three-nine-L-H-T-six-six-five . . .”