The Dolomite Solution (5 page)

It was a few minutes after nine on a Thursday morning, and the bank was just opening. He stepped inside, hesitated for a moment, shifting his eyes about the room and finally spotting a camera along a white marble shelf, and then proceeded into the phone booth, closing the door behind him.

He sat for a minute wondering if he should call Toni. He had left a message on her home phone and at her office in Rome prior to leaving the states, but as far as he knew she had not gotten back with him. She was working out of the office for a while, they had said. Which meant she was probably undercover somewhere on her own. He punched in a long sequence of numbers. He had set up a phone account with a bogus address, so he reversed the charges to that number.

After a few rings a man picked up. “Cambio Computers. How may I help you?” he said in perfect Italian.

So that's what they were calling themselves this week. “May I speak with Toni please?”

“I'm sorry,” the man said, switching to English. “We don't have a Toni working here. Are you sure you have the correct number?”

“Cut the bullshit, pal. I know she works there because I used to work with her.”

There was silence on the other end.

Jake knew the call was being recorded, so he decided to take the direct route. “Listen. This is Jake Adams. I'm a friend of Toni's. I must talk with her immediately. It's important.”

“You're Jake Adams?” the man asked incredulously.

“That's right.”

“How do I know this?”

“Because I'm telling you, asshole.”

Slight laugh on the other end. “I mean...tell me something only you would know.”

“Listen, I don't have...” Jake noticed an older woman hanging around the door checking her purse for change. Then she went into the phone booth next to his. Jake lowered his voice. “I don't have time for this.” He hesitated. This was one of those times he wished he could reach through the phone lines like a cartoon character and choke the guy. He calmed himself for the sake of his throbbing head. “All right. A few years back I worked with Toni and the Naval Investigative Service. We had a little run-in with some Hungarians in her apartment building, where we had to cancel their visas forever. Is that specific enough for you? Or would you like names on this unsecured line?”

“No, no. I'm sorry. I just—”

“Forget it. Just tell me where I can find Toni.”

The man hesitated. “She's working out of town.”

“Where?”

“I can't say. It's in the Alps. I could leave her a message from you.”

“What's her beeper number?”

“She doesn't have one,” the man said, as if Jake should know that. “She goes through a message service in Rome. Calls in from time to time.” He gave Jake her service number.

Jake thanked the guy and hung up. He checked the bank lobby, which had started to fill up with customers now, and then punched in Toni's number and waited.

After a few rings a computer voice in Italian came on asking if he wanted to leave a message for Toni. He left her a short, yet urgent response and then hung up. Next he tapped in a number to Ramstein Air Base, Germany. He still had a few Air Force contacts.

“USAFE Personnel. This is Sergeant Lyons. How may I help you?”

It had been a long time since he heard that voice. “Well, Sergeant Lyons. I'd like to know if you ever plan on leaving Germany?”

“Captain Adams? Is that you?”

“I'm not a captain anymore, you know.”

“I think I could make a few calls to the Pentagon and get your butt recalled to active duty,” she said laughing.

When Jake had first met Deshia Lyons, she was a young, beautiful black woman from Detroit, straight out of boot camp and sent to Germany, where she knew nobody. She had worked in the tiny personnel office in his tactical intelligence squadron. She had hated Germany and couldn't wait to leave. After a year she had said she never wanted to live anywhere else.

“I'm already in Europe,” Jake said.

“I see that. What you doing in Austria?”

“Impressive. They gave you caller I.D. You must be coming up in the world.”

“That's right. So what you need?”

“Who says I need anything?”

“You didn't just call me because I'm good looking and you want to ask me out on a date. You know it wouldn't be fraternizing now.”

“If I get to Germany I'll definitely hit you up on that. But you are right. I need something.”

“You trying to get me in trouble?”

“Never. I just need some information on former Captain Allen Murdock.”

