The Blood of Patriots (9 page)

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Authors: William W. Johnstone

BOOK: The Blood of Patriots
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C
HAPTER
T
HIRTEEN
Immediately after Ward drove off, Earl Dickson went to a back room where the safe deposit boxes were kept. He moved in an unhurried fashion, forcing himself to smile at the tellers as he went behind the counter, affecting composure he did not feel. He said something to no one in particular about that being the “crazy cop from New York” as he entered the room and shut the door, pushed the “in use” button, and with shaking fingers speed-dialed Aseel Gahrah on his cell phone.
The smooth, familiar voice answered at once. “Good morning, Mr. Dickson.”
“Scott Randolph's farm!” Dickson said through his teeth. “Did you do that?”
There was a long, unsettling silence. “Why don't you call me when you're feeling better?”
“We need to talk about this
now
!” Dickson insisted. “I heard about it on the radio. I had a sick feeling in my gut but I didn't want to believe you had anything to do with it.”
“Do you know this man who came to see you?”
“No, not really.”
“Who is he?”
“John Ward,” Dickson said. “He's the New York cop who was in the news for harassing a street vendor.”
“So Hamza thought when he observed him,” Gahrah said. “Another Muslim-hating, unemployed American. Why is he here?”
“He came to visit his daughter.”
“Why did he see you?”
“He said he wanted to invest in MRI,” Dickson said. “When he brought up pigs I told him to leave.”
“Did he really want to invest with us?”
“I don't know.”
“I'm told he was at the Randolph place last night. Did you ask if
he
did it?”
Dickson frowned. “How do you know he was there?”
Gahrah did not reply. The banker leaned back hard against a row of boxes. Despite the air conditioning he was perspiring.
“Listen, Aseel,” Dickson went on. “This whole thing was supposed to be a peaceful process, everything off the radar.”
“Nothing has changed. There is one troublemaker—”
“
Plus
what happened on the Randolph farm,” Dickson said. “Never mind the pigs—they assaulted someone, put him in the hospital!”
“That need not concern you,” Gahrah said.
“It need not but it does,” Dickson snapped. “Look I don't know why Ward is snooping around but I don't like it.”
“Don't worry about it,” Gahrah said. “Your job is to continue making acquisitions and relocating funds.”
“‘Relocating funds,'” Dickson laughed humorously. “My God, you make it sound clean.”
“If the purpose is pure the methods do not matter,” Gahrah said.
Dickson was still leaning against the boxes. He shut his eyes. He wished he could undo all of this, had never gotten involved with these people. He told himself he didn't have a choice. It was either that or the bank went under, and with it, himself. His family. His self-respect. He would have been just another of the unemployed locals—Earl Dickson, the man who pulled himself up from poor Auraria on the South Platte, went from a teller in Denver to a bank founder by the time he was thirty-four. Not a prodigious achievement, but he felt darn good about it until the economic collapse in 2008. And with that went his professional and personal wealth. The bank was crippled with toxic loans and tight money. Government loans were slow in coming and he refused to go back to poverty.
That was when the MRI got in touch with him. They had been looking for a stand-alone bank, one without a diverse board of directors. He was it, and he grasped at the lifeline. He had survived, just barely, but then the big money had not even started coming in yet—the major construction funds for more faith-based buildings, the accounts for new residents, the expanding acquisitions. There wasn't enough money to send Angie to school but at least the Muslims gave her a job for the semester she would be missing.
A job
. His gut knotted again.
An unwitting accomplice
, he later learned. And now a possible hostage.
Dickson tried to stand but couldn't. The fact that Angie was involved made him sick.
“I suggest you put water on your face,” Gahrah said. “Perhaps take a drive to clear your head and then go back to work. Nothing has changed, nothing is different. Hamza will take care of Mr. Ward. He will not bother you again.”
“More violence,” Dickson said.
“Only if it is necessary,” Gahrah said. “We did not ask him to become involved at the Randolph farm or your bank. Whatever happens he has brought it on himself. I believe he left you a contact number?”
Hamza had good eyes. “It's on my desk,” Dickson told him.
“Excellent. Get it for me. It is my hope that no violence will be required. I am sure this unemployed police detective will be reasonable. Perhaps we will discover that all he is after is a bridge loan.”
“I don't think so,” Dickson said.
“As I said, you needn't worry about it,” Gahrah told him.
The connection went dead. Dickson folded away the phone, pushed back his hair, and mopped his face with his handkerchief.
Prioritize
, he told himself. He had to put his family first. Gahrah was right about one thing: no one asked Ward to get involved. He brought this on himself.
The banker went back to his desk, once again smiling benignly at his employees, once again the man he wanted others to think he was.
C
HAPTER
F
OURTEEN
Ward was just entering his room at the inn when his phone rang.
“That didn't take long,” he muttered.
The Muslims had shown that they weren't afraid to use violence. But they wouldn't want to use too much of it. The more clues that were out there the less likely they were to keep getting away with it. The more indignation that was out there, the less Chief Brennan would be able to work on this quietly. So it did not surprise Ward that the caller ID on his cell phone was from the Al Huda Center.
“This is John Ward,” he answered.
“Mr. Ward, my name is Aseel Gahrah. I am the director of the Al Huda Center. I believe you know of it?”
“Couldn't miss it as I drove into town.”
“It
is
