Shattered Trust (18 page)

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Authors: Leslie Esdaile Banks

BOOK: Shattered Trust
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Laura looked at the agents and cops that had huddled into the van. “Alan is as slick as dishwater,” she warned. “He won't have made a call. His father didn't even go collect his belongings from storage. It was all a ruse to make it seem like they were estranged. But I'll bet someone on the inside of the pen where either Junior or Sutherland were serving time will have made a call to Moyer. Cell phone records, office calls, his house. Or, it may have come in third party, like through Polanski, Devereaux, or Townsend as couriers.” She stopped and looked at all the officers around her hard, unconcerned with modesty as they lifted her blouse, dug into her bra, manhandled the most private parts of her flesh, trying to quickly extract the listening devices from her body. “Or, Elizabeth Haines!”
Everyone in the tight confines of the van stopped moving for a second.
Captain Bennett rubbed his palms down his face. “Do we need to expand the warrants, or can we just snag her shit under the new Patriot Act?” He looked at the federal agents in the van.
“Go Patriot Act,” the lead agent said. “There was a bombing, deaths, and shootings in The District near the White House, plus international bullshit. We use that these days to do whatever we have to without the DAs, judges, and paperwork hassles. Fuck all that personal civil rights crap. Do it.”
Laura remained very still and just stared at them all.
 
 
“I know,” she said quietly to James as they drove. She pressed her finger to her lips, looked around the vehicle, and reached in the glove compartment for a piece of paper and a pen. She scribbled furiously and showed him her note when he stopped for a light, careful to keep it low.
From now on, we're on the fed's radar.
James nodded, took the pen and jotted a quick response.
Since when do local Philly cops share jurisdiction with the feds? They're not colleagues. Are competitors.
She arched an eyebrow, nodded to let him know that hadn't escaped her, and quickly took the pen.
Since Homeland Security?
James shook his head no and wrote a fast response.
Not hardly. SSDD.
“Same shit, different day,” she whispered.
“Yup.”
She shrugged, giving him a wide-eyed expression to ask,
what gives ?
He shrugged. He didn't know any more than she did, but he felt a setup. True, a state senator had been shot. Two men killed in prison that were all linked to business deals ... Senator Scott's son was the first to bite the dust. Then Sutherland got waxed—but that was courtesy of Scapolini. Still, something didn't completely fit. They'd killed their own hit man, Vladimir Chertoff. Lost another one in Grand Cayman. Sent one to track them down in Jamaica. Then iced their own from Micholi—Polanski, Devereaux, and spouse, and had Townsend on the run. Excessive. Multiple, local municipalities were involved ... Philly, D.C., Baltimore. The State Department was in it, courtesy of Megan Montgomery, and her cousin, Sean. The feds were in it. Jamaican and Cayman authorities were in it. Russians, and Italians by proxy, were in it.
The question remained ... what the hell was big enough to have stirred the pot this seriously? The only person who went back in history far enough, and who might be able to provide answers to that, was unreachable and was currently bargaining his way home out of Jamaica—Akhan.
Laura and James looked at each other at the same time.
“Your place or mine?” she said with a low chuckle for the sake of the probable bug that had been embedded in her Jag.
He motioned for the paper and pen at the next light along the Ben Franklin Parkway. “Yours,” he said aloud, but quickly scribbled the alternate response.
Neither. Yours or mine is a death trap
.
Where?
—she asked with her eyes.
He wrote the reply swiftly and gunned the engine at the light.
Akhan's, then Liz's
.
Laura kissed his cheek and calmly began making note paper confetti in her lap.
Chapter 18
T
hey knew they were being followed, but they didn't care. The places they were going, a tail would stick out like a sore thumb. The neighborhood would be their shield. Checking on their uncle's abandoned property was their excuse. But the authorities knew that it was a delicate, fragile dance, if they were hunting them—and at the moment, no one was above suspicion. The only reason they believed that they weren't dead, yet, was because all the badges needed them to lead them to somewhere or something significant. They just wished they knew what it was.
Simpatico in thought, James bypassed her street turn off the Parkway and took the scenic route up Kelly Drive, heading for Hunting Park. Each time they spoke, they gave each other careful eye signals and glimpsed in the rearview for their unmarked escort. Spring had created a lush green canopy of foliage. University sculling crews were out on the water, making their drive seem like the most normal thing in the world as they passed Boat House Row. She motioned to her clothes and James nodded, both keenly aware that a chip could have been inserted in the fabric hem or sleeve of anything the feds extracted from their homes for them to wear.
“I just want to check on my uncle's house, since we're here in Philly,” Laura said, purposefully sighing. “He'd have a conniption if crack addicts or thieves razed his place ... that's all that old man has in the world.”
“I figured as much, honey,” James said, giving her a purposeful glance. “My nerves are shot after you did that walk-through up at Moyer's. No sense in going directly to your place to just sit and wait around for some hit man to come knocking.”
She mouthed the word
honey
, and then stuck out her tongue with a smile. He shrugged and smiled. Yeah, he never called her that. OK, then, that would be the code word for when they were kicking bullshit.
“Shot nerves?” she scoffed. “Oh,
sweetheart
, I could use a Valium right now.”
He mouthed the words
sweetheart
and
Valium
and then rolled his eyes with a sly smile and then winked. She never did drugs, nor called him sweetheart. Theirs was an
oh, baby
type relationship. OK, he got it.
“Think maybe our boys in blue might open the door so you can do a walk-through?” James looked at her with a careful glance.
“Maybe we can ask them when we stop?” she said, aware that he'd rather have a bomb squad expert open the door than have to rely on stray dogs and a cheese-steak to be sure that place wasn't rigged.
“Yeah, when we pull over, I'll see if they can arrange it ... but, uh, you sure you wanna go into your uncle's joint in that suit? I'd hate to have you get your good designer rags all filthy. Who knows what condition the property is in at the moment?”
“That's why I love you, sweetheart. You're always thinking and so considerate. Maybe I can just pop into a thrift store on North Broad before we go in?” She wrinkled her nose for theatrical effect to make him smile and made her voice sound as haughty as she could. “I love my uncle dearly, but he does live in a really old home in a borderline neighborhood. I'm sure if the place has been a crime scene, and doors and such left open for the authorities to walk in and out until it was sealed, there'll be vermin and all sorts of insects infesting the place by now.”
“Baby ... honey,” James said, correcting himself. “I'll get some throwaway clothes, too, then. This way, I can do the really nasty stuff, and you just point to anything you want shifted or moved. All right?”
“Thank you, sweetheart,” she murmured, and then nestled back into her seat for the balance of the ride.
 