“Murdock?” she screeched. “Now he's the one I wish would have just taken the money and run his white ass right back to the States. But no, he has to stay in Germany and make my life a living hell. If his money doesn't come right on the same day each year, he calls me up and bitches at me. I told the guy a hundred times I don't have shit to do with his money. But if he wanted to talk about his military status, then we could shoot the breeze. But he doesn't want to listen for shit. Still thinks he's a damn captain and I'm some boot two striper. I ought to call his ass back to duty.”

Jake sighed. “I'm afraid that would be difficult, Deshia. He's dead.”

“What? I just talked with him last week.”

“He was shot in Innsbruck last night.”

“Wow. I'm sorry. Here I go on and on and you two were probably best friends. I'm sorry.”

“No, we weren't friends. We were associates in the Air Force. Nothing more. But what I need to know is who he worked for and his address, and why he was in Austria.”

“No problem. I'll pull him up on the computer.”

Jake could hear her clicking away on the keyboard, so he glanced back to the lobby. Even more people were coming and going now.

“Here it is,” she said. “Lives at 22 Feldbergstrasse in Frankfurt.”

“That's by the Palmengarten, right.”

“I don't know. I've only been to Frankfurt twice, and that was the airport. I don't like the town.”

“Who did he work for?” Jake asked.

“Let's see. A Richten Pharmaceudicals. He's a computer systems analyst at the European Headquarters in Mainz, but it says here the company is American with its main office in Providence. Wasn't Murdock into computers with our squadron?”

Jake thought for a moment. “Yeah, he was.” More or less. He eventually worked some human intel as well. He was about to cut their talk short when he thought of something. “You wouldn't happen to have Murdock's social handy?”

“You know I'm not supposed to give that out.”

“He's dead,” Jake reminded her. “His social security number died with him.”

She thought for a moment. “You got a point there.” She gave him the number and he quickly memorized it, running it over and over in his head.

“Thanks for your help, Deshia.”

“No problem,” she said. “Now you better look me up when you come to Germany.”

“I promise.”

“Oh. I almost forgot. You knew Murdock married a German national, right?”

“Yeah. Are they still married?”

“Think so. Her name is Ute. In case you want to talk with her.” She gave him Murdock's telephone number in Frankfurt, as well as her own home phone in Kaiserslatern. “You need a place to stay, you let me know.”

“Thanks. I will.” He hung up and sat there for a moment staring into the dark corner of the booth. What in the hell was Murdock up to in Austria? Or was he simply in the wrong place at the wrong time? Jake didn't think so. He believed in coincidences, but not those with such precarious circumstances. He and Murdock had served together in the same squadron in Germany. Made captain at the same time. Gotten out of the Air Force around the same time. Something wasn't right here, and Jake knew it. He needed to go back to the alley.

He went out and drove off.

By the time Jake parked his old Beemer along the Inn River a few blocks from the famous Golden Roof, the snow that had fallen the night before was working its way into a slushy mess. In a few hours the snow would be just a few puddles, which is one reason Jake liked Innsbruck. The snow stayed in the surrounding mountains where it belonged.

He walked down a narrow lane, along worn cobblestone, with the buildings on both sides six stories high, and the morning light not even close to peeking down through.

The bells from a church nearby clanged ten times, and Jake was thankful he was starting to feel better. His head still hurt from the blow, but at least he had managed to find a few aspirin in his glove box, which he sucked on now. His head should have had stitches. Instead, he guessed someone at the funeral parlor had simply slapped a butterfly bandage on his scalp. Jake wore a baseball hat backwards to cover his thick, dark hair.

Trying to get his bearings in the maze of streets and alleys, he finally settled on an extremely narrow passage that seemed to curve up ahead. He walked forward cautiously, as if he were entering sacred ground. There's always a strange curiosity with a location that someone is murdered. It's as if the person's soul is watching over the place waiting for someone to desecrate it so they can haunt them forever.

As he reached the corner, he slowly looked around it, and then made a cursory glance behind him.