a good location,” the man replied. “I understand you are interested in an investment opportunity.”
“Always.”
“Would it be convenient for you to stop by this morning?”
“I can be there in about an hour,” Ward said.
“Very well,” the caller said. “I will see you at eleven.”
The caller hung up. It was exactly what Ward had expected. They were going to try to bribe him.
He freshened up and checked his other phone messages. There was one from the Internal Affairs attorney who wanted to have a chat with him about “the incident” and another from Joel Duryea, one of the younger men in his unit. Ward had no interest in talking to the lawyer but he called Duryea back.
“Good to hear from you,” Ward said. “How goes it?”
“Same old. How are you, boss?”
“Not as bad as I expected,” Ward told him. “Though maybe I'm fooling myself and it hasn't really hit me yet.”
“Well, we're hoping it won't,” Duryea said. “We've put up flyers in the park and also at the Hilton and the Ritz Carlton asking for anyone who might have been taking pictures down there to give us a shout. The guys pitched in for reward money.”
That caught Ward by surprise. It was a few seconds before he could breathe, let alone speak. “Jeez, Joel.”
“Don't say it,” the kid replied. “We want you back and this is the best shot we've got.”
“But tourists don't usually come back for a second day down there.”
“True, but the media picked up on it. People who
were
in the park are hearing about it and calling. We're just hoping we get something we can use to show that the judge and the DA that you didn't abuse the SOB.”
“You guys are amazing,” he said. The lump was still lodged squarely in his throat.
They chatted briefly about the other men and then Duryea had to go. Ward was glad. The call made him miss the badge and the fellowship so bad it hurt.
Tears pressed forcefully behind Ward's eyes as he drove up to Ridge Road. He knew the feeling of brotherhood would take a hammering when he talked to Joanne. But it would never truly be gone. Cops, soldiers, firefighters all put the strength of teamwork in a special place to draw on when there was no one else around to get your back.
Joanne answered the door, surprised to see her former husband.
“Is everything okay? Megan—?”
“She's fine, fine,” Ward assured her. “I just need to talk to you.”
“About?”
“Randolph,” he lied.
Joanne took him out back where Hunter sat on the patio with his easel and paints. Joanne's laptop was on a metal table. She handled the orders for their art prints. They sat in metal chairs with foamy cushions. As they sat, leaves crackled where they had dropped from the surrounding trees.
“Do you mind if Hunter is here?” she asked belatedly.
Ward shrugged. “This affects him too.”
“I thought you said it's about Randolph.”
“Yes, that whole thing,” Ward admitted.
Until now Joanne had merely been guarded. Now she was concerned bordering on ready-to-blow. “What is it, John? What's going on?”
“I think I found the guys who attacked him,” Ward told her. “I've discussed this with the police chief. She can't approach them. I can.”
Joanne slapped her knee and shot to her feet. “I told you he'd do that. I
told
you!”
“Jo, I can't just let this sit—”
“
Don't talk to me!
” she shouted. Hunter had put down his brush and come over to hold her. She squirmed away and yelled to no one in particular, “He can't let this sit. Of course not! He can't let
anything
sit, except me and our daughter night after night.” Then her eyes found him like lasers. “
Goddamn you
, John!”
Hunter said, “John, I think you'd better leave.”
“Yeah.” Ward rose.
“You're endangering your daughter's life!” she screamed. “Just how reckless and irresponsible and
stupid
can you be?”
“I seem to have surpassed myself the past few days—”
She slapped him, hard. He knew he deserved it.
“Get out!” she yelled at John. She was sobbing now. “Get the hell out of my house!”
“I'll go, but we need to make sure Megan isn't left alone for the next few days.”
“
This isn't happening
!” she cried.
“We can do that,” Hunter replied, struggling to keep her calm with his voice, his hands open ready to grab her if she became violent. Ward was guessing he had never seen Joanne this out-of-control.
“You selfish bastard!” Joanne snarled at Ward. “
Christ
, what is
wrong
with you?”
“I don't think anything will happen to her,” Ward went on, addressing Hunter for the first time. The painter was a bit of a buttercup but at least his ears were still functioning. “I just want to take some precautions.”
Hunter nodded. “Will she be all right at school?”
Ward nodded.
“All right,” Hunter said. “I'll pick her up afterwards, stay with her at soccer. But you say you don't think she's really in danger?”
“I'm on my way to talk to these clowns now, make sure they stay focused on me.” He looked at Joanne. “Nothing's going to happen to Megan. This will all be over soon.”
“Go and don't ever come back!” Joanne said like a lioness flashing teeth. “I swear, I'll get a court order to stop you from ever seeing Megan again.
You put her in danger!
What kind of a father are you?”
Ward left without looking back. He realized that a lot of what he just saw and heard from Joanne had been suppressed for years. He went to the car and as he drove away his mind couldn't help finishing the conversation.
“I'm the kind of father who cares about his daughter's community—”
“More than you care about her—?”
“Caring about her neighbor
is
caring about her. That was how it was in our apartment building when I was growing up. Families keeping an eye on other families.”
“Those days are gone. You can't bring them back—”
“I have to try! Without the America my parents left me, what kind of future will Megan have?”
“She'll be alive!”
Living isn't the same as being alive,
Ward thought. For him, the last few days were evidence of that.
As he headed toward the Al Huda Center, Ward tried to forget the philosophy and concentrate on tactics.
For good or bad he was in this now, up to his neck.
And he was about to go deeper.

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