 
The agents within the car looked at each other and radioed to their command post.
“Houston, we've got a problem. They're going into the house in North Central.”
“That's where we want them to go.”
“Yeah, but the lady is squeamish about the environment, and is gonna ditch her clothes while she's in there.”
Silence crackled on the line for a moment. “What about Carter?”
“She's got him in honey-do melt down. He's gonna ditch his, too, so she can tell him what to move and clean up for her.”
More silence entered the line. “All right. Then just try to keep a visual on them when they enter the house. Go in, sweep it for them by the numbers, then fall back so they don't feel crowded, get nervous, and clam up. Right now, they think we're solely on their side.”
 
 
James pulled the Jaguar up to a large white building on North Broad Street just below Lehigh Avenue that looked like it had once belonged to a storefront church turned thrift shop, and got out of the vehicle. He glanced at Laura's purse.
“I think you should just tuck some cash in your pocket, and put that expensive designer bag in the trunk, honey.”
“Good idea, sweetheart,” she said, noting that it, too, could have been planted with a bug.
They worked quickly in unison, him opening the trunk and body-shielding her efforts from pedestrians as she got cash and then slammed the trunk shut. On a mission, they both quickly entered the large shop that was crammed with a combination of dilapidated furniture, worn velvet wall art depicting voluptuous black goddesses and tigers, half-working lamps, partial sets of china, knickknacks, plastic bins of shoes that ranged from animal print stilettos to sneakers, racks of clothing in odd sizes, and bargains, if one had all day to hunt and peck through the disarray.
“Good morning,” a cheerful old man said with a smile as they entered the shop.
His merry brown eyes practically twinkled at the prospect of customers so early in the day, and he scratched the gray stubble on his narrow chin, clearly trying to figure out what had brought the likes of Laura and James to his establishment. He hoisted his gray cotton work pants up over his potbelly and pea green sweater, and then looped his thumbs under his suspenders. “What can I do you fer?”
“We have to clean up my uncle's house,” Laura said with a warm smile, engaging the shopkeeper, “and we need some work clothes.”
“You came to the right place, purty lady,” he said, giving James a wink of appreciation. “We gots plenty of clothes—sweats, jeans, lots mo' bargains in the bin.” Not waiting for them to respond, he hollered toward the back of the store. “Gots some VIPs in da house, Red. Bring dese people the good stuff from da back!”
“Got you, Pops!” a young man in his mid-twenties called out, and then wheeled a rack out from a storeroom. He gave Laura and James a curious look through light hazel eyes while scratching his wild profusion of reddish brown Afro. Freckles dotted his almond complexion, and he leaned his gaunt, muscular frame against the wall, studying them while chewing on a toothpick, as though watching a show.
“We save this for folks who seem like they want something nice and kin pay.”
Laura swallowed away a smile as James nodded with a grin.
“Cool,” James said, glancing at the rack of sequined and leather trimmed designer sweatsuits that looked five sizes too large for Laura. “How about just a pair of plain gray sweats and flats for my lady—since she'll be tying her head up in a rag and dropping Lysol everywhere, and some work pants already splattered with paint for me with a T-shirt, and a pair of work boots, brother?”
“Aw, c'mon, now,” the older man protested. “She's too purty to be ...” His voice trailed off as James raised an eyebrow, leaned on the counter, and produced a fifty-dollar bill. “But since you insist, who am I to judge how you dress yo' woman?”
The younger man's eyes became wide as James produced a twenty and held it between two fingers.
“Can she change in the back, and can you put her clean clothes in a plastic bag for me?” James smiled as the older man discreetly took the bills from James.
“Can a duck quack?” he said, glancing around and noticing the sedan that had pulled up behind their car through the window.
“Yep,” James said coolly, accepting an armload of clothes from the younger man and tipping him well. “We'll be out of the storeroom in a minute.”
“Aw'ight. Y'all take your time. I gots jackets and whatnot, too. Just holler.”