He stopped short. It was the place. Only he had entered from the other direction last night. It's funny how things look so much more innocuous in daylight. There was a dumpster five yards in front of him, the one by which he had found Allen Murdock already dead. The other one, where he had crouched, was further up the alley another ten yards or so. Beyond that the alley shot straight out to the road, and the river beyond that. On the other side of the river was a little park.

Jake smiled. He was set up big time. He stepped back to the corner again, aimed his arm as if he had a gun in it, and checked the trajectory. Someone could have stood at the corner, kept him at bay with the silencer, and then waited for his return fire, moaned in place of the victim, and then scurried off like a rat down the back way.

But why? That's what kept running through his mind.

Then he had an idea. He went over to where he had been behind the dumpster, aimed again where he thought he had actually fired, and walked back along that path until he reached a brick wall near the corner. He scanned the wall carefully until he saw them. There were two chips in the brick over six feet up. Nice grouping.

“What are you doing there?” came a loud voice from behind him.

Jake turned to see the large man who he suspected knocked him out just hours ago. The man was wearing wool pants and a thick gray sweater that made him look even bigger than he was, which was a hell of an accomplishment given his considerable girth. Even more remarkable, Jake realized, was how he had let someone so big sneak up on him, despite his near-drunken state. Jake moved toward the man, who was now standing broadside in the middle of the alley with his club-like arms dangling at his sides like an orangutan.

Before Jake could say anything, the man said, “You're the man from last night. The man who shot another man in my alley.”

Jake couldn't help smiling at this man who thought he owned the place. “I was here. That's true. But I didn't shoot anyone. I want to know why you hit me with that pipe.”

The man looked genuinely confused. “I didn't hit you.”

“You didn't follow me down the alley?”

He shook his head.

Jake pondered this. It made more sense that he couldn't have let this monster come up behind him. The only other explanation would be someone coming from the shadows in the other direction, the way he had just come down the alley. Considering how he had felt last night, he could have given away that angle. “Did you see anyone else with me in the alley?” Jake asked the man.

“Just the polizei after I called them. I stayed inside like you said. I thought you were with polizei until I saw the mean one in charge yelling and screaming at his uniformed men. That was before they had carried you off. I watched from the dark window up there.” He pointed his thick finger toward the spot Jake had first seen the man following his two shots.

Jake thanked the man for the info, took one last look at the scene, and then wandered back down the alley toward his car. He had to find out why someone wanted to set him up. And why the man from his past was killed in the process.

●

Quinn tapped his fingers to Metallica screeching across the speakers as he watched Jake Adams cross the street and get into the old BMW. He smiled in a crooked way, like he wasn't used to it unless someone had slipped on ice and damn near broken his back. He knew Jake would go back to the scene of the murder. He had counted on it. Adams may not have been the most predictable lot, but he was damn sure a curious bastard. Quinn was also counting on that.

By now Jake Adams had the car started and pulled away from the curb.

Quinn watched him until he turned down another road out of sight, and then dialed a number on his cell phone and waited for someone to pick up.

“He went back to the alley like I thought he would,” Quinn said in German, fighting with the heavy metal music.

He waited a moment, listening carefully.

“I understand,” he yelled. “But you understand that I will have a little fun in the process. Jake Adams is mine all the way. I have a feeling he's still working for the government. Besides...he's got it coming. I take it you're already at the cafe? Good. I'll be there in five minutes. Some things can't go over cell phones.”

●

Otto Bergen sat nervously at a table for four in a small Innsbruck cafe. He gazed out at the fresh snow that a man in coveralls was shoveling into the street. Bergen, dressed in an expensive gray business suit, was fifty-two and looking every bit his age with bags under his eyes, silver streaking all the wrong places, and stubby, wrinkled smokers fingers. He lit a cigarette from a gold lighter, inhaling deeply before letting out the smoke. Then he took a sip of strong coffee.