Saboteur: A Novel (19 page)

VIII

Sullivan stood at the edge of Tierney’s desk pointing to the
folded linen he’d placed there.

“Detective, why you have put me in
such a situation, or your partner I really must know, every minute we waste--”

“It’s that.” Sullivan said
interrupting. He paced back and forth nervously. “This case has baffled me from
the beginning and man that’s rare. Every time, in fact, we think we have
something sorted these pricks turn out to be a step ahead. How? We have a mole
in this department, I’d bet on it.”

“You’re not still talking about
1032, I hope.” Tierney unwrapped the linen and looked at the golden laurel
suspiciously.

“Yes, I am. In fact, I doubt
seriously our professor is involved at all, not really, but one thing is clear:
Information is trickling out of our department into someone else’s ears. But
it’s not just that. The information is being used against Downy too. It is a
set up, but it’s incredibly elaborate, it must be. Why? Why do they need a
frame up unless there’s something huge at stake? These have to be people of serious
financial means, Bob.” He stopped pacing, realizing he was basically talking to
himself. “That’s the answer,” he said pointing again to the laurel. “I haven’t
sent it to the lab yet, but I’m sure it’s real gold. And get this, Charlie
Patterson, Downy’s friend was into these relics big time, discovered all kinds
of this stuff. It all made its way back to the university collection, including
our murder weapon. All but this. I think the reason we can’t find the sword is
because it’s probably halfway around the world by now. There are entire
networks of people selling this shit for millions to private collectors.”

“So you think Downy is telling the
truth then, like it’s some kind of goddamn international conspiracy?”

“I think so. This Patterson, it
turns out, died under very shady circumstances. Fell off a boat, but no body
was ever recovered. We’re pulling his file off ICD right now. Downy claimed the
Samara had suspicions about his death as well. If he is still alive he might be
the one moving the shit, or at least telling people where to find it.”

“But why frame Downy, he was his
best friend?” Before he could respond Tierney answered himself. “The daughter.”

“Yeah, if he found out his buddy
was tapping his daughter, he might have decided to get some revenge in the
process.”

“So Patterson and this
international ring of thieves have Sergeant Tackett?”

“Yeah and that explains why we
can’t track his phone. If they took him, probably he’s been taken out of the
country already, maybe he’s even on the water still, somewhere nearby.”

“His last cell ping disappeared
near the coast,” Tierney said.

“How can we get to him if you’re
right?”

“I can’t say for sure how they’re
getting information, but I say we release Downy immediately. We can always
re-arrest him if I’m wrong.”

Tierney tapped his fingers on the
desk.

“If I’m right, they will want
that,” Sullivan said pointing, and we can use Downy to reach out to them; in
fact, if that is what I think it is, it may be the only way to convince them to
keep him alive.”

Tierney folded his hands and looked
down. “What do you think it is?”

“I think it’s a fake probably, but
I’m pretty sure for some reason they think it’s real. My hunch says Patterson
may have them convinced. He’s a specialist in the stuff, probably they trust him.”

“What makes it so valuable?”
Tierney said holding the golden laurel up in the light.

“Check the name on the back.”

Tierney looked closer at the
inscription and let out a sharp laugh.

“We have to make a big deal out of it
in the press and talk about how we got it wrong arresting Downy. Make it clear
he is a free man, our bad. We gotta make it seem like we’re really taking one
on the nose. Then we use that as the bait.”

“How
you
got it wrong, you mean?”

He smiled like a child caught
stealing and stopped talking abruptly. “Yes, Bob. How I got it wrong.”

“I told you never to call me, Bob.”

“I know, Bob. I’m trying.”

“Get out, I need to think about
this before I do anything else to completely destroy the credibility of this department.
Not putting out an APB on a missing cop will surely get me fired, if not tossed
in the can myself.”

Sullivan turned to walk away.

“Detective Sullivan, I knew the
first moment I saw your face I’d regret saying yes to you.”

“Thanks, Chief. Me too.”

Sullivan wanted desperately to speak to the professor, but
now he was with his wife in the visitor’s room talking at last. Instead he
walked into the interrogation dark room and looked up at the video monitor,
where he could see the two of them. Downy had his hand pressed to the glass, as
did his wife, both weeping quietly. He felt a stinging pang of guilt. He was
certain he had gotten it wrong with Downy, gotten everything wrong. It had
never felt right in fact. There was a quality in Downy which was impossibly at
odds with the kind of butchery the crime scene photos suggested. The girl had
been sliced both across the abdomen and the throat. She would have bled out in
only a matter of seconds, but the two cuts suggested someone double checking
their work, not the haphazard hand of someone driven by passion alone, not
someone slashing. It was, from Sullivan’s perspective, a very impersonal
murder; the cut marks were both precise in their length and depth according to
the autopsy, as if the hand of a surgeon had made them, a professional. The
medical examiner had even noted that if he didn’t know better he’d have sworn
the cuts had been made postmortem. It suggested also that the killer had bound
the victim in some way, since there was no way she wouldn’t have fought back in
the face of such a weapon. He held a light to one of the crime scene photos at
the water’s edge, confirming that the footprints all led out of the water, but
none into it.

A knock came at the door.

Rodriguez leaned in. “The file on
Patterson is up. Come and take a look.”

He dashed out of his chair and down
the hall plopping down in front of the computer terminal.

“It’s mostly like you said,” she
said scrolling down the screen. “But there is one new thing you should see. I
got a hit off Interpol on the name Charles Higgs Patterson to this man.” A
haggard face appeared on the screen. “Professor Jacob Tannehill. Had a huge
career in physics at MIT and then Interpol says he went off the grid for a
whole year as a missing person. Showed up again in England at a psychiatric
clinic, where he was treated for multiple mental illnesses, then released in
August of 2006. Tannehill got caught up in a sting later that year involving
stolen museum pieces--tried to sell some stuff on the black market apparently
to an undercover officer. He did no time though; the evidence went missing
before a prosecution could begin, but Interpol has him on a watch list still, a
priority level 1B.”

“Shit,” Sullivan said, “That’s our
link.”

“It gets better. Guess who posted
his bail?”

“Patterson.”

“Yep, in 2006, about a month before
his untimely death.”

He jumped in the air at the news.
Just as he did he could see Downy’s wife walking out of the meeting room toward
him. It was terrible timing. She was being led by a man who stared at him
scornfully. As they came closer the man spoke.

“You damnable fools have the wrong
man.”

“I’m sorry,” Sullivan said lowering
his head.

Naomi Downy stood before him
silently, but the man’s black piercing eyes stared through him, almost in menace.

“No, but you will be, that much I
can promise you.”

And then the two walked down the
hall together, the woman collapsing into the man’s shoulder; he looked like her
father perhaps. Sullivan wanted to follow them and explain, but he knew it was
a bad idea. He had to wait until he could be certain and saying anything before
Downy was released could cause even more problems.

“What’s our next move?”

“We gotta set this shit straight
and find Tackett.

“I’m gonna go tell Tierney what we
found.”

“Roger that.”

Sullivan’s pocket vibrated. He
reached and looked. It was a text from Tina. He’d almost forgotten about her at
the hotel all alone.

That was some wedding night. What did you
think of my trick?

He had thought very highly of the whole performance. He
considered for a moment and then typed.

Where did a nice girl like you learn to do a
thing like that?

P.S. How does it feel to be a married woman?

He hit send and stared out the window thinking of Tackett
and what he’d said:
Ten thirty-two was
cursed and was going to be the end of him.

Not if he could help it.

***

“We’ll release Downy first thing in
the morning,” Tierney said appearing suddenly over his shoulder.

“We play it your way for a while.
You must know though I’m out on a serious limb here and if you’re wrong on
this, you take the fall, all of it. We have to bring Downy in on this too if he
is going to help us, but it can’t be right away. I want him behaving
naturally.”

“Ok, I’ll go get him first thing in
the morning, then we release him with a tail.”

“Do you think he will go along?
It’s a helluva risk if he says no.”

“The guy has every right to tell us
to go fuck ourselves, me in particular. We need to make it clear to him that
that he will be helping track down the girl’s killer. If my instincts are right
he won’t pass on the chance, no matter what he thinks of us.”

“What about this agent in London,
Clellon Holmes? You spoke to him too, right?”

“I have no idea if he’s involved at
this point. We’ll have to wait to see which fish are biting after we dangle the
bait. He’s got serious money this guy, plus the extradition; it could get
messy, real messy.”

Tierney stared off as if he saw
something far away out the window, crossing his arms. It was the first time
Sullivan had ever seen him look concerned about anything.

“Chief?”

Tierney looked up at him with a
look of surprise. “Yeah?”

“We’re gonna get Tackett back, ok?”

“Yeah, I sure as hell hope we can.
He’s a good cop and a good man. I owe him that and much more. Double down on security
for the professor tonight. Somebody’s still got eyes and ears on us. I don’t
want any more disappearances.”

“What do we say on Tackett?”

“He’s on vacation as far as the
world is concerned. I don’t know how long I can keep it under wraps though. We
have to work fast on this, ok? The longer they have him the more likely they
are to just hit the panic button and--”

He nodded his head in agreement. “I
know.”

“I’m bringing in Homeland Security.
This is getting too big for us. I need some help if we’re going after people
overseas and we have to figure out where these goddamn leaks are coming from.”

“Ok,” he said.

“Keep me posted on anything that
develops and watch yourself out there.”

“Will do.”

Sullivan stared at the computer
screen at the picture of Professor Jacob Tannehill. A mad scientist if he’d
ever seen one. How did he figure into all of this? Why would Patterson, a
respected academic, even risk such an association unless he needed him for some
reason, some illegal reason?

“Can you take me to get my car,
it’s still at Woody’s,” he said looking across to Rodriguez.

“It’s down in impound. Saw it on my
way up, the piece of shit with no door, right?”
“Right.”

Rodriguez shook her head silently.

Chapter IX

The man could smell the food even before he was awake and
was already fantasizing about its taste in his mouth. He could see steam rising
from the plate, still warm. As he rose he could also see a note had been placed
by the plate, which read:

Eat very slowly, only half, or you will lose
it.

And so he did. His hands shook and
his mouth salivated at every taste; he felt he might tear the bone right out of
the meat if he wasn’t careful to control himself. He ate rapaciously. First the
meat, then a sweetbread, which he then gorged down with the wine, its
bittersweet taste making him choke, spilling down the sides of his mouth. Then,
he simply stopped, feeling in his gut the weight of the food. He could feel
great waves of pleasure coursing through his body. He realized he’d eaten
thousands of times without ever tasting the full flavor of food.

He panted lightly in the dim light,
looking around him again at the strange surroundings. It seemed as if someone
was stacking coins in the middle of the room, each one falling into a giant
pile, clinking. But no one was there. The coins seemed to appear and fall out
of thin air. Statues sat piled in another corner. They were of faces he had
never seen; of gods or goddesses he did not recognize. He was in some foreign
land then. But his captor had said he was ‘close to home,’ hadn’t he? He was a
deceptive talker though and clearly not to be trusted. The reasons for his
lying were of course what really mattered. Discovering a lie, but not trying to
understand why it was told in the first place was a common mistake; it was not
an error he was prone to. He thought of Gnaeus, of the war. It had been won in
his head first, then on the battlefield. He had been heavily outnumbered,
overwhelmingly in fact, had the worst position, fighting uphill; and yet still
it was his enemy’s head that had been delivered to him in a basket. You could
see the lack of intelligence in Gnaeus’ eyes even then, the milky film of death
over them, completely empty. A dumb, dead bear had been his first thought upon
seeing him, but he had wept nevertheless and it had given him no pleasure. He
remembered the better times when the two had laughed, their gentle ribbing, the
girls, the incredible wealth they had built together. It seemed the fun would
never end. Gnaeus was always comfortable when he felt flattered and admired.
But any challenge to his sense of personal superiority made him a tyrant, a
belligerent fool. He was dead and gone now the dumb, dead bear, yet still
somehow he loved him. Thinking about the past couldn’t help him now though and
getting sentimental was pointless.

He could only wait now in any case, as the iron bars of his
cell showed no signs of giving way. Then a voice fractured the quiet.

“You there?”

“Yes, I am,” he replied.

“We in a well. The coins, a wishing
well, no use yelling. No one comes.”

“You speak our tongue only a
little, where are you from?”

There was a long silence, but the
voice had clearly come from the cell next to his. It was a soft whisper,
clearly that of a boy or maybe a young woman and a foreigner by the sound of
the broken phrases.

“How you get here, remember? How
they get you?”

“I was taken, abducted from my
home. It was a trap,” he whispered. “They killed my nephew I think.”

 
“You speak dead languages with the man,
why?”

“What do you mean dead?”

There was a long pause and the
voice came back, seeming to ignore his question.

“We’re not alone…others. Two, maybe
more.”

“How long have you been here?”

“A week, I don’t know. They’re
poisoning us. It’s hard to remember. The others here longer, but they don’t
remember. They barely speak.”

“What’s your name?”

“It’s S— “

A sudden clank broke their
conversation. Boot steps could be heard from above them and both waited in
nervous anticipation. A figure suddenly appeared at the bottom of the stairs
like something out of a nightmare. He wore a black hood and dark clothing.

“You,” the voice bellowed, “your
time is up.”

The man went to the cell next to
his and opened the door. He could hear a struggle taking place and the voice of
whoever was in the cell being muted, strangled.

The man in the hood slung open the cell door, handling his
prisoner like a rag doll, dragging the tiny figure away up the stairs; They
kicked back uselessly against him. He tried desperately to see who it was, but
the low light only gave only a glimpse of a tiny shadow. He thought it was a
young boy or woman, but couldn’t be sure. He heard the door at the top of the
stairs slam shut and then the silence came again. It was maddening to be in the
dark. He could hear a whisper again, but this time further away. It was a
foreign tongue that he could not recognize, a garble.

He could make out only one word,
badly pronounced but repeated over and over: “Flamen, Flamen. Priest.”