James and Laura exchanged quick glances as they quickly went to the back of the store, slipped into the storeroom and changed silently. When she'd stripped down to her underwear, he signaled her to lose that, too. She nodded; a bra was a great place to hide a mic. She cringed at the thought of going bare back in a pair of sweats that had come from God knew who, but she dealt with it. He seemed to take the challenge in stride, ripping off his boxers and calmly tucking himself into a pair of previously worn work pants. She squinted. Men definitely had different sensibilities.
Hastily folding their clothes up into a neat pile, they exited the storeroom and went to the front desk. Both the older and younger clerks gave her unfettered breasts casual glances of appreciation, but kept their gazes sufficiently lowered out of silent respect for James.
“Well, that was fast,” the older man said. “Y'all need a receipt?”
“No, just a bag,” James said, and then fished in his pocket for more cash. He waited until their clothes were shoved into a bag and it was dropped on the floor. Then he picked up the pen on the counter and wrote a quick message on the edge of the C-note he held, then slid it across the table to the store owner. The message was simple:
Got a phone in the back?
Laura kept her eyes on the man at the register and pressed a finger to her lips. He nodded.
“The little lady ain't happy with the gray sweats, is she?” he said, glancing down at the note. “Why don't she go in the back and see if there's something on the wall she might wanna use?”
James nodded. “Appreciate it. Laura, honey, go on back there and see if there's something you can work with. OK, honey?”
“Sure, sweetheart.” Laura paced to the back of the store, prayed that one of the cell phones with her family was charged or hadn't lost power. She also hedged a bet; Jamaica's U.S. Embassy wouldn't be as technologically adept as one in the states. The building would be more open, cell-phone reception more possible. Security not as intense. If she could get a call in to Akhan, she had critical questions that needed answers.
Dialing quickly from the store's wall-mounted phone, Laura drummed her fingers against the plaster. Steve's phone immediately rang over to voice mail. That meant a couple of things, none of which made her relax. Either his battery was dead, reception where they were was dead, or they were. Growing frustrated, she tried Najira's phone. Same thing. Instant voice mail rollover. Akhan and Brother B didn't have units. “C'mon, Jamal.” She tried her cousin next, and hoped that for all the whiz bang gadgetry he had on his phone, but with no one to really talk to, he'd be charged and able to receive. On the second ring, she hit pay dirt.
“Who dis?”
“Jamal—don't say my name, answer me in one word answers—it's Laura.”
“Oh shit.”
“That's two words, but I'll let it slide. You all okay?”
“Yeah.”
“Where are you?”
“The Embassy.”
“Is everyone all right?”
“Yeah.”
“Can you talk?”
“No.”
“Are you under arrest?”
“No. We cool. They fed us good, gave us blankets and a place to lie down. It was late when we got here and it normally would have been closed. But every American that was downtown is here,” Jamal said in a low voice, breaking their code of offering only a few words. “There was a blast, everybody is trying to roll up outta here, worried it might be some—”
“I know, I know, don't use that word on the phone,” she warned, cutting him off, but relieved that everyone was accounted for. “Put your father on the phone.”
She heard the phone rustle like it was being passed. Their fake ID was holding, they might be able to get out of Jamaica without incident.
“Uncle?”
“Young queen sister.”
Laura closed her eyes and leaned against the wall. “We're OK, you're OK. Jesus.”
“The universe is beneficent.”
“I'm on my way to your house, because I know I'm missing something ... care to elaborate?” She
knew
there was something all these badges and shields were looking for, and if there was ever a time for her uncle to be forthcoming, now was it. Whatever it was, she didn't have it, nor did James.
“As I said, the universe is beneficent, but also efficient,” Akhan replied in a maddening riddle. “X always marks the spot.” He paused to allow the riddle to sink in. That had always been their way, and she now totally understood why he didn't trust phones, having been the very recent recipient of eavesdropping technology on her body.